Rings of Trust

by Kittie Howard

David Broussard whipped around and left the living room’s morning shade in a huff. “I’s sick a dis gotdamn gossip shit,” he said over his shoulder. He was tall and muscled slim, with thick black hair, brooding eyes, and a chiseled jaw. He stopped midway down the hall and leaned against the wall, near an Olan Mills portrait of a man and woman, each with a hand on the shoulder of a bright-eyed adolescent boy. The twenty-something couple had matching gold wedding rings.

  A petite woman with long black hair and delicate features rounded the corner after him. The shirt on her floral-print sundress flared as she reached for the back of his arm. “You’s cooyôn. Da Klan’s mad ’cause blacks brung dere stoves here to git fixed. You needs to open a mechanic’s shop in Narrow Bridge or da Klan’s gonna burn our house down.”

  David turned. His brown eyes simmered. “I’s not scared a fuckin’ losers in white sheets an’ pointed hats, not afta w’at me an’ mah Marines went t’rew on Iwo Jima.”

  “Please, boo boo.” Arlette’s up-turned face searched his. “World War II’s ended, yeah. We’s not sharecroppers no mo’. You’s gotta tink ’bout how life be now.”

  “Dat’s w’at I’s tryin’ to do. Mais, you’s not understandin’. Da War’s done changed ev’ryting. If we’s gonna su’vive, we’s gotta tink ’bout da future.”

  “I’s not fuckin’ fou. We is tinkin’ good, good. You’s got me talkin’ English durin’ da day. Mais, I’s hatin’ dis shit language. Id dôn mek sense, no.”

  David placed his hands on Arlette’s slim shoulders. His eyes bored into hers. “I’s not havin’ Remy soundin’ stupid.”

  “I dôn give a shit how mah baby’s soundin’, me. I wants Remy livin’ in a house. I’s not lettin’ da gotdamn Klan burn us out. We’s not livin’ ro-day.”

  “Stop da bullshit, Arlette.” David’s hand sliced the air. “We’s not movin’ all ova da gotdamn place. We’s not po’.” He took a deep breath. “Look, you kan’t ’cpect me to come back from war an’ act like nuttin’s changed. Meybe I’s done—meybe I left here not carin’ ’bout how I talked or knowin’ where places be. Mais, da Marine Corps sent me all ova da United States an’ halfway ’round da world. I’m mah own person now, yeah. I’m not livin’ in fear a da Klan stickin’ da Dixie flag up mah ass. Dat’s not w’at we fought fo’ on Iwo Jima.”

  “C’est sa cooyôn,” Arlette said, thumping his chest. “Iwo Jima ain’t da bayou, no. Mah friends at church ain’t lyin’ ’bout da Klan comin’ afta us. Dey’s good, good Christian people tryin’ to hep.”

  David made a dismissive face. “Dose fou biddies in da Altar Society didn’t know we were alive when we were sharecroppas.”

  “Mah friends care ’bout us, debile.” Arlette pointed a manicured finger at him. “Dôn you care ’bout yo family?”

  “Dôn be so cooyôn. ’Course I care,” David said and waved her question away.

  “Den git yo shit togedder. You needs to buy a truck an’ haul yo mechanic’s bidness to Narrow Bridge.” Arlette stopped, a cat-like smile on her full lips. “If yo Marines tole ya da Klan was comin’, you’d be listenin’.”

  “Dat’s fuckin’ bullshit,” David said, his words like bullets. “You kan’t git id t’rew yo head I dôn know no Marines here. You keep fo’gittin’, I was sick when I got back from Iwo Jima.” David turned and headed up the hall. He put one hand on the screen door’s frame and stared into the sun-speckled morning. Dew shimmered on the emerald-green lawn that stretched long to the pine trees. Rocks covering the driveway in front of the house glistened a bright white. Yellow marigolds in flowerbeds alongside the walkway to the front porch reached above clusters of purple petunias.

  Arlette’s red flats tapped on the hardwood floor as she walked toward him. She stopped and tucked a white bra strap beneath the sundress’s red strap, then took a deep breath. “Beb, you’s done had da operation fo’ da shrapnel in yo head from da War. You’s fine now, ’cept fo’ you tinkin’ you needs to change da world. You kan’t do dat. We’s gotta live in da world we knows, not in a pretty world in da head wid birds singin’ an’ none a dem dyin’.”

  David’s eyes followed a butterfly flitting among potted petunias on the front porch. “I’m to blame fo’ dat kid bullyin’ Remy in school last year.”

  “Dat’s not troo, bêbê. Id weren’t yo fault. You was sick,” Arlette said with a sigh.

  David’s fingers rippled across the screen. “I ain’t hidin’ ’hind ’cuses, me,” he said, his voice heavy. “I worried too much ’bout mah problems an’ not nuff ’bout mah son. Dat bully come afta Remy like a buzzard goin’ fo’ a newborn calf.” He turned as gnats swarmed outside the screen door. “If I move mah bidness to town, people’s gonna say da Klan took to bullyin’ me juz like dat kid did wid Remy. Dey’ll tink Remy’s growin’ up weak ’cause his daddy dôn know how to be a daddy. Mah son needs a daddy who dôn run scared, yeah.”

  “You ain’t runnin’ scared if you gits a mechanic’s shop. You’s bein’ smart. Da Klan ain’t gonna leave us ’lone ’till black customers stop comin’ here.”

  “Dat’s not troo.” David crossed to the entrance to the living room and leaned against the doorway, his hand on his head. A dog’s bark in the near distance broke the silence. “’Member how you cried when I got drafted early?” he asked and faced Arlette.

  Arlette nodded. “Dat weren’t right, no.”

  “Id was a pay-back, boo. When I refused to join da Klan, Franneaux pulled strings. Da bastard tole me I was bein’ sent to da Pacific Campaign. He said I had a betta chance a dyin’ dere.”

  Arlette gasped.

  “Da Klan’s neva gonna leave us ’lone. Dere shit’s like a present dey gives dere kids. Da best way to deal wid da Klan is to live a hard workin’ life fo’ ev’rybody to see. Dat’s how Mr. Laurent lives. Nobody messes wid him, no.”

  “You’s fou, crazy, boo boo. Mr. Laurent went to a fancy college up nord somewheres. His daddy was gov’na a Louisiana a whiles back. Dat family’s got mo’ connections dan you’s got brains fo’ brains.”

  The screen door jiggled. “Where you at, cher?”

  David turned to his right. “Come in, Lucille,” he said, embarrassment on his face.

  An athletic-looking woman in her mid-twenties opened the screen door. She had a halo of chestnut curls, a fresh-scrubbed complexion, and laughing eyes. “I’s desperate fo’ a cuppa sugar to mek a cake fo’ Joseph. He’s comin’ back from Baton Rouge dis afta’noon.” She held up a glass Pyrex measuring cup.

  “You’s in luck, cher. I’s got sugar, yeah,” Arlette said.

  Lucille nodded at David and then hugged Arlette. Lucille held her neighbor at arm’s length. “Cher Bon Dieu. Dere’s circles unda yo eyes, no. W’at’s wrong?”

  “Id was hot, hot last night,” David said. “We had trouble sleepin’.”

  “Louisiana ain’t fit fo’ much in August,” Lucille said as the three walked down the hall. They filed into the sun-drenched kitchen with celery-green walls and yellow curtains on windows. A copy of Warner Sallman’s Head of Christ hung to the left of the screen door. Ribbons of sunshine streaked the painting’s incandescent glow.

  The group gathered near the L-shaped Formica counter to the right of the screen door. “You wants coffee, cher?” Arlette gestured toward the French drip coffee pot on the gas stove.

  “Non, merci. I done had a cup, me,” Lucille said.

  Arlette turned the radio on. Hank Williams sang Jambalaya. “I love dat song, yeah.” Arlette sang along and sashayed her hips as she scooped sugar from the canister. David moved to the end of the counter and spread a short stack of Look magazines. Lucille twirled a lemon in the glass-filled bowl in front of her.

  “I’s tinkin’ Miz Jarreau’s gossip ’bout da Klan done got to ya,” Lucille said to Arlette when the song ended.

  “I tole her da same damn ting.” David shrugged and opened an August issue of Look magazine.

  Lucille ignored David. “I’s hearin’ Miz Jarreau talked too much at da
Altar Society meetin’ last week.” Lucille rolled her hazel eyes. “I’s sick a da shit gossip at church. If I wants to know w’at’s happenin’, I’s goin’ by Mr. LeBeau’s magazin. I hears all da gossip I needs buyin’ milk.” Arlette wiped the counter near the sink and placed the cup of sugar next to the lemon-filled bowl in front of Lucille. “Merci, cher. Wid all da kids ’cept Madeleine at dere uncle’s place ’till afta Labor Day, da cake’s gonna last a bit,” Lucille said.

  “Madeleine shoulda gone to Mississippi.” Arlette arched a thick eyebrow at Lucille. “Da chile’s lonely, no?”

  “Ouais,” Lucille said, nodding agreement. “Mais, Madeleine dôn like me bein’ by mah’self. An’ she’s not likin’ da Gerards bein’ in New Awlins ’til afta Labor Day. Mah bébé tinks da wooden fence next to da Gerard’s house ain’t safe.” Lucille hesitated. “She dôn like dose pine trees out front eidder.”

  “Cher, Mr. Blanchard weren’t havin’ none a Mr. Landry’s idea to replace dat fence when he was buildin’ dese houses,” Arlette said and leaned into the counter.

  “Dat’s troo.” Lucille shrugged. “Mais, meybe we done mek a mistake, havin’ one driveway fo’ t’ree houses.”

  David closed his copy of Look with Cyd Charisse on the cover. The actress and dancer from Amarillo, Texas, smiled at him. “A driveway on da Gerard’s side ain’t gonna cut up da lawn,” he said. “Meybe dis spring we kin put a driveway dere, den do sumptin’ ’bout da rest a da trees by da road.”

  Heads turned when the porch’s screen door slammed shut. Remy ran into the kitchen. His blue shirt was half-out of grass-stained khaki slacks. Sweat matted his mop of dark brown hair and glistened on apple-red cheeks in an oval face. Big brown eyes beneath thick eyelashes bubbled with enthusiasm.

  Madeleine followed with dainty steps. The petite girl with doe-like eyes, heart-shaped lips, and a porcelain-like complexion wore a lavender-pink dress with an applique of white flowers around the neck. A pink ribbon wrapped around her concave straw hat and ended in a bow at the back. Pink streamers dangled over cascading black curls.

  Lucille frowned at her daughter. “Madeleine, you’s red as a beet, yeah.”

  “We keeps chasin’ Peppa,” Remy said. “Da dumb dog won’t leave da birds ’lone.”

  Madeleine scrunched her pert nose at Remy. “Peppa’s not dumb.”

  “Madeleine.” Lucille tapped her red-polished fingernails on the counter.

  “An’ dat’s nuff from you, Remy.” Arlette handed each a glass of water. “Poo yi, Remy, you’s too stinky to sit at da kitchen table. Go sit on da porch.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Remy turned to Madeleine. “Allons.”

  The doyenne dipped her chin and glared at Remy from beneath the sunhat’s brim. “Dôn you boss me ’round, no.”

  “Peppa’s on da porch,” Remy said, a tease in his voice.

  “All right, juz dis once.” Madeleine lifted her chin high and followed him into the hall.

  Lucille flashed a bright smile. “I needs to git busy. Merci, cher, fo’ da sugar.”

  After Lucille left, Arlette and David stood in the expanse between the counter and the kitchen table. A tall vase with summer flowers centered the table. Arlette smiled at the flowers, then slipped her arm around David’s waist. “Remy’s growin’ up fast, boo. Ev’ry mon’t I prays I’s pregnant. Ev’ry mon’t I’s cryin’.”

  “We’re young. Dere’s time, beb,” David said and kissed her lightly.

  “Meybe.” Arlette hesitated. “Mais, I tink da Klan wants us outta our house. I’s ’fraid a bein’ pregnant an’ livin’ ro-day, like you sees when sharecroppas git kicked off—”

  “Shhh.” David held his hand up. “I heard a noise outside da back window.” He crossed to the screen door. As he stepped outside, Jacob emerged from behind the gardenia bush. Twigs and leaves clung to his cropped hair and stained clothes. Terror filled his face. “Jacob,” David said, rushing to him, “w’at’s wrong?”

  “A man on a horse in da pasture was ridin’ like da devil comin’ to git me,” he said, his voice pitched and rushed.

  David steadied the child’s flailing arms. “You’re upset fo’ nuttin’. Dat’s Mr. Laurent’s fo’man. Louie’s from Texas. He used to ride in da rodeos dere. Dese days, he rides fo’ fun.”

  “You’s sure, Mr. Broussard? Dat man’s eyes was burnin’ like coal in da stove.”

  “Dôn you worry none. Only good, good people work fo’ Mr. Laurent.” David turned as Remy and Madeleine emerged from the space between his house and Lucille’s, each yelling and laughing at the other, with Pepper barking at both of them.

  “Coo wee! Jacob’s here,” Remy said and ran to his friend. “W’at happened to you? You’s a mess.”

  Madeleine frowned at Remy and then smiled at Jacob.

  Jacob’s eyes traveled from Madeleine to Remy. He straightened his posture. “Kin you come to mah bir’day party? Id’s two weeks from today.”

  “Merci beaucoup, Jacob.” Madeleine pushed her shoulders back and clasped her hands in front of her. “I would be honored to ’tend yo lovely party.”

  “Huh?” Remy bopped himself on the head.

  “Honestly, Remy. You’re axpearatin’.” Madeleine tilted her head and batted her thick black eyelashes at him.

  “Ain? I’s w’at?”

  David laughed outright. “Son, juz ’gree wid da little lady.”

  Remy shrugged and tugged on Jacob’s shirt. “Happy bir’day to you.”

  “You dôn sing too good,” Jacob said with a laugh.

  “I sings betta dan you do. You sings like a cow mooin’.” Remy tossed dried grass at Jacob and took off.

  “You sings like a crow, wock, wock, wock,” Jacob said and chased after him.

  Madeleine patted the black curls on her shoulder. “Boys are silly, Peppa.” The black mutt barked and ran in circles around a stove. “Stop it, Peppa, befo’ you look silly.”

  “He looks dumb,” Remy said as he ran up to Madeleine. “Right, Jacob?”

  Before Jacob could answer, Madeleine dipped her chin and faced Remy. “If you say one mo’ bad word ’bout Peppa, I won’t hep you wid yo English homework when school starts.”

  Remy gulped. His eyes darted from side to side. “Peppa’s da best dog in Louisiana,” he said.

  “Go on.” Madeleine crossed her arms.

  “His hair shines like velvet.”

  Madeleine beamed. “I tink so, too. Go on.”

  “His teet is like stars.” Remy giggled. “Dey comes out at night.”

  Madeleine whipped off her sunhat and whacked him on the head. “You take dat back, Remy Broussard.”

  The screen door opened. “I needs hep,” Arlette said. Remy and Jacob exchanged looks and raced each other to the steps. They avoided Madeleine as they carried cookies and a pitcher of lemonade to the picnic table. After joshing each other over who sat where, Jacob claimed the lower end of the lopsided table. Remy sat to his left. Madeleine eased into the space opposite Remy. She gave him a drop-dead look and turned to Arlette and David as they carried glasses to the table. After lemonade had been poured, Arlette sat next to Madeleine. David brushed Morning Glory leaves from a chair near the metal fence and pulled it to the end of the table.

  When thirsts had been quenched and cookies had disappeared, the group relaxed into easy conversation. “Jacob, I saw yo daddy at Mr. LeBeau’s magazin last week,” David said. “Id’s great yo cousin Royce is comin’ from St. Louis fo’ Labor Day. He’s a famous Tuskegee Airman now, yeah.”

  “We’s real proud a him,” Jacob said, a huge grin on his face. His eyes traveled around the table. “Cousin Royce’s letter said he’s gonna pay mah tuition to Southern University.”

  “W’at you wanna be when you graduates?” Arlette asked.

  “A doctor,” Jacob said. His face grew serious. “Momma done died from a bad, bad infection.”

  “Mah twin sister died givin’ birth,” Arlette said, her voice sad. “Mais, we’s gotta trust Jes
us to hep us t’rew hard, hard times.”

  “I’ll pray Jesus heps Remy wid his English homework,” Madeleine said. “He’s gonna have a hard, hard time.” She smiled and adjusted her sunhat.

  “How’s dat? Remy’s done good, good in English since Christmas,” Arlette said, breaking the silence.

  “Dat’s when Madeleine got to be yo gaienne,” Jacob whispered to Remy. “You’s in trouble, pod-nah. Mah daddy says yo girlfriend talks perfect English.”

  David gave Arlette a knowing look and stood. “We need mo’ lemonade.”

  “W’at’s da matta wid Madeleine an’ Remy,” Arlette asked as they walked to the back steps.

  “Nuttin’. Kids bein’ kids.”

  “Beb?”

  “Umm?”

  “Did you see dat man on a horse in da back a Mr. Laurent’s pasture?” Arlette asked.

  “Uh huh.”

  “Dat man weren’t Louie, no. He was ridin’ too low in da saddle.”

  Chapter Three

  Petunias