Acadian Waltz

by Alexandrea Weis

  He gave me a funny look. “What are you talking about? I thought that would be something we decide together. But I have to admit, I always wanted a John Edward Jr. around.”

  “This is all a little sudden.” I gulped back the panic rising up my throat. “What if we make a mistake? What if it doesn’t work out between us?”

  John patted my thigh. “Of course it will work out. We’re perfect for each other. We are a good team, you said so yourself. How could we not succeed? Besides, we are older, not some teenagers going on a whim. I’ve thought this out carefully and planned our future together. It’s our time.”

  “I see,” I muttered as some newly constructed lakefront homes, built since Hurricane Katrina, passed by my window. “What about your parents?” I turned back to him.

  His face flickered with anger as we traveled beneath the streetlamps. “Never mind about them. All they will need is an invitation to the wedding. Your parents are the important ones. After all, you will be the bride, and that’s who a wedding is for, isn’t it? For the bride?”

  But sitting there, in John’s immaculate car, I did not feel very much like a bride. I started having visions of long, white trains and a dozen velvet-sheathed bridesmaids. Leading the wedding party through the whole sordid affair was my mother, dripping with diamonds, covered with white lace, and serving curry to the five hundred guests she would cram into some grand old hall for the reception.

  As we made our way back to my small cottage by the lake, I began to entertain the idea of a late summer wedding in New Orleans, complete with torrid heat, high humidity, hurricanes, and pre-season Saints football. While weighing the benefits of a Las Vegas wedding, the burning in my stomach took hold, making me reach reflexively for the car door.

  “You all right?” John felt my cheek with the back of his cool hand. “You look a little flushed.”

  “I think the curry has gotten to me,” I said, placing my hand on my stomach.

  “I’m sure it did.” John nodded as he eased the car into a parking spot right in front of my house. “Your mother may be many things Nora, but a cook is not one of them.”

  Chapter 7

  A few days later I was sitting at my desk going through patient charts when Steve came into my office carrying some papers in his hands.

  He leaned over my desk and examined my face. “You don’t look so good.”

  I took the papers from him. “I think I have a stomach bug,” I grumbled and tossed the papers to the side of my desk.

  “Everything all right in the bedroom?” He raised his silver eyebrows to me. “You haven’t said much about Dr. Blessing lately, and I haven’t seen any more roses from the other guy. What’s going on?”

  I sat back in my chair and gazed down at my hands, fidgeting nervously on my desk. It was moments like this that I wished I had acquired a slew of girlfriends on whom I could deposit all of my problems. For the better part of three years I had confided my troubles to no one, feeling the burden of confession too much for most people. But as I sat there and felt Steve’s eyes on me, I figured he was all I had.

  “John is talking marriage,” I blurted out. “He met my parents last weekend and he announced that he intended to marry me.”

  “Congratulations?” Steve furrowed his high brow. “You don’t seem like the happy bride, kiddo.” He had a seat in a chair in front of my desk.

  “You noticed. I don’t feel like one. I think it’s all too fast.”

  “Then slow it down. It is your life after all.”

  I stared at him. “Is it?”

  He sat back in his chair as he studied me for a few seconds. “Do you love John Blessing?” he finally asked.

  I shrugged. “I told him I loved him.”

  Steve slammed his hand down on the desk. “Nora, you’ve got a problem. You’re not in love with the doctor. I can see it written all over your face. And if you ask me—”

  “Which I haven’t,” I cut in.

  “I think the fish guy is still swimming around in your head.”

  My jaw dropped. “Jean Marc?” I laughed more out of shock than humor. “The guy is a pompous ass who thinks he’s better than me. He is condescending, a male chauvinist, conceited, arrogant and—”

  “Those are more adjectives than you have ever used to describe the dear doctor, Nora.” Then Steve slowly smiled. “If I were you I wouldn’t hang my fishing pole up quite yet.”

  I waved off his smug grin. “Steve, you’re being ridiculous.”

  His inquisitive blue eyes locked on mine. “Nora, I may not know a whole hell of a lot about women, but I do know when someone is trying to fit a round peg in a square hole. You need to ask yourself if this is what you want.”

  I took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “John and I are a lot alike. It’s a good match between us.”

  Steve stood from his chair. “Honey, it’s not about what you have in common, it’s about love. That’s the only tie I know of that can keep two people together for a lifetime. Make sure it’s love, Nora. Don’t settle for anything less.” He walked to my office door.

  “How do I know when it’s love?”

  Steve grinned as he turned to me. “You won’t have to ask. You’ll know.” He shut the office door behind him, leaving me to wrestle with my growing apprehensions.

  * * *

  The following Sunday, I joined my parents for our usual brunch. It was while we were seated at the mandatory mahogany table that my mother delighted in informing me that she had already come up with a list of possible reception locations.

  “Nora, you and John are going to have to set a date sooner than later,” Mother told me after I enlightened her about John’s plans for our engagement. “It takes months to organize a wedding. Some of the places on my list have to have at least six months’ notice, especially Gallier Hall. They’re impossible. However, Jenny Auquin, from the Ladies Auxiliary, knows the manager of the hall and she said we could get you squeezed in this summer, but they would have to know right away.” She smiled, seeming very pleased with herself.

  “Mother, stop.” I raised my hand and looked to Lou for support. But he just sat hunched over in his mahogany chair, staring down at his plate of ham and eggs. “John and I have just started talking about marriage. We have no date, no plans, nothing.”

  “But, darling,” Mother whined. “It’s Gallier Hall.”

  “I really don’t care.” I pushed my plate of food away. “I will not be rushed into this.”

  “Quite right,” Lou finally spoke up as he forked a large piece of ham into his mouth.

  “Don’t encourage her, Lou,” Mother reprimanded. “If we don’t make the arrangements for her, God knows what kind of wedding she’ll end up with. Some nightmare complete with kegs of beer, a barbeque buffet, and an accordion player banging out polka tunes.”

  I stood from my chair. “What if I wanted to elope?”

  “Elope!” Mother fumed. Her face turned a deep crimson, almost matching her hair. “You wouldn’t dare elope and humiliate me out of all the best social circles in town.” She stood from her chair, her brown eyes fixed on me. “No self-respecting Catholic girl in this town elopes. It’s not done, Nora, and you will not do it to me.”

  Lou looked up from his plate. “Why not? We eloped.”

  “That was different; we were older and it wasn’t our first marriage.” Mother threw her linen napkin on the table. “This wedding has to be done the right way, or I will never be able to hold up my head in this town again.” She pointed her finger at me and shook it, making the collection of gold bracelets on her wrist jingle. “You will not cheat me out of this, Nora. I will have this wedding or I will never forgive you.” She turned from the table and stormed out of the dining room, her high heels clicking on the old oak floor as she went.

  Lou raised his dark eyebrows high over the rim of his black glasses and let out a sigh. “You know how she is, No. She’ll be impossible unless she gets her way.” He leaned in closer to me. “It’s
just one day. Your mother always wanted a big social wedding, and despite being married three times, she never got one. Let her have this one day. After all, you only have one mother and she only has you to live vicariously through. Just think about it.” He returned his attention to his pile of scrambled eggs.

  I took my chair and reached for my plate. I watched Lou fill his fork with some overly cooked eggs and my heart broke for the man. Not only would my life be hell if my mother did not get her way, but his would not be much better.

  “All right, Lou, I’ll think about it.” I picked up my fork and started to play with the grits on my plate. “But I will have to talk with John about all of this,” I asserted.

  Lou glanced up at me and smiled, his pale skin contrasted the redness in his eyes. “That would be good, No. That would be real good.” He reached across the table and patted my hand. “You going out to see Jack today?”

  “Yeah, he’s working on his boat again and has moved back into his house. I figured I’d go up and check on him since he’s not at the Gaspard’s anymore.” I put my fork down and pushed my chair away from the table.

  “Your uncle said they were real good to him.”

  “They were. Uncle Jack told me Ms. Marie took his blood pressure every day, and Jean Marc checked on him every night.”

  “Well, that’s good for Jack.” Lou looked down at his plate, deciding what to devour next. “I’m glad he has friends up there to help, especially with you and Claire being in the city.”

  “I better get going.” I rose from my chair, wanting to leave Lou to his brunch.

  “See you, Lou,” I added as I waved good-bye.

  Lou just grunted, having just taken a bite of his ham.

  * * *

  An hour later, I found Uncle Jack in Merle’s Bar, located next to the Gaspard Fisheries boatyard. I knew I would find him at the closest bar when I arrived on board the Rosalie and found a new captain had been assigned to the trawler.

  Merle’s was popular with all the local fishermen, especially after a long day in the hot Louisiana sun. My uncle was seated at the far end of the long wooden bar, next to a soundless television that flashed sports scores over pictures of U.S. soldiers in Afghanistan. On the dusky gray walls were assorted pictures of boats, along with stuffed and mounted fish caught by the owner. The large room reeked of stale beer, fried food, and bleach used to clean the cement floor. The place was not crowded, and only a few of the many tables in the dining area were filled. Merle’s was also a restaurant that served fresh boiled and fried seafood brought in by the fishermen who frequented the bar.

  “Uncle Jack?” I softly said to his back as he sat on the bar stool before me.

  My uncle never faced me. He just picked up his shot glass filled with dark liquid and brought it to his lips. He emptied the small glass with one gulp.

  “Don’t do this,” I begged as I took a seat on the torn red leather stool next to him.

  “They took my boat.” He slammed the glass down on the bar. “They took my Rosalie. She was my boat. She was my son’s boat. Been on that boat better than twenty years.” He turned to me and I could see the dark circles underneath his bloodshot eyes. “How in the hell am I to make a livin’ now, Nora T?”

  “You could go to New Orleans. Move in with Momma and Lou.”

  “Move in with your mama?” He crossed himself as if he had seen an evil spirit. “Livin’ with that woman would be the death of me. She’s been the death of two husbands already, and Lou don’t look so good these days.”

  “Stop it, Uncle Jack. I talked to the new captain of the Rosalie, Teddy Breaux, and he told me that the Gaspard’s insurance company won’t cover you anymore because of this.” I pointed to the shot glass on the bar. “The insurance company thinks you’re a liability.”

  “Insurance company, ha!” He spit on to the floor. “When I started in this business over forty years ago, we don’t have no insurance on these boats.” He held up his callused hands to me. “These the only insurance a man had. If you had hands, you could work.”

  “Times are different, Uncle Jack. Jean Marc has to do things by the book.” I was about to give him a lecture on his drinking when I heard footsteps come up behind my stool.

  Uncle Jack was the first to wheel around. Before I even knew what was going on, my uncle swung his big fist to hit the person standing behind me. I turned in time to see Jean Marc Gaspard duck expertly out of danger. When he missed connecting with Jean Marc’s jaw, my uncle lost his balance and fell from his stool.

  “Merde!” Uncle Jack hollered as he hit the cement floor.

  Jean Marc was the first to his side. I jumped from my stool, and knelt down beside him.

  “Get away from me,” Uncle Jack growled at Jean Marc.

  Jean Marc took a step back as I helped my uncle to his feet. He appeared unharmed as my eyes did a quick assessment of his body.

  “What you doin’ here, boy? Passé!” Uncle Jack howled as his blue eyes spewed venom at Jean Marc.

  “Uncle Jack, shut up.”

  “Look, I came to see how he was,” Jean Marc explained.

  “You just like that possedé brother of yours, stabbin’ men in the back,” Jack shouted as he made a move toward Jean Marc.

  I jumped in between the two men. It was then I noticed a few of the patrons intently watching our every move. I nodded at Jean Marc. “Let’s get him home.”

  But Uncle Jack would have none of Jean Marc touching him. Instead, he grabbed his faded blue cap from the bar and then proceeded to the entrance. I followed him as Jean Marc fell in step behind me.

  Once outside in the full light of day, Uncle Jack did not appear as steady on his feet as he had inside the bar. I went to him and placed my arm about his waist.

  “Come on, Uncle Jack,” I urged as I tried to guide him to the parking lot.

  He pulled away from my arm. “Non, I’m not goin’ home. Too early to go home. I got things to do. I should rewire some crab traps and run a new tow line, but….” He pointed at Jean Marc. “He took that away from me.”

  “You did it to yourself, Jack,” Jean Marc insisted. “Once that hospital filed a report with our health insurance company, you were screwed. The doctor at the hospital ran a blood alcohol level on him.” He came up to my side. “When he ran the blood tests to check his liver. The doctor made a diagnosis of chronic alcoholism on the insurance report. Once it was filed, my insurance company called me and told me I had no choice but to pull him from the boat, otherwise they would not cover him for liability.” Jean Marc turned back to Jack and threw up his hands. “There was nothing I could do. I even tried to get you coverage working dry dock, at least around the boats, since you couldn’t be out hauling. But the insurance company nixed that, as well.” Jean Marc placed his hands in the front pockets of his black slacks. “I can’t hide the drinking anymore, Jack.”

  I gave Jean Marc a reassuring smile. “I’m sure you did all you could.”

  “Don’t you take his side,” Uncle Jack barked at me, and then without warning he fell back against the shell-covered lot, passed out cold.

  “Uncle Jack!” I cried out as I ran to him.

  Jean Marc picked up my uncle like a sack of crawfish and slung him over his broad shoulder. “I’ll put him in the back of my truck.”

  I followed him to a red Ford pick up truck, newer than the others in the lot, but still old compared to the standards of city folk. Jean Marc tenderly laid my uncle out in his truck bed and covered him with an old blanket he had folded up in the back of his cab.

  “Follow me in your car,” Jean Marc instructed. “We’ll get him home and put him to bed.”

  As we drove out of the parking lot, I watched his bright red taillights in front of my car and thought about all that Jean Marc had said. Silently berating myself for not stepping in sooner and curtailing my uncle’s drinking, at that moment I swore I would take a more active roll in my uncle’s life, even if it meant spending time away from John and my responsibiliti
es in the city. When I began to consider the hours away from my home and fiancé, I realized I didn’t feel anxious or upset. I was relieved. And that feeling, more than my uncle’s guarded health, disturbed me.

  * * *

  My uncle lived in a two-bedroom cypress cottage next to a small bayou. His front yard was filled with several imposing bald cypress trees and a vast collection of painted ceramic animals. My Aunt Elise had decorated each of the ducks, squirrels, rabbits, frogs, and turtles that lay scattered about the lawn. Her artistry had not stopped there; Aunt Elise had also painted every color of the rainbow on the exterior of her home. The little raised Cajun cottage resembled something out of a child’s drawing. But even after so many years since her death, the paint still looked fresh and vibrant thanks to my uncle’s loving care.

  When the red pickup truck stopped in front of the old porch, I jumped from my car and ran ahead to open the front door for Jean Marc. Being from the city, I was surprised to find the door unlocked, but I figured that was probably the way people were on the bayou. Trust was a commodity still evident in small communities across rural Louisiana. It was only the city folk, like me, who were jaded and disheartened by the cruel acts of others.

  “Thank you,” I said after Jean Marc had carried my uncle to his bedroom and laid him out on his old oak bed.

  “You’re welcome. I was worried about him,” he told me as he walked out of the bedroom with its pink wallpaper and paintings of Jesus covering the walls.

  I followed him down a dark-paneled hall to the kitchen.

  Jean Marc pulled out a chair next to the pine breakfast table that filled the tiny yellow kitchen. He sat down with a thud, looking as if all his energy had been siphoned away. “One of my men told me he was at Merle’s,” he admitted.

  I took the seat across from him. “When did you find out about the insurance?”

  “Wednesday afternoon, after I got back in town from a business trip.”

  I placed my hands on the table before me. “You told him then?”

  He rubbed his face in his large hands. “I told him after he came in from trawling that day. But he didn’t believe me. Not until he saw Teddy Breaux taking his boat out the next morning.” Jean Marc paused and I could see his dark brown eyes were distorted by anguish. “I’ve known your uncle all my life. He taught me how to rebuild a boat engine, gut a catfish, even how to ask a girl out on a date. Telling him he could not shrimp anymore was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.”