Rings of Trust

by Kittie Howard

After thanking Ruby for the morning coffee, David went outside with Mr. Laurent. “Merci beaucoup, sir. I dôn know w’at me an’ mah family would do widout you,” David said as they walked beneath the side portico.

  “Oh, I think you’d manage,” Mr. Laurent said. “Your instincts are good. Your heart’s in the right place. Perhaps your temper’s a problem, but you’ll learn to keep it under control.”

  “Meybe,” David said and got into his Ford. As he drove down the alley of oak trees, the sedan’s wheels crunched on the white pebbles as if they were ice. Birds squawked and scattered into the overhanging branches. At the end of the driveway, David turned left onto the bayou road and rushed the gears into third, not slowing until he turned into his driveway. When the sedan rounded the curve to his house, his hands squeezed the steering wheel. “Merde. Da windows is shut.” He gunned the Ford up the driveway and slammed on the brakes in front of his house. After taking the porch steps two at a time, he yanked free the interior latch on the screen door and unlocked the wooden door.

  As if appraising a combat zone, David’s eyes surveyed the living room to his left. With a satisfied nod, he crossed the hall and entered the sitting room, a sparse room with a curio cabinet and two upholstered chairs. He closed the door and stepped around the staircase. After a glance into the hall bathroom, he scanned the dining room and then headed for the China hutch. He reached behind a low, but wide, arrangement of plastic flowers above the hutch and retrieved a .45 caliber Colt pistol. After switching the safety off, he went to the kitchen. He nodded at the drawn curtains to the side and back of the kitchen table with six chairs around it, the closed interior wooden door, and returned to the front of the hall.

  In the left bedroom upstairs, Madeleine slept with an arm around Bitsy, the pink- haired ragdoll Lucille had crocheted. Across the hall, in the master bedroom, Arlette lay curled on the double bed’s white bedspread, her hands beneath her cheek as if in prayer. With a sigh, he walked down the hall, checked the bathroom, and then cracked the closed door to the guest bedroom. “Good. Lucille’s here,” he said to himself in Cajun French and crossed to a fourth bedroom converted into an office. He switched his Colt’s safety on, stuck the weapon into the small of his back, and removed keys on a hook at the back of the knotty-pine gun cabinet. The front panels opened with ease.

  After positioning three Remington deer rifles with sights and boxes of ammunition in the living room and sitting room, David switched his Colt’s safety off and opened the front door. Forty-five minutes later, he had reconnoitered the oversized lawns, the thicket of pine trees, open areas between the houses, and approached the busted shed in his back yard. “Gosh da dônc, dere’s nuttin’.” He kicked the St. Augustine grass. “Son uh a bitch,” he said and stooped low. After dislodging a penny candy wrapper trapped in the St. Augustine grass, he walked toward the back steps with the wrapper in his pocket and the Colt in his right hand.

  As he unlocked the back door and eased the kitchen door open, a moan drifted in the room’s quiet. With his Colt extended, David slipped around the chair at the end of the kitchen table near the window. Jacob slept on a pallet between the table and the side window. He wore Remy’s pajamas.

  David flipped the pistol’s safety on and returned the weapon to the small of his back.

  “Shhh. Jacob need some doe doe,” Arlette said and moved out of the hall’s shadows. She was barefoot.

  David wiped sweat from his brow and crossed to her. “Da Klan’s got Henri Doucet, no?”

  She nodded and motioned for him to follow her. They huddled behind a wing chair near the sofa in front of the window in the living room. “’Bout a half-hour afta you left dis mornin’, ’round 7:30, Jacob banged on da back door. Da chile was screamin’ da Klan done lynched his daddy last night.”

  David’s hand flew to Arlette’s shoulder. “Ain? Jacob saw his daddy bein’ lynched?”

  Arlette shook her head no. “Id took a bit to git him calmed down befo’ he was talkin’ straight.” She rubbed scratch marks on her arms the color of the poppies in her sundress. “When Henri ain’t come in from da fields yestaday evenin’, Jacob went lookin’ fo’ him. Fo’ some reason, he tought his daddy done took sick, and da udder sharecroppas brung Henri here. So Jacob took off fo’ our place. Dat’s when he seen Klansmen ridin’ on da bayou road.”

  David’s jaw twitched. “Did da Klansmen have Henri wid dem?”

  “Non, he ain’t seen his daddy nowheres. Mais, seein’ da Klansmen scared him, an’ he run back to his shack. Da chile sat up all night, ’fraid da Klan was comin’ fo’ him. Den he come here dis mornin’.”

  “Dose fuckin’ bastards,” David said and slammed his fist into his hand. “If I eva git mah hands on dem.” He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. His shoulders loosened. “Da first ting we need to do is git ’hold a Jacob’s cousin. Royce needs to know ’bout Henri.”

  “Jacob tole me his cousin ain’t got no telephone. I done asked him dat.”

  “Merde.

  “Royce’s gonna be here fo’ Labor Day. Jacob kin stay here ’till den, yeah.”

  “Meybe,” David said. He went to the living room’s side widow, peeped through a crack in the beige curtains and turned. Eyes like molten lava stared at a Woolworth copy of a Monet painting above the credenza to his left. Two women in hats and long dresses stood on a grassy cliff that overlooked white-tipped ocean waves. “Mais, I dôn know, me, if Jacob’s safe here,” he said and returned to Arlette’s side. He then related the morning’s conversation with Mr. Laurent.

  “Cher Bon Dieu,” Arlette said, her hands on her face. She blinked back tears. “Mah heart’s achin’ fo’ Ruby. Daniel dôn know he’s got a chile’s mind in a man’s body. He trust ev’rybody to do right by him.” Arlette stepped around the wingback chair and sat on the gold velvet sofa. “Meybe da Klan dôn know Jacob’s here.”

  “I dôn tink so.”

  “You’s seen da curtains move in Franneaux’s house, no?”

  “Ouais,” David agreed. “Even I know dat bitch he’s got fo’ a wife watches our house from her upstairs window.” He tossed a green needlepoint pillow aside and sat next to Arlette on the sofa.

  “Mah friends at church is sayin’ she’s no betta dan her husband,” Arlette said and took David’s hand in hers. “Boo, you knows da Klan ain’t gonna do nuttin’ when da sun’s shinin’. Jacob’s gonna be safe here fo’ now. You’s gotta tell Mr. Laurent ’bout Henri disappearin’.” She flopped back on the sofa. “Bon Dieu, we needs a telephone. Da parish can’t put dose lines in soon nuff.”

  “Dere’s a lot a tings da damn parish needs to do.” David shook his head and faced Arlette. “Afta I talk wid Mr. Laurent, I want to take a look at his back pastures. Da only way is fo’ Louie to drive me. I dôn know da layout, no.”

  “Why’s you goin’ dere?” Arlette sat forward on the sofa. “Da Klan grabbed Henri in Blanchard’s pasture.”

  “Henri’s stubborn, entêté. Dere’s a chance he made a ruckus an’ forced da Klan to split up. Jacob didn’t see his daddy wid the Klansmen on da road. Dere’s gotta be anodder group wid Henri. Meybe da group wid Henri hid out on Mr. Laurent’s place ’till dey figured out w’at to do.”

  “Is you sayin’ Henri’s alive?” Arlette asked, her voice incredulous.

  “Dere’s a chance, ouais.” David drummed his fingers on the cover of The Saturday Evening Post lying on the coffee table. “Da Klan musta kidnapped Henri when I was lookin’ fo’ Madeleine unda da porch. Dusk was settin’ in. Dey had to move fast.” His shoulders tensed. “Fuck. Meybe da Klan’s got a bigger plan.”

  “How’s dat?”

  “W’at if you’re right ’bout da Klan wantin’ us outta our house?” He faced Arlette. “W’at if da Klan’s forcin’ a power play? If we leave our house, Henri Doucet lives. If we dôn, da Klan lynches him.”

  Arlette paled. “Dat kan’t be, no. You’s wrong. Da Klan kan’t trap us.”

  “Da Klan’s already done dat, beb. You
’s fo’gittin’ da connection ’tween Moses Dubois an’ Jacob.”

  Arlette lunged at him. “You son uh a bitch. Remy’s at Mr. Laurent’s house.” Her fists pounded his chest. “Mah baby’s gonna die ’cause you was pigheaded.” David grabbed her hands. She yanked free. “Nuttin’ woulda happened if yo shit junk was in Narrow Bridge.”

  “Beb, please. I done tole you. Remy and Maurice is in Narrow Bridge.”

  The silence between them sucked the air out of the room. “I’s not feelin’ good, good.” With her hand at her mouth, Arlette rushed from the living room.

  David waited outside the hall bathroom. When the door opened, Arlette’s face was ashen. “Mo chagren, mon amour,” he said and wrapped his arm around her. “I’m sorry I was pigheaded. I shoulda moved mah bidness to Narrow Bridge like you been sayin’.” She resisted his nudge toward the kitchen. “You need a glass a water.”

  “I’s drank some eau in da bathroom.” Arlette leaned into him. “I’s wrong fo’ bein’ mean to ya, beb. Mo chagren. I knows Remy’s safe.”

  David nestled his chin into her hair. “Dis Klan mess is too much. I couldn’t take id if sumptin’ happened to you, mon bébé. I’d die inside. I want you to go to da Catholic Church. Father Lorio will take you in. Lucille an’ Madeleine, too.”

  “Mais jamais. If I’s not here an’ you’s by Mr. Laurent’s, da Klan might take da house. If dey gits in, dere’s no gittin’ dem out.”

  “Shhh. Dôn talk like dat. Louisiana’s got laws. Da Klan kan’t take a house widout people knowin’.”

  “I ain’t takin’ no chances.” Arlette stepped out of his embrace. A smile played on her lips. “I knows how to shoot, yeah. Lucille do, too. We ain’t gonna live on da side a da road in no tent.” She caressed his cheek. “You’s gotta git to Mr. Laurent’s. I wants to lay down upstairs. Mah tummy’s actin’ funny. Lucille’s here if I needs hep. You’s gotta find Henri whiles you kin.”

  They walked to the staircase at the front of the hall. “If Henri dies, I’m goin’ to mah grave blamin’ mah’self. I never shoulda let Remy play wid Jacob. I set ev’rybody up to git hurt,” David said.

  “Dôn you go blamin’ yo’self. Life ain’t life widout a mess a tings hurtin’.” Arlette stopped at the balustrade. Color had returned to her cheeks. Her full lips glistened in the mid-morning light. “Me, I wasn’t knowin’ ’till today I was in one a dem messes. When we was sharecroppas, nobody cared if we was talkin’ to da devil. Now dat we got us a house, da Klan’s tryin’ to scare us, like we ain’t gonna be real white people no mo’ if we’s not doin’ w’at dey wants. We—w’at’s da matta?”

  “Somebody’s comin’.” David rushed into the living room and returned with a grin on his face. “Gerald LeBeau’s here.”

  “Mais non. I ain’t gittin’ mixed up wid no men talkin’. I’s goin’ upstairs to lay down. You go on out.” Arlette blew him a kiss and went upstairs.

  The balding grocer in his mid-thirties slammed his truck’s door shut and walked toward David. He was of average height, had deep set brown eyes and a slack jaw. David greeted him with a slap on the back and a firm handshake. “I was gonna telephone ya from Mr. Laurent’s house. You got any news fo’ me ’bout dose veterans? I need hep fast, yeah. Da Klan’s got Henri Doucet.”

  Gerald blinked wide. “W’at da fuck?”

  “His boy’s sleepin’ in mah house.”

  “You shittin’ me?”

  “I wish I was, shá,” David said, his hand on Gerald’s shoulder. “You heard anyting ’bout da Klan gittin’ mad ’cause Jacob axed Remy to his bir’day party?”

  “I ain’t heard a damn ting.” He gave David a sideways look. “Dat ain’t good. When I dôn hear ’bout blacks an’ whites goin’ at id, trouble’s comin.” Gerald dropped his voice. “Mais, I got a bit a lagniappe fo’ ya dat might hep.” His eyes darted to the right and left. “Fou’, not t’ree, Marine Corps veterans are gonna be here at dusk on Friday, day afta tomorrow. Kin you hold out ’till den, pod-nah?”

  “I kin. Henri kan’t.”

  “Dôn be cooyôn. Henri’s swingin’ from a tree somewheres.”

  David shook his head. “I dôn tink so, no. Da Klan grabbed Henri on Blanchard’s place, den run scared. I tink dey hid out in one a Mr. Laurent’s back pastures. I’m goin’ by his place now to take a look. Meybe da Klan’s horses dropped some pies, an’ I kin follow a trail.”

  “Want me to go wid you?”

  “Dere’s no need, no. I’ll git Louie to come wid me.”

  “Mais you ain’t leavin’ da ladies ’lone. I’m sittin’ on yo porch wid mah shotgun.” Gerald nodded toward his Ford truck. “Got mah baby wid me, yeah.”

  “You’s a good, good man, Gerald.” Their eyes locked in shared understanding. “Merde,” David said and swatted at a gnat. “I’m sick a dese damn me-me’s.”

  “Dat’s anodder reason I come by. Da damndest ting done happened.” Gerald scratched his chin. “I tink you might be on one a dem islands in da Caribbean next year. No gnats dere.”

  “W’at da hell you talkin’ ’bout?”

  “Oil.”

  “Come on, Gerald, da Klan’s breathin’ up mah ass, and you’s talkin’ cooyôn. I ain’t got no time fo’ dis shit, no.”

  “Make time.” Gerald inched closer. “A man from Gulf Oil was by mah magazin yestaday. Mais, he come by ’bout six weeks ago. Didn’t tink much ’bout id at da time. Dat was a mistake ’cause dis mess wid Franneaux’s been brewin’ eva since.”

  “Spit id out, Gerald. W’at you talkin’ ’bout?”

  “Dere might be oil on Mr. Laurent’s place. But Franneaux can’t git at da land. Dat’s why Franneaux wants da land Mr. Laurent deeded to you. He’s usin’ yo bidness fo’ da ’cuse to git ya outta here,” Gerald said.

  “Dat’s bullshit. Jack Landry’s in da oil bidness. He’d know ’bout oil here,” David said.

  “Meybe not. Yo patron saint works da marsh parishes,” Gerald said.

  “Mr. Laurent’s neva said nuttin’ ’bout Gulf Oil,” David said.

  “Meybe he wants ya to git a cut.” Gerald shrugged. “Compared to w’at Mr. Laurent owns, yo t’ree acres ain’t squat. Mais, id don’t matta, no. Id’s all ’bout how da oil runs unda da ground. If dat liquid gold pees one drop on yo property, you gits eight royalty acres fo’ each a da acres you owns. Dat’s nuff to mek you stinkin’ rich, pod-nah.”

  “Who’s to say dere ain’t oil on Franneaux’s property?” David asked, caution on his face.

  “Franneaux ain’t takin’ no chances. Da state a Louisiana owns da drainage ditch an’ da road out front. If dat oil’s on yo side a da road, Franneaux’s fucked.”

  Chapter Six

  Oak Tree