The Feathered Bone

by Julie Cantrell

  I have stepped away from Jay’s raised walkway, choosing instead to sink at the edge of the camp’s soft bank. As the lapping water splashes against my jeans, my old tennis shoes sink deep in mud. I am tempted to let the swamp swallow me whole, pull me down below the thick, green growth and bury me under the giant salvinia.

  Jay draws near. I acknowledge him with a subtle lean, not yet ready to quit the quiet.

  The smell of warm chicory rises between us, blending with the muddy smells of marsh as he hands me a faded LSU mug. The inscription reads Geaux Tigers, with most of the letters rubbed off.

  “Remember when we all had season tickets? Never missed a home game. Except maybe Vandy. Or Tulane.”

  “Those don’t count,” Jay says. I smile. He sips his coffee from an oversized mug: I’d rather be fishing spelled out in hunter-green letters.

  “Think we’ll ever do that again?” I cling to the hope that our lives will spin back to normal someday.

  “Of course we will.” Jay holds his mug up for a toast. “To the Tigers.”

  I tap my cup against his and salute. “Geaux Tigers.”

  The two of us stand side by side, sipping coffee, our eyes on the horizon. Like an arm, the river stretches, reaching and grasping for something far in the distance. A snowy egret flies above us, her bright-yellow feet in stark contrast to her black legs and white feathers.

  “Two years,” I say. “Hard to believe.” I left Ellie’s grave on Wednesday, the second anniversary of her suicide, and came straight here to hide from the world. Jay arrived this morning unexpectedly, to check for a pulse. He moves closer. Pieces deep within me react with spark, but I smother the flame before it can grow. Jay is my lifelong friend. He’s here because he knows how it feels to carry watermarks on the heart.

  “We’ll get through this. I promise. We will.” His voice is steady, calm. And he says we. This simple word offers the assurance I need. For this moment, with Jay in sight, I feel safe. In fact, I don’t want to leave. I want to stand right here and watch the sun rise and set forever, far removed from all the ugly in the universe.

  Downriver, the water reflects the sun in clipped waves, bending the morning like a mirror ball spinning at a disco. I’m reminded of Ellie’s project about feathers. Some things are made for the light.

  “Does it ever get to be too much for you, Jay? Your job?”

  “I’ve seen stuff I never wanted to see. Stuff I wish I hadn’t. But you’ve been right there with me for most of it. You know how it is.”

  “Not nearly as much as you. I read the crime reports. That pregnant mother stabbed the other day. How do you stay balanced?”

  He thinks this through before responding. “People can do horrible things. I’ll give you that. But give up hope? Start believing there are no good people left in the world? I can’t do that.”

  “It’s hard sometimes. Isn’t it?”

  “Sure it is,” Jay says, eyeing the fishermen. “But look at those guys.” Two bass boats point in opposite directions. “What do you see?”

  I don’t answer. I watch the boats floating slowly across the water.

  Jay continues. “All right, then. I’ll tell you what I see. I see good people, people who wake up and do their best to get through the day, to take care of the folks they love. Maybe even try to make the world a better place.”

  One of the fishermen waves his hand, and Jay returns the friendly greeting. Then he passes me the wallet-sized case that holds his sheriff’s badge. “Here. Take a look.”

  I open its black leather cover to find the brass symbol he keeps with him at all times.

  “See what I had them put on there? When I took office?”

  The five-pointed star is draped with a red, white, and blue American flag and bordered by a symmetrical circle. Engraved on the top in bright-blue letters is To Serve and Protect. Below is Est. 1832. Two inner circles show the Louisiana state seal with the brown pelican plucking her own breast—that old, familiar symbol of sacrifice and protection. Around the pelican, the badge identifies its owner as the Livingston Parish Sheriff. It’s a beautiful badge, but I’m not sure what Jay is asking me to notice.

  “See the bottom banner?” He eyes the emblem.

  “Here?” I point to the numbers 13:4.

  Jay nods. “You know what that’s for?”

  I shake my head, feeling guilty for not knowing already.

  “It’s from Romans—13:4. ‘The authorities are God’s servants, sent for your good.’ For your good,” he repeats.

  I offer him a smile. “You can be too idealistic at times. You know that?”

  “Nah.” He laughs. “No such thing.”

  After a few minutes I nod toward his Bass Tracker. “Mind if I take your boat out? There’s a place I’ve been wanting to visit.”

  “Sure. I’ll go with you.” He walks down the dock, holding his empty mug.

  “It’s okay. I think I need to be alone for a little while.”

  He shoots a worried stare, trying to gauge my mood.

  “I won’t be long. I promise.”

  “Where’re you going?” He asks it more from concern than control.

  “That little chapel on the water. You know the one?” I step over the bow and move into the driver’s seat, drying dew with my shirt.

  “Our Lady of Blind River?” He lifts the frayed bowline with one hand and tosses it into the boat. “Sure I know it. Mr. Bobby Deroche built it for his wife, Mrs. Martha.”

  I take this in, surprised anyone would do something so kind. “That true?”

  “So they say. Story goes Mrs. Martha had a dream one night. The Blessed Virgin told her to build a place where people could come and pray. Then she had a vision of Christ kneeling in the exact spot where the chapel is today. Word spread fast, and they ended up with something like twenty people to offer help. Built the whole place by hand.”

  I don’t know what else to say. I’m finding it difficult to believe in miracles. After an awkward silence I continue. “I went there once, a few years back. Was thinking today might be a good day to pay it a visit.” With that, I pass him my coffee mug and fumble with his floatable banana-shaped keychain before cranking the motor. It sputters to life, and he raises his voice over the churn.

  “Be careful, Gloopy!”

  I move the lever into reverse and give the throttle enough gas to exit the slot. Leaving Jay with a friendly wave, I head off to find the chapel.

  With the sun rising higher now, the water shifts from black to brown. A white wake draws wide behind me. I pass thick patches of swamp grass, their firm, green bases stretching into brittle points that wave like flags against the wind. It might be fall-foliage season in other parts of the country, but down here in Louisiana, the leaves cling to green. The water is warm, with one side of the river lit golden from sun. The other half has gone to gray, still in shadow.

  In between the yellow pulses of fading wildflowers, a new crop of Louisiana irises is emerging. Not yet budding, the strong green shoots carry the promise of violet blossoms. By spring they will pepper the riverbank, filling gaps between the shacks and fish camps. But for now it’s November, so the wetlands offer no bright iris dance today.

  I am alone on this broad stretch of open river, where not even camps clutter the landscape. Most of the trees have been crop-topped by storms, and moss forms a thick, gray curtain for waterfowl and squirrels, songbirds and insects. I much prefer this quiet, private span, without the brash company that clusters the canal all summer, parking boats side by side, maxing out their radios. I steer clear of the large lily pads. They dot the water’s edge with massive lotus blooms, both white and pink.

  Within a few minutes I turn the bend to spot a small shack sinking into swamp. Left to ruin, the small structure has been claimed by the elements. With each mile, more camps begin to flank the river. One pier home, no larger than an outhouse, is surrounded by elaborate decking and wooden walkways. Another holds long ropes suspended beneath a rusting tin roof. Buoy
s, traps, and nets all dangle.

  Not every camp has been built for such serious angling. Some are geared for revelry, with plastic chairs stacked against the structures and fans ready to cool the guests. Oversized ice chests hold fish, beer, or both. Outdoor speakers sit silent for now, but at any moment they could begin to blare music beneath the year-round party lights that hang crookedly from rooflines.

  I pass one place that is nothing more than a boxcar, pulled from a train and plopped onto bright-blue plastic barrels that have been strapped together beneath its sturdy base. Someone has attached a wooden platform to serve as a wraparound porch, more than doubling the square footage of the camp. They’ve also sawed spaces into the metal, adding a flimsy door and an aluminum window, both of which are sure to leak. A towel is tacked across the glass panes.

  The banged-up shipping container has been roofed with a few flat pieces of sheet metal, and secured to the deck is a small pirogue, ideal for afternoon fishing trips or a ride to the deer stand. A savvy outdoorsman obviously engineered this camp with sustainability in mind, as rainwater collects in his rooftop garden before dripping down into a catch basin for additional use.

  Beside this camp lies another, not much fancier. This one is a small trailer. Its porch holds a traditional wooden bench swing and a bright-turquoise slide that leads straight into the river. These two slapdash camps sit next to a larger, more expensive weekend home with an elaborate stone seawall protecting three pricey boats, each elevated by automated hoists. Also visible, a set of wave runners, a gazebo-covered hot tub, and pastel Adirondack chairs.

  Another camp greets boaters with a hand-painted sign. It is written in French: Bienvenue. Air-conditioning units bulge from the narrow windowsills, and a rope swing is tied to a high cypress branch, set to carry children out over the water.

  One thing remains constant. Whether expensive retreats or patchwork hideouts, the piers all share the same markings, stains from higher waters. Whether rich or poor, sinner or saint, we’re all Louisiana and we all have to weather the storms.

  After navigating a few miles of river, I see a sign reading Slow Idle Area. Throw No Wake. Attached to the nearby cypress trees, two more signs read Welcome Visitors. I pull my boat against a row of black rubber tires nailed to the dock of the Blind River Chapel. I kill the motor, secure the bowline.

  Since its construction, Mrs. Deroche has always left the chapel open to welcome people from the river, to shelter them at the feet of Mother Mary. But I’m the only person here this morning. Even though there’s a boat at the adjacent Deroche place, their well-maintained riverfront home is dark.

  Careful to avoid the splintered latticework barrier, I make my way beyond the wooden bench and across the pier, where a large plantation bell stands silent. Admiring the craftsmanship of the quaint cypress sanctuary, the first thing I notice are three wooden crosses: a sturdy one that tops the steeple, a second perched along the eaves, and a third tacked beside the entry. Painted with the words Our Lady of Blind River is a sign hanging left of the aluminum door whose screen has already been replaced with glass for the upcoming winter season. To the right of the door stands a large blue painting of the Blessed Virgin. Typical of Catholic icons, her head is circled with a golden halo and bowed in prayer. At her feet these words are inscribed: Do unto me according to thy will.

  Another flock of ducks flaps overhead, sending a thin, high-pitched chit-chit-chit. I squint, trying to identify the species the way Jay has taught me. They don’t display the colorful green feathers of the mallards. Nor the long, slender, goose-like neck of the pintails. Instead, a group with black bellies and bright-pink feet fly overhead. Mexican whistlers. They squeal as they come to nest in a tree.

  The chapel’s exterior is layered with thousands of small cypress shingles, each one cut by hand to overlap the row below it. The shingles have been weathered for decades, their edges tattered by Louisiana’s legendary heat and humidity; but the linear steeple points straight to the sky.

  The main door, with its symmetrical stained glass squares, has been left wide open. Inside the small chantry, I give my eyes time to adjust to the dimly lit space. To my right, a spiral notebook sits on a simple wooden podium. I opt not to sign my name and turn instead to examine a brochure explaining how Bobby Deroche did, in fact, build this place for his wife, Martha, just as Jay claimed. He started Easter Sunday, 1982, and with the help of a few dozen friends finished construction in a mere three months.

  It has been three years since Hurricane Katrina hit. Entire neighborhoods rest in ruins and “temporary” FEMA trailers can still be seen. I wonder what would have happened if they had put the Deroches in charge of reconstruction. Based on the looks of this chapel, I imagine the job could have been done right.

  Here at the entry, an open Bible sits adjacent to a portrait of the Deroches and a porcelain plaque: The Beatitudes of a Christian Marriage. The words bring a sting, as I continue to struggle with the guilt of the D-word. For better or for worse, I was all in. I never considered any alternative.

  I read the plaque to myself with a whisper, grieving the loss of my marriage.

  Blessed are the husband and wife who continue to be considerate and affectionate long after the wedding bells have ceased ringing.

  Blessed are those mates who never criticize or speak loudly to one another and who instead quietly discuss their disagreements and work toward solutions.

  Blessed are they who thank God for their food and who set aside time each day to read the Bible and pray.

  Blessed are they who love their mates more than any other person in the world and who joyfully fulfill their marriage vows in a lifetime of fidelity and mutual helpfulness to one another.

  Near the plaque sits a basket of plastic rosaries and scapulars. I select one of each from the stash and walk the short length of the chapel, running my hands along the three parallel rows of hand-carved pews. Framed pictures of Jesus hang in mismatched frames across the paneling. They depict the story of Christ—his life, death, and resurrection. Because the small screened windows have been left open, a gentle breeze forms a cross flow. The battered air conditioner remains unplugged.

  In just a few steps I reach the front of the chapel, where a life-sized Virgin Mary stands taller than me, resting against an enormous cypress trunk that has been crosscut to form the altar. The brochure explains how the men pulled this sunken beauty from the swamps and floated the majestic tree downriver before carving it specifically to fit this space. The result is a sacred iconic work of art.

  Between the statue and the trunk a natural hollow forms around a knot in one of the cypress knees. Visitors have tucked handwritten prayers into the space, hoping Mother Mary will bless them with a miracle. Some claim she has done just that.

  Today I pray she’ll grant me one too.

  I am not Catholic, but I have spent my entire life in Louisiana and am vaguely familiar with the finger rosary ring and the scapular pendant. I don’t know the exact way to say the Hail Mary, but out of reverence for the devout Deroche family who built this holy space, I pray aloud, on my knees, in front of Mary.

  I pray in the name of her son, the Jesus of my youth, the Christ I was taught to build my faith around. I know him now as a man born of humble beginnings, a man who dared to challenge the powerful authorities of his day. A man who performed miracles and taught a radical message of love and grace. A man who was killed for daring to offer such hope to a hate-filled world.

  I think back to the Bible stories of my youth, most of which depict a dark and devious side to human nature. Is it so different now than in the days of Jesus? Have we managed to learn anything in these two thousand years?

  “Mary,” I whisper. “You know this grief. This pain. If I’m to believe the history, you lost your own child. How did you survive it? How did you keep faith? Help me believe.”

  Then I turn my heart to God and beg for mercy. For miracles. For grace. It’s been a long time since I’ve been able to pray. At first, afte
r Ellie’s death, the words simply would not come. My spirit was so broken, I could only wail, Help! Make it all go away!

  After that I hit a wall. Every time I turned to the heavens, a swell of anger would fill me. How could I possibly pray to a God who had taken so much from me? My message turned from Help to Why, God? Why?

  But here, now, words come faster than I can speak them. I let them slide into the air, rising up from a clear, deep spring that has long been walled within me. Tears come with the words. Then anger. I breathe deeply. A part of me wants to toss a threat, shout to God: You hurt me again, I’m done for good. Instead, I try not to blame him for my suffering.

  I stay here for a long time, my knees pressed hard against the wooden floor, the chapel door open wide behind me. Dawn is breaking fully into day. The room fills with birdsong and the wind moves between cypress needles, causing branches to creak. Above me, squirrels scamper across the roof, barking their signature warning calls.

  There’s something about the mix of the religious icons and the sounds of the swamp that convince me Martha Deroche was onto something when she insisted the chapel be built here. The site seems sacred.

  Between birds and squirrels, wind and water, I listen for the voice of God. But once again I am left with no answers. No promises. Only my fragile faith, as I cling to the feet of Mary.

  Like my daughter, Ellie, I was baptized when I was eight years old. With two pigtails and nervous eyes, I stood at the altar, chest-deep in lukewarm water, cloaked in a white choir robe with the pastor’s hand placed firmly against my spine. My mother waited with a towel in the choir loft, smiling reassuringly as I offered a public profession of my Christian faith. Church members sat silently in padded pews while the pianist softly played “Just As I Am.” But truth be told, at eight years old, I wasn’t thinking about the Father, the Son, or the Holy Spirit. My thoughts were focused on two things only, and as I sent God a prayer, it was to ask him: Please don’t let my underwear show through the wet robe, and please don’t let the water go up my nose.