Cane River

by Lalita Tademy

  Someone had left a copy of this week’s Natchitoches Reporter on the seat beside her, and it was open to the “Letters to the Editor” column. Emily didn’t put much stock in keeping up with events reported in the newspapers, even when someone brought one out to the farm for her. They seemed to have so little to do with anything genuine or important, but today she needed to stay alert. It wouldn’t do to drift off and miss the Colfax stop nine miles away. She read to occupy her mind.

  “They’re trying to get the name of Highway 71 changed to FDD Derbanne Highway,” Emily said excitedly, pointing out the article in the newspaper to the woman sitting across the aisle from her, a bosomy matron in a flowered dress, white-gloved hands clutching her purse. “These are my people they’re talking about.”

  The woman smiled at her politely, indulgently, but didn’t encourage further conversation, leaning back and closing her eyes to signal that she was resting and unavailable.

  The words had come out in French. Just as well, Emily thought. It had been both foolish and dangerous to talk to a stranger in the front of the bus.

  Emily sat back and read the article through again. François Dion Despres Derbanne was a distant ancestor who had helped set up Natchitoches as a trading post years before New Orleans existed. Her Joseph had told her all about the explorer when he had laid out her father’s bloodline for her, and she had spent countless hours as a teenager rolling that beautiful name over her tongue and begging him for more stories. François Dion Despres Derbanne. It had to be the same man, and it was his same blood running through her. She folded the newspaper carefully and pushed it deep into her bag.

  The bumpy ride of the bus on the country road created its own rhythm, and Emily relaxed into it. She had become much more dreamy of late than she could ever recall being before, and often sharp, fresh memories of fifty or seventy years ago crowded out the necessities of today. Sometimes they gave her great pleasure, like good friends come calling.

  The bus shifted gears abruptly, and Emily looked out the windows at the thinned woods on each side. Joseph had owned all of this at one time, and she had helped him get it.

  The Colfax stop was close.

  Good thing.

  She needed to spit.

  48

  E mily stepped off the bus. Colfax, Louisiana, the sign said, population 1,400. The weathered sign hadn’t changed for at least twenty years that she knew of, and it was already 1936. She still had a long walk down the wide, dusty road to the other side of town.

  Across the street from Tumminello’s general store, a loose knot of men idled around the grandstand, swapping stories, and Emily heard a short burst of laughter behind her as she entered the relative darkness of the store. Some of the men were old enough to know who she was, but she felt a little reckless today.

  The very smell of the place assaulted her, triggering memories, good and bad. The store was empty except for the bored-looking young white man behind the counter. This young one didn’t know her. She always sent someone else in to pick up supplies, but Colfax was a small town, and her story might be known, if not her face.

  She wandered around the store, drinking in the remembered magic of places like this while the boy eyed her.

  “Can I help you, ma’am?” He had round owl-like eyes, dark slick hair, a thin nose that took a sharp downward curve near the tip.

  She could see herself through his eyes, another old-line French-woman come down from the country, dressed better than most, back straighter than most, who might not have enough money to buy the goods on the shelves. Many of the folks around Colfax didn’t have much, and he had a right to be suspicious. Why should he know about the $1,300 in cash she had sewn in her mattress, more than some of these farmers had seen in a lifetime?

  “Thank you,” Emily said to the boy. “I need to browse a bit before I’m ready.”

  She wandered down the two aisles slowly, and after she filled up on the sights and sounds and smells of the store, she got down to business. She needed a new pair of shoes. Riding in the front of a bus where no one knew her was one thing. Trying on a pair of shoes in a general store where she could be recognized at any moment was another. She wasn’t feeling that rash. She picked out the smallest pair of women’s shoes she saw, matching their general outline to the bottom of her own overrun shoes, and carried them up to the front of the store.

  “I haven’t seen you in here before,” the boy behind the counter said, taking the shoes from her. “You from Colfax?”

  “I’m from up the road. Aloha. It’s been a long time since I was here. My name is Emily Fredieu.”

  “Glad to see you in the store, Mrs. Fredieu. I just started here not too long ago myself. I’m still getting to know everybody. Will this be all for you today?”

  “Add five tins of Red Rooster snuff, please.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Anything else?”

  “Eight . . . no, ten sticks of peppermint candy. My granddaughter is coming to visit this afternoon, and she has a sweet tooth as demanding as mine.”

  “A little girl?”

  Emily laughed, thinking of how her outspoken granddaughter, Willie Dee, would react to the question. Willie was high yellow, her brown eyes always seeming to blaze with curiosity, reminding Emily of T.O. in his youth. That and her long, slender fingers. But she had also gotten a heavy dose of spunk and her big feet from Eva. Her granddaughter considered herself fully grown, with a quick tongue and the sassy arrogance of a fifteen-year-old accustomed to being chased by all of the local colored boys. “Not so little anymore. She’s bringing her latest beau out to see me. One of the Tademy boys.”

  Willie Dee Billes Tademy, Nathan (Ted) Tademy.

  “Another family I don’t know.”

  The boy stacked her purchases on the counter. He took his stubby pencil and began to add up her total as he talked. “You picked a good time to come in. There’s going to be a rally across the street starting soon. Jim Fletcher running for police jury.”

  Emily was suddenly wary and anxious to be back home. “How much is it going to be?” she asked.

  The bell over the front door of the store shrilled loudly, and Emily startled. A well-dressed but overly powdered older woman entered, dominating the room. She eyed Emily sharply and then turned to the clerk.

  “Five pounds of flour and two pounds of coffee.”

  “Let me finish up here with Mrs. Fredieu, Mrs. Fletcher, and I’ll get right on it.”

  “Excuse me? You’ll help me now. Miss Emily will be glad to wait.”

  Nathan Tademy and Willie Dee Billes with daughters Joan and Theodorsia.

  Willie Dee Billes and Nathan (Ted) Tademy.

  Eva and T.O. Billes, front. Children L–R. Henry Earl, I.V., Willie Dee, Theo, Joe.

  Billes children. L–R. Henry Earl, Theo, Willie Dee, I.V., Joe. Lalita Tademy off to side.

  Emily Fredieu and daughter Mary Billes.

  Nathan (Ted) Tademy.

  Eva and T.O. Billes (back) children and grandchildren, 1954. Lalita Tademy, far left, hands on hips.

  The boy looked closely at Emily, as if memorizing her facial features, and back to Lucille Fletcher’s unyielding expression. “Step aside, Miss Emily.” His tone became curt, full of authority. With a sweep of his hand he pushed aside her items to clear space. The lid from one of the tins of snuff loosened, and a dark sprinkling of brown tobacco spilled on the counter. “The order for Mrs. Fletcher is next.”

  Emily concentrated on the rich, sour smell of the snuff, wanting the potent comfort of it in her mouth, even thinking for a reckless moment of reaching out to take a pinch. She backed away from the counter, one small step, then two, and stood quietly while the boy retrieved the white woman’s order.

  The bell rang again, and a young woman with dark unruly hair came into the store. The woman stood by and waited patiently for her turn at the counter. When Mrs. Fletcher left, the boy turned his attention to the newest arrival.

  “Something I can help you with?” he asked he
r politely.

  She nodded toward Emily. “I think she was here first.” Her words had a strange, flat tone.

  “She knows her place. I can help you next. You from around here, ma’am?”

  “I’m from Oklahoma, visiting my aunt. My name is Sarah Feraldo.”

  “How can I help you today, Miss Feraldo?”

  Emily calculated the distance between the counter and the entryway, allowed herself one last look at the snuff tins, and eased toward the door. Careful not to make any sudden motions, she opened it slowly. The bell rang out as if she had yanked it.

  “Hold on. What about these things you picked out?”

  Emily gave a small weak smile as the old familiar queasiness gnawed. “I don’t need them after all, thank you kindly.”

  She walked away from the store empty-handed, listening for angry steps in pursuit behind her, and began to breathe more regularly when there were none. The wind carried bits and pieces of the politician’s words as they spread over the small crowd gathered around the grandstand.

  “It’s up to us to teach them how to accept with humility the limitations placed on them. They must always remember to accept with grace their inferiority. If you elect me, I’ll protect our way. . . .”

  She didn’t look back. She walked on, past the café to the bus stop, and settled herself to wait for the Montgomery local.

  Cooking smells from the café wafted up as Emily waited for the bus, and her stomach complained in response. It had been a long time since breakfast. The sun beat hot directly overhead, and she felt a powerful need for food, water, or snuff. A tall white farmer in dirty overalls and a wide straw hat approached the café. From the shade of the café’s doorway, the owner beckoned.

  “Come on in out of the hot sun,” the man said to the farmer. “We have a special that looks mighty good today, and a breeze to help you enjoy it.”

  The men disappeared into the cool of the café. It was the dinner hour, and while Emily waited, a pair and a few singles entered the diner. A man the color of strong coffee in a well-worn jacket and trousers went around to the back door and reappeared later with a brown bag. He found a thin patch of shade under an elm tree, sat on the ground, and began to eat.

  I’ll never be hungry enough to go to anyone’s back door, Emily thought.

  When the northbound bus finally came, emitting its noxious fumes as it slowed to a halt, Emily was the only passenger to get on. She shook off the dust of Colfax, raised her chin slightly, dropped her nickels into the driver’s waiting palm, and walked deliberately to the front seat, composing herself for the ride home.

  * * *

  Emily died sept 13, 1936, She had $1,300.00 in Her Bed. Josephine and Mary both died Old Maids.

  --Cousin Gurtie Fredieu, written family history, 1975

  * * *

  A CKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I have been truly fortunate in having Jamie Raab of Warner Books as my editor. Her insightful editing and unruffled navigation through a world foreign to me has made the adventure productive and fun. Thanks to Donna Levin, both for suggestions in her Novel Writing Workshop at UC Berkeley Extension, and for leading me to my most amazing agent, Jillian Manus. Jillian has been exacting in her expectations and tireless in her efforts on the novel’s behalf, a wonderful combination.

  I am grateful for the safety net woven by my own coterie of early supporters. They each started their long-haul work of encouragement when the novel was still fragile and unpredictable, keeping me moving forward more often than they knew, giving help in any form I asked. They read, critiqued, listened, suggested, hand held, strategized, but, most important, they believed. Thanks to Anne Adams, Randy Adams, Dori Ives, my sister Joan Tademy Lothery, Susan Orr, Judy Squier, Carole Straw, and big brother Lee Tademy.

  From the moment she took me on my first tour down in the Louisiana countryside, helping to turn my research into real places and people, Vicky Martin has been invaluable as my personal “step-on” Natchitoches guide, providing local history and background for Cane River. Also thanks to Rachal Mills Lennon, a certified genealogist, for being both skilled and persistent enough to find the plantation records, in French, for all of my Cane River women.

  My mother, Willie Dee Billes Tademy, deserves special thanks, for tolerating my constant questions and tests of her memory, even when my obsession with the past was baffling and unsettling to her. She indulged me in this as only a mother would, and was the gateway to the remarkable women of Cane River.

  Lastly, I thank Elisabeth, Suzette, Philomene, and Emily. Getting to know each one of them has made me stronger.