Estelle

by Linda Stewart Henley

  “In the Marigny area, in an apartment. They’re getting older and want me to cook, which I’m glad to do.”

  “Will they decorate for the holiday?”

  “A little. They’re Catholics, and we always go to the cathedral for Mass on Christmas Eve.”

  The waiter announced that their table was ready, and they followed him inside. Anne admired Stella’s outfit, a tailored black dress with delicate flared sleeves, and heels. Her dark hair, smooth and pinned, looked elegant, and her face glowed with health. She was an attractive young woman, five years older, and not for the first time, Anne felt flat and ordinary beside her. She wished she had worn her green dress.

  The light was already fading, and candles on the tables glowed orange in the stately dining room. It resembled a room in a fine home rather than a restaurant. They took their seats and scanned the menu.

  “How do the entrees compare with yours at Commander’s Palace?” Anne asked.

  “Very different, but this is a decent selection,” Stella said. “I’ll have lobster.”

  “Same for me.”

  They placed their orders and chose white wine.

  “I’ve been learning more about our relatives by reading Marguerite’s journal. You will enjoy it, too, I think.”

  “I know a little about Marguerite already. Her brother Maurice was our great-grandfather. His children were Etienne and Estelle. I understand that he named his daughter in honor of Estelle Musson, who was a family friend and the wife of René De Gas. I already told you that my name came from Estelle Fontenot, the one relative on our side who was good to me.”

  Anne stared at Stella. The slight was not lost on her: the one relative who was good to her. It was a direct challenge. Sweating under her long-sleeved dress, she told herself to cool down. She intended to do the right thing by her sister. She must not overreact. She cleared her throat.

  “So, Marguerite wasn’t our great-grandmother,” Anne said. “Disappointing. I like her, from what I’ve read so far. Marguerite wrote about Estelle De Gas in her journal, but I wish we had writings from some other family members. I turned up another discovery recently. This building was Edgar Degas’s mother’s home before she moved to Paris.”

  “You mean, this restaurant?”

  Anne nodded and smiled. “Isn’t that something? You can easily imagine these rooms as living spaces for the family. Our relatives may even have visited here.”

  Stella scanned the room and Anne watched her face. Stella’s eyes narrowed.

  “Did it occur to you that the apartments in back, the ones in the courtyard, were the slave quarters? That’s where I would have lived,” she said in a low voice. Then she leaned forward and added, “I would never have visited this house alongside the rest of the family in those days.”

  Anne flushed, and she almost knocked her wine glass off the table. Stella stabbed the lobster on her plate with a fork and it spun around, staining the tablecloth with a shower of butter.

  Anne blinked and gripped the arms of her chair.

  “I didn’t mean to be so insensitive. I never thought . . .”

  “It’s okay,” Stella said, looking down at the broken shellfish.

  They ate in silence and Anne ordered a second glass of wine. The waiter brought the dessert menu and asked if they would like the special of the day, baked Alaska.

  Anne said, “Not for me, but go ahead, Stella, if you’d like something.”

  Stella’s expression brightened.

  “You know, I’ve always wanted to try cherries jubilee. It’s famous, and it’s the first time I’ve come here. We don’t serve that at my restaurant.”

  “All right. I’ll share it with you. I like flamed desserts.”

  “My friend Mary has them all the time. In fact, I think she comes here only for them, sometimes. She loves drama of any kind.”

  The waiter wheeled a tray next to their table. A chafing dish held a silver pot containing cherries in a thick red sauce. The glow of the flame underneath lit up the space in the darkened room. The man stirred the cherries until they bubbled.

  “I can’t wait to tell Mary about this,” Stella said. “She’ll be surprised, because she said the only person she knew that came here was Sam, who brought her often.”

  Anne’s heart jumped. Was this her Sam? And her boss?

  “You don’t mean Mary Wharton, do you?” she asked, her voice rising.

  “Yes, do you know her? Oh, that’s right . . . she works at the museum.”

  “Damn you for bringing this up, and for spoiling the evening,” Anne said tersely, bursting into tears. “She’s my boss, and Sam’s my boyfriend!”

  At that moment, the waiter splashed brandy into the boiling cherries and, with a quick motion, lit the mixture. It burst into flames. Stella, shocked by Anne’s outburst, stood up. The cuff of her flared sleeve touched the flaming dessert and caught fire. Someone nearby screamed. Anne held her hands to her mouth and stood up as well, pushing her chair back. It fell, crashing to the floor. The waiter emptied a pitcher of water over Stella’s burning sleeve, dousing the flames. The smell of scorched silk and skin infused the air.

  Stella, her sleeve smoking and dripping, sat down, trembling. The waiter moved the tray aside and picked up Anne’s fallen chair. An older woman sitting at a nearby table came and put her arm round Stella’s shoulders.

  “I’m a nurse. Stay calm and let me take a look at your hand.” The nurse examined Stella’s hand and wrist. “The skin’s a little singed, but you’re not badly hurt,” she said. “You might want to put some salve on the burn. Sit quietly for a while. You’ve had a shock. Have a glass of water.”

  White-faced, Anne sat down, too stunned to speak. Her outburst had caused this dreadful accident. She didn’t bother to wipe the tears from her cheeks, now stained with mascara.

  “How terrifying,” someone said.

  “Is she hurt?” someone else asked.

  The diners sitting close by stared at the two young women. The maître d’ swept through the room.

  “Please continue to enjoy your meals, everyone,” he said in a loud voice. “We apologize for the unfortunate accident, but the young lady is fine.”

  Chatter and clatter resounded as people resumed eating their food. Anne perused the room, suddenly aware that all the diners were white. Stella was the only person of color in the place other than the waiters. Bringing her here had been a mistake.

  Bending to their table, the maître d’ said to Anne and Stella, “I’m so sorry this happened. May I help in any way? Call a cab? An ambulance? Naturally, your dinners are on the house.”

  Stella said nothing but stared blankly at the man. Anne answered uncertainly, “Thank you for your concern. I can drive my sister home or to the hospital, whatever she wishes.”

  “May I offer you some tea or coffee?”

  “No, thank you,” she said. Stella shook her head.

  The maître d’ turned to Anne.

  “Perhaps you’d like to go to the ladies’ room. There’s a couch and comfortable chairs there if you both need to rest awhile before leaving.”

  Stella raised her head.

  “I think I would like to go to the hospital, after all. Please call an ambulance,” she said.

  “I’ll come with you,” Anne blurted.

  “No, there’s no need. I’ll have a friend meet me there,” Stella said, avoiding eye contact and holding up her burned hand in the space between them.

  “If that’s what you want. I’m so sorry.”

  Anne’s stomach knotted. Stella continued to sit across from her at the table as the busboy cleared the dishes. Soon uniformed medical aides arrived and escorted Stella out of the restaurant to the ambulance. She moved past Anne without speaking, her face expressionless. Anne stood up and slipped to the ladies’ room where she would be less conspicuous and could rest until she was calm enough to drive. In the restroom, overwhelmed by her emotions and the wine, she became drowsy. Glancing at her tear-streaked face
in the mirror, she knew she appeared a wreck. She wanted to sleep and wake up to find that the scene at the restaurant had been nothing more than a bad dream. After a while, dazed, but no longer shaking, she left the restaurant and drove slowly home.

  Chapter 22

  January 1873

  The christening was set for January third at the St. Rose of Lima Catholic Church, where the family regularly attended services conducted in French. The day before the event, Estelle noticed that the baby felt hot.

  “I’m afraid she has a fever,” she said to René. “We’d better send for the doctor right away.”

  The doctor arrived a few hours later.

  “Keep her as cool as you can,” Dr. Lenoir said, after examining the child. “I don’t think she has yellow fever because the signs are not all there and because it’s winter, but you never know. Has she been exposed to any mosquitoes?”

  “No. She hasn’t been outside, and we’ve kept the bedroom window closed.”

  “Good. I’ll come again tomorrow.”

  Estelle burst into tears. Yellow fever had been rampant the previous summer, and many had died. René touched her arm.

  “Let’s hope for the best,” he said. “We had better postpone the christening, though.”

  “You’re right. Please tell the family. And talk to the nurse. She mustn’t let the children anywhere near the baby’s bedroom. We don’t want them to be at risk.”

  “No. Yellow fever is all we need,” he said. “Damn it all.”

  He thumped down the stairs. In the parlor, Edgar sat at the piano.

  “What are you doing, trying to be a musician now, as well as an artist?” he said. “Maybe you’ll have better success playing the piano and actually earn a living.”

  “Imbécile! You . . . turkey buzzard! I’m leaving soon, you know. You won’t have to put up with me or the smell of my paints for much longer,” Edgar said, his face creased in anger.

  “Well, we’ve canceled the christening. The baby’s sick. Guess you won’t be able to stand as godfather after all.”

  “We’ll see about that,” Edgar said. He stood up from the piano bench and stomped up to his room. A few minutes later, he clattered downstairs and out the door, banging it behind him as he left.

  “What’s going on?” Mathilde asked, coming out of the kitchen.

  “Nothing. Edgar’s pouting, that’s all,” René said.

  “He’s ready to go home. We should try to give him a good send off, don’t you agree?”

  “That’s up to you. Achille has already promised to accompany him to the train station. I’ll be working.”

  “I’m sure Désirée and Estelle would want to make a fuss of him before he leaves. I’ll talk to them.”

  “As you wish,” René said, jamming on his hat. “I’m off to work.”

  After the doctor and her husband had left, Estelle sat rocking the baby’s cradle, tears streaming down her face. She gazed with eyes full of love at the child’s small, flushed face and tiny body and dabbed her skin with a damp towel. Prayers would be the only savior now, she thought.

  Mathilde opened the door and peeked in.

  “I’m so sorry, dear,” she said to Estelle.

  “Thank you. We must wait to see what will happen; that’s the worst part.”

  “It is. Would you like a cup of tea or something?”

  “That would be nice,” Estelle said.

  Mathilde crept back downstairs to find Clarice.

  Estelle wiped her tears with the towel. These were difficult times. René was distracted by his failing business; that might explain his recent behavior as well as his interest in America Olivier. Perhaps she should be more understanding . . . but his flirtation at the recital had hurt her, and she needed his support now more than ever. Edgar would leave soon, having painted nothing worthwhile in New Orleans, or so he said. Now he might lose his role as godfather; such a disappointment. All the same, she didn’t want to fall into the trap of self-pity. There were plenty of things to look forward to, she told herself, sniffing, including Mardi Gras. She had always enjoyed the festivities and the break from sadness that the carnival season provided, and this year they all needed cheering more than usual.

  Clarice arrived bearing a cup of hot tea. She put it on the table near Estelle and viewed the baby. She shook her head.

  “Pauvre petite. Voici le thé, madame,” she said.

  Estelle thanked her and took the cup. The warm liquid calmed her, and she peeked out of the tall window at the garden. If she focused, she could make out a dim view of palm tree fronds waving in the breeze and bright spots of red camellias glowing among the deep green foliage. It was still too early for the roses, her favorite flowers. She could almost see the roof of the Oliviers’ house on Tonti Street, a few yards behind the garden fence. That awful woman, she fumed. She stifled her anger and turned her thoughts to spring and new growth. She hoped with all her heart that the child lived long enough to see it.

  Baby Jeanne’s illness did not worsen during the following days. The doctor examined her daily. One day he announced, “The fever has gone. She’s out of danger.”

  “Thank God!” Estelle said, beaming, clasping her hands together.

  The melancholy atmosphere that had pervaded the household for the past few days lifted. Strains of songs came from the piano again, and the children were no longer admonished to whisper when they crept upstairs. Estelle donned a green gown and started spending her days downstairs.

  During the second week of January she asked Edgar when he expected to leave.

  “I postponed my departure until we had news about the baby, but I can’t wait much longer. There are exhibits to prepare for in Paris.”

  “Well, then, we must plan your farewell. You will come to the ball this weekend, won’t you?”

  “I don’t enjoy such events as a rule, but if it would please you, I’ll make an exception this time. What should I wear?”

  “René has a costume in mind, I think. Why don’t you talk to him?”

  “I’ll do that, but I have no desire to look foolish.”

  “Don’t worry. You’ll wear a mask. No one will know who you are.”

  He shrugged. “So what? No one knows who I am, anyway,” he said.

  Chapter 23

  December 1970

  The morning after her dinner with Stella, Anne woke up groggy, as though she had passed out the night before from too much drinking. As she lay in bed recalling the events, she groaned and turned her face to the wall. She’d made a fool of herself by overreacting and had caused such a ghastly scene. It was all very embarrassing. Stella was furious with her and would not now want to move in, but even if she and Stella made amends, the complicated relationships remained: Mary Wharton was a friend of Stella’s, and Sam was Mary’s former boyfriend. Anne didn’t belong in that trio and didn’t want to. She cringed at the idea. Despite her good intentions, nothing seemed to go well these days.

  Realizing it was getting late and a workday, she called in sick. She needed time to sort out her thoughts. This would be a good time to visit the blighted neighborhoods, Section C, among others. She wanted to understand the situation better, and she could take her camera to record what she saw. She already knew the history of the Tremé area now undergoing development mere blocks away from where she lived. It had been the location of Congo Square, where slaves were allowed to meet on Sundays to get food and clothing. Jazz had been born there, and Louis Armstrong had grown up in those streets. All remnants of history had disappeared, and in the 1930s the Municipal Auditorium had displaced the square. More recently, much of the area had been cleared to make way for the expressway and future Superdome. The concrete elevated I-10 expressway soared above the ground, its giant legs cutting through former residences around it.

  Anne drove to North Rampart Street, the beginning of the Tremé district. It was not a safe part of town for walking. She cruised under the enormous overpass. Barriers placed along the middle of the streets k
ept onlookers away from the work. Backhoes clawed at piles of bricks, raising dust. A sign dangled from a fence: HOUSING IS A HUMAN RIGHT. Losing her way because of the construction, she circled through the maze of narrow roads.

  Sitting on the steps in front of a dilapidated wooden shotgun house she saw a black woman and a small child. She stopped and wound down the window.

  “Excuse me,” Anne called, “may I have a word with you?”

  The woman’s dark eyes met hers.

  “What ’bout?”

  “I’d just like to talk to you. Is this your house?”

  “Is ma home, sure, not ma house. Lived here fer years. Not anymore. They’s gonna tear it down, rip its heart out.”

  “I’m sorry. Don’t you want to leave?”

  “’Course I don’t. No one do. We all get along ’round here.”

  “Are they going to find you a new place to live?”

  “Na. Homeless, guess we’ll be.”

  “That’s terrible. I’m so sorry. . . .” Anne couldn’t think of anything to say to comfort the woman. She saw that the house and others beside it had character. If they had been on a better street, perhaps they would have been deemed historic and worthy of preservation.

  She got out of the car and approached the woman. “I’m an artist, and I’d like to capture some images of the neighborhood,” she said. “Would you mind if I took your picture?”

  “A’right with me.”

  Anne took several shots, nodded her thanks, returned to her car, and drove on. Entire blocks of housing had been razed and turned into rubble.

  City Hall stood on the corner of Perdido and Loyola Street. A crowd of people of different races holding signs gathered on the steps. Anne parked the car and approached a man whose placard said KEEP THE RIVERFRONT A FRONT FOR THE RIVER.

  “Excuse me, but may I ask what this means?” she said, pointing to the sign.

  “We’re protesting the riverfront expressway. They want to build a highway in the French Quarter right in front of the river, through Jackson Square. Preposterous!”