The Witch of Bourbon Street

by Suzanne Palmieri

  “Papa, I don’t know a soul there, and I don’t see myself on some pirogue casting nets, either. Mon Dieu, it’s as if you want to feed me to the alligators! And I’m not completely unaware of that place or those people. That … lifestyle. How am I supposed to live like that?”

  “Mais non, chérie. Let me explain. Tivoli Parish is a magical place. Don’t laugh at me, it’s true. You are my only child, your dear mother has gone to God, and I want the best for you. I want you to be safe, because I can’t live forever. Though our country has begun to make strides towards women’s rights, I fear for your independence once you are no longer my sole responsibility. Whoever you marry will be, in effect, your owner. It is but one of the terrible truths of our times. Now, the women of Tivoli Parish … Oh, how can I explain this to you, darling? It’s a different kind of life for them. You’ll have your rights, your children will have more power.”

  He halted for a moment when he saw Helene’s expression. “Young girls care nothing about their rights until they’ve been undone. So, c’est la vie … do as you will. Of course, in the end, the choice will be yours. See if Edmond pleases you. If he doesn’t? Marry Dumond. Voilà.”

  In the end, the entire conversation was for naught, because as soon as Edmond entered her home the next evening for the party, Helene fell madly in love.

  “They all have it, those Sorrows,” said her father. “I knew a Sorrow woman once.…” He trailed off. But he didn’t have to finish. The dreams she saw there in his eyes told the entire story.

  That night, Helene and Edmond danced in wide circles on the ballroom floor. Helene watched how everyone watched them. They were luminous and irresistible together. And when his hand touched her back, a million butterflies took flight inside her heart.

  * * *

  Edmond and Helene spent their honeymoon on a riverboat that took them up the Mississippi. It was so grand, that ship. Helene even forgave Edmond for gambling, because, oh, how they danced! They danced throughout the ballrooms and across the endless decks. Helene would never forget those twirling, decadent weeks where she drowned in love. She conceived SuzyNell on that boat. Their lovemaking was so inspired that her back felt permanently arched with pleasure. Edmond’s natural fire lit up a hidden sensuality in Helene. “Don’t stop, Edmond … I never want you to stop touching me,” she’d said.

  But all honeymoons, however lovely, must come to an end, and too soon Edmond and Helene were traveling southward to Tivoli Parish.

  “Allez vite! Allez vite!” the coachman called out, urging his horses forward while shaking their reins.

  “Must he make them go so fast, Edmond?”

  “Leon is excited to bring us back home, chérie. And in these parts, we like doing things fast so the air moves around us, c’est bon?”

  Helene sat back, not wanting to admit she was scared. Things had been so sublimely wonderful that the sinking feeling growing inside her as the land separated into a damp, watery mosaic was sadder than any other sort of disappointment.

  “If you don’t stop pouting, Nell, I’ll ride up on top with Leon and you’ll have to see the sights for yourself,” Edmond joked as they crossed the isthmus connecting Tivoli Parish to southern Louisiana.

  Helene hated that nickname he’d given her. Nell. It was the name of a servant. Or a horse. But she smiled and pretended, because that was what she’d learned marriage was all about. It never occurred to her to speak her mind. Instead, she let the unease grow slowly inside her like a disease.

  “There’s so much water, Edmond. What do you do when it floods?”

  “Well, chérie, we climb high up into the trees, that’s what we do,” said Edmond, and he laughed.

  The sensible roads had ended, and the pitted dirt roads ahead forced Leon to drive the coach slower. Helene looked out the window once again.

  “We’re ridin’ into Tivoli now,” Edmond said. “It’s not much. But bigger than Saint Sabine Isle. We think of it more like a boundary than a city. Other people, though, from the ville, they come on down to Tivoli Parish and spend time right here. And those that summer on Saint Sabine Isle, this is where they go to get their necessities. The fishermen, too. I suppose it’s a right useful little town.”

  Helene thought it quaint, with its wooden cottages and tall trees, the branches spreading out in the back like great quilts.

  There were a few shops she thought she’d like to visit, and just when she was going to tell Edmond how relieved she was, she realized the main road had ended, and there were no other houses in sight.

  “Where did the town go, Edmond?”

  “It goes wide, east to west. But this south road is all you have in or out of Tivoli Proper. Now, look close, because here’s where the magic starts.…”

  Helene looked close. All she noticed was the trees getting thicker, the smell of must growing stronger, and the road getting thinner. Water practically dripped from everything around her.

  “Where are we now?” she asked.

  “We are on the edge of Serafina’s Bayou. The most beautiful bayou in all of Louisiana. As a matter of fact, we’re ’bout to drive right over Trinity Bridge, the center of the whole parish. When I was but a small boy, I’d listen for the ti-gallop of the hooves against the wood of this bridge. That’s how I knew I was almost home. Once over the bridge there’s a three-way fork in the road. If we drive straight, we cross another bridge onto Saint Sabine Isle. The cane fields are down the west road, and our home, Sorrow Hall, is down the waterway east. There’s no choice but to take a boat there. Either from here or from the inlet of the bayou behind Sweet Meadow. See the boat there?”

  Helene leaned over Edmond to look out his side of the carriage.

  “Mais non, Edmond. I can’t see anything but mud.”

  “It’s right there—” He pointed to a small boat that looked more like a raft than any sort of vessel one would expect to carry one to a grand house. She sank back in the velvet seat of the coach.

  “Are you unwell, chérie? It really is silly to go all the way to Saint Sabine Isle. Leon can tie the horses off here, and then take us to the house. Are you sure you want to see the resort first?”

  Helene was very sure. She wanted to put as much time between herself and her new bayou life as possible.

  Edmond put his arm around her. “I know this is difficult, Nell. But you’ll have to look harder. The people who live in this community are our dearest companions. Tivoli Proper, Serafina’s Bayou, and Saint Sabine Isle: We are a trinity, like this bridge. The sooner you learn that, the sooner you’ll feel better.”

  “I feel just fine,” she lied.

  When they crossed onto Saint Sabine Isle, she once again felt the same hopefulness she had in Tivoli Proper. The resort was absolutely lovely. Rows of idyllic cottages set amid gardens and the sandy beaches of the Gulf. She could clearly see herself spending time there. But then they were back on the other side of Trinity Bridge, and Leon was lifting her out of the carriage and placing her in the small boat, and she felt nothing but an ever growing sense of despair.

  “Leon, will you bring the trunks across later?” asked Edmond. “I’m afraid, with all the things my Helene has brought with her, she’d sink us quick.”

  “May I at least bring Goldie?” she asked. Goldie was Helene’s yellow canary. But as his elaborate cage was large and heavy, the two men said no and laughed.

  Edmond climbed into the boat beside her, and they wound their way through the dark waters. Every so often, a low-lying branch would touch Helene, and she would be forced to stifle her fear. She knew Edmond wanted her to be brave.

  As they came to a bend in the bayou, Leon turned the boat, and Helene saw the gardens leading up to Sorrow Hall and then the grand, wide docks. There were several small cottages filled with people clustered around one area. “We will stop here first, and then it is just a short ride up to the main docks.”

  When they were safely on solid ground, the people gathered around them, welcoming them, warm for a stra
nge, mixed-up lot.

  “Who’s who?” she asked softly as Edmond made his way through the crowd, smiling and shaking hands.

  “What do you mean?” he asked through his smile.

  “Who are the wealthy and who are the poor? I can’t seem to discern the society from the rabble. And where are they from? This is our home, is it not?”

  Edmond turned to look at her, annoyed.

  “Ma chérie, there is no such division here,” he explained. “The only thing that divides us is the water and land between our homes, and until recently, Sorrow Hall was a gathering place for any who needed shelter. The founder of this parish was very clear on how she wanted things done. So that’s how things are done.”

  It was the first time he’d been harsh with her, and her eyes welled with tears.

  “No, my sweet. Don’t cry. You’re just tired. Let’s get back in the boat and take you home, ça va?”

  Helene nodded.

  “I’ll take it from here, Leon. Merci beaucoup for your kindness. When you come back with the trunks, you’ll have dinner with us, no?”

  “Of course, Edmond.”

  Dinner. With the coachman. The Negro coachman. Helene felt faint.

  Edmond rowed the boat easily, and soon every bit of civilization was obscured by the canopy of trees and the bits of pink-and-gold sky peeking out between rounded spaces in the Spanish moss. Bits of leaves and moss fell onto her, and she’d jump from time to time, making Edmond admonish her, “You’ll tip us, Nell! Sit still. You are in Nature’s castle now. Nothing here will hurt you.”

  “What about them?” she asked, pointing at a pair of lazy alligators sunning themselves on a bit of dark sand.

  “Voilà, oui, you are right. If you were to bother them, they would bother you. The secret is to find the stillness inside of yourself, then the things you fear will still themselves as well.”

  “Why, Edmond! That sounds like poetry. Do you write?”

  “No, no, cha. That is a quote from The Book of Sorrows.”

  “What is that book? I have not read it. And I have read all the books there are to read in Papa’s library.”

  “There is so much for you to learn. You know, of course, the story of Serafina Sorrow?”

  “Of course. She must have been very powerful to have been allowed so much control over the governance and the business of this parish,” said Helene.

  Edmond stopped rowing and let the boat glide softly on the water.

  “Did I say something wrong?” she asked.

  “You are going to have to change the way you think, Nell. Serafina wasn’t ‘allowed’ anything. She was the creator. Her book, The Book of Sorrows, is … how shall I say this … our Bible.”

  Helene smiled, silent.

  Finally, Edmond turned the boat down a smaller tributary, and the sky, all purples and greens, golds and pinks, opened up before her. The trees arched up and around, creating a magnificent frame. It was so beautiful that Helene almost began to understand why the house was set so far out.

  Edmond rowed up to the dock and helped her out of the boat.

  “Will there be people greeting us here, as well?” she asked.

  “No, I gave them the day off. All but Rosella, a dear friend and wonderful cook. But she’s busy preparing our dinner. I wanted to show you this myself.”

  The dock was long, and the path up to the house was lined with live oaks and bursting with bushes and flowers of every color imaginable. Then, as they rounded a small bend, there it was, the Sorrow Estate house, standing tall and magnificent against the kaleidoscope sky. Edmond reached out for her with tangible excitement.

  As they walked closer to the house, Helene took in the entire vista. Majestic and beautiful. Hope entered her heart yet again.

  With its sprawling porches, columns, and welcoming staircases stretching up what seemed like forever, the house dominated everything. It appeared to glow with a light blue reflection thanks to the painted undersides of the porch roofs. And there were endless windows, pocket ones, that ran the length of the rooms they opened up to, and small round ones with arched stained glass. It was a messy sort of architecture, but Helene saw it the way most did on first glance—as mesmerizing. And it quieted her anxiety.

  “It’s beautiful,” she breathed out. Edmond picked her up and swung her around, laughing boyishly. Helene laughed, too, happy to have pleased him again.

  “Come, let’s walk the grounds before we go inside. Serafina wanted the inside of the house and the outside of the house to reflect each other. So to appreciate it, we have to see it in all its glory.”

  They walked through the front gardens and then to the left of the house, where the family cemetery stood protected under more live oaks, moss, ancient wisteria, and magnolia trees.

  The back of the estate contained more gardens, low, swampy areas, wild meadows, and a half moon–shaped body of water with a strange little house built on an island at its center.

  “What is that?” she asked.

  “It’s a lighthouse. See all the windows? It’s lovely inside. We’ll make love all day out there,” said Edmond.

  “People will see!”

  “Who cares if they see?”

  I do, she thought.

  “Where are the cottages?” she asked.

  “Cottages?”

  “Well, on every plantation I’ve visited with Papa, there are these delightful little cottages. You know, the old slave quarters. And the people there use them as guesthouses for when they throw grand parties. I was thinking, Edmond, this place would be just perfect for an extended fête! A week of dancing and eating and drinking. It would be like we were back on the steamboat!”

  Edmond’s face turned serious again. “This land was never touched by slaves. On the contrary, Serafina used to buy slaves and free them. And all the people in our employ, for the most part, live in the east wing of the house. Yes, love. With us. But, there is plenty of room for guests as well. Plan your party, darling. It will be a first for us.”

  Helene picked up the note of disdain in his final words. Something had shifted between them, and they’d only just arrived.

  “Let’s go inside,” he said. “I’m sure you’ll be happy with what you see.”

  “But Edmond, I’m already happy with—”

  “Follow me,” he said, cutting her off.

  Walking ahead of her, Edmond threw open the large, carved double doors. Then he swooped his arms under her and lifted her up. The hem of her dress was muddy, but he didn’t seem to mind. He placed her lightly in the foyer of her new home. The staircase spiraled upward to the second floor and its wide, open porticoes. Light poured inside from all directions. And the rounded base of the staircase was painted with the most intricate mural depicting the bayou at sunset. Intoxicated just looking at it, Helene reached out to touch it but felt a shock when her fingers tried to glide along the glittering depictions of lightning bugs.

  “Do you love it?” asked Edmond.

  “I do,” she said. And she did. Until they walked throughout the east portico on the first floor and entered the grand parlor.

  Hanging above the marble fireplace was a portrait of a whore. Shocked, Helene needed a moment to gather her thoughts.

  She’d held her tongue enough. That painting was an affront to her very soul.

  “Who is that woman, and why do you have a portrait of her hanging in plain sight! It’s obscene, Edmond,” she spoke up forcefully.

  The painting portrayed a woman with thick, dark, unruly hair that tumbled over tanned bare shoulders. She wore a simple white shirt, unlaced at the front, exposing her décolletage. A red—red!—vest secured midwaist both hid and pushed up her bosom. The painted woman stood in front of the Gulf, with one foot on a large chest and the other on the sand. Her long black boots went up to her thighs. Helene could clearly see the flesh of the woman’s upper thigh, beneath a gathering of white skirts. A bright purple scarf was cinched around her waist just under the vest. Her torso was ba
re.

  “I don’t like this, Edmond, and I want it taken down immediately,” she said.

  “That, Helene Dupuis, is Serafina Sorrow. And besides what you think you already know about her, let me illuminate you further. She is my great-grandmother, a casket girl from France who came to the New World at thirteen years old and built a dynasty. And to answer your question, yes, she was thought to be a whore and a witch.”

  “A witch?”

  “Yes. And in case you don’t believe in such things, I believe she has just informed me, from beyond the grave and through your own mouth, that I’ve married an idiot.”

  He left the room, slamming through all kinds of doors.

  “I hate you,” she whispered to the painting.

  Helene threw herself on one of the settees and cried.

  * * *

  They didn’t stay angry with each other for long, but the seed of a cycle of fighting and trying to forgive had been planted in front of that painting. It was also the moment Helene began to believe in dark magic.

  During her first week there, as she grew to know the staff and tried to become acquainted with a new set of boundaries, her canary, Goldie, began losing feathers. Little by little, day by day, one yellow feather would fall out, only to be replaced by a black one. And with each raven feather that grew, Helene Dupuis Sorrow lost pieces of her mind. By the end of her first year in Serafina’s Bayou, Goldie had become Crow, and Helene set him free. She watched him fly high above her gilded prison and prayed that she, too, could fly far away someday.

  Which was how she felt that morning, seventeen years later, as she looked out the window, waiting for the boat that would bring the sister-nurse and freedom back to her. A different kind of freedom than she desired, but still … freedom.

  She finished saying her rosary, looking over the lawns at her family, who had gathered to wait for their new arrival. There was a collective excitement in the house, because after the first, disastrous party Helene hosted, she’d closed them up so tightly that even a simple nun inspired the kind of enthusiasm a grand fête would have given Helene when she was a little girl in New Orleans.