The telephone rang several times before Anne, caught up in her thoughts, picked it up.
“Hello, Anne dear,” her father François’s voice rumbled over the line, “I’ve been thinking about the termites.”
“Termites? Oh, right, the termites in the house. What about them?”
“I realize you’re planning to call an exterminator, but I have a different idea. One of my colleagues in the Entomology Department has been experimenting with ants.”
“With ants? You mean, using ants to kill the termites?”
“Exactly. Ants of the Megaponera genus are one of the few predators known to prey on this species of termites. How would it be if I ordered some? They would be less invasive and probably less expensive than the conventional treatment using tenting and gas.”
Anne suppressed a smile. “I don’t know, Dad. It’s all very well, experimenting and so on, but what if it doesn’t work, and I’ll have thousands of invading ants as well as—or instead of—the termites.”
“That’s a possibility, I suppose. Hadn’t considered that. Well, it’s up to you. I wanted to present an alternative, and you have a perfect setup there, with all those termites.”
“I’m sure there are plenty of other cases like mine around,” she said, “but I’ll keep the ants in mind. I need to call an exterminator for an estimate first.”
“All right. Let me know if you need any help.”
Anne hung up, smiling. Her father meant well, but sometimes he had very strange ideas. She did not like the thought of millions of ants crawling around her house feasting on termites. A wake-up call: she needed to attend to the pests. The vandalism had sent her a message, and mixed emotions about moving in with her sister had dulled her enthusiasm. But her father’s call inspired her. After looking at names she had scribbled on a pad of paper, she called an exterminator and set up an appointment.
Later that week Anne drove downtown to where HANO, the Housing Authority of New Orleans, kept offices. The imposing building on Touro Street looked nothing like the houses the agency supposedly planned to demolish. Several men in suits entered and left by the front doors. Glad she’d made an appointment and had dressed appropriately in a skirt and blouse, she inhaled deeply as she pushed the door open and stepped inside. The attendant at the front desk directed her to Mr. Lyon’s office on the second floor. She mentally rehearsed her questions and knocked on the door.
“Come in,” a man’s voice drawled.
“I’m Anne Gautier.”
“Aw, yeah, you wanted to see me,” he said, making an effort to stand up and offering his hand. He had graying hair and wore a suit that seemed too tight. His tie hung loosely around the collar.
“Denis Lyon. What can I do for you, young lady?” he asked in a slow Southern drawl. He took a sip of water from a glass on his desk as he settled back into his chair.
“I’d like to learn more about your programs, the ones concerning the deteriorating neighborhoods in Section C,” she said.
“Well, yes. Reckon I can talk to you some about those. May I ask why you have an interest?”
“I’ve become aware that some people are against the destruction of homes in the area, and I wondered why.”
“Well, some folks can’t accept change,” he said, looking at her and taking off his glasses.
“But if the changes are for the better, why would they object?”
“Just so. Don’t ask me to understand the workings of some minds. Those houses are slums, you know. Terrible places to live. No plumbing, no running water, high crime, a blight on the city.”
“Really? No plumbing or water? I didn’t realize. . . .”
“So we think it’s best to take ’em down.”
“Oh, I see. And you’ll rehouse the people who live there in better accommodations, is that right?”
“That’s the plan, of course, in time.”
“In time? You mean, there’s no new housing for the displaced people to go to?”
“Now listen here, ma’am. We’re workin’ on it. Public housing, it’s called. Now if you don’t mind, I have work to do.”
He put his glasses on and straightened some papers on his desk.
“Well, thanks for seeing me,” Anne said.
She left the office, beginning to understand. People were losing their homes, poor people, who now had nowhere to live. It made her wonder all the more who had come into her house and destroyed the bathroom. Could that person have been a friend of Stella’s? She didn’t know where she lived. Perhaps she’d drive to the area and see for herself.
Anne returned to her car. As she pulled the keys out of her purse, she saw a man carrying a sign that read DEATH TO HANO.
Her body tensed. Could this be the person responsible for the damage? About her age, he had intense blue eyes, a tie-dyed T-shirt, and hair pulled back in a ponytail. She clenched her hands. She should talk to him. Bracing herself, she approached him.
“Hi,” she said.
“Hey,” he replied. “Do I know you?”
“No, but I’m curious to find out what your sign means.”
“Don’t you listen to the news? Don’t you read about what’s goin’ on in this town?”
“I’m familiar with the work that HANO’s doing.”
“So you’re aware of the disgraceful way they’re treatin’ people. They’re bein’ evicted and have nowhere to go. We’re tryin’ to get people like yourself to get involved and to stop the destruction of their homes. Wanna help? There’s a meetin’ tonight.”
“I’ll think about it. I may know someone who’s being evicted. Do you know Estelle Clark?”
“Stella, you mean? Yeah, I know her. She’s got two months before she has to get out of her place. Friend of mine got really bent out of shape about it. She’s got rich relatives who won’t lift a finger to help. Outright discrimination.”
“A friend of yours got upset? Did that person destroy property to protest? Could you tell me who?”
The guy opened his eyes wide.
“Hey . . . you know somethin’ about this, don’t you? You related to Stella? Bitch! You should be ashamed of yourself!” He spat on the ground.
Anne turned to leave. Sensing a deep gnawing in her stomach, she unlocked her car and sat in the driver’s seat, too shaky to drive. The young man glared after her, shouting. She yanked the key in the ignition, pressed her foot hard on the accelerator, and squealed away from the curb.
Back in her room, she poured herself a glass of wine. Now what should she do? She had stumbled upon evidence that might lead to the identity of the person who destroyed her bathroom. Should she report the protester to the police so they could investigate further? After her second glass of wine she began to think she no longer wished to find the culprit. She now understood the vandal’s possible motives and even sympathized with the notion of protesting property renovation when a short distance away homes were being demolished. Homes without plumbing, in 1970? How appalling! Occupants like Stella were being displaced and had nowhere to go. The accusation that she behaved like a rich relative who cared nothing about her less fortunate sister disturbed her. She wanted to do the right thing. She would talk to Stella again, and soon.
Chapter 8
November 1872
Saturday arrived, the day of the dinner party. Estelle had prepared carefully, instructing Clarice about the menu and ensuring that she purchased the freshest ingredients from the market. While accustomed to giving dinner parties, this was the first one with the new cook. She hoped that Edgar would enjoy meeting her friends. They were mostly her friends, after all. René, the businessman, had little in common with Philippe, the artist, who came from an aristocratic French family and did not need to work.
Earlier that afternoon, Beulah had set the long, polished table for eleven. Estelle inspected it with a practiced eye. Silverware surrounded the plates edged in gold with a pattern of exotic birds. Two sizes of glasses sat to the right of each plate beside a white linen napkin.
Candelabras holding ivory candles stood at intervals in the middle, and a large vase of pink camellias and white calla lilies adorned the center. The room and its tall windows and paintings provided an inviting setting for the formal dinner. Everything seemed satisfactory.
She wanted to spend some time with the children before dressing for dinner, and crossed the room to the back parlor to see them. Sidney and Pierre were playing with a wooden train on the floor.
“Look, Maman, it goes fast,” Pierre said, pushing the toy across the room.
“It’s like the one Oncle Edgar came on, but small, and this one is red,” said Sidney.
“I see that. Where is it going?” Estelle asked as she sat down.
“To France, where Oncle Edgar lives.”
“But France is across the sea, and trains can’t go in water,” Estelle said, smiling.
“Then it can go on a ship,” Pierre said, taking a model boat from a box.
“Yes; perhaps Flora can read you a story about a ship,” she said, looking at the nurse. The baby, William, slept in a crib in the corner, and his five-year old sister, Carrie, sat holding a drawing of a long-eared animal. Estelle pulled herself up and moseyed to the crib. She gazed at her nephew’s small face and stroked his hair. Soon she would have a little one like him. She touched her round stomach, full of love for her unborn child. Then she bent over Carrie, peering at her drawing.
“C’est un lapin, a rabbit. When will Oncle Edgar paint with me?” she asked.
“Soon. He’s been busy, but he will, soon.”
Estelle gave her niece a kiss and left to go upstairs to dress for dinner.
Marguerite, dressed in her white gown and matching satin slippers, cast her eyes around her. She had not been to the Musson residence before and thought it very grand. She stood fluttering her fan in the foyer beside her parents. Beulah motioned to them to come through. The family had assembled in the front room, and Michel Musson stepped forward to welcome the guests.
“Bienvenue Monsieur et Madame Fontenot, Mademoiselle Marguerite; may I introduce my nephew Edgar? You already know my other nephews, René and Achille, my daughter Mathilde, son-in-law William, and Estelle. And this is my daughter Désirée.”
The adults smiled, and Marguerite took pains to make her best curtsey. She turned her attention to the men. Michel’s spectacles and graying hair gave him a distinguished air, while Edgar Degas, dressed in a black coat and cravat, appeared uncomfortable. Perhaps he is shy like me, she thought, trying not to stare at him. I wish my shoes fit better. They are pretty but hurt my feet. I would go to him and talk, but I am afraid I would limp and look foolish.
“Please sit down,” Estelle said. “We’ll have drinks before dinner.”
The guests took seats in the overstuffed chairs.
A servant appeared beside her holding a tray, and Marguerite accepted a cold drink, a mint julep in a silver cup. Taking a sip, she suddenly felt as if she belonged in this grown-up dinner party. She could hardly keep from beaming. Her mother and Estelle sat together laughing, and René and her father talked quietly in the corner.
Estelle soon announced that dinner was served, and everyone rose to go into the dining room. Cards beside the plates identified each person’s seat at the table. Michel presided at the head, and Marguerite’s card placed her near the end between her mother and Achille. Edgar sat on the other side near her father, Estelle, and René, and opposite Désirée. She could hear none of the conversation between those people and turned to her mother.
“Maman, I would so like to talk to Monsieur Degas about Paris,” she said.
“You will, I’m sure, but perhaps not tonight. He’s an artist like your father, and they will have much to discuss. He’s the guest of honor, and you will have to wait for your turn to speak to him,” Sophie replied, patting her hand.
Marguerite turned to Achille and tried to think of something to say, but noticing that he was staring at his plate, she gave up. She slipped her shoes off under the table and looked at Edgar. Désirée was talking to him with animation from across the table, and they were laughing. With a flash of envy, she wished she were more skilled at making polite conversation.
The maid entered the room to serve the first course, shrimp on a bed of greens with a slice of lemon. She carried the small plates on a tray and now placed one before each guest. Conversation died as each person picked up a silver fork and began to eat. A servant came around pouring white wine. Marguerite wasn’t sure he would offer her any, but he filled her glass, and she decided not to say anything. She took a sip, but set the glass down, as she saw that no one else had touched theirs. Michel stood up, wine in hand.
“I’d like to propose a toast to our guests, all of you. Thank you for coming and for sharing this meal,” he said. “We’re happy to welcome everyone from France to our Creole society, and we’re especially glad to have Edgar here.”
Edgar smiled, a shy smile, Marguerite observed. The company raised their glasses and drank. Marguerite thought the wine bitter, not as sweet as the pale color suggested. She puckered her lips and took another bite of shrimp, which was plump and succulent. She observed the diners. Everyone ate with gusto except Edgar, who seemed to be staring at Désirée. She wondered what he was thinking. Désirée did not seem to be aware of him as she delicately moved morsels of shrimp into her mouth. She looked lovely in a yellow dress with small flowers embroidered on the bodice, a yellow flower tucked over her right ear. At that moment Marguerite would have given anything to change places with her, but then she remembered she had no idea how to engage him, to make him watch her every move, as Désirée obviously knew how to do.
During the next course, filet of catfish topped by a garlic-butter sauce, the servant again filled the wine glasses. Marguerite had finished her first glass, and began to feel lightheaded, pleasantly so. As she looked around, the room took on a magical atmosphere, reminding her of the moment when the house lights dimmed, minutes before the curtain rose at the opera. Candlelight suffused the colors, bathing the diners and walls in an amber glow. Even Achille, sitting next to her, looked more cheerful.
Dessert arrived, the best part of all: pecan pralines, Marguerite’s favorite. By the time she had taken the last bite, she no longer cared about the lack of conversation on her part. She sat content and drowsy, and more grown-up than when she’d arrived.
Dinner over, the men retired to the front room for cigars. Marguerite sat with the women in the parlor drinking coffee and listening to Estelle and Mathilde talking about their children and how well they played together. Finally, it was time to leave, and her father and mother thanked their hosts for the excellent dinner before they walked the short distance home.
Once there, Sophie turned to her daughter.
“You were very quiet tonight, chérie. Did you enjoy yourself?”
“Well enough, but I need some new slippers. I wish I knew how to converse better. I have nothing to say sometimes.”
“You are young, and those people were all older than you. You’ll gain confidence in time, you’ll see.”
Marguerite felt her mother’s arm around her. “We’ll go shopping soon.”
Hugging her back, Marguerite replied, “Oui, Maman, bientȏt, soon.”
After the guests had departed, Estelle sank into a chair in the front room.
“Well, my dear, the dinner party exceeded expectations, and I think our guests enjoyed themselves. It’s important to keep up appearances. Are you pleased?” René asked.
“I think so. Monsieur Fontenot asked to send his compliments to the cook, and I heard Edgar talking to him about art. It seemed they understood one another.”
“I noticed that Sophie’s daughter Marguerite has inherited her mother’s good looks. She will be a beauty, someday. Achille sat next to her, but he’s such a boor he scarcely paid her any attention at all. Idiot!”
Estelle blew out the candles, and they went upstairs to bed.
Next morning, Estelle found Edgar in the fr
ont room nursing a cup of coffee.
“Eh bien, how did you like the dinner last night?” she asked.
“Magnifique,” he said. “I was happy to meet Philippe. He told me where to buy painting materials, and we plan to spend some time painting together.”
“Very good. I hoped you would meet a companion, someone you could see eye-to-eye with,” she said, then hesitated. After a moment she continued, “I mean someone who shares your artistic inclinations.”
He nodded. “Estelle, I don’t mean to pry, but how is your vision these days?” he asked, looking at her sadly.
She averted her gaze. “I’ve lost sight altogether in my left eye; in my right, I can still see, vaguely. But don’t concern yourself; I get along well enough. I’d rather talk about you: how are your eyes? Far more important, since you are a painter.”
“We’re both cursed with this affliction. I won’t deny that the light here is strong, too strong. But I can paint indoors, and I now intend to do that, as soon as I can buy supplies,” he said.
“But since you’re here, in a different environment, don’t you intend to paint New Orleans?”
“No. Exotic as it is, I prefer to paint what is familiar, and the light hurts my eyes,” Edgar said.
“Then why not paint portraits of the family?”
“Why not, indeed? Who would you suggest?”
“You could start with Désirée. She was one of your favorite models in France.”
“True, but there I enjoyed drawing her hands, so beautiful,” he said.
“I’m sure she would sit for you again; have you asked her?”
“No. Perhaps I will.”
“Anyway, the children will enjoy posing for you. How about doing a series of family portraits? Carrie, at least, will sit. She has been asking about you, and when you will paint with her, for some days now.”
“I’ll be delighted to do so, perhaps even tomorrow, after I’ve been to the merchant. But Estelle, I’d much rather do a portrait of you. Would you be willing to sit?”
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