Louisiana Lament

by Julie Smith

  “I didn’t know poets had deadlines.”

  She looked at her watch. “They do if they’re reading in five hours.”

  Hale lifted his glass. “Write like the wind, Your Grace. May I call you Your Grace?”

  “I prefer it, actually,” the Baroness said.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Friday was open-mike night at Reggie and Chaz, the restaurant where Talba was more or less the house star. Whether or not she was billed as “special guest”—which she wasn’t tonight—she usually turned up at least once a month. Tonight she intended to wear both her hats. By all accounts Rashad had a lot of friends who were poets, but she had no names—she’d have to use her stage-time to try to contact some.

  Though she had plenty of old material, she really needed something new, as she’d told Burford Hale. No sooner had she sat down to write than the title came to her: “I’m Looking for a Man.” After that, it flowed. As always—and practically over Miz Clara’s dead body—she wrote in the vernacular, though she always spoke in standard English. She couldn’t explain it, it was just how the poems came to her. How she heard them. (But she tried not to go there with most people—just to let it be.)

  It took her a good two hours to compose and polish the poem, leaving only a few minutes to get a snack, put together an outfit, and get there. Her mama was in the kitchen. “How’s my baby?” Miz Clara said.

  “I’m fine, Mama.” She answered with her head in the refrigerator. “How was your day?”

  “My day was the same as always. Scrubbing toilets, cleaning kitchens, listening to cracker trash tryin’ to tell me how to clean. What they think my bi’ness is? By the way, you ain’t my baby now. Got me a new one.”

  “Oh, Sophia. Sorry, I don’t have the daily report.” She found a chicken leg, closed the fridge door, and ate it standing up.

  “I don’t mean Sophia. I mean Janessa.”

  “Janessa. Oh. Janessa.” That was the last thing she expected. “I think I feel an attack of sibling rivalry coming on.”

  “Baby, that ain’ nothin’ new to you. You been competin’ with ya brother ya whole life. You ain’ answer my question.”

  “How about, ‘contrary as ever’? That good enough for you?” It was what Miz Clara used to say about her children when someone asked after them.

  “When ya gon’ bring her ’round?”

  “Soon. Just as soon as I clear up this case I’m working.” As soon as I’m sure she didn’t kill a couple of people.

  “Ya readin’ tonight? Whatcha gon’ wear?”

  “Now that’s the question. I’m about to go work on it.” She finished her chicken leg, cut herself a chunk of cheddar cheese, and took it back into her room. As she ate it, she checked her e-mail, but there was nothing urgent. She washed her hands and found her new pants. They were black chiffon and cropped just above the ankle, but unlike most cropped pants, they weren’t cut straight. They were ruffled bell-bottoms, slit up the legs, with more ruffles in the slits. A chartreuse tunic went with them, with wide sleeves that fluttered when she moved her arms, permitting her the kind of sweeping, regal gestures appropriate to a Baroness.

  In the V-neck of the tunic, she fastened a sort of collar made of jet beads, found the matching earrings, and checked the mirror. A hat or not? Something, she thought, and rooted out an orange and green scarf, which she folded into a kind of Indian headband trailing long loose ends. And for funk, a pair of flat burgundy-colored ankle boots cut low enough so you could see their tops inside her side-slits—a look the designer never intended.

  She let Miz Clara check her on the way out. “What do you think? Am I a Baroness?”

  “Ha! More like a rummage sale. I’m gon’ wrap ya up and take ya over to the church. Ya good for ten dollars, easy.” She considered. “Shoes bring down the price, though. Ain’tcha got somethin’ better’n those old things?”

  “That’s my mama! Always right there with the ego boosts.”

  Miz Clara turned to her TV Guide. “Your ego don’t need no boostin’.”

  That was the way she’d raised her children: Spare the praise or spoil the child. It probably made you try harder, Talba figured. Or else just quit trying altogether. Sometimes you just couldn’t win. For instance, Talba’s clothes were too funky, but Michelle’s too straitlaced. Talba’s sister-in-law dressed like an Uptown white lady, and Miz Clara was always after her to “try a little color.” So far as Talba knew, Michelle didn’t have a thing in her closet that wasn’t black, white, or gray. Miz Clara went around saying she was afraid Sophia was going to grow up thinking her mama was in mourning for somebody.

  “Wish me luck, Mama.”

  “Break a leg,” Miz Clara said, cackling at herself. Talba had taught her to say this, and it never failed to crack her up.

  To her chagrin, Talba had found that in New Orleans, poetry readings tended to be either exclusively African-American or mostly white. The odd person of color turned up at the white ones, and you never knew who’d be in the audience, but most poets tended to stick with their own. This bored the Baroness. Early in her career, she’d made a point of performing at both kinds of readings and, partly due to extensive press coverage (which she had engineered herself), but mostly due to her extraordinary talent and stage presence (in her own opinion), she’d gained quite a following. (Of course, a lot of people said they went just to hear her mellifluous voice, but the Baroness discounted those fools.) Mostly because of her efforts, she liked to think, Reggie and Chaz was one of the few venues in town that attracted a truly mixed crowd. And it was mixed in more ways than racially. It was a hangout for artists, writers, musicians, professional Tarot readers, Faubourg fashionistas, Bywater baristas, even tipped-off touristas—just about everybody who thought they were hip except Austin Edwards.

  It was decorated in a style that Reggie, one of the owners, described as “cheap and cheerful,” its most arresting feature being the gaudy collection of Guatemalan belts that hung like streamers from the ceiling.

  The black readings nearly always started late; the white ones more or less on time. Reggie and Chaz compromised, starting time being no more than half an hour after the announced curtain. That worked just fine for the Baroness, providing exactly the right amount of time for a pre-reading glass of wine. She bellied up to the bar, ordered herself a Chardonnay, chatted lightly with friends, and looked around to see who was there that she didn’t know. There were many. Good. The place was going to be packed. Surely there’d be someone there who could help her.

  The emcee that night, Lemon Blancaneaux, was the kind of guy who loved to hear himself talk. When he ran out of things to say, he’d repeat his opener, “How y’all tonight?” and use the slight pause to think of some new prattle with which to oppress his audience.

  But everyone was friends here, and enjoying beverages, and courting the good will of those who’d soon be his or her audience, so no one booed or hissed. Talba was all but asleep when he called the first poet who’d signed up to read. This was a guy she knew, someone famous for his drinking, who called himself Serenity Prayer Jones—Prayer to his friends. Prayer had written what could only be called an ode to his favorite tipple, vodka and Coke—known to bartenders as a “Black Bitch”—which was also the name of the poem. Because he was African-American, he completely got away with it, and even the Baroness herself had to check her dignity and roll on the floor a bit as the double entendres flew around like confetti. Actually, it was a pretty hard act to follow, and the next poet wasn’t remotely up to it. She was a young white woman disturbed by the recent war in Iraq, and Talba had a feeling she wasn’t going to be the last to tackle that subject before the evening was over. She got only polite applause.

  The third poet appeared to be Japanese, but evidently identified as black. His subject was his own oppression. After that, a black woman read some very sweet verses about her childhood in rural Louisiana; Talba quite liked her, but the audience was in a more raucous mood. She herself was next, and for once
she was actually a little nervous. But the noisy applause caused by the mere mention of her name—finally achieved after a nearly interminable introduction by the loquacious Lemon—went a long way toward restoring her confidence. There was even some foot-stomping.

  As she often did, she talked a little about the poem before she read. “This is a poem I wrote about somebody I don’t know, but I bet some of y’all do. He’s somebody I’d like to meet, somebody I’ve got some business with, someone who’s really well-liked by everybody who knows him, but who might be in a lot of trouble right now. And he’s somebody I need to help. If anybody out there knows who I’m talking about, you’re going to find the Baroness myself out in the bar waiting to buy you a drink, just after I read my poem, which is called ‘I’m Looking for a Man.’ ”

  She unfolded the poem. She’d noticed that white poets actually did read, and usually very badly, in her opinion. What on God’s Earth made people want to read poetry in a monotone? She simply did not understand it. Most African-American poets memorized and performed their poems, and the Baroness herself was no exception—with an old poem. With a new poem, she usually read, but she always performed. These people hadn’t pried themselves away from their TV sets to be bored to death; the least she could do was give them a show.

  She repeated the title before she started: ‘I’m Looking for a Man.’

  I’m lookin’ for a man

  His Aunt Felicia still call “baby,”

  And that’s what he might be.

  Could be just some poor soul

  Wandering out there lost and homeless,

  Nowhere to go,

  No friends in hell or Eden,

  Pack o’ dogs on his trail.

  But he might be something else,

  Something nobody know about,

  Could have a real dark side;

  Gotta have demons

  Back behind those pretty eyes—

  Otherwise, he wouldn’t be a poet.

  Likes to medic tattered feathers,

  Sex therapy, kind’a—

  Sleep with baby, ya gon’ be all right.

  Turn him down, he don’ care,

  Ya still gon’ be all right.

  He ain’t in it for the pussy.

  Somethin’ else there.

  Somethin’ no one knows about.

  This man grow up on Chippewa Street,

  Right down near the project

  They tore down to build theirselves a Wal-Mart—

  Now what we need a Wal-Mart for?

  (Here the foot-stomping resumed—nobody in this crowd liked that Tchoupitoulas Wal-Mart. Feeling more confident, she forged on.)

  Daddy gone; mama gone, too.

  Ain’nobody home but On-tee,

  (And Marlon and Paw-Paw)

  He love to ride that bike of his—

  Have adventures, fly like a buzzard.

  Glide like an albatross—

  Or maybe a vampire.

  You tell me.

  He want somethin’ he ain’ never gon’ get

  On Chippewa Street.

  He want the world.

  He find somethin’ take him to heaven,

  Same thing we all find,

  But most of us still here.

  This man ain’t.

  He find him a white woman old enough to be his Maw-Maw,

  Give him a house.

  He find him a white man, ’most as famous as Elvis Presley,

  Just as close to being God in that white world of his,

  Just about as dead

  He find his own swimming pool.

  With blood in it.

  He find him a young white lady friend

  With blood on her.

  He find him a second white man.

  With a fish on him.

  He find him another white man.

  With stripes on him

  He find him a young black woman-girl,

  With a crush on him.

  He find my sister.

  She be all right,

  Just like all them others;

  She be just fine.

  Maybe.

  If he ain’ got somethin’ ugly in him.

  I AM LOOKIN’ FOR THIS MAN!

  White po-lice lookin’ for this man!

  My sister lookin’ for this man!

  Another man lookin’ for this man!

  And that one got a gun.

  We in a race here.

  The room was dead quiet. Talba let it be, just for a second, and then she executed a perfect curtsy, announcing as she always did that “The Baroness myself thanks you.” And the audience went wild, perhaps at the sheer strangeness of it, though more likely it was her intense performance that got them. She knew she was a good poet—she had some awards to prove it—but she was an even better performer. And even she had to admit she really did have a great voice.

  A spotlight followed her as she marched grandly to the bar. She thought of having a Black Bitch, she’d enjoyed Prayer’s poem so much, but she couldn’t stand the taste of vodka. Settling on a margarita, she daintily licked at the salt, wondering if anyone was going to seek her out. Well, actually, someone was going to—someone always did—but would it be someone who could help her find Rashad?

  A few people said, “AwRite!” or “Nice, Your Grace!” depending on their race, but it was a while before anyone came to claim a free drink. She knew who it was going to be, as soon as she saw her—she could tell by the purposeful way the woman walked, by the anxious look in her eye. The woman was spaghetti-thin—that vegetarian, green-tea kind of thin that indicated a volatile temperament, perhaps a former drug problem, an obsession with clean living so pervasive you could tell she was trying to shake something.

  She wore a camisole top that showed her protuberant collarbone and left bare her matchstick arms, and a sarong from the flea market that wrapped around her nearly twice. She was African-American, and fairly dark, but she either spent a fortune at the hair salon or there’d been a white man in the woodpile sometime in the family history. Her hair was thick and long, and definitely African, but it waved rather than crinkled. She had a small face, too small for all that hair, but you couldn’t argue that she wasn’t beautiful. Her skin glowed the color of coffee beans, and seemed to have been burnished with a chamois. Her nose was tiny and round, not straight—the only thing about her you might call “cute” rather than beautiful, but somehow it still came down on the side of beauty. Her eyes said she lived in a world of hurt.

  She tilted her chin at Talba, and slinked through the crowd.

  Her eyes were wet. “What kind of trouble is Rashad in?” she said by way of introduction.

  “I’m sorry I upset you,” Talba said. “Would you like something to drink?”

  “Seven-Up. Thanks.” The woman struggled for control.

  “I’ll try to give it to you in a nutshell. You know about Allyson and Cassie?”

  The woman nodded.

  “I’m afraid he hasn’t been seen since they were killed. I’m Talba, by the way.”

  “Oh, sorry.” The woman extended her hand. “Everyone knows who you are. I’m Charmaine French. Rashad’s a real good man. Haven’t seen him in a while, but we used to date. The police really think he could have done something like that?”

  “They’re just looking at everybody who knew Cassie and Allyson. We don’t know if he was actually shot, but he did call my sister and say someone shot at him. I’m sorry to deliver the bad news. You know I’m a PI?”

  Charmaine nodded.

  “My sister wants me to try to help him. Do you have any idea where he could be?”

  The bartender set Charmaine’s drink down. She picked it up and drank through the straw. “No, but I sure wish I could do something for him. He was real good to me. That was a beautiful poem, Baroness. Anybody who knew him would know who you were talking about.”

  “It was all put together from impressions I have from friends of his. I’ve actually only met him a time or two in passi
ng. I was hoping to find someone tonight who could shed more light.”

  “Well, I can. He’s a good man! He’d never do something like that.”

  “The police think he might have been involved with Cassie.”

  “No. Uh-uh. They were friends. He took me over to her house once while we were dating. I didn’t see any sign they’d ever been involved. He will date white chicks, though. That much I know.”

  Talba took a big sip of her drink. “This is really good. Sure you don’t want one?”

  Charmaine gave her a regretful smile. “I don’t drink anymore. I was a serious pothead, on my way to being a drunk, too—and God knows what else. Rashad got me over it.”

  “Did you meet here?”

  “No, I was in a poetry workshop he gave.”

  “That’s how my sister met him. You know Janessa Wallis?”

  Charmaine smiled. “Janessa’s your sister? Sure, I know Janessa. She’s real good friends with him.”

  Talba looked at her over the rim of her glass. “Just friends?”

  Charmaine nodded vigorously. “Oh, yeah. I’m pretty sure of it. Now Janessa might have a little crush on him—most of the female students did—but we were taking the same course. I kept missing class, and Rashad came to see me. That’s how he found out about my problem. With the pot, I mean. I don’t know why, but we just started dating.” She shrugged, as if she were unaware of her beauty. “He couldn’t have been seeing anyone else in the class because he was always with me.”

  “He was dating a student?”

  “Well, actually…” She hesitated, took another sip, and dabbed at her forehead with a bar napkin. “It’s hot in here. I don’t know if I should mention it, but I will, because it gives you an idea of his ethics—we never had sex until the class was over. But he was interested. Oh, yeah, that was obvious. And then we dated for a while after that, and then…”

  “And then you broke up.”

  “I don’t know if we did. Not exactly. We just sort of stopped seeing each other. I guess you could say we both moved on.”

  Talba considered. “Charmaine, can I ask you something? I wonder if it coincided with your getting clean? I mean, after you could take care of yourself, maybe he just…” She didn’t know how to say it. “I mean, you’re beautiful, but I get the impression he likes to fix things. I mean… people.”