Acadian Waltz

by Alexandrea Weis

  “The last special occasion I remember was when you brought Lou home for dinner fifteen years ago.”

  “I think it looks wonderful, Claire.” John gave my mother one of his winning smiles, the kind that made his deep gray eyes twinkle.

  “Oh, thank you so much, John,” my mother chirped as she came around to his side and showed him to his spot at the table next to her. “I do try my best,” she humbly added.

  “Would you look at that, they’re already cozy,” Lou whispered as he nudged me to my spot across the table from John.

  “Everyone sit and I’ll get the first course,” Mother commanded.

  I leaned over to Lou. “We’re having courses?”

  He placed his glass of bourbon down on the fine linen tablecloth. “I told you, she’s gone hog wild tonight.”

  “So, Lou,” John commented. “Nora tells me you’re a jewelry dealer.”

  Lou pulled his chair up to the table. “Ah, yes. I deal in antique and custom jewelry. I have stores here, in Houston, and New York.”

  John placed his linen napkin in his lap. “Really? I didn’t realize you were a franchise.”

  “I started the business in New York years ago; opened the store down here after I met Nora’s mother.”

  John reached for his water goblet. “Where did you and Claire meet?”

  “At her husband’s funeral, actually.” Lou picked up his bourbon and took a sip. His wane complexion almost matched the fancy white tablecloth. “Kehoe and I had done some business together in Houston. I’d never met Claire until I came to New Orleans for the funeral. After that, well….” Lou put his drink back down on the table and smiled. “I could never get myself to go back to New York,” he confessed.

  “Here we go,” Mother proclaimed as she marched into the dining room carrying a white china tureen. “Cream of curry soup to start.” She placed the tureen on the table in front of to John. “Nora told me you love Indian food, John.”

  John smiled at me. “Yes, I do love it.”

  “Good,” Lou remarked. “Claire’s cooked enough for ten people. You two get all the leftovers to take home. Damn curry gives me the runs.”

  After that, dinner became a series of exotic Indian dishes lovingly prepared by my mother and paraded out for John’s approval. By the time we got to dessert, Lou was on his third bourbon and had been through at least seven glasses of water, trying to quench the fire in his mouth. All of us had downed several glasses of water with the meal. Mother’s motto with seasoning was “more is always better,” something not particularly recommended when using curry.

  * * *

  After dinner we gathered in the cozy living room for coffee and Courvoisier. The room was decorated in soft tones of green with floral print upholstered couches and dark walnut furniture. On the walls were expensively framed photographs of my mother with her influential society friends. Mother served coffee and chicory from her antique silver coffee urn set up on the table in the center of the room, while Lou poured the Courvoisier at the bar.

  “Well, your job sure sounds exciting. I’ve watched those television programs about emergency rooms and it seems so fast-paced.” Mother, always the consummate hostess, kept the conversation going by commenting on John’s litany at dinner about his adventures in the emergency room.

  “Yes, but you must be used to hearing about medical stories with Nora and her job.” John took the cup of coffee my mother offered him. “She has quite an important position at Uptown Hospital.” He sat down next to me on one of the two bright green and yellow floral couches.

  Mother had a seat on the other floral couch across from me. “Nora is just a physical therapist, after all, John. You doctors are the real decision makers.”

  I rolled my eyes at her. “Thanks, Mother.”

  “Nora is well-respected by the staff and doctors she works with,” Lou insisted as he approached the couch where John and I were sitting. He placed two brandy snifters, partially filled with Courvoisier, on the coffee table before us.

  “How would you know how respected she is?” Mother asked, glaring at Lou.

  “Because half the people she works with are my clients, Claire.” Lou turned to me and winked. “Nora has sent me a ton of business from Uptown Hospital. Most of the doctors there are my clients.”

  Mother looked down at the coffee cup in her hands. “Oh, I wasn’t aware of that.”

  After we were all settled on our perspective couches, the clang of the doorbell made my mother jump.

  “Now who could that be?” she fussed.

  “It’s probably one of your friends dropping by, Claire. I‘ll take care of it,” Lou told her and went to answer the door.

  A few moments later when he returned to the living room, he had an unexpected guest with him.

  “Nora T!” Uncle Jack held out his arms to me as he limped toward me, still wearing the splint on his right ankle.

  “Uncle Jack.” I placed my coffee down on the table in front of me and went to hug him. “What are you doing here?” I inquired as I stepped back from his embrace.

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Jacques. Can’t you call like any normal person?” Mother barked from her couch. “I hope you can forgive the intrusion, John,” she added, smiling sweetly.

  “Nora told me ’bout dinner, so I thought I would stop by and meet the new beau.” Uncle Jack raised his long nose in the air. “Jesus, it stinks in here. What in the hell you been cookin’, Cece?”

  My mother hated many things in life, but above all she hated being called by her childhood nickname of Cece. My uncle, however, reveled in reminding my mother of her humble upbringing at every opportunity.

  “Reminds me of when we used to fry catfish on the back porch in Manchac,” Uncle Jack went on as he placed his arm about my waist.

  My mother began gnashing her teeth like a mad squirrel.

  Uncle Jack examined my mother’s outfit. “Lord, have mercy, Cece. What in the hell you done to your hair? You look like a hooker on Decatur Street.”

  “Not fully recovered yet from your drunken tumble, I see?” Mother’s brown eyes appeared ready to shoot flames at Uncle Jack. “You still can’t hold your liquor, can you Jacques Mouton?”

  “Cece, I’m glad to see that your outsides may look a hell of a lot older, but on the inside you’re still the same old bitch you’ve always been.”

  “Uncle Jack,” I quickly interceded. “There’s someone I would like you to meet.” I motioned to John sitting on his couch, holding his white china coffee cup in his hands. “This is John Blessing.”

  “Well, hello.” Uncle Jack left my side and limped over to shake hands with John.

  John put his coffee down and stood to greet my uncle. They were the same height and had the same square jaw. But my uncle looked stronger and more agile than John. Years of hard living on bayous of Louisiana, I surmised.

  “My brother is a little rough around the edges, John.” Mother asserted, trying to sound as condescending as possible. “You will have to excuse him.”

  Uncle Jack carefully inspected John with his crafty blue eyes. “So, you’re the doctor.” He turned to me. “This is the fella you told me ’bout?”

  “Yes, Uncle Jack.” I walked back to the couch and stood by John’s side.

  “I’m glad to hear she told you about me.” John paused and looked down at my uncle’s right leg. “How’s the ankle?”

  “Better, thanks, ’cept for all them damn tests you doctors keep doin’ on me. They keep lookin’ for somethin’, when nothin’ is wrong.”

  I scowled at my uncle. “You know that’s not true, Uncle Jack. The doctor told you what you needed to do to get better.”

  “I’ve cut back on my drinkin’ like he wanted, so why I need more tests?” Uncle Jack sat down on the couch next to John. “Marie Gaspard even thinks I don’t need all of them tests. Ms. Marie, she’s been real good to me.”

  “I can’t believe you accepted her invitation to stay at their place, Jacques. Those people a
re no good scum,” Mother chided. “The Gaspard’s will never be accepted in polite society. There have been stories floating around about them for years. Smugglers, that’s what they are.”

  “Ain’t no polite society, Cece,” Uncle Jack argued. “It’s Manchac.”

  “What do you mean, smugglers?” John asked as he picked up his coffee from the table in front of him.

  “Gaspard’s come from an old family of smugglers,” Uncle Jack began. “Their great, great, great grandfather smuggled supplies to the Confederates durin’ the Civil War. Then their great grandfather made money runnin’ rationed food and rare imports through the swamps durin’ the First World War. Grandfather Jean Louis ran whisky through the swamps for the New Orleans Mafia. When Jean Louis decided to go legit, he used the money he made to buy his trawlers and started Gaspard Fisheries. But he didn’t do such a good job runnin’ the place. Damn near bankrupted it when Cece’s first husband, Etienne, and his brother, Emile, took over the business. So, Jean Louis went back to what he knew best, smugglin’.” My uncle turned to John. “The swamps of Louisiana are like a maze. For years the government’s been tryin’ to stop the drugs and stuff that comes through our swamps and gets into the States, but the Coast Guard don’t know how to navigate all them bayous and small canals. They get lost and give up. Only people that can make it in the swamps are the ones raised in them.”

  John raised his dark eyebrows in surprise. “I’ve never heard that before.”

  Mother snickered. “You know as well as I do, Jacques, that Gaspard family is still in the smuggling business. I heard stories for years from Etienne. Then there is Jean Marc and that business in Texas.”

  My uncle shook his finger at his sister. “Don’t you be goin’ and sayin’ bad things ’bout that boy, Cece. Jean Marc’s been good to me.”

  I anxiously stared at my mother. “What about Jean Marc?”

  Mother sighed as she demurely placed her hands in her lap. “When Jean Marc was in Texas, after he finished at that fancy college, I heard he got involved with a notorious smuggler. That boy’s no good, just like his Uncle Etienne.”

  “Jesus, Mother! I can’t believe you would buy into such gossip.”

  “It’s not gossip, Nora. It’s just another reason why Jacques shouldn’t be taking any handouts from the Gaspards,” she defended.

  “What’s wrong with Uncle Jack staying at Ms. Marie’s, Mother? Why can’t one old friend help out another?”

  Mother’s cheeks began to turn a pale shade of red. “Since when are we ever friends with any of the Gaspards?”

  Uncle Jack made himself comfortable on my mother’s floral print couch. “Just ‘cause you ran ’round on Etienne when you was married to him, Cece, don’t mean the rest of us can’t be friendly with that family.”

  “Hush up. We’ve got company, you old fool.” Mother turned to John and smiled. “No need to go airing all our dirty laundry and boring poor Dr. Blessing to death.”

  “Why not? You afraid I’ll tell some secrets ’bout you, Cece?” Uncle Jack persisted.

  “My uncle and my mother love to spar every time the family gets together,” I explained as I looked from John to Uncle Jack.

  “My brother is from the side of the family that one tries to forget about, actually,” Mother remarked as she rolled her perfectly made up eyes.

  “What side of the family you talkin’ ‘bout, CeCe?” Uncle Jack struggled to his feet and walked over to the bar. “You from the same side of the family as me, girl.” He grabbed a glass and started to search through the bottles behind the bar. “‘Cept me ain’t the one talkin’ snooty. You don’t need to be actin’ so high and mighty all the time.”

  “Let me help you with that, Jack,” Lou offered as he got up from his couch.

  “Uncle Jack, I thought you said you cut back on the drinking.”

  His robust cackle filled the living room. “Cut back don’t mean quit, child.”

  Lou went behind the bar, grabbed one of the bottles, and began to fill Uncle Jack’s glass with whiskey.

  Mother nervously played with her diamond necklace as her eyes went from Uncle Jack to John. “I’m sorry about this, John. My brother has a bad habit of just dropping by without warning.”

  John smiled reassuringly at my mother. “No, this is wonderful. I’m getting to meet the whole family.”

  “Tell me, boy.” Uncle Jack, now armed with his whiskey, limped over to the couch where John was sitting and took the spot next to him. “You and my niece, this serious or you just sportin’ her?”

  “Uncle Jack!” I gave him a stern reprimand with my eyes. “Don’t start threatening my date, all right?”

  “I’m not threatnin’ him. I just wanna know his intentions.” Uncle Jack turned from me to John. “You got any intentions, son?”

  “Jesus, Jacques, shut up!” Mother got up from her couch and walked back to the bar. She placed her empty brandy snifter on the bar and motioned for Lou to refill it.

  “Actually, I have very honorable intentions,” John declared as he stood from his spot on the couch next to my uncle and stepped to my side. He took my hand and then faced the others. “Nora and I are in love, and I want to marry her,” he announced.

  At this point, my mother broke out into huge fits of screaming, my Uncle Jack frowned, while Lou just stood behind the bar, seemingly unfazed, and poured my mother another Courvoisier. I, on the other hand, almost hit the floor after John’s little disclosure.

  “Nora, my baby!” My mother came toward me, hands outstretched, and then she embraced John. “Lou, did you hear that? Our little girl is getting married.” She turned to my stepfather, who was still standing behind the bar.

  “I heard,” Lou calmly said, his eyes steadily glaring at me.

  “Nora T, you want this?” my Uncle Jack demanded, staring up at me from the couch.

  All eyes in the room turned to me.

  “Ah, I.…” I looked over at John smiling at me. “We never talked about marriage, Uncle Jack, but we do love each other, and I think we would make a good team.”

  “Team, ha! Are you happy with this, Nora T? Bein’ happy, that’s what makes it last fifty years.”

  Mother spun around on her high heels and yelled at my uncle. “Frem la bouche. Tu es couyon, Jacques. Je vas te passé une collette.”

  My Uncle Jack chuckled and rose from the couch. “Now, she wants to slap me.” He winked at me. “She only speaks a français when she boudé.”

  “What?” John softly asked me.

  “She only speaks French when she gets angry,” I replied, translating for my uncle.

  Lou stepped from behind the bar. “I guess this calls for a toast.”

  Mother clasped her hands together gleefully. “Definitely. Go get the champagne, Lou. Let’s have a celebration.”

  John’s hand squeezed mine as he whispered, “I thought it was about time I made my intentions known. Sorry it was so public.” He kissed my cheek. “I hope you don’t mind.”

  I examined John’s happy face. His gray eyes seemed soft and caring. His profile looked like a marble statue, forever supportive and dependable. The nearness of him, the warmth of his touch, felt comforting to me. But deep within the recesses of my body, the acid churned and that nagging pang of doubt began to eat away at me.

  When does it feel right? I mused, and then I looked over at my mother’s beaming countenance. It was the happiest I had seen her in quite some time. Even tears of joy seemed to be smearing her perfectly applied mascara. Maybe it was just me. Perhaps I had been on my own for so long that the idea of joining forces with another needed time to settle in. I figured we would probably have a long engagement to allow me to get used to the idea of marriage. At least I hoped it would be a long engagement. With John, things tended to move quickly, according to his master plan.

  * * *

  As we drove home later that evening, I questioned John’s announcement of our impending nuptials.

  “You could have said something t
o me ahead of time,” I told him as we headed away from the city.

  He maneuvered his BMW M3 through some slower moving cars on the interstate. When he glanced over to me, the smile he had used on my mother all evening had been replaced by a perturbed scowl.

  “What did you expect me to say to your family?” He paused as he sped around a puttering Volvo. “Your uncle was asking what my intentions were while your parents were standing there. What could I say? Yes, I’m having sex with your daughter and no, I’m only hanging around until I get bored with her.” He turned back to me. “I don’t think your uncle would have been too pleased. I was afraid the man was going to pummel me if I didn’t say the right thing.”

  I began to feel a little flushed. “You want to marry me?”

  “Of course I want to marry you, Nora. I thought we could announce our engagement officially in June, and then plan a wedding for the late summer. My residency will be finished by then.” He winked at me. “Hopefully, I’ll have a job lined up by the time we get married.”

  “This summer?” I noted the close proximity of the red taillights of the cars in front of us. “But June is only two months away.”

  His winning smile returned. “Yes, that’s good, isn’t it? I don’t believe in long engagements. We’ll also need to start looking for a new place to live. As a matter of fact, the other day—I was going to tell you about it—I saw the best house for us. In the same neighborhood as your parents, but bigger.”

  “What’s wrong with my place?” I argued as he took the turn off the interstate, heading toward Lake Pontchartrain.

  “Your house is too small for both of us. We’re practically tripping over each other in your bedroom. My home is even smaller, so I thought we could get a new one with extra room for kids.”

  “Kids?” I hesitated, holding back the expletives I desperately wanted to shout out.

  “I figured we could have two. Their sex doesn’t matter to me, but I want to wait at least a year or two after the wedding before we begin trying for a family.”

  “Christ, John, have you already selected their names?”