Courir De Mardi Gras

by Lynn Shurr

  She thought she heard her name being called, but with ears full of bayou water and a Cajun band pumping away nearby on Main Street, she couldn’t quite tell. The tall man in black dove in, searching for her body. Well, they deserved the same kind of scare she got when they put her in that unstable craft with her hands tied. She took another deep breath and came up by the knotted rope dangling from the oak that she’d noticed on her walk back from the great-aunts’ house. Crawling up on the gnarled roots of the tree, she huddled into its hollow bole. The day was mild, but the water chilly.

  Shivering, Suzanne debated whether to go to the nearby house for help or boldly march over the bridge to join the party on Main Street and announce her miraculous resurrection. Her abductors would probably be there raising volunteers to dredge the river for her body, explaining their guts out about a joke gone wrong. What a great entrance—barefooted, a good pair of shoes lost kicking them off in the water in the best lifeguard tradition, and wearing a wet, white silk blouse now practically transparent and probably ruined. Her snug jeans, required dress for Mardi Gras in Port Jefferson she’d been told, clung even more tightly around her bottom.

  The silver Navajo necklace, an expensive souvenir from her artsy-craftsy days, still dangled between her breasts. She’d toted it along to Port Jefferson, why? Because she thought the dashing, imaginary Georges St. Julien would have preferred it to pearls. The necklace with its turquoise pendant was the only bit of western wear in her wardrobe, so she’d trotted it out to display in this strangely cowboy oriented town. If it had fallen off, she would have demanded they dredge the bayou for that.

  Suzanne tried the house first, thinking she might find a kind lady like Odette St. Julien who would dry her clothes and give her a hot cup of tea. No such luck, no one at home on Mardi Gras. She took another deep breath and started across the bridge. Her kidnappers had vanished, but their boat was drawn up on the bank. The loud band played on a platform erected on the lawn of the Farmer’s Bank. People danced in the street, no undue commotion at all, no search parties being formed to look for her drowned corpse. Those two rats hadn’t told anyone they’d killed her. In fact, all eyes suddenly turned in the opposite direction from the bayou.

  Capitaine in the lead, the Courir riders bolted into town to the accompaniment of accordion and triangle and the squawk of doomed chickens. Hippo Huval’s voice rose above the racket of wagon wheels rolling on the pitted macadam road.

  “We seen a ghost, us! We seen a ghost!” he bellowed.

  The Capitaine, a man named Jules Badeaux, put the cow horn to his lips and blew. Unmelodious but loud, it quieted the crowd. “No such t’ing, Hypolite. Dismount men. Get dose chickens to da cooks. Tap a keg and unmask!”

  A small cheer went up, but almost everyone eyed Hypolite Huval, who took an enormous swig directly from the flowing tap and splashed more beer on his face and belly as a form of revival.

  “We seen da ghost of Jacques St. Julien,” Hippo swore. “Jacques, he come riding up da hill from da bayou, him. Had his same white horse and silver saddle, only his cape was black an’ red, and his horn turned all gold.”

  “Shit, old man,” interrupted Billy Patout, who shed his clown suit after delivering the chickens, and now appeared in his jeans and sweat-stained, black T-shirt with a skull logo stretched across his belly. “Jacques St. Julien couldn’t have been more than five-eight, and he’s been dead ten years or more. That rider was plenty alive and at least six feet tall.”

  “You don’t know no’ting ’bout Jacques, Billy. You just a kid. He looked six feet tall in da saddle.”

  “So why’s he come back now after ten years? Tell me that, Mr. Hypolite.”

  “’Cause dis is Mardi Gras day, an’ a blonde woman he want is living in his house. Dat’s why.”

  “His wife died over a year. How come he don’t know that if he’s a ghost?”

  “I suspect dey didn’t go to da same place, Billy.”

  Their audience tittered. No one noticed Suzanne, dripping wet, on the edge of the crowd.

  “Blue eyes. That rider had the weirdest blue eyes. I never seen eyes so bright. They bored right into me when he went by,” the youngest Patout chimed in.

  “Jacques always say he wished he had da blue eyes what da ladies likes so much. Maybe da Devil give him some.”

  “And a shiny new horn and a black cape. Shoot, Hippo, any minute now that rider is going to show up in town carrying Miss College Graduate on his saddle. I bet she was in on it.”

  “No, she wasn’t!”

  Suzanne hated to interrupt this really entertaining argument and draw attention to myself. She fluffed the blouse clinging to her pink bra away from her body, but the heavy necklace pushed the wet fabric back against her breasts again. A slight breeze ruffled across the crowd, and her nipples puckered up even harder. Billy Patout showed his appreciation by leering.

  “What that ghost do to you, Suzanne, honey? Drop you in the bayou?”

  “Not exactly. Another man dressed like a pirate stood by with a pirogue. It capsized above the bridge.”

  “Well, you still look good to me, sugar. I like that sexy pink bra you got on.” Coming up from behind her, Rodney Patout, put his large paws on Suzanne’s shoulders and ground his solid belly against her back.

  She turned to shake him off and saw George pushing into the crowd and gesturing to get the attention of the man with the Stetson hat and gold badge who was doing crowd control. So frantic, he didn’t see her. She had to shout, “George, over here!”

  He diverted from the straight line he was making toward the sheriff by shoving people out of his way. “Suzanne!” His big hands swept aside Rodney’s clutch on her shoulders. Even less eloquent than usual, he said, “Suzanne, Suzanne”, over and over again.

  His hair had that slicked back wet look again. He’d changed his clothes and now wore a blue dress shirt open at the neck, khaki trousers and loafers, out of place among the jeans, T-shirts, and boots worn by the revelers, male and female. Sporting the black glasses taped at the bridge, George, inanely repeating her name, began to draw laughter from the riders.

  “I’m fine, George. Look, I don’t feel much like partying, and I’m still wet. Where’s the car? I’d like to go home.”

  “I—uh—I came down on the band wagon,” he murmured. “I was worried about you.”

  “Great. So how do we get home?”

  “Just a second, missy.” The man with the badge had answered George’s summons. “Do I understand someone kidnapped you?”

  “I think it was simply a Mardi Gras prank gone awry, officer.”

  “Sheriff Duval. You want to press charges against anyone?”

  “Who? I have no idea who did it.”

  “It’s a small town, Miss. You better believe I can find out.”

  “I don’t want to ruin anyone’s holiday. They were probably bringing me to the dance when the boat tipped over. The disguises, it’s all part of the fun. What I could really use is a ride back to Magnolia Hill.”

  “Yeah, a real good joke, Sheriff,” said the youngest Patout, the one who leapt out of the dark rider’s path and crossed himself in midair.

  “I tell you, me. Dat was da ghost of Jacques St. Julien come charging up da hill and blowing his horn.” Listeners clumped around Hippo Huval to hear to his tale as George and Suzanne got in the police car. She didn’t recall any horns blasting, only one prodding her in the chest.

  “Purvis, you’re on duty as deputy until I get back,” Sheriff Duval called to one of the cowboy riders, “And don’t drink nothing between now and then, you hear?”

  “So what were you doing while all this was going on, George?” The officer put them both in the back seat of the patrol car behind the mesh screen as if they were prime suspects in a hoax. George swallowed, and the Adam’s apple in his long neck bobbed. Being treated like a criminal unnerved him.

  “I went to change my clothes. I had on a flannel shirt and got too hot. Birdie can tell you where I was w
hile they chased the chicken.”

  “No need for a witness, George. Just asking. Probably only Mardi Gras mischief. No harm done that I can see. If you have any more trouble up at the Hill, you call me. And you, Miss, are going to have a devil of a cold if you stay in those wet duds. I’ll turn on my siren and get us to the Hill a little faster.”

  The shriek of the siren coming up the drive nearly caused Birdie to have heart failure, so she said. She thought the ambulance was arriving to collect Suzanne’s remains, wherever they had been found along the bayou. The other birdie still stalked in the yard. The one-eyed rooster, forgotten when the rider appeared, scratched for bugs among the crushed shells in the drive. He flapped out of the way of the patrol car, saving his life a second time that day.

  Birdie made Suzanne eat a bowl of steaming Mardi Gras gumbo laced with plenty of hot sauce before she bustled her off to bed in hopes of warding off an illness. Both she and the sheriff knew what they were talking about. By morning, Suzanne ran a fever.

  Chapter Eleven

  Suzanne’s story

  Dr. Jefferson Sonnier repacked his black bag while Suzanne lay propped on fluffy pillows in the four-poster and enjoyed the novelty of a physician who did house calls. In Philadelphia, they dragged their fevers to a specialist’s waiting room. Doc Sonny, as he quickly told her to call him though she thought it childish, had a wonderful beside manner and an even better bedside appearance. Tall and lean, he possessed a head of iron gray hair sweeping back from a high and noble brow. His eyes, surrounded by just enough lines to give him an air of wisdom, were a serious blue-gray and set in a face marvelously long and craggy. She could picture him, captain’s hat firmly in place, on the bow of a sailing ship setting off toward the horizon. For just a moment, she had the absurd notion he might be the dark rider. Then, her blurred vision snapped back into place as Doc Sonny dispensed the usual advice.

  “Stay in bed and rest. Drink plenty of fluids. Alternate aspirin and Tylenol every four hours for the fever. More seriously now,” Doc Sonny said as he swabbed her arm with alcohol and filled a syringe, “you could have picked up something more dangerous than a cold in that bayou. A lot of raw sewage drains into the water, and you have no immunity to local bugs. Not allergic to penicillin, are you? Good.”

  Suzanne winced as he eased the needle into her skin and wondered what this treatment would cost George, who clunked up and down the hall like an expectant father outside the door. He insisted on paying the medical bills.

  The doctor expertly swabbed the spot again and covered the tiny dot of blood with a small patch. “That little swim shouldn’t have brought on a fever so quickly unless you were already harboring a cold. Just in case, I’ll give George a prescription for some antibiotics. Make sure you take them all, and we’ll ward off whatever this is.” His smile deepened the crags of his face and increased his air of benign authority.

  “I’ve seen your face before—in a local history book, and I think, in one of the pictures at the museum. Are you any relation to Eli Jefferson?” she asked, ready to test her theory.

  “On my mother’s side. The Jeffersons are notoriously short of male heirs. No one white bears the surname now in this area, but it has lived on as a first name. I hope my daughter will see fit to use it if she has any offspring. You and Ginny have been the only outsiders to comment on the family resemblance, though.”

  Impressed by Dr. Sonnier’s total acceptance of the fact that his gay son, Bobby, would not be the one providing the namesake, she was equally amazed that anyone would have called the stiff and proper Virginia Lee St. Julien “Ginny.”

  “Perhaps we both saw Eli Jefferson in you because Mrs. St. Julien and I shared an intense interest in the past more than in the mundane realities of the present,” she commented.

  Jefferson Sonnier considered her statement. “Ginny lived in the past. She held to a set of outmoded codes and standards, her source of protection and strength, I suppose, believing she was always right and the rest of the world in error. She had a Protestant background, yet she adhered to the indissolubility of the marriage vow far more than, say myself, with my Catholic heritage. She insisted on a formal mourning period for a drunken philanderer she ceased loving years before his death. She wouldn’t consider re-marriage once her illness had been diagnosed because, and I quote, ‘a wife must be able to fulfill the physical needs of her husband.’ I suspect, Miss Hudson, the only thing you and Ginny have in common is George caring about both of you.”

  Right on cue, she heard George trip against the little gateleg table ornamenting the upstairs hallway. He replaced the vase he must have caught in midair with a thunk. Suzanne sighed as deeply as her congestion allowed. A fever and George’s clumsy affection were more than she could handle right now.

  “I didn’t say you returned the feelings. Even propped in bed, you lack Ginny’s ability to be a martyred saint requiring the unquestioning worship of her subjects. George is capable of worship. Be careful with him. That young man is inordinately upset over a little Mardi Gras prank. I’ll send him back to work so you can get some sleep without all that thudding in the hall.”

  Doc Sonny closed the bedroom door behind him. Suzanne could hear him telling George firmly to let her rest. Then, the doctor doled out instructions about the prescriptions he wanted George to fill downtown this morning. She barely listened. Her eyelids grew heavy. The door clicked open. George mumbled something apologetically. He would be back at lunchtime with the medicine. She nodded weakly without opening her eyes. He went away. Suzanne heard Birdie’s heavy tread on the stairs, and her voice as she asked the doctor to stop for coffee.

  Then, she slept and experienced a wonderful dream. The well-maintained floor to ceiling window leading to the gallery slid upward with the smallest sigh of sound. Something warm brushed her forehead, then her fever sensitive lips. He kissed her very gently as if he knew about the small cuts caused by the masked man. Suzanne opened her eyes and stared into his strange, deep blue gaze. She put her arms around his neck where the black mask fastened. The satin felt stiff as it had been immersed in water, then dried. The dream, amazingly tactile, just kept getting better.

  She drew his face toward hers. Putting his full lips against the hollow of her throat, he moved them downward into the V of the light, peach-colored gown she’d put on the night before instead of her usual oversized T-shirt. Had she hoped for this visit? He put one knee on the bed and rested more of his weight against her body. Suzanne closed her eyes the better to feel the length of him all the more. A small rivulet of sweat ran between her breasts, and her nipples pushed against the fabric of her gown where his hand rested. His fingers slid beneath the cloth and cupped her. She pressed him closer. If this was delirium, bring it on.

  Then a noise like old hens fighting sounded at the bottom of the stairs, and her dark rider vanished. Suzanne opened her eyes as the commotion came closer.

  “Now you give me that bowl, Esme! I made it. You’ll spill it all over the place.”

  “I guess I’m not too old to carry a bowl up a flight of stairs, Letty, regardless of who made the soup.”

  Suzanne scooted the blankets up to her chin to cover any sign or scent of arousal. Dr. Sonnier, totally professional, had ignored the skimpiness of her nightwear, but she doubted if the great-aunts would let it go by without comment. Like ancient succoring angels, they descended on her sickbed.

  “Look how flushed she is, Letty.”

  “And the window wide open.” Letty closed it with a brisk downward motion that made the flabby wattles of fat hanging from her upper arms shake. She jerked Suzanne up by the shoulders and turned and poked her pillows before allowing her to fall back again, a relentless effort to make the young woman more comfortable.

  “We brought you some nice, nourishing chicken rice soup.” Esme tried to force a spoon past the patient’s lips. “Letty made it,” she said, giving delayed credit. “But Mama always said I had the most soothing hands around a sickbed.”

 
; “Eat it up, honey. It’s still warm even if Willie’s cab was slow getting it here. I simply can’t believe they left you here all alone with the back door unlocked when you practically have pneumonia. I’ll have to speak to George about his help. We could spare Sally for a few days until you feel better.”

  “Oh, no! I’m recovering rapidly. Honestly!” In her haste to show how well she felt, Suzanne sat up abruptly. The blankets slipped, and a spoonful of lukewarm chicken rice soup landed on one naked breast. The skinny straps of the nightgown had slipped or been drawn down to her waist. Letty raised her eyebrows. Esme tittered. Hastily, Suzanne slid beneath the covers and put her gown into place.

  “You certainly look well enough,” Letty remarked. “Quite healthy.”

  “I caught a cold from my dunk in the bayou, that’s all. But thank you for coming.” She hoped they would be mortified and leave. Certainly, she was embarrassed enough to draw the blankets over her head and hide.

  “Nothing else happened yesterday?” Letty hinted.

  “She means—she means—did he ravish you?” hissed Esme, leaning very close to Suzanne’s ear.

  “Who?” Suzanne asked, remembering her dream and feeling the heat of a blush spreading over her body even brighter than the fever flush.

  “Jacques’ ghost—the dark rider,” Esme continued in the same hissing tone as an unlit gas pilot light.

  “Rape. The word is rape, Esme. Did the man rape you, child?” Letty interrogated.

  “No, of course not. It was only a Mardi Gras joke.”

  “Come now. I can see your lip is a little swollen. Did he rough you up a bit, girl? My Henry could be that way when he had a few drinks. Don’t be afraid to tell me.”

  Before she could deny it, Esme added, “There is a bruise on your bosom. Perhaps you should see a doctor. You could be…well, you might be—”