Rings of Trust

by Kittie Howard

The morning sun streamed through the open window and slatted David’s angular profile. After he cradled the black telephone, David leaned into the antique desk. His eyes rested on a mature magnolia tree in the left corner of a New Orleans-style patio garden with wrought iron seating arrangements. Birds swooped low, landed on the magnolia tree’s pyramid-shaped branches, and then took flight for a gnarled oak tree outside the garden’s ivy-laced brick wall.

  Bertrand Laurent crossed an expansive den with a wood-beamed ceiling and approached the entrance to his well-appointed study with an aristocratic bearing reminiscent of established families with a history of noblesse oblige. He paused in the study’s doorway. Apricot walls complimented heavy furniture arranged on an Oriental carpet. A wood-framed map of Louisiana hung on the wall opposite his mahogany desk, between a rosewood bookcase and a brown leather wingback chair. “Was the telephone call satisfactory?” Mr. Laurent asked. The middle-aged man was tall and slim, with broad shoulders and sharp features. Like David, he wore a short-sleeve white shirt and khakis.

  David shrugged as he turned. Worry lines creased his forehead. “Mais, I dôn know, me. Jack Landry’s in Mexico City. He’s at a breakfast meetin’ wid big shots in da oil bidness. His secretary in New Awlins said he will telephone her when da meetin’ ends.” David blew out his cheeks. “’Less dere’s a miracle, I’m fucked. Da Klan’s killed Madeleine’s dog. Dere’s a note sayin’ somebody’s gonna die. An’ mah family’s $25,000 is missin’.”

  Mr. Laurent checked his round-faced watch. “It’s 7:45, the same as it is in Mexico City. If we’re lucky, the meetin’ will end at 9:00.”

  “Who am I kiddin’? Jack kan’t stop da Klan from a foreign country.”

  “Jack can shut down his sawmill outside Narrow Bridge with one telephone call. Without paychecks to feed families, the Klan’s forced to retreat.” He pulled rimless glasses from his shirt’s pocket and walked around his desk.

  David toyed with the telephone cord as he followed Mr. Laurent’s movements. “Da Gerards are in New Awlins. Joseph’s somewhere in da marshes. Juz like Arlette, Lucille an’ Madeleine won’t go to relatives in Baton Rouge. Me, I kan’t stop bein’ scared fo’ dem.” He dropped the cord with a thud against the desk. “Da Klan’s ridin’ dis weekend, ain’t id?”

  By way of agreement, Mr. Laurent gestured over his shoulder. “On January 21st, the Klan hanged my dog Tippy from that magnolia tree.”

  David paled. “Mais non, da Klan struck at you?”

  “No one’s immune from the Klan.” Mr. Laurent slid a straight back chair from the desk. “I wouldn’t contribute to one of their causes. The thugs retaliated. It was as simple as that.”

  “Where did da Klan git da nerve? You’s—”

  “Rich?” Mr. Laurent scoffed. “Money and connections don’t matter. A local boy’s supposed to tow the line. That’s why Jack Landry’s important. Only an outside force—like the president of an oil company—can bring the Klan to its knees.” He removed a slip of paper and a No. 2 yellow pencil from the desk’s center drawer. After writing on the paper, he returned the pencil to the drawer, closed it, and shifted his focus to David. “You should have come here and telephoned Jack after you buried Pepper.”

  “Mais, I worried ’bout leavin’ da ladies ’lone, w’at wid Franneaux’s house ’cross da road.”

  Mr. Laurent cocked an eyebrow. “Did Madeleine see the note attached to the rope around Pepper’s neck?”

  “I dôn tink so, no. Id was muddy unda da porch. Da note was clean inside.”

  “If the Klan leaves a note, it’s out for blood,” Mr. Laurent said. “There wasn’t a note on Tippy’s neck, but the Klan left a note for Moses Dubois. Problem was, Moses couldn’t read. Or, for that matter, see worth a damn.” Mr. Laurent glanced at the Webster clock on the rosewood chest to the right of his desk. “The Klan lynches white people, too, David.”

  “Ouais, I know dat.” David paced on the Oriental carpet. “When I left Iwo Jima, I neva tought I’d be in a combat situation in da United States. Dis ain’t right, Americans killin’ each udder.” He stopped near the rosewood bookcase, a hard glint in his eyes. “Franneaux’s bon rien, good fo’ nuttin’, a low-life son uh a bitch. Dere’s times when one part a me wants to cross da road an’ rip his t’roat out,” David said and clenched his fists. The veins in his neck pulsated.

  “You can’t do that.” Mr. Laurent gripped the straight back chair.

  “Merde.” David threw his hands up. “I’ve gotta play a game wid fucked up rules, me. Da Klan does w’at id wants an’ hides ’hind da law. If I break da law, I go to jail. I’m havin’ a problem wid dis shit. Da only ting da Klan unda’stands is a kick in da balls.”

  Mr. Laurent scowled. “Talk like that belongs in another era. You’re no longer a faceless sharecropper who doesn’t vote or pay taxes. You own property. You’ve got a house. Your son’s future rides on the respect you earn usin’ your assets to rein in the Klan.”

  “W’at assets? ’Cept fo’ a bit a cash stashed in da house, I’m broke.”

  The gentleman farmer walked from behind his desk and crossed to the wing chair. As he placed the slip of paper on the lamp table, he glanced at framed diplomas from Louisiana State University and Harvard University on the wall to the left of the chair. “I shouldn’t be tellin’ you this,” he said and sat down, “but Jack’s telephoned occasionally to inquire about your mechanic’s business.” At David’s surprised look, Mr. Laurent held his hand up. “Now, Jack hasn’t come out and said so, but I’ve got the impression he thinks you should open a first-class mechanic’s shop in Narrow Bridge and be done with it.”

  “I ain’t got da money, me, or da reputation to do dat, no,” David said with a wide gesture.

  “You don’t have to be the boss and the mechanic. You can hire the best mechanic around. When it comes to you, money isn’t important to Jack.”

  “Mais jamais! I’s not lettin’ Jack’s money take ’way mah pride.”

  “Pride, stupid pride. Think about your family, not yourself.” Mr. Laurent tipped his fingers together. His eyes scanned David’s tousled hair, unshaven face, and wrinkled shirt. Dirt stained the cuffs on his khakis and splattered his brown Thom McAn shoes. “It’s time you got your temper and yourself under control.”

  David stared through the window, his eyes narrowed into a knife’s edge. Muscles in his cheek twitched. Oblivious to the Webster clock’s hour chime in a room heavy with age and decisions made in painful solitude, David sighed and faced his pa-rân, his mentor. “Meybe you an’ Arlette’s right,” he said with weary resignation. “God knows mah fancy ideas kan’t fuck dis up much mo’. What do I do, me?”

  Life’s crows’ feet at the corners of Mr. Laurent’s eyes relaxed. “You must take charge of this situation with the Klan in a straight-forward manner. You’re no longer followin’ a general’s order on Iwo Jima.”

  “Den I made da right decision fo’ a change,” David said with a hollow laugh.

  “How’s that?”

  “When da secretary’s line was busy da first time I dialed, I telephoned Gerald LeBeau. Afta I ’splained mah problem, I axed him to find t’ree combat veterans to hep me. If da Klan rides dis weekend, I’m gonna need a fire team, yeah.”

  “You’re takin’ a chance. Gerald gossips more than the women in the church’s Altar Society.” Mr. Laurent crossed his legs. As if his thoughts were elsewhere, his hand brushed the flattened crease in his khakis.

  “Ouais, you’re right,” David said. “Mais, his daddy was a Marine at Belleau Woods durin’ da Great War. I tink Gerald cares mo’ ’bout da Marine Corps dan gossipin’.”

  “Could be,” Mr. Laurent said with half a shrug. “Where’s Gerald gettin’ these men? You’re the only Marine veteran I know of livin’ along the bayou road.”

  “Gerald’s got contacts in Alexandria t’rew his daddy.” David paused. “Da men dôn have to be Marines. Army veterans know how to handle bullies, too.”

  “I’m rel
ieved to hear that.” Mr. Laurent nodded toward the bookcase. “My wife’s youngest brother died at the Battle of the Bulge durin’ World War II.”

  David turned. A framed photograph of a Second Lieutenant smiled at him. The photograph’s sepia tones had softened untested bravado into cocky confidence.

  “Mrs. Laurent and I named our son Maurice after him.” He bit his lip and adjusted his glasses. “If the Klan rides this weekend, your men can’t shoot to kill. One misstep and the sheriff will lock you up on bogus charges. An attorney sympathetic to the Klan will file motions until you’re fou in the cell in Narrow Bridge’s courthouse. The judge will order a transfer to the psychiatric hospital in Mandeville. You’ll never leave that place.”

  “Merde. W’at happens if da Klan kills me?”

  “Nothin’.”

  “My wife? Lucille or Madeleine?

  “An unfortunate huntin’ accident. No charges will be filed.” Mr. Laurent and David stared at each other until the older man coughed lightly. “After you telephoned yesterday mornin’ from the courthouse in Narrow Bridge, I contacted my colleague with the State Banking Commission in Baton Rouge. He said he’d freeze your bank account within the hour. He wants you to telephone the bank’s manager and ask why you can’t access your money.”

  “W’at’s dat prove?”

  “The manager will know you have an inside connection. This is important in Louisiana.” He stood and handed David the slip of paper. “After you telephone this number, join me on the verandah out front for a cup of coffee. If Jack telephones, Ruby will come and get us.” He turned and left the room.

  Within minutes, David walked down the column-lined veranda with white wicker chairs and rockers against the white brick wall. Ivy trailed from large clay pots of summer flowers positioned between columns. When David sat opposite Mr. Laurent, the forest green cushion squished. “Da manager said he had no idea w’at I was talkin’ ’bout an’ hung up.”

  “Excellent. Anger mirrors disappointment. Be patient. We’ll find your money.”

  “When? Dis time next Wednesday, mah money’s gone fo’ good.”

  “Trust in the system. Banks keep detailed records. Even stolen money can’t be moved without a record of a transaction somewhere.” Mr. Laurent’s face relaxed into a wide smile. “Ah, Ruby’s comin’ with the coffee.”

  Ruby Belanger frowned as she approached the men. She was about thirty-five years old, had coarse black hair pulled back into a wiry knot, and walked with the confidence of one who didn’t care what others thought. “I ain’t makin’ no mo’ coffee. Dat mud’s gonna kill ya dead. Afta you’s dead, da Missus is gonna pop mah head like I’s a chicken.” She positioned a silver tray on the wicker table between the two men. “Da Missus know w’at she be sayin’. An’ she’s gonna be some mad when she git back from her sista’s house. You knows I’s gonna tell her you done drank t’ree cups a coffee befo’ 9:00. I ain’t gittin’ her mad at me fo’ w’at you done did.”

  Mr. Laurent averted his housekeeper’s eyes. “Now, now. You’re upset over nothin’.”

  “Dat’s w’at you tinks,” Ruby said, her hand on her hip.

  “Men like dere coffee,” David said by way of defense.

  “Men ain’t got no sense,” Ruby shook her finger at David. “Look at you. You’s skin an’ bones, like you dôn eat right when I knows yo wife cooks like da angels. Coffee’s da problem. Dat mud do sumptin’ funny to da body. I knows it does.” Ruby’s white uniform rustled in a whoosh of starched cotton as she turned and walked away.

  Mr. Laurent downed his coffee. “We’ve got more serious problems than coffee.” He returned his cup to the tray, one eye on David. “I don’t think you know that the man who runs Junior’s Hardware is the real leader of the Klan. Franneaux is the second in command, what the military calls an executive officer.”

  “Sacre´bleu, I shoulda listened to Arlette,” David said and gulped his coffee. He returned the cup to its saucer on the tray. The saucer rattled. “Mais, id meks sense now w’at Madeleine tole Arlette,” David said and wiped sweat from his brow.

  “How so?”

  “Dat bastard at Junior’s was teasin’ Madeleine wid a penny candy.”

  “He eats those damn candies all day long.” Mr. Laurent leaned forward. “Do you know the secondary entrance to Franneaux’s property, about a mile from his driveway, up from Blanchard’s farm?”

  David nodded.

  “Klansmen use the entrance to circle to the back of Franneaux’s house. That’s where Franneaux implements Klan decisions made at the hardware store in Narrow Bridge. From Franneaux’s secondary entrance, riders access a lane diagonally across the road on Blanchard’s place. From there, riders can cross his farm and enter mine, through the gate that separates his farm from my pasture in the back of your house.”

  “Merde.” David’s eyes traveled to the alley of stately oaks overhanging the white-pebbled approach to Mr. Laurent’s plantation home. Two birds squabbled in the shade beneath a thick branch. David shifted his weight in the wicker chair and faced his pa-rân. “How good do you git ’long wid Mr. Blanchard?”

  “Very well, as much as one can, I suppose. He moved here from Kansas about twenty years ago and never got involved in the community. I have no idea why.” Mr. Laurent sat back. “Anyway, Mr. Blanchard sometimes complains my foreman forgets to close the gate to his property. When I talk to Louie, he insists otherwise. Louie says he’s found gates open on my property.” Mr. Laurent removed a white handkerchief from his khakis’ pocket and wiped his glasses. “I think the Klan deliberately leaves gates open. Klansmen want to get in and out.

  “Last month four heifers disappeared. I telephoned Sheriff Guidry. He came by, asked a few questions, but decided there was nothin’ he could do.” Mr. Laurent put his glasses back on. “When I later told Blanchard I thought the Klan had rustled the heifers, he scoffed. We now have a gentleman’s agreement to notify each other if there’s a need to enter our respective properties.”

  David gave him a sideways look. “Id’s soundin’ like Blanchard’s in bed wid da Klan.”

  “No, I don’t think so. After Mr. Blanchard suffered a mild stroke two years ago, his demeanor changed, as if he’d given up. I’ve heard rumors he wants to sell, not just his farm, but the manor house as well, and move. His two sons and a daughter are married and live out-of-state.” Mr. Laurent hesitated. “The daughter was on the wild side. Gossips said she caused the stroke when she got involved with a drifter. But you know how people talk. Most of what one hears isn’t true.”

  “I dôn know, me. Arlette heard da troot.” He waved aside a bee flirting with him. “W’at ’bout Louie? Dat man come outta nowhere. You sure ’bout him?”

  As if uncomfortable with the turn in the conversation, Mr. Laurent dropped his eyes and folded the white handkerchief. “After you left the sharecropper system, I decided to hire a foreman and contract workers. Louie heard about the position. Since he’d worked as a foreman on a Texas ranch, he had the experience. Two months later, I realized Louie couldn’t communicate with the field hands.” His eyes met David’s. “Louie’s probationary period expires the end of August. I’m not offerin’ him a long-term contract.”

  “Does Louie know ’bout yo decision?”

  “He does. Louie’s never married. He’s moved on before. He’ll survive.” Mr. Laurent placed his folded handkerchief in the corner of the silver tray on the table.

  “I dôn know w’at to tink, me,” David said, his eyes on the magnolia tree.

  “Nor do I.” Mr. Laurent’s index finger traced the wicker’s pattern on the chair’s arm. “When you arrived this mornin’, you said you weren’t upset Remy was in Narrow Bridge. I hope you were tellin’ me the truth.”

  “Mai oui. Da Klan’s fou. You made da right decision gittin’ Maurice an’ Remy outta here, yeah.” David chuckled. “I dôn know ’bout Arlette. When mah Cajun stick a dynamite gits ova bein’ mad, she’s gonna worry ’bout Remy’s clothes.”


  “The suitcase he had when he came contained enough clothes to last a month,” Mr. Laurent said with a laugh. “Now, I admit the boys fussed about wakin’ up at dawn. But Mrs. Laurent has a way of turnin’ frowns into smiles, especially when she gets to visit her sister in Narrow Bridge. By the way,” he added, “there’s a model train exhibition at the National Guard Armory I think the boys will enjoy.”

  “Dat’s good. Dey’ll fo’git ’bout bein’ tired when dey see da trains, yeah.” David glanced at the magnolia tree. “I wish Jack would telephone.”

  “Ruby does, too.”

  “Ruby?”

  Mr. Laurent nodded. “Moses Dubois was Ruby’s brother. He was married to Jacob’s mother’s sister. When Jacob’s aunt died in childbirth, Ruby raised the child as if Daniel were her natural born son.” Mr. Laurent’s expression darkened. “Ruby was terrified the Klan would lynch Daniel next. She was so scared she worked the sharecropper wagons to get Daniel to her sister’s shack in Fleur de Lis Parish.”

  David’s jaw dropped. “W’at da hell’s goin’ on? Daniel’s a sixteen-year ole boy who tinks like a two-year old. Ev’rybody knows Daniel was born dat way an’ won’t git any betta.”

  “The Klan doesn’t care about Daniel’s mental condition. The Klan wants revenge.”

  “Revenge?”

  “Even though Moses Dubois was practically blind, he found a way to ride a sharecropper wagon into Narrow Bridge with Daniel. The wagon stopped near the courthouse. Daniel jumped down before Moses could stop him. Moses caught up with Daniel just as a white woman rounded the corner. Mrs. Franneaux told the police Daniel drooled when Moses grabbed her breast.”

  Chapter Five

  St. Augustine Grass