Rings of Trust

by Kittie Howard

A painting of the bell tower on the Louisiana State University campus hung above the fireplace mantle in Mr. Laurent’s den. Like the antique furniture and the wood-plank floor, the brick fireplace was old. Traces of soot from the South’s by-gone plantation era softened the brick’s rough-hewn red with noblesse oblige’s patina. Mr. Laurent stood in front of the raised hearth. His shoulders sagged. His eyes were bloodshot. “You’re lucky you don’t have a concussion,” he said. “Put that ice pack back on your forehead.”

  As he slid over on the brown leather sofa facing the fireplace, David’s knee brushed the long coffee table with matching wingback chairs at right angles to it. “I wanted to kiss yo feet when you showed up wid yo lawyer dis mornin’. Afta spendin’ da night in da sheriff’s hotel, I’d had nuff a his hospitality,” David said and reached for the ice pack in the bowl on the lamp table to his right.

  Mr. Laurent frowned. “You didn’t have to be so unpleasant about going by the doctor’s office.”

  “Mais, I wanted to see Arlette at your sister-in-law’s place.” David said.

  “I should have waited to tell you the ladies were there,” he scoffed. “With the Klan actin’ up, they’ve got to remain in Narrow Bridge. I couldn’t take a chance Arlette would talk you into bringin’ her home.”

  David lowered his gaze. “Sometimes I’m an asshole, me. Mo chagren, pa-rân.”

  “It’s a difficult time for everybody,” Mr. Laurent said, his voice compassionate.

  David returned the ice pack to the red Pyrex kitchen bowl and twirled the vinyl plastic pack around. When a chime echoed from the Webster clock in the study, his hand stopped. “Id’s 11:00,” David said as the last note faded. “Id’s Friday. Da Klan’s ridin’ dis evenin’. I’s got a heavy feelin’ inside a me, juz like dere was when I shipped out fo’ Iwo Jima.” He dropped his hand and faced Mr. Laurent. “Tank you fo’ takin’ care a da ladies. W’at wid Daniel’s body to git to da black undertaker, I dôn know how you did all dat, no.”

  “I don’t know what to say, except that events pushed me.” Mr. Laurent shifted his weight, then stood still, a middle-aged man with worry lines on his face beyond his years. “The black undertaker stayed with Ruby while I went to your house. Since your car was the closest and the keys were in the ignition, I drove your Ford. Gerald then drove the ladies to Narrow Bridge in his truck. Lucille and Arlette rode in the truck’s bed, Madeleine in the front seat.” He spread his hands before him. “I doubt the Klan will strike in town. But it can’t hurt Gerald’s watchin’ my sister-in-law’s house.”

  David winced as he stretched his legs beneath the coffee table. “Are you sure Jacob’s safe at da black preacher’s house back a town?”

  “As sure as anyone can be.”

  “You know id’s fo’ da best Jacob stays dere ’till Royce gits here?”

  Mr. Laurent nodded and pulled a white handkerchief from his khakis’ back pocket. He eyed the open double windows to David’s far right as he wiped the back of his neck. While he returned the handkerchief to its pocket, he walked in front of the screen door. “No white man can get across those railroad tracks runnin’ through town without bein’ seen.” When he reached the window, he re-hooked one of the gold-paneled curtain’s tiebacks and repositioned the fan on the floor. After he turned the fan’s knob, the increased speed fluttered magazines on the coffee table. David pushed the bud vase aside and reversed the magazines. Mr. Laurent returned to the seating arrangement and sat in the burgundy- and green-plaid wingback chair near David. “But, like Gerald’s doing at your house, members of Reverend Martin’s congregation are guardin’ the preacher’s house,” Mr. Laurent said.

  “Ruby’s got to be hidin’ dere,” David said. “She kan’t be no place else, no.”

  “You’re probably right. Except for the connection to Jacob, she hasn’t mentioned other relatives. I know Ruby and the undertaker had time to make plans while I was at your house.” He tipped his fingers together. “I have no idea when Daniel’s goin’ to be buried. The undertaker sidestepped my questions. I thought this was because of the condition of Daniel’s body.”

  “Mais, I tink you’re disappointed Ruby disappeared widout tellin’ you,” David said.

  “I am.” He paused. “I’d rather not be so blunt, but you’re not the only one who can be an asshole at times. I should have talked to Ruby more before she went to her room in the servants’ quarters. But I wanted to telephone the governor.”

  “Dat hepless feelin’ a bein’ a fuck-up ain’t good,” David said.

  Mr. Laurent raised his hand. “That could be Jack on the telephone.” He stood and rushed to his study.

  Using the sofa’s armrest for support, David pulled himself up, reached for the ice pack, and more walked than limped to the opposite side of the den. He went into the kitchen and dropped the pack into the sink. With his hand at the small of his back, he returned to the den. His eyes traveled to an arrangement of gold-framed awards positioned between Hudson Valley sconces on the knotty pine wall to the right of the study. Paintings on the wall near the double window then caught his attention. He smiled at scenes of a bayou at sunset and a plantation home facing the Mississippi River. Minutes later, he crossed to the fireplace. After staring at a painting of a harbor dotted with islands to the right of the fireplace, he shrugged and turned.

  “That was the governor,” Mr. Laurent said as he entered the den with a frustrated look on his face. “He’s directed the state’s attorney general to send an investigative team to Narrow Bridge.”

  “When?”

  “Tuesday morning.”

  “Mais, dat’s too late. Dose men need to arrive today. Juz dat team bein’ here kin scare da Klan into lettin’ Henri go. You know da Klan’s plannin’ on lynchin’ Henri dis weekend. By Tuesday mornin’, w’at’s left a Henri da fish in da Atchafalaya River won’t care ’bout eatin’.”

  “What can I say?” Mr. Laurent rubbed the corners of his eyes as he walked toward the back of the sofa. “The governor’s a politician. With so many Civil Rights workers in the South, he wants to look decisive without antagonizin’ certain supporters. He has to keep up appearances. He’s up for re-election next year.”

  David drew back. “Ain? Sumptin’ eider is or id ain’t.”

  “Maybe in the North, in places like Boston.” Mr. Laurent nodded toward the harbor scene, “The South’s too layered for reality. Southern aristocracy needs to impress others to maintain its power. If a family is land rich but money poor, it’ll find money somewhere to keep up appearances, even if it’s only a new pair of shoes to wear to church on Sunday.”

  David stared at Mr. Laurent, his mouth slightly open. “Where did Louie git da money fo’ da cowboy boots he was wearin’?”

  “I don’t know,” Mr. Laurent said, spreading his hands. “Louie had such a sour attitude, I didn’t notice his boots.”

  “I did, me. Dat son uh a bitch had new boots,” he said, walking toward the sofa. He bumped into the coffee table but grabbed the bud vase before it toppled over. “Yo fo’man dressed like a field hand, but he wore boots like I’ve neva seen befo’. Dey had red tops wid dots in little circles. Dat’s not normal fo’ cowboy boots, no.”

  “Ostrich,” Mr. Laurent said, more to himself than David.

  “Ain?”

  “I think I know where this is goin’,” Mr. Laurent said. “The ostrich is a bird with a long neck and legs. It runs faster than 40 miles per hour even though the bird can weigh as much as 300 pounds. Although the ostrich lives in the wild in parts of Africa, there are farmers in South Africa who raise the bird for its skin and feathers. It’s a lucrative export business.”

  “Mais, how do ya know dis shit?” David asked, a perplexed look on his face.

  Mr. Laurent’s face reddened. “Mrs. Laurent and I attended a cattleman’s convention in Dallas last year. My wife is always fashion conscious, but more so at these conventions. There is, er, a little competition between Louisiana and Texas,” he said with a faint smile. “
My wife noticed many of the ladies carried ostrich purses. So I bought a black ostrich purse at a French Quarter shop in New Awlins. It’s in the chest in my study. I’ll surprise her with the gift before we go to Dallas this fall.”

  “New Awlins? You’s gotta be shittin’ me,” David said. “Da sheriff said Charley wanted to drive a taxi in New Awlins. I bet Charley knew ’bout dat magazin an’ tole Louie. Dat asshole wormed his way in wid da bank manager an’ got his hands on mah money. I paid fo’ da son uh a bitch’s boots.”

  Mr. Laurent glanced at his watch. “It’s 12:15. The bank in Narrow Bridge closes at 2:00 on Friday. I’m goin’ to telephone my colleague in Baton Rouge. He doesn’t have much time to freeze Louie’s account.”

  “W’at if yo colleague took a long weekend?” David asked, panic in his eyes.

  “You can kiss your money good-bye. Louie will drain his account before the bank closes and disappear into God-knows-where,” Mr. Laurent said and headed for his study.

  “If I see dat fucker agin,” David said as he paced, “I’m gonna stick dose boots where da sun dôn shine. I’ve had all I kin take a dis Klan shit. “Dey’s sick an’—” David froze.

  Arlette gasped when the screen door opened. “Cher Bon Dieu, da top a yo face is lookin’ like chopped liver,” Arlette said as she stepped into the den. Remy, Madeleine, and Lucille followed with their heads down.

  “Id’s not as bad as id looks, no.” David put his hand around Arlette’s waist and led her to the fireplace. Remy inched close to his father and slipped his hand into David’s. Tears rolled down Madeleine’s cheeks. Lucille’s stood rigid, her hands balled into fists at her sides. “Mais, you musta done some talkin’ to git here,” David said, his eyes on Arlette, a reproach in his voice.

  “Gerald didn’t wanna brung us, no,” Arlette said, defiance on her face. “Mais I got him to tinkin’ it dôn matta where we be, no.”

  “You dôn say?” David said.

  “Mais oui. I was even hearin’ our Ford’s in Mr. Laurent’s driveway, yeah,” Arlette said, her eyes cold.

  “Where was Gerald goin’ when he left here juz now?” David asked.

  “To our house,” Arlette said. “He’s gonna be sittin’ on da porch wid his rifle.”

  “Two a Mr. Gerald’s friends stayed wid Mrs. Laurent an’ her sister,” Remy said. “Maurice is sittin’ wid dem on her front porch.”

  The door to the study banged open. “There’s good news,” Mr. Laurent said. “My colleague froze Louie’s bank account. Louie withdrew $5,000 when the bank manager transferred your money to Louie’s account, but Louie hasn’t touched the balance.” He nodded at the excitement in the room. “I telephoned the governor with the latest development. Three state troopers are on their way to Narrow Bridge. When Louie goes to the teller’s window to withdraw the money, he will be arrested.” Mr. Laurent raised his hand. “You have every reason to celebrate. However, we still need to hear from Jack Landry. I have hope he’ll shut down his sawmill. The Klan can’t operate without paychecks. We can slow them down today. The Klan won’t leave us alone until their families feel the pinch of bein’ broke.” Mr. Laurent checked his watch. “Now, I don’t know about you, but I need a cuppa coffee while we wait for Jack to telephone. I haven’t had a cup since this mornin’” he said and stepped toward the kitchen.

  “I’s helpin’ you,” Lucille said. She followed him into the kitchen, with David and Arlette behind her.

  After walking over to the coffee table, Madeleine knelt down and stared at the bud vase.

  With a puzzled look on his face, Remy crossed to her. “W’at you doin’?” he asked and knelt beside her.

  “Watchin’ da white rose bud open up. Look how pretty da petals are, all curled up like puppies next to dere momma.” As she turned the slender glass vase, the rose bud swiveled around. “Look how da leaves smile at me,” Madeleine said, her voice whispery soft.

  “I dôn see no smiles, no. Dey looks like—”

  Madeleine touched his arm, cutting him off. “Dey look like,” she said. “You fo’got dey is plural.”

  Remy scrunched his nose. “Dose leaves look like leaves, not people smilin’.”

  “Dat’s ’cause you dôn see w’at you’re lookin’ at.”

  “Dat’s not troo. I see you on yo knees lookin’ at two leaves.” Remy scratched his head. “You dôn mek sense, no.”

  “Father Lorio says if we dôn git on our knees, we miss half da beauty in life.”

  “Da half I see in church is somebody’s behind. Dat ain’t pretty.”

  Madeleine pinched her floral pink dress at the sides and swiveled around. Her doe-like eyes shimmered with an incandescent innocence. “When Father Lorio tells us to lift up our eyes to da Lord, he wants us to see God’s light. God’s light is all ’round us, even when we look down. Remy, da lady in front a you at church is very nice. She brings da sugar cookies you like. When you see God’s light, you will see da lady’s face, not her behind.” Madeleine batted her thick lashes at Remy and re-focused on the white rose bud. Minutes later, she looked up. “Dey’s comin’. I tink dey drank dere coffee in da kitchen. Let’s sit on da sofa.”

  After helping Madeleine stand, Remy sat next to her, his fingers near hers in the space between them. “Mo chagren,” he said, a hound dog look on his face. “Sometimes mah words dôn come out right.”

  “Sometimes yo words dôn come out right in Cajun French eider,” Madeleine said.

  “I know.” Remy’s shoulders slumped. “I’m ’fraid somebody’s gonna bully me agin. I dôn want anybody to tink I’m weak.”

  Madeleine’s eyes traveled to the fireplace hearth, where David and Arlette sat, then to Mr. Laurent and her mother standing to the right of the fireplace, in front of the painting of the harbor. She leaned closer to Remy. “No one will tink you’re weak if you believe in yo’self,” she whispered in his ear, then patted his arm and stood. David and Arlette stopped talking and stared at her. Mr. Laurent and Lucille turned into the silence. Madeleine’s eyes met Mr. Laurent’s. “Tank you, sir, fo’ takin’ care a us when Mr. David was in jail.”

  “Why, it was the least I could do,” Mr. Laurent said, a question mark in his eyes.

  “Momma,” she said, facing Lucille, “I want to go home.”

  “Chile, w’at’s you talkin’ ’bout? You’s seen da rifles in Miz Arlette’s house. You knows trouble’s comin’.”

  Madeleine took a deep breath. “We kan’t leave our house, Momma.”

  “Bébé, we’s not leavin’ fo’ good.”

  “Momma, I know da Klan’s mad ’cause Remy and I tole Jacob we’d go to his bir’day party. I know bad people killed Peppa.” She clutched the gold cross at her neck. “Momma, we have to go home. If we stay here, meybe our hearts will change.”

  “You’s not mekin’ sense, chile.” Lucille said.

  “Mah heart is in mah room, Momma. I kin see Peppa’s grave from da window. When I go ta sleep, I know Jesus watches me.”

  “Jesus is ev’rywhere, bébé, not juz on da crucifix ’bove yo bed.”

  “Momma, I trust Jesus to hep me do da right ting. I trust you an’ Daddy to protect me. I trust Mr. Laurent ’cause he’s like mah pa-rân. I trust Remy ’cause he’s mah friend. I trust Miz Arlette and Mr. Joseph ’cause dey’s like mah aunt an’ uncle.” Madeleine gripped her hands. “Momma, I trust mah’self to be mah’self. If we stay here, I’m runnin’ ’way from mah’self. When I git back to mah room, I won’t be who I was befo’ I ran ’way. I’ll be afraid. Momma, please, let’s go home.”

  Chapter Nine

  Pine Trees