Zydeco Queen and the Creole Fairy Courts

by Cutter, Leah

  “I see I’m talking to myself again today,” the counselor said with unexpected humor.

  “I keep thinking it isn’t because you’re not from these parts, but because you’re too much from here.”

  Francine shrugged again. The way things were going, she’d never be able to leave here, either.

  “These boys and girls, their parents have filled their heads with stories about how while it’s good here, it’s gotta be better somewhere else. And it may be, for some of them. But most of them are stuck. They’re always going to be looking outside, and away. You show them the things they’ve been told they don’t want. Family and roots and belonging here.”

  “So?” Francine asked. It wasn’t as if she was ever going to change.

  Mrs. Delacroix fiddled with a pencil, running her fingers along it, then tapping it on the end.

  Francine recognized the gesture—the counselor wanted to light up a cigarette but smoking wasn’t allowed in the school.

  “Talk about wanting to leave as well,” Mrs. Delacroix finally said. “Let ’em know you’re stuck, too. It’s the only thing you’ll ever have in common with them.”

  “I don’t want to have anything in common with them,” Francine said, scowling. “Besides, it won’t work. They already know about the music college.”

  Mrs. Delacroix tilted her head to the side, peering at Francine. “As hard as they push, you push right back, don’t you?”

  “So? If I don’t push back, they’ll run all over me.”

  “Sometimes you need to make a peace,” Mrs. Delacroix said softly. “Find a way to bridge that gap between y’all.”

  Francine pressed her lips together and looked out the window. How could she find a peace when no one wanted it? She stopped listening to Mrs. Delacroix until the phone in her office shrilly rang.

  When the counselor put down the phone, she had tears in her eyes.

  “It’s your mama,” she said softly.

  Chapter Three

  “Darling,” Mama drooled.

  Horror filled Francine but she made herself walk forward, into Mama’s hospital room. It stank of false pine and bleach. The beige walls sucked all the color out of the room, even the white of the sheets on Mama’s bed.

  “Hey, Mama,” Francine said quietly, taking her right hand, her active hand. The left half of Mama’s face was slack, her left eye wide and staring, her left side still as death.

  Francine swallowed down her bile and finally asked, “Stroke?”

  “No, no,” Mama sighed. “No stroke.”

  “Then what?” Francine asked.

  Mama shrugged, one-shouldered. “Don’t know yet.”

  “Where’s Papa?”

  “Gone to get the paper,” Mama said. She squeezed Francine’s hand. “You’re going to have to be strong for him, you know. Keep him safe. Keep him home.”

  “Okay,” Francine said, though she didn’t understand.

  Papa came back in. He walked directly to the windowsills beyond the bed and placed twisted branches on both of them.

  “Rowan,” he said quietly.

  Francine shivered, wondering if it was to keep out her other cousins, or something worse.

  Then Papa walked back to Francine and gathered her into his arms, giving her a strong hug.

  Francine melted into it, leaning on Papa’s strength and warmth. It almost shook loose the hard place deep in her heart, but she held on, with dry eyes and a clear voice.

  “What’s wrong with Mama?”

  “The doctor’s aren’t sure. But it wasn’t a stroke,” Papa said, giving Francine one last hard squeeze, then letting her go.

  Before Papa could sit down, a squat man with black, square glasses and a white coat came in.

  “I’m Dr. Palaquin,” he introduced himself.

  Francine and her family introduced themselves, all shaking hands.

  When they finished, Dr. Palaquin added, “I’m with the oncology staff.”

  “Cancer?” Francine asked, her voice squeaking, the edges of her vision darkening. She suddenly sat on the edge of Mama’s bed, her hand flailing until it found Mama’s again, grasping it tightly.

  “Mrs. Guiscard has small-cell lung cancer.”

  “What stage?” Papa asked.

  Francine was grateful that he was able to think critically. The word cancer had just swallowed her world.

  “I’m afraid small-cell lung cancer has no stages, not like regular cancer. It’s either crossed the bilateral line of the body or it hasn’t. And I’m afraid that for Mrs. Guiscard, it’s already crossed.”

  “What does that mean?” Francine asked, her voice small and unrecognizable.

  “The cancer originated in a lump in her left lung. It’s crossed to the right side of her brain, and infected her spinal cord. Hence the stroke-like effects.”

  The room reeled around Francine. Cancer rippled through everything, like floodwaters, swamping her home with rain and bad news that just kept coming and wouldn’t stop. Her heart beat hard in her chest as Papa asked the question Francine needed to hear, asking about how to treat it.

  The pause the doctor gave made Francine’s heart skip.

  “Of course, you could choose to treat it. However, the cancer is so advanced, I’d advise against it. We need to focus on making Mrs. Guiscard comfortable.”

  “How long?” Mama asked, her voice raspy and weak.

  “We can never really say—”

  “You will give me a number,” Papa growled. “I will not sue you or hold you to it. But you will give me an amount.”

  “I can’t really—”

  “Days or weeks?” Papa asked.

  Mama added in, “Please. Days? Weeks?”

  Francine hoped the doctor would tell them they were wrong, that Mama still had months or years.

  “Weeks,” the doctor finally admitted. He continued on with some weasel words that Francine didn’t pay any attention to as tears pricked her eyes. She couldn’t hear what else the doctor and Papa discussed. Only two words inhabited her entire existence.

  Cancer. And weeks.

  * * *

  Golden charms the cousins had bought hung on brightly colored yarn off the wooden headboard of Mama and Papa’s bed. Gris-gris voodoo dolls made for tourists from Aunt Lavine’s store sat on the beautiful caved bedside table that Uncle Leroy had made. Braided rowan branches lay on the windowsills. The room, the whole house, really, smelled stuffy like church, full of incense and candle oils.

  They were all useless, of course, but they helped Francine and her relatives feel like they were doing something.

  Mama lay in the center of the bed, resting her eyes. She’d grown skinny in just a month, her color ashen. Francine sat on the old rocker beside the bed, sliding back and forth, trying not to think on how Mama couldn’t be left alone anymore, not even for a minute, and how the change had come in less than two weeks.

  “Let’s have spider holes for dinner,” Mama announced suddenly.

  “How do you fix spider holes?” Francine asked. She hated her mama’s aphasia as much as anything else. Her mama had always had the right word or phrase. It was so unfair how much of her they’d lost in such a short time.

  Mama looked at Francine as if she was slow.

  “You cut them into thin slices and fry them, then serve them with dirty rice and mustard sauce.”

  “You want sausage for dinner?” Francine guessed.

  “Yes, that’s what I just asked for,” Mama said impatiently.

  Francine knew better than to argue.

  “Sure, Mama. I’ll fix that in a bit.”

  She checked the clock—only 4:15 P.M. She was certain there were sausages in the fridge, along with crawfish pie, sweet-and-sour corn soup, cabbage salad, and pot roast. All her relatives kept bringing over food, as if that could somehow make things better. They also sat with Mama, so Francine could take a break.

  “Francine, you know both Papa and I love you, right?”

  “Yes, Mama
,” Francine said. Mama told her that often, as if she was afraid Francine didn’t know.

  “I’ve always been so proud of you,” Mama added. “No matter what you do, I’ll always love you.”

  Francine looked sharply at Mama. She wasn’t normally this lucid.

  “I’ll always love you, too, Mama,” Francine replied, reaching over to squeeze Mama’s good hand.

  “Papa, too?” Mama asked suddenly unsure, her hand lax in Francine’s.

  “Papa, too,” Francine assured her, not necessarily lying, though doubt had set in. Papa wasn’t there, not even as often as Uncle Rene, as if he’d already given up.

  A part of Francine understood—it was hard to see Mama this way.

  A part of her would never understand. This was Mama.

  “Papa, too,” Mama said, taking a deep breath, settling further into her pillows, and closing her eyes again.

  “Papa, too,” Francine said, as if trying to convince herself as well.

  * * *

  Grief choked the house like kudzu, invasive and omnipresent. Sunlight glared harshly through the front windows. Usually Francine welcomed the fall weather. Now, it amplified how she felt, cold and bitter.

  Every time an aunt or uncle told Francine, “At least she went quick,” she felt like screaming.

  It wasn’t fair.

  Mama hadn’t ever been sick a day in her life.

  Francine didn’t like admitting that Mama had been in horrible pain at the end, that it was good she didn’t suffer for years. Still. It just wasn’t fair.

  Fresh-baked dishes overflowed the refrigerator and the pantry—gumbo, fish stew, cornbread, and chicken soup. When Francine sat very still on the living room couch, afraid that if she moved, she’d break, whatever aunt, uncle, or cousin was sitting with her would suggest she eat something.

  Francine couldn’t decide if she was grateful that she and Papa weren’t left alone those first days, or if it was why she always felt like screaming.

  Papa insisted that the funeral happen at noon. It wasn’t until later that Francine wondered if that was to make sure her “other” relatives didn’t come.

  Francine sat in the fireside room next to the sanctuary as people filled the church. She heard her cousins, uncles, and aunts chatting, talking, not laughing, but living.

  It hurt Francine so much that they still had their lives while hers was over. She hadn’t died, but her old life had.

  Papa sat beside her, still as a stone. His face looked gaunt and haunted. He stared at his hands or at the dull brown carpet, and barely spoke two words.

  Francine didn’t know how to bring Papa back. It was as if he was already following Mama into the grave.

  The preacher brought the family into the front pew as the music started. Francine held onto Papa’s arm, her eyes blinded with tears. Uncle Rene, Aunt Lavine, Aunt Noella, and others all sat there, ready to hold them.

  Francine couldn’t stop crying. Grief overwhelmed her, pain swallowing her heart whole. Francine didn’t hear what the preacher said, though everyone told her later it had been a beautiful service.

  Toward the end Francine finally tamed her tears enough to say a few words.

  “Mama played peacemaker all her life, between me and Papa, between more than one of you,” Francine said, looking at Aunt Lavine, then at Uncle Gilbert. Of all her relatives, they fought the most.

  “She wasn’t meek, or mild. She had that spirit. A bite. As did her cooking.”

  She paused as people chuckled and Francine almost smiled.

  “I’m going to miss her more than I can possibly say. I’m going to make her proud of me. I hope she’s at peace now.”

  A solemn line of cars wound down country lanes to the graveyard. The cemetery was pretty, and the grass was well watered and green. It wasn’t fair for the sun to be so bright and the grass so green and alive.

  Francine waited beside the car as Uncle Rene organized the musicians. In the tradition of New Orleans, they played a slow dirge as everyone walked to where the preacher waited for them at the top of a slight ridge, two lone trees casting shade behind them. Mama’s own Mama and Papa would be right beside her.

  The sad music tugged at Francine’s heart, and she cried so hard Aunt Lavine had to lead her to the gravesite.

  After the casket was lowered, the band struck up a happy tune, full of joy. It had a beat that made even Francine want to move.

  It was time to celebrate Mama’s life.

  Everyone gathered at Francine’s home that evening, telling stories about Mama and their life together. Francine still couldn’t eat, but she tried hard to listen and remember every word. She only went to bed when she found herself nodding off in the middle of a story.

  The next morning, when Francine opened her eyes, everything seemed flat and colorless. Cold settled into the air, seeping into the house. Francine wrapped herself in a sweater, sweatpants, and a thick bathrobe before going out to the kitchen.

  No one waited for her.

  For the first time since Mama’s diagnosis, Francine sat alone in the house. The trees outside quietly talked together, and the old house creaked now and again.

  After making herself eat a little, Francine went back to her room and picked up her fiddle. She hadn’t played in a while, refusing to use that hateful word weeks. She tried to play a dirge, something to express how heartbroken she felt. Her fingers fumbled and she found herself blinded with tears. Then she tried to play a happier piece, to cheer herself up. The melody came out tinny and her chords turned bitter.

  Francine quickly escaped the house, but even the woods couldn’t comfort her.

  That night, when Papa finally came home, Francine told him over dinner, “I’m going back to school.”

  Papa nodded.

  That was the only thing they said to each other all night.

  * * *

  “Fiddlesticks,” Francine fumed as she rushed into the kitchen and turned off the burner under the forgotten, smoking pan.

  “Broken fiddlesticks.”

  She would have used stronger language but Papa was standing right there.

  “It’s ruined, Papa. Everything’s ruined.”

  She felt tears pricking her eyes and she didn’t try to stop them as she picked up the pot.

  “Thanksgiving won’t be Thanksgiving without Mama’s cream sauce.”

  “It’ll be okay—”

  “No, it won’t,” Francine said, slamming the pot back down.

  “Nothing’s right anymore.”

  She looked over her shoulder at Papa, standing all the way across the kitchen next to the door. She knew better than to ask for his help: He couldn’t cook, and since Mama had died, he’d avoided going into the kitchen when he could.

  Francine picked up the pot and brought it to the sink.

  “Call Uncle Rene. Tell him we’ll be late,” she said over the hissing as the water hit the heated metal.

  “We’re already late,” Papa pointed out. “We’ll just make do with whatever gravy Uncle Rene has.”

  Francine shook her head and started scrubbing out the burnt gunk at the bottom of the pan, scalding her fingers and working blindly as her tears flowed.

  An unexpected touch to her shoulder made Francine jump.

  “Leave it,” Papa directed.

  Francine sniffed and wiped at her tears with her dry forearm. She trembled both inside and out, feeling like she was shaking apart.

  “Papa,” she said softly.

  She wanted so hard for him to hold her like she was a little girl.

  But Papa mere squeezed her shoulder and stepped back.

  “It’ll all be fine,” he repeated, retreating again, out the kitchen.

  “Pack up what you have and let’s go.”

  Francine took a couple of deep breaths, forcing herself to swallow past the pain in her throat, will her tears to dry.

  It wasn’t fine and never would be again.

  * * *

  Though Uncle Rene’s house w
asn’t as large as Francine’s, or even Aunt Nicola’s, they always held Thanksgiving there. A wave of sound crashed into Francine when Papa opened the door—kids squealing, Aunt Lavine laughing, the roar of everyone talking at the same time.

  Francine made a beeline for the kitchen, pushing through the crowd of people. It was slightly less chaotic there, with only half a dozen of her relatives squashed together. The rich smell of turkey filled the air.

  “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” Francine blurted as soon as she saw Uncle Rene.

  “I ruined Mama’s cream sauce and there wasn’t time—”

  “It’s all right, darling,” Uncle Rene said, taking the potatoes from Francine and kissing her cheek.

  “There’s extra white gravy, as well as brown.”

  Before Francine could ask, Uncle Rene had her filling water glasses on the table, organizing the kids to gather at the smaller side table, then carrying in the feast of food. Francine sat next to Uncle Rene, who only patted her hand and didn’t ask how she was doing. It hurt that Mama wasn’t there, that Papa was mostly gone, too.

  After dinner and before dessert, everyone pushed back their chairs and looked to Uncle Rene for the entertainment.

  “Francine,” he called, drawing her to her feet.

  “And Charles.”

  Uncle Rene pulled out his golden sax, the alto one that was taller than the youngest cousin. Papa and Francine gathered their fiddles and went to stand near the front door.

  Francine felt herself smiling, really smiling, at the two rooms crowded with tables and people, all looking expectantly at her. She’d always loved to perform. She followed Uncle Rene’s timing, coming in three measures behind him. Papa was supposed to come in three measures later.

  When Papa missed his entrance, Francine turned to look at him.

  Papa stood with his fiddle clenched in his hand, his face ashen.

  Francine felt the tune sliding away, diminished by Papa’s sadness.

  “I can’t,” he said softly as Uncle Rene stopped.

  “I just can’t.”

  He turned and walked out the door, leaving his fiddle behind.

  “Merde,” Uncle Rene swore under his breath. “He hasn’t played since your mama passed. I thought—never mind. Something softer, eh?”