by Lynn Shurr
Birdie opened a glass-fronted cabinet and selected a porcelain soup dish from one of the four sets of china. She scooped into a red-enameled rice cooker and filled the dish with a mound of white rice, then turned to a stockpot bubbling on a huge professional gas range. A few spatters of brown roux dripped off her ladle as she fished out a piece of chicken. She carefully removed the spatters from the stainless steel before serving. A loaf of French bread lay on the wooden counter. She sliced off enough pieces for the two of them and brought the basket to the table, along with the butter dish straight from a refrigerator paneled to look like an antique icebox. While Birdie fetched two small plates of potato salad and left a third covered with plastic wrap on the counter, Suzanne studied the old pieces of cookware mounted on the walls above the china cabinets.
Birdie sat down, jiggling the table a little as she landed. “Good gumbo night,” she said, staring out at the weather.
Suzanne took a sip of the thin brown broth and gasped on the pepper, took a quick swallow of water, followed that up with a bite of potato salad, and ate more cautiously. Her piece of chicken, boiled nearly off the bone, had absorbed the spiciness of the gravy and the smoky taste of the bits of sausage. Eaten slowly, the gumbo warmed the insides on a dismal evening. The drizzle outside thickened into rain again.
“I’m sorry if I’m keeping you,” she apologized, not knowing how far Birdie had to drive in the mess outside.
“No bother. Now that Mister Jacques is dead, Lionel, that’s my husband, he ain’t so likely to fuss. My boys are grown. I got two in the service, three married, and just two grandbabies. Those boys of mine is mighty slow on starting families. My youngest is going to business school.” Her large chest puffed up, and she smiled, showing one gold tooth.
“When Mr. Jacques lived, he was a devil with the ladies. Lionel said, ‘I want you home every night ’fore dark, woman!’ even after having babies took my figure. Lionel says now there’s just more to love. Oh, he’s a devil, too. But Miss Virginia wouldn’t have none of that under her roof, so I never had no trouble with her husband.”
“So it’s okay to be here alone after dark now?”
Birdie missed the intended humor. “Oh, Mr. Georgie won’t bother you none. It’s only me who saved him from being one of those sissy boys, but he don’t have much of his daddy in him neither. I used to bring my sons up to play with him out on the lawn. They’d roughhouse and get good and dirty. Then, I’d scrub him all clean before his mama got home from one of her club meetings. It was one of our secrets.”
Birdie sucked the meat off a chicken bone and rattled on. “For awhile there, they thought Georgie was slow, but I knew that wasn’t so. He sat up and crawled around just when little ones are supposed to and, having three boys of my own by that time, I knew when. Mr. Jacques wanted him to be doing everything early, and Miss Virginia feared Georgie had gone wrong because he was a hard birth. Mr. Jacques insisted she deliver up in the four-poster instead of a hospital. Doc Sonny was kind of young then, inexperienced. We all thought Miss Virginia was gonna die the way she screamed all night. Mr. Jacques didn’t want no drugs used. Natural was best for his child, he said. Georgie came at dawn, a skinny thing with these red marks on his head where the doctor pulled him out with forceps. By night time, Miss Virginia took her dinner on a tray, and her breasts filled with as much milk as a baby could use, but she didn’t nurse. Put her foot down there.”
“She had no other children?”
“No, ma’am! Doc Sonny said there was something wrong with her female parts that made the birth so hard, and he took ’em out a year later.”
“What a shame!” Suzanne made sympathetic noises as a contribution to the conversation.
“No, no, it weren’t. I wouldn’t call Miss Virginia a natural born mother. Raising a child came hard to her, but she fussed over Georgie like a hen with one chick. You should have heard the screaming when Mr. Jacques decided to send the boy off to St. Mark’s Academy. As much howling and carrying on as the night he was born, but the boy went. By that time they had figured out only his eyes was bad, and what’s why he bumped into things and didn’t read so good. After he got glasses, he turned out to be right quick. Then, the other boys began calling him Four-eyes instead of Dumb George. The first time he licked ’em, I said, ‘Good for you, Georgie!’ His daddy took him for ice cream, but we had to keep that a secret, too, and get the glasses fixed on the sly. We told Miss Virginia he fell down since he did that often enough. Just after, Mr. Jacques sent him away to school. A good thing, I guess.”
“He was all right after that?”
“Sure. He grew up. But he was such a loving child before, always wanting hugs. Afterwards, he came back as this tall, skinny kid who barely spoke to anyone. He got on the St. Mark’s basketball team because of his height, but he was no good the first year, so Mr. Jacques stopped going to the games. Then his senior year, there’s Georgie on the front page of the sports section of the Port Jefferson Sentinel along with Linc St. Julien, them’s the black St. Juliens. ‘Local Sons Lead Leagues’, it says. And we never knew ’til then how good he could play. ’Course, Linc played in a tougher league, all big public high schools, but they was both good. Went to the university together, played together. The coach over there made Georgie a guard, said he wasn’t skilled enough for forward. Linc was the star, but they got along…still get along.”
Suzanne stifled a yawn. Gloomy weather and basketball talk, not her kind of things. She changed the subject. “So, George has no family.”
“‘Course he got family. All Cajuns have family. There’s the old ladies in town, Aunt Esme and Aunt Letty, great-aunts really, which is like having grandparents. His own passed on young before Mr. Jacques got done sowing his wild oats. Well, maybe he never got done, but they was plain folks and wouldn’t have got on with Miss Virginia, so just as well. And then there’s the uncles, Claude, Jean, and René. Vincent died fighting overseas. Only Claude came around much after Mr. Jacques bought out their shares in the house with Miss Virginia’s money. The brothers have kids all over the parish, but Georgie keeps to himself.”
Birdie dumped some of her potato salad into the remains of her gumbo and went on talking. “Don’t you listen if they tells you Georgie is one of them gay guys. He’s just shy. If his mama hadn’t broken up an engagement to Miss Cherry, he’d have a family right now. I didn’t think that girl was good enough for him either, but when my Earl wanted to marry up with Lucerne Narcisse, I kept my mouth shut. It’s all worked out. She give me my only grandson so far, and I see him all I want.”
By now, they were down to the part of the gumbo you can’t get at without tilting the dish. Birdie mopped hers up with the last of the bread.
“I have to get on now. Just leave the dishes.” She stocked a straw carryall with a quart jar of the gumbo and a plastic container of rice. After tying a plastic rain bonnet over her head, she motioned toward the refrigerator. “There’s a banana cream pie for dessert. Store bought, but good. We got a nice bakery here in town, and it’s their specialty.”
“Later, maybe.”
“Good evenin’, then.”
Suddenly, Suzanne sat alone in a large, dark, and strange house, so not the same as being on her own in an apartment or the house where she grew up and knew what each odd noise meant—more like being locked in a museum after hours. She stayed in the coziness of the kitchen, had a slice of the banana cream pie, made a cup of tea, did the dishes, and still lingered until she saw the headlights of George’s car peering down the lane. When he came in by way of the screen door, he seemed surprised to see her. Not wanting to be banished into the darker regions of the Hill, she offered to heat his dinner.
He said, “No, thanks. You probably have important work to do.”
Suzanne took the hint she should get back to work and felt her way from light switch to light switch, first turning on the brilliant dining room chandelier, then an electrified wall sconce in the hall, and next the gasolier with its ornamental g
rapevines illuminating the upstairs hall. In her room, a fake kerosene lamp by the bed chased away the boogeyman. She watched a little television, tried to read one of her reference books on southern antiques, and finally decided on another piece of banana cream pie. Nothing like sugar overload to make a person groggy enough for sleep.
The hall lights still burned and more brightness flooded onto the stairs from the open door of the second parlor. Since it would be rude to pass by without speaking, she poked her head in the doorway. The room overflowed with large Eastlake pieces in light woods. George sat stretched out in a deep leather chair with his feet on an ottoman. He had a little rolling bar full of decanters with silver tags designating “Bourbon” and “Scotch” and “Brandy” drawn up next to him and was indulging in one of the brown liquors over ice and reading the Times-Picayune. In stocking feet, without a coat and tie, a little rumpled, George appeared younger than she first thought, around thirty, instead of pushing forty.
He didn’t notice her presence until she exclaimed, “A Wooten desk!” just spotted across the room. She was pawing at the latches of the bullet-shaped antique by the time George got to his feet and wiped at the whiskey he’d spilled on his white shirt when he jumped at the sound of her voice.
“The desk was my father’s, but it’s empty now. Mother cleaned it out after he died.”
The desk was truly empty, every little drawer and cubby in this organizer’s dream bare, and not even locked by the brass key that held its two halves together.
“I’ve seen only one other. This might be your most valuable piece, and you do have some great ones.”
George took off his glasses and rubbed the red ridge on the bridge of his nose. Glasses that strong had to be irritating. She wondered if he could see her now, so she spoke to give him an idea of where she stood.
“I’m sorry to barge in. I craved another piece of pie. Would you like some?”
“No, thank you.” He held up what was left of his drink. “You go ahead. Birdie will eat it in the morning, and she is supposed to be on a diet because of her blood pressure.”
Suzanne moved for the doorway and then gave into another impulse. “Is that your ancestor?” She pointed at the portrait over the mantel. Its dark eyes seemed to be following her.
“I guess so. My father.”
“Oh, I thought he might be some Civil War hero.”
The man in the portrait sat astride a white horse that looked much more patient than its rider. Jacques St. Julien wore a deep purple cape with a golden lining thrown back over his shoulders and a Jeb Stuart hat with a black plume in the band. What appeared to be a powder horn hung from a strap across his chest. The likeness was poor if it portrayed the man in the wedding picture, but the artist did capture the essence of his personality. A crooked smile dominated the face, and the black eyes seemed to rove the room in search of the prettiest girl.
“He’s wearing his captain’s costume for the Courir de Mardi Gras. You’ll be here when they come to get a chicken in a few weeks. For the gumbo. For the last party before Lent.”
“I see.” Really, she did not.
“A local artist painted this right before my father died and then moved on to better things.”
Looking closely, she noticed a little gray in the subject’s curly, black sideburns. A vague Magnolia Hill partly obscured by dark trees, filled the background along with some minuscule clowns cavorting with a rooster on the lawn, way too strange for her taste.
“I should move on to better things, too. Your mother’s notes are in such good order I think I will concentrate on the history of the house. Could I go into town with you in the morning, check out some of the documentation at the bank, and spend the rest of the day in the library?”
“Fine.”
“See you then.” Committed to early rising, Suzanne decided to skip the pie and go to bed. After all, George St. Julien stood guard in the second parlor against any boogeymen.
Chapter Three
Suzanne’s story
Full of honey, biscuits, and hot coffee, they waded across the flooded gravel to George’s gray sedan. The ground had reached a degree of saturation possible only in Louisiana. At least the rain had stopped pouring down for the moment. She’d shared breakfast with her boss across the small oak table in the kitchen. George read the sports section of the Port Sentinel that Birdie brought in with her. Suzanne skimmed a stack of his mother’s note cards. Then, they went on their way to town in a companionable silence associated with long-married couples like her parents. What an unsettling thought. If she wanted this kind of dull man, she could have married Paul. Suzanne began to babble to fill the void by the time they reached the traffic light at the foot of the hill.
“Is the library open this early? Could you call the bank and make sure I can get into the safety deposit box?”
“The library is always open. Knock on Miss Clara’s door, and she’ll let you in. I called the bank yesterday.”
“Good. Then I can start on the history and check over the documentation on the parlor furnishings.”
“You won’t find much in the library. If you want history, I’ll take you to meet my aunts. They know all there is to know about Port Jefferson. Come by my office at noon.”
“The same aunts who put up the historical marker?”
“The same.”
“Fine. A little oral history would make the paper more lively.” And probably inaccurate, her inner curator thought.
George dropped her off in front of the library, a little frame building appearing to be a converted garage. Up close, she saw that it was. A hand-lettered sign read “Knock next door if you need to use the library.” She rapped on the indicated door and explained her visit to a lean woman, still in a robe and curlers, but cordial nonetheless.
“So pleased to meet you. I’m Clara Huval, the branch assistant here in Port Jefferson. We’re only a little branch, but I can get you anything you need from the parish library or even the university.” After making sure the street was clear of people, she scuttled over to the door of the branch and unlocked it.
“Make yourself at home. I’ll be over directly,” she trilled.
Inside sat a desk with one chair and a computer monitor, a library table with four chairs, a rental book collection of best sellers on its own cart, enough paperback racks filled with romances and mystery novels to supply a Walmart, a few sets of encyclopedias, and an outdated atlas. A disconnected public terminal occupied a small table shoved up against the wall and hemmed in by the spinner racks.
Suzanne discovered the very small non-fiction section in the back corner. There, marked with a prominent “LA” on the spine, she found a parish history in a sturdy red binding. As the introduction noted, the book had been compiled by a retired schoolteacher, who’d dedicated it to her former students. The table of contents promised a whole chapter on Port Jefferson. She settled down at the library table and read until Miss Clara, fully groomed with a slash of red lipstick adorning her face, and completely dressed in a dark green jumper and crisp white blouse, came in bearing coffee on a tray.
“I was just about to have to have my second cup. Won’t you join me?”
Suzanne did, full of guilt, feeling that at any time a university guard would ask her to take the beverage outside the library. Miss Clara finished her coffee, dusted the shelves, checked in a small stack of paperbacks that had been slipped though the slot in the door overnight, then settled down to a novel off the rental shelf. About mid-morning, she made more coffee, watered the plants, and rearranged the picture books very quietly and with great respect for her only patron’s studies.
The parish history, though blandly written, said a great deal, especially if one read between the lines. It contained a nice map of the early land grants stretching in narrow sections back from Bayou Brun. Each family had an access to the lifeline of the river. The St. Julien holdings extended more broadly than most, reaching 250 arpents into the raw land. Other sections were held by Huva
ls, Sonniers, and Patouts, and for the Badeaux and Dugas families. The Jeffersons had not yet arrived. Huval’s Ferry possessed the only notable buildings in town.
All this changed around 1840 when Eli Jefferson came to town and bought out the Huvals, all but the square containing the ferry station and roadhouse. He subdivided the section into lots along the only road to the ferry. Down by the river, warehouses sprang up along with a cotton gin. The Sonniers traded their section for a lot to build a general merchandise emporium. Plots were set aside for a public school and the Methodist church. The Patouts sold off their land and opened a smithy. The Dugas family went into the feed and seed business. Eli Jefferson grew cotton on his own land, ginned cotton in his own mill, and shipped cotton on his own steamboats. Magnolia Hill raised its white pillars above Bayou Brun on the acreage that had been Huval’s wood lot. Meanwhile, the St. Julien strip remained blank except for a small X denoting a house a half-mile from the bayou.
Then the War—the one still being talked about and studied in the South—came to Port Jefferson. Yankees “ravaged” the town according to the author, Miss Juliette Mouton, and took “all that was of value”, using Magnolia Hill as their headquarters. During Reconstruction, the town endured the disgrace of having a black mayor, but prosperity returned when the cotton bloomed again and the steamboats ran.
Changes appeared on the St. Julien property. A Catholic church and parochial school, a city hall and infirmary rose on donated land. Valorous Confederate veteran, Victoir St. Julien, succeeded the Reconstruction mayor. He went on to the state senate while his brother, Felix, ran the town. He invested in land to the south and in railroad stocks. He became rich when the tracks fortuitously cut across his distant property. Steamboats went out of style; the boll weevil arrived causing as much damage to the economy as the Union Army. Magnolia Hill was sold intact as a virgin to Victoir St. Julien, who gave it to his son as a wedding gift. That son went on to the state senate, and his grandson became a personal friend of Huey Long.
