Estelle

by Linda Stewart Henley

  “I agree. Are you a member of a group, or here for yourself?”

  “Don’t you listen to the news? We’re a preservation community.”

  “Glad to hear this. Are you interested in protecting other areas of the city from demolition as well? In the Tremé, for example?”

  “Sure, but they’re hopeless causes. The residents there are too poor to have much influence, and there’s only so much we can do to take on the city. Those bastards don’t care about preservation. We have to fight for the strongest causes, and the riverfront expressway is one. Look, if you want to know more about Tremé, go over there and talk to James Hayes. He’s the one with the red hair.”

  She walked to him and held out her hand.

  “I’m Anne. I have a sister who’s about to be evicted because of redevelopment. Can you tell me more about what you’re doing to stop this madness?”

  “I could write a book about it,” he said. “I’m a member of the Tremé Community Improvement Association. We’re one of several groups fighting for neighborhood rights. I live in the district. Most people there are racially mixed, and the city has labeled it as a blight, full of crime, prostitution, drugs, and derelict buildings. There are some old houses that have no plumbing or hot water, and those need to be dealt with. But they could be renovated rather than demolished. A lot of the residents like living in the area and don’t want to move.”

  “So I’ve learned,” Anne said. “The HANO guys are supposed to rehouse them. What’s the truth about that?”

  James shook his head. “Public housing. Right. Even when they build it, it’s horrible. Here’s a pamphlet to read that will help you understand what’s going on. If you’re really interested in helping, you should come to one of our meetings.”

  “Thanks. I think I will,” Anne said.

  A dog barked incessantly, and she twisted her head to look. A pit bull strained at its leash while a woman dressed in a tie-dyed T-shirt and untidy wiry hair struggled to hold it. In the scuffle she dropped a sign saying SAVE TREMÈ. Anne froze and gasped. It was Stella. Not wanting to be seen, Anne slunk back into the crowd. Her legs shook. She watched as Stella, laughing with a group of friends, pulled the dog toward her and gave it a slap. Someone yelled at the animal to stop barking. The dog continued snarling, saliva dripping from its mouth.

  Still reeling from the shock, Anne stumbled to her car. She sat there for a long time, hands resting on the steering wheel. Well, that made everything clearer. Even if she wasn’t responsible for the vandalism, Stella had told her nothing about her real beliefs about urban renewal. She was an activist! And Anne would never want a pit bull in her home. While sympathetic to her sister’s situation, she realized that she no longer wanted Stella there.

  But she had discovered new subject matter for her art: she could use the photograph of the woman and child in front of the old building as the basis for a new painting. If done well, it might be useful as a way of bringing more attention to the plight of poverty-stricken displaced residents. She resolved to start right away. The subject inspired her and might be worthy of her best efforts. And the subject had importance.

  Placing the painting she had abandoned earlier on the easel, Anne laid down a thin glaze of white paint over the surface. She allowed the mass of dark horses underneath to emerge faintly as an undertone, following the technique she admired in Degas’s paintings of dancers. She would allow time for the white paint to dry before adding more pigment. Satisfied with the results so far, she cleaned her brushes.

  Next day she continued working. Using her memory of the photograph she had taken of the woman and child sitting barefoot in front of their soon-to-be-demolished home, she took a brush and sketched the details of the house and figures in burnt sienna. The woman’s apron and the child’s dress were white. As she painted the background in monochromatic brown tones, she carefully avoided covering the darker images of the horses. Then she layered paint on top of the horses using bold strokes of blue-tinted white to portray the clothes. The result astonished her: the colors jumped off the canvas, illuminating the clothing and reflecting soft lights in the figures’ faces. The woman’s and child’s postures suggested quiet resignation; only their eyes mirrored their distress. After she finished, Anne stepped back to appraise her work and pose the all-important question: Does it tell the truth?

  Chapter 24

  January 1873

  Sophie came across Marguerite writing in her journal one morning.

  “What do you have to say that keeps you working with such concentration, chérie?” she asked.

  “The thought of Mardi Gras around the corner. I’m so excited to be going to the balls this year, and I love my new dress. Thank you for that, Maman.”

  “It’s time you had a becoming gown. Don’t forget our party at home tomorrow evening. You can wear it then.”

  “No, I want to keep it for the first ball. I’ll wear my pink dress tomorrow. It still fits, even if it’s a little childish. Who’s coming to the party?”

  “Maurice will be back from school. Several of our friends. I invited the De Gas family, but the ladies can’t come. Edgar has accepted, though.”

  “Edgar’s coming? Well, that’s lovely.”

  “I’ll send Nicole to help you with your hair. You should try wearing it up now that you’re sixteen.”

  “Thank you. I’d like that.”

  Marguerite pranced around the room. Edgar would be there! She hoped she could dance with him. Recently he’d sat beside her as she completed some drawings and given some advice. He’d done so kindly, without condescending, and she liked him for that. When he guided her hand, she felt a quiver up her back.

  Next day she dressed with care. Nicole drew her hair off her neck and tied it with ribbons on top of her head. She needed a necklace and earrings to complete the outfit; perhaps her mother would lend some. When she heard strains of music drifting from the rooms below, she took up her fan and made her way down.

  The guests were arriving in twos and threes. Everyone seemed so elegant. Her eyes wandered around the candlelit room. In the subdued light she could barely make out the figure of Edgar talking to her father. She passed a waiter carrying a tray of drinks and took a glass of wine.

  Her brother Maurice approached her.

  “Drinking wine are you, little sister?” he said. “Be careful.”

  “I’m old enough. Maman told me so herself.”

  “Well then, you can dance with me. You’re the belle of the ball tonight.”

  “Merci,” she said, putting down her glass. He led her to the dance floor, put his arm around her and swung her across the room.

  “Not so fast, you’re making me dizzy,” she said.

  “That’s how you’re supposed to dance: dizzily.”

  “Stop. I’ve had enough, big brother,” she said.

  “You’re quite a good dancer. I’ll ask you again later,” he said.

  He left her standing a few feet away from Edgar.

  “Bonsoir, mademoiselle,” he said. “I see you dance divinely.”

  “Not with my brother, I’m afraid,” she said. “He sweeps me off my feet, and I almost fall over.”

  “Brothers are like that. Affectionate, but lacking in understanding. I know it well.”

  “Monsieur Degas . . .”

  “Edgar, please . . .”

  “Edgar. I’ve done a new drawing. May I show it to you?”

  “Now? Here?” he asked, looking at her, a puzzled expression on his face.

  “No. It’s upstairs.”

  “Uh, well . . . très bien, if we take just a minute.”

  They pushed their way through the crowd and mounted the stairs.

  “In here,” Marguerite said, opening the door. They went inside, leaving the door open. It was a feminine bedroom with a big four-poster bed covered in a flowery quilt. Big fluffy pillows lined the headboard. Marguerite fetched her sketchbook and sat on the chair by her dressing table. She opened it and showed him a dr
awing of her mother.

  “That’s very good,” he said, taking the book from her and looking at it closely. “You have improved. The face bears a good resemblance and the hands are nicely done. You might want to turn this into a painting.”

  Marguerite beamed.

  “You have taught me well, Edgar. I so admire your work.” She stood up.

  “Perhaps we should go back downstairs before they miss us,” Edgar said.

  At that moment a particularly melodious passage resonated from below.

  “Let me dance with you,” Edgar said, drawing her close to him and folding his arms around her waist.

  They danced slowly, gently, swaying to the sounds.

  Am I dreaming? Marguerite wondered. When the music stopped Edgar took her hand, kissed it, and bowed.

  “How enchanting you are,” he said.

  She blushed and moved away from him. Her heart beat so fast she feared she would faint.

  Philippe interrupted them.

  “What’s going on?” he shouted. “Edgar, what in heaven’s name are you doing in my daughter’s room? You have no right to be there. Get out!”

  “It’s all right, Papa,” Marguerite said, trembling. Her father’s anger scared her. “He was only helping me with my drawing.”

  “Well, this is neither the time nor the place. Go back downstairs, both of you.”

  As Edgar slid quickly past her father he said firmly, “My apologies. I meant no harm.”

  Philippe scowled. “You are a welcome guest in our house, but there are limits. My daughter’s bedchamber is out of bounds for you. Don’t ever go there again.”

  They rejoined the party and Edgar soon took his leave. Marguerite had no more appetite for dancing and refused her brother’s offers. She positioned herself behind a potted plant out of sight. Her heart throbbed with the memory of Edgar’s arms encircling her. She wanted to see him again. And soon.

  Chapter 25

  December 1970

  Anne needed to talk to Isabelle. She wanted advice, and now she was willing to listen. Fraught with anxiety and too impatient to call ahead, she drove straight to her friend’s house.

  “Sorry to barge in uninvited. Are you busy?” Anne asked.

  “Come on in and have a drink,” Isabelle said. “I see you could use one. What’ll it be?”

  “Gin and tonic, please. On second thoughts, a glass of water. I don’t need liquor.” She collapsed on the couch.

  “What’s wrong, Anne?” Isabelle asked.

  “I’ll tell you in a minute. Let me collect my thoughts. First tell me how you are, Izzy.”

  “Fine. No problems so far with the pregnancy. See, I’m showing now.”

  She patted her swelling stomach and grinned. “I’m getting things for the baby’s room, though Mama says I should wait until later. She’s superstitious. Paul will be here soon; if you’re not too hungry, we’ll wait for him and have dinner together.”

  “Thanks. What are you making?”

  “It’s Monday. Red beans and rice day.”

  “Good New Orleans tradition.”

  “Let me fetch the water. Back in a sec.”

  Isabelle handed Anne a glass and sat next to her on the couch.

  “Okay, talk. What’s going on?”

  “You know me well, my friend.” Anne sighed. “And these days, I’m not sure I even know myself. I seem to make one mistake after another, but mostly I want to talk to you about Sam.”

  “Thought so. Well, tell me everything.”

  “There have been red flags all along, but I’ve ignored them. You and Paul tried to warn me, and I’ve had reason to worry about him on my own, too. Perhaps it was Sam on the levee that night, as Paul suspected.”

  “All right, but we don’t know what he was doing, do we? It may have been something innocent, like fishing.”

  “He doesn’t fish. He also runs very fast, just as Paul observed.”

  “All right,” Isabelle said again. “What else bothers you about the man?”

  “He’s away a lot, supposedly on business, but he never tells me what he’s doing, or that he’s going. One morning after staying the night with me he left without saying good-bye. No word of thanks, nothing about how much he enjoyed the evening. I felt used.”

  “Strange. Have you talked to him about these things? Perhaps he has good explanations,” Isabelle said.

  “He evades the questions and doesn’t give any explanations.”

  “I agree, something sounds suspicious. Paul told me you’ve never been to Sam’s house. Is it possible he’s married?”

  “I don’t think so. We’re dating, and he seems to have a lot of recent girlfriends,” Anne said, trying to forget the image of Mary Wharton. “He doesn’t wear a wedding ring.”

  Isabelle rolled her eyes.

  “I’d ask him the question, at least,” she said.

  “Actually, assuming he’s not married, the things I’ve mentioned aren’t the reasons I’m most concerned.” Anne paused. “We went to my dad’s for Thanksgiving, and Sam shot the neighbor’s dog . . . no, don’t worry, it wasn’t crazy behavior on his part; the dog attacked Dad’s cat. What bothered me—and Dad—was how efficiently he used his gun, and how calmly he reacted. He had been out for a run, and had a gun with him. Why? Dad thinks he works for the FBI. When I asked Sam later point blank, he said even if it were true, he couldn’t tell me. So that shuts down further questions.”

  “Well, from what you’ve told me, it all fits, doesn’t it?” Isabelle said. “He’s secretive, he travels but doesn’t tell you where to or why; he’s comfortable, and no doubt skilled using guns; he goes out for mysterious rendezvous at night in remote areas along the river. My guess is he does work for the FBI, or for some equivalent undercover organization. He’d need a gun permit to carry one around, and FBI agents have those as a matter of course. Does that bother you enough to end the relationship?”

  “I don’t know. I would need to understand why he engages in this line of work, and if he sees it as something useful and honorable that he can do well. If he simply doesn’t mind living a double life, or needs the drama, that wouldn’t be acceptable. Dad also mentioned another problem: he may not want a permanent relationship, ever. Such people usually don’t, he says. That makes sense to me. Domestic life—marriage—might be too humdrum.”

  Isabelle smiled. “Come on now, marriage isn’t always humdrum. What kind of word is that, anyway? But seriously, these are troubling questions, for sure, Anne. My advice would be to wait and see what happens. You’re only dating the guy. You have no permanent commitment to him, any more than he has to you. I thought you weren’t interested in marriage, anyway.”

  “I wasn’t, but I’ve been rethinking that.”

  Isabelle raised her eyebrows.

  “Well, great balls of fire, as Scarlett would say. Whatever happened to Miss No-Responsibility?”

  “Guess I’m growing up, like you,” Anne smiled. “Or maybe I want a partner.”

  “Okay. Let me put it another way. If you want marriage, why stick around with this guy, who doesn’t look like a likely candidate?”

  “Good question, though marriage isn’t the deal breaker here.”

  “Well, do you love him?”

  “I thought I did, but now I’m not so sure. Dad gave me some good advice. He said to make a good decision, you must first face the truth. In this case, the truth might be the deal breaker.”

  “Annie, I wish you the best, you know that. It’s hard to advise you about someone I’ve never met. Why don’t you invite him over sometime?”

  “I did already, and he couldn’t come, or perhaps . . .” her words trailed off.

  “. . . he didn’t want to meet your friends?” Isabelle said, finishing the thought.

  “Although he did accept the invitation to meet my father,” Anne said. “But, damn it all, he wanted to see my painting, the one in the attic. I’m starting to feel like the biggest fool.”

  “Don’t be too
hard on yourself. This is your first serious relationship, and you want it to work out. You’ll figure this out in time.”

  “Oh my God! That reminds me, I gave the painting to Sam to appraise, and I never even wrote my name on it. It’s not signed, so no one would know who painted it, or who it belongs to. I’ll have to talk to him. Sam wanted to send it to the Philadelphia Museum of Art for an exhibit. Glad I thought of this.”

  “So now you have another reason to talk to him, and soon,” Isabelle said.

  The front door opened, and Paul came into the room.

  “Hi, sweetheart,” he said, giving Isabelle a kiss. “Hello, Anne. Great to see you!”

  She stood up, and he gave her a hug.

  “How’s it going?” he asked.

  “You missed the big discussion. Isabelle can fill you in on the details. Let’s talk about you and law school.”

  “Nothing much to tell, I’m afraid. It’s fine. Dull, but fine. How are the house renovations coming along? Did you ever figure out who destroyed the bathroom?”

  “Not exactly, though I now believe someone who knows Stella was trying to send me a message that I should let her move in.”

  “And are you going to?”

  “No.”

  “Really? Why not?”

  Anne fidgeted in her seat. She didn’t want an interrogation about that uncomfortable subject. But Isabelle and Paul were her friends . . . possibly they would offer a different point of view.

  “She and I are not compatible. I ran into her recently in the Tremé, and she seemed very different from when I’ve seen her before. I saw a new side of her, one that made me suspect she hasn’t been honest. She was with friends. Worse yet, she had a pit bull.”

  “How does that make her incompatible? As you would be the first to admit, appearances aren’t everything. And what’s wrong with a dog?” Isabelle asked.

  Anne’s heart beat faster. Her voice shrill, she said, “Don’t you know anything about those dogs? They’re vicious! The dog that Sam killed because it attacked Dad’s cat was a pit bull!”

  Isabelle and Paul exchanged glances.

  “Don’t think the worse of me if I can’t have her live with me. I couldn’t share the house with a dog like that.”