by Lynn Shurr
The prosecution countered with some of the same for Stacy, bringing in a few of her clients, not very good for business, but they all spoke of her professionalism and when working at the hospital, her compassion. They found two women in Chapelle who’d had sex with Kent, one a pro, the other a woman who’d gotten a big discount on her mobile home. Both said he could be a little rough but paid up later.
Lots of back and forth went on about Louisiana’s stand-your-ground and concealed carry laws, until at last the jurors filed out to deliberate. Nine white men, two young Caucasian women, and one elderly black person, who believed in Jesus and forgiveness, returned a verdict of not guilty. Stacy did cry in Dean’s arms on her purple sofa in the privacy of her apartment now staked out again by the press. “He went unpunished, and my reputation has been smeared all over the newspapers. I wish I were in Germany.”
“You would have had to come home for the trial anyhow. It’s over. Don’t do this. Kent has lost his reputation and his black clientele. That wife of his might go for a divorce, Catholic or not. Think of poufy wedding dresses and tiaras and cake with raspberry filling,” he said. “Aren’t we supposed to pick out our china and silver patterns at Schifferman’s this week?”
“Like you really want to do that.” She blotted her eyes on a corner of the red scarf Mati dragged onto her lap when he came to lick her face.
“No, but I will—for you. Trust Leslie. He has good taste.”
Stacy gave him a watery smile. “You were there for me every day, Dean. Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me either. I’m going to ask you to stand by me come the Fourth of July. That’s when Ilsa says the baby is coming. She disagrees with the doctor by a good two weeks, and she has a pretty strong will.”
The birthday of the nation and possibly of his child, Stacy would be there, she promised, and not in Germany.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Whether she practiced German precision or simply wanted to ruin Dean’s holiday, Ilsa called him at five a.m. on the Fourth saying she thought she’d gone into labor. He must come at once to take her to the hospital, the same one his mother had used to give birth. She knew he’d planned to go to the ranch for the usual blowout picnic with his extended family and took it as an affront that her obstetrician had forbidden her to travel outside the city. Ilsa implied Dean put the man up to restricting her to New Orleans where she wouldn’t be seen by his kin. He had to wonder if she’d somehow induced labor on her own.
“My family knows you’re pregnant and due any moment. Believe me, answering their questions would wear you out. Besides, you still look very beautiful.” Dean did not lie about either fact. Though clearly with child, she’d maintained a belly most people who knew about these things would put at six months. The doctor kept telling him not to worry.
“What if you are three hours away when the baby comes?” Ilsa inquired. “Am I to take a taxi or call an ambulance?”
“Whichever you want. Listen, Nurse Shammy says first births rarely go quickly. I’d have plenty of time to come back and be with you.”
“She is an old, childless woman and was a nun. What does she know?”
“A lot. She saw my mother through two difficult pregnancies and cared for those babies afterwards. She’ll be waiting at your house to do the same for you and Beck.”
The name had been another area of contention. She wanted Beckmann Billodeaux. Dean considered that too long and finally offered his dad’s suggestion of Beck Mann Billodeaux. Ilsa rather liked that. “He will be the little Mann, nein?”
Mawmaw Nadine grumbled about the lack of a saint’s name, but it wasn’t her call. He’d wait a while to tell his grandmother the child would be raised Lutheran.
Ilsa demanded he attend Lamaze classes with her though she didn’t intend to have a natural birth. Dean believed she still hoped to supplant Stacy and feeling the baby move in her belly, holding her between his legs at the classes and rubbing the small of her back would be steps in that direction. At least, he’d learned to diaper and swaddle a baby doll, not that he’d be practicing on the real thing very often with interviews already ongoing for a permanent nursemaid. When Ilsa suggested, “Come, Dean, move in with me. We do not need the big, fancy wedding,” he’d set her straight again. He’d be a good father, but not her husband or lover.
The five a.m. call also woke Stacy lying beside him in his big bed with the leather headboard. His sheets smelled of lavender again, and he enjoyed it. “Right, I’ll be over to pick you up shortly.” To Stacy, he said, “Ilsa says it’s time to go. She’s in labor. You ride with Tom to the picnic. I’ll call with updates.”
“Hmmm, did you sit in a coffee shop waiting for updates when the trial went on and on? No, I’ll be at the hospital. Tom can drop me there before he heads out.”
“If Ilsa sees you, she’ll probably give birth to that kid in one massive spasm of anger.”
“Then it will be faster.” She shot him an enigmatic smile. “I’ll stay out of sight. I know plenty of people at the hospital. Just check in with me now and then.”
“It’s going to be a long day.”
Dean’s prediction came true. Though Ilsa was in labor, she’d only progressed two centimeters. The doctor, whose clothes under his open white lab coat said he’d planned to go saltwater fishing, assured them the birth was in no way imminent and suggested they walk the halls until Ilsa reached five centimeters. He left instructions for the epidural to be administered at that time. She achieved five centimeters at noon, then lay like a log in her bed watching Fourth of July celebrations around the nation on the television. Dean fed her ice chips on demand. Hours passed.
He met Stacy in the main lobby whenever he took a break. She went outside and relayed any news to the partygoers at the ranch. They had lunch and dinner together taking their meals from the cafeteria to a staff lounge where they would not be observed together.
“She’s not in any pain, but she’s still bitching about everything possible. She’s hot, she’s cold, go get her more ice chips.”
“I guess I’d be irritable, too, if I’d had an enema and nothing but ice chips since dawn.”
“Just lost my appetite for this burger, but I know you. You might do the princess act very well, but you would suck it up and walk it off—if you could walk, which she can’t any more.”
Stacy brushed away his troublesome curl. “It won’t be much longer.”
At eight-thirty p.m. the doctor proclaimed them ready to go. In the meantime, he’d caught three good-sized redfish he told Dean as they followed the gurney to the delivery room. Even with Dean holding up Ilsa’s shoulders and much grunting and pushing on her part, his son did not enter the world until nine p.m. “Narrow pelvis. Good thing the child is small, or we’d have a C-section to perform. Nice work, Mama. Apgar score of nine.
“Only a nine?” Dean questioned.
“What, he is not good enough for a ten? Let me see,” Ilsa demanded.
“The birth weight is a little low, six pounds, two ounces, but he’s lively. Nothing to worry about. Here you go, Dad. Take him to the nursery while we clean up Mama.”
Dean secured his son, swaddled and capped, in a football carry and walked the long hallway to deliver him safely to a nurse ready for the hand off. All the way, the baby squinted up at him with pale eyes as if impressing his father on his mind. Dean wondered if his own dad had felt as helpless as he did shouldering this great responsibility for the first time when he’d snatched his son from a lawyer and driven away. If he had, Joe Billodeaux would never have let on. Dean smiled down on the infant. “Welcome to the world, Beck. I’ll do the best I can.”
He found Stacy and brought her to the viewing window. “He’s puny and bald and has blue eyes. There’s never been a bald Billodeaux. You think they could have mixed up the DNA test?”
Stacy squeezed his arm. “No, the way he’s moving those arms and legs, he’s yours. Besides, Mawmaw said your cousin Randi was bald for months. They had to tape bows to
her head. Now she has lots of black curls. I think the eyes will change to brown. If not, he takes after Ilsa, and she is very beautiful.”
“You should have seen him a little while ago all covered in gunk and blood. Not so pretty then.”
“Oh, Dean, I wish he were ours, bald or not.’
“Me, too. I’m still up for starting a family right away.’
“No, we have problems to solve and people to call right now.”
They walked outside. Fireworks crackled over the river and exploded in a hazy nimbus of light in the warm and humid air. Closer by, families popped strings of Chinese firecrackers and maybe some of those bangs belonged to handguns as well. Dean called his family with the news that Beck had come into the world. Tom got on the line and said they were shooting off a big display called Shotgun Wedding in his honor.
“Nothing shotgun about the wedding, bro. Do they have one called Shotgun Daddy? By the time Stacy and I have our own, I should be really good at this fatherhood thing.”
“You’ve got plenty of backups. We’re all here for you.” Tom passed the phone along to so many people the battery ran down.
“I’d better go say goodnight to Ilsa and thank her for my son.”
“That would be the Dean Billodeaux way to handle it. I’m proud of you. Go, I’ll wait out here and enjoy the fireworks.”
Dean returned shortly saying Ilsa wanted to rest. They drove back to the condo in silence with revelry exploding all around them. Both their worlds had changed tonight.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Dean learned weddings were considerably more work for a man than being present at childbirth. Choosing the groomsmen, no sweat, he figured. He had five brothers, Tom to serve as best man and the others to do duty as ushers, except for Teddy and T-Rex. Ted would stand at the altar using his sticks. T-Rex rebelled against wearing short pants and being a ring bearer. He got his own tuxedo just like the rest of the men. He’d walk Mati, trained to carry a white straw basket in his mouth holding the rings Velcroed onto a pink silk pillow, down the aisle on a leash. The rest of his duties included making sure Mati used the fireplug beforehand and tugging him back from any attempts to raise his leg in the church, a serious responsibility. T-Rex filled the pocket of his tiny tux with dog treats to assure cooperation.
In return for these tasks, Dean learned he was expected to give his brothers a gift. Easy, the latest gaming system for all but Tom who already owned one. His best man, best friend, and brother received the deed to the condo. Stacy had convinced her groom they should live near, but not too near, Ilsa in the Garden District so he could easily visit Beck during his scant free time during the season. The idea still made him uneasy, but for the good of the child, he’d do it.
No white horse and carriage to transport them to the reception at the Roosevelt Hotel. Because of the ever-voracious press, they’d have two white stretch limos with heavily tinted windows take them there and Mariah’s bouncers running crowd control. Big-hearted Mariah attended all dolled up and sat in the front row on the bride’s side accompanied by her oxygen tank because Stacy had no parents to sit there. With the Sinners team and staff, both past and present, and the huge Billodeaux clan plus some of Stacy’s best clients attending, the huge cathedral didn’t have an empty seat. Great to see Rex Worthy and his wife, Tricia, looking good after a double mastectomy and reconstruction. The Rev, his wife and family, Dr. Connor Bullock, Little Joe and tall Riley with her NBA fiancé filled a row in a big way. Prince Dobbs was there only because Mama Nell said everyone on the team had to be invited just like back in kindergarten. Don Juan gave Dean a wink and a broad, white smile. Angel, who had sold him out to the press after the drunken incident at Paco’s, received no invitation.
Now, the music sounded and all Dean had to do was stand in front of everyone waiting for his bride, frozen in the pocket ready for the big play. Stacy had taken the term “white wedding” literally. His sisters marched down the aisle clad in that color though he knew Xochi had campaigned for something brighter. Each wore a chaplet of pale pink roses in their dark hair and carried the same in their arms, first tall Lorena, then Jude and Annie, then finally Xochi. Edie scattered dried rose petals from a basket onto the white runner and T-Rex, a full head taller, kept Mati on a short leash administering light tugs each time they approached one of the arrangements of pink and white flowers on the ends of the aisles. Lots of oohs and ahs before the organist segued into the traditional wedding march and his bride appeared on Joe Billodeaux’s arm.
Dean’s hands went sweaty, and his mouth turned dry as they never did during a game. Stacy appeared to be a fairy tale princess right out of the storybooks. She wore her golden hair down because he’d asked that of her and covered in a veil, cathedral length, secured by a small tiara of white and pink diamonds given to her by the aunt and uncle who raised her. Her dress, definitely poufy, had a strapless bodice embroidered with pink roses and a wide silk overskirt drawn up over a petticoat of tulle secured in the center with a pink gem. A couple of months ago, Dean Billodeaux wouldn’t have had the words tulle or overskirt or cathedral length veil in his vocabulary, but his mom and sisters talked of nothing else before the wedding. His bride looked magnificent.
Baby Beck began to scream, and eyes turned his way. Mawmaw Nadine reached back into the second row, groom’s side, and fairly ripped the child from Ilsa’s arms. Dean could tell his grandmother’s lips whispered “Dodo”, the old Cajun word urging an infant to sleep. Beck settled on her wide, comforting bosom and quieted. Dean had only one worried moment to wonder if Ilsa had pinched the child to upstage Stacy,
No matter now, his bride approached the altar and was given away by her uncle. Their vows from the Book of Common Prayer took such a short time. Mati at a discreet gesture from the bride sat up on his haunches and offered them the rings in the slightly gnawed basket—his of titanium, hers a circlet of pink and yellow diamonds set in eighteen-carat gold. The communion following lasted longer as any baptized Christian who wished to partake came to the rail. Cuddling Beck, Mawmaw Nadine staunchly remained in her seat, as did all his Catholic relatives. Mariah with a what-the-hell shrug climbed the steps in her stiletto heels, her gold sequins and portable oxygen tank shining, and accepted the host and a pretty good slug of wine.
The wedding party exited the cathedral through a long tunnel of white canvas straight into the waiting limos. A police escort got them swiftly through traffic to the Roosevelt, once the Fairmont Hotel where his honorary Aunt Stevie and Connor Riley had held their reception. Closed after Hurricane Katrina and restored, the floors of place gleamed again with mosaic tiles, and the gold and white Waldorf-Astoria Ballroom awaited the guests with a cocktail reception and a sit down dinner of Surf and Turf accompanied by champagne. Tall glass columns held arrangements of white roses with pale pink edges and a cascade of ivy and stephanotis down the sides. Brian Lightfoot, the Sinners’ punter, had handled all the flowers and done his usual tasteful and outstanding job.
With drinks, dinner, toasts, the cutting of a wedding cake of ornate opulence, and all the other wedding rigmarole out of the way, the dancing began. Stacy waltzed first with her Uncle Joe and then her groom, both men light on their feet and quick with the turns. Aunt Stevie got misty-eyed recalling her reception when Dean paused to talk to her as other men cut in for a dance with the bride. “Your birth mother planned the whole event, a daisy extravaganza since I just didn’t care about the details. She was excellent at her job, Dean. Remember that much about her, the good part.”
Daddy Joe joined them. “That’s the night I seduced your mother for the first time by pretending to be too drunk to drive home alone. The tabloids thought I’d taken up with a teenager she was so small. Good memories. I hope you and Stacy will be as happy as me and Tink.”
“TMI, Dad, but yeah, that pretending to be drunk works for women, too, evidently.” Dean watched Ilsa hand the baby off to his mom, who immediately slung a table napkin over the shoulder of her pale blue silk su
it to cuddle him, and rush to where Prince Dobbs held court within a ring of young women. Ilsa had insisted on attending and bringing the child though none had been invited except Edie and T-Rex, and she’d worn white as if it were her day, too.
Prince shed his tuxedo jacket and discarded a set of gold nugget cufflinks to roll up his sleeves to the shoulders. He beckoned to Stacy just finishing a dance. No, he would not do his biceps performance at their reception. Dean, backed up by his dad, headed for the group in time to hear Stacy say, “Please, not at my wedding!”
“No, no, you got me all wrong. I tell you that Cyril is a genius. He turned my penis palm into a Celtic cross. Get a look at my other arm. The skull is now the head of Jesus Christ who has his dreadlocks crowned with thorns. These show I am a changed man.” Still, Prince flexed his fully regained muscles beneath Ilsa’s eager fingertips.
“So strong. I would have liked to see that penis palm,” she remarked.
“Oh, I can arrange to let you see the real thing, honey—I mean after you recover from having Dean’s baby, and we pray together about it.”
Aunt Stevie guided her beautiful and blonde teen model daughter Josee away from the exhibition of tattooed flesh and drafted a pleased, bespectacled, and age-appropriate Trinity Billodeaux to lead her in a dance even though he stood a head shorter than his partner. Dean backed off and reclaimed Stacy. He whirled her out onto the dance floor again. “Sounds like praying together is a new euphemism for sex in Prince’s vocabulary. He did work hard to recover, I’ll give him that.”
