“Maurice, you’re talking foolishness, like Madeleine.” He ignored a classmate who passed his desk and wished him a ‘Merry Christmas.’
“Oh, yeah! Why didn’t you wish Georgie ‘Merry Christmas?’”
“I couldn’t talk to you and Georgie at the same time.”
Maurice blew out his cheeks. “Whatever I say, you have an excuse.”
“Hey!” Louis called. The fourth-grader approached Maurice’s desk. “Why so serious? The Christmas party starts soon.”
“Remy’s not in the holiday spirit.”
“I know. He’s acted strange all week. I tried to talk to him, but Remy wants to sit at his desk and be miserable, like he’s doing now.” The happy-go-lucky kid threw his hands up. “Merry Christmas,” he said to Maurice and Remy.
“Merry Christmas,” Maurice said. Remy crossed his arms. Louis shrugged and headed toward Luke’s desk on the first row.
Maurice gave Remy a frustrated look. “You’ve got everybody worried. Classmates know you stopped going to recess on Monday. We know you slouched at your desk and stared at the Christmas tree all week.”
Remy shoved the worksheets aside and faced Maurice. His shoulders tensed with explosive energy. “Why can’t I stare at the Christmas tree? We’ve never had a Christmas tree in our shack because we don’t have electricity. Your daddy’s rich. Your mama cooks on an electric stove and doesn’t have to haul wood. You don’t bathe outside under a faucet with water so cold the bones stick out,” he said, hugging his shoulders.
Maurice fidgeted in his chair. When a torrent of rain rattled the windows, he shuddered, “I’m sorry. I wish I could—”
“Could what?” Remy interrupted, blinking like a run-away train. “You wish you could live in my shack and wake up on Christmas morning and watch roaches run into the shadows? That army of roaches looks like a black rug with legs. Mice squeak behind the wall when the rug moves. Maybe the devil hides in the roaches. Maybe the mice warn me the devil is coming.”
Maurice’s eyes popped. “You’ve never talked like this before. You know roaches live near water. A bayou runs in front of the farm. Houses have roaches.”
“When was the last time you woke up to squeaking mice and the devil coming to get you?”
“Please, Remy. I don’t understand what’s gotten into you. The devil doesn’t hide in roaches.”
Remy’s posture stiffened. The blur of rain and talking students filled the silence between them. After long seconds, he heaved a sigh and said, “I’m sorry. You’re my friend. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“All right. I understand. But what do you have against Christmas?” Maurice asked, bewilderment in his voice.
“When I leave the classroom, Christmas lights and ornaments disappear,” he said, lips quivering. “After the Christmas party today, food disappears. Christmas ends when the school bus comes. There’s nothing at home but roaches and problems.”
“Christmas is in the heart. Christmas isn’t an ornament hanging from a tree or a toy.”
“That’s easy for you to say because you’ve received Christmas presents. No one’s ever given me a Christmas present wrapped in pretty paper. I’ve never opened a Christmas present. Santa’s never come to my shack,” he said, tears rolling down his cheeks. “You don’t understand,” he said and slumped in his chair, as if a rag doll on a forgotten shelf.
Maurice squeezed his hands together until the blood drained. “God loves you. I know He does.” He raised his eyes, as if to the heavens. “God, forgive me, please forgive me,” he begged, lips moving like feathers, and then tapped Remy on the shoulder. “I knew you couldn’t give presents and didn’t want you to feel poor if I gave you one. But,” he said, regaining confidence, “mama and daddy gave food to you, Bobby Lee, and Madeleine. We always thought about you.”
“I know,” Remy said, wiping his cheeks with his knuckles. “Mama and daddy are also grateful your daddy moved the out-house away from the shack. The new windows are nice, and the roof doesn’t leak. Mr. Laurent does more than—” he gestured toward classmates “—other farmers do for sharecroppers. But—but—”
“But what?”
Remy sucked in his breath. His eyes narrowed into lumps of coal. “Don’t feel sorry for me because I’m poor. Pity makes me sad.”
“I know you don’t want pity. I want to help, not hurt. Did Leonard’s bullying cause you to change and think too much about what’s wrong and make you sad?”
Remy laughed. It was a nervous reaction. “Of course not. I know how to deal with Leonard.”
“You do?”
He ignored the implied disagreement. “Maurice, let me stare at the Christmas tree and dream. My life is too real. Sometimes I think my insides are half-dead, like a stale biscuit turning into a rock. I have to stare at the Christmas tree. It’s the only way the roaches disappear.”
Maurice focused on his Buster Brown shoes, as if the laced-up oxfords held a secret. “Dreaming and hiding are different,” he said, his eyes meeting Remy’s. “Daddy says I can’t inherit a farm if I don’t understand the work involved. Look,” he said, extending overturned hands. “I’ve got calluses from hauling milk from the cow’s barn for mama to pasteurize.” He fingered hardened skin around a broken blister. “All right, my daddy’s rich,” he admitted. “What am I supposed to do, hide in a closet because most people around me are poor?” He shook his head. “No, daddy’s right. If I work hard, I’ll be a good farmer. If I trust in God and treat others with respect, God will bless me and people will respect me, even if they’re not rich. I’ve got to accept where I’m coming from and work to be a better person,” he said, pausing to blink back tears. “Remy, you’re like a brother. When you hurt, I hurt.”
After pursing his lips from side to side, Remy said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
When a roll of thunder cracked, Maurice said, “Oh, God, I hope the rain stops before the morning’s ruined.” He took a deep breath. “Why won’t you play outside? I’m hurt how you ignored me this week.”
Remy smoothed the front of his jacket. “The weather’s been too cold.”
“Then why did you lie to Mrs. Guidry? I heard you tell the teacher you were tired because you had to help your mama with the chickens. Are you going home and cooking gumbo for the chickens? Do the chickens sleep inside the house?”
In spite of himself, Remy giggled. “No, of course not. The chickens eat dry corn in the yard and sleep in the chicken coop.”
“So! You’ll go outside with the chickens but not with your friends. I saw the look on Mrs. Guidry’s face. The teacher didn’t believe your chicken story, like I don’t.”
Remy slapped his desk. “You don’t live like I do. Leave me alone. I’m tired of people pestering me.”
“No! I’m not leaving you alone. Friends don’t pretend nothing’s wrong when a buddy’s got a problem. Madeleine, Bobby Lee, and I worry why sometimes you’re friendly; sometimes you’re not; why you’re angry when Christmas is coming. What’s bothering you?”
“Nothing.”
“You told Mrs. Guidry class discussions were difficult because of the English. Do you understand what I’m saying right now in English?”
“Of course I understand you,” he said, rolling his eyes. “And I told Mrs. Guidry the truth. Mama needs help. Daddy’s sick.”
“Your daddy’s had problems in his head ever since he returned from World War II, before you were born. When he took the medicine the doctors at the Veterans’ Hospital gave him, he acted normal. But he stopped going to the hospital.”
“It’s not daddy’s fault! Uncle Emile can’t visit.” The boys jumped when lightning snapped above the pasture and washed the classroom in a blaze of white. “Uncle Emile’s car broke last spring. Daddy can’t get to Alexandria.” Remy’s voice pitched high, above students groaning about the weather.
“All right. There’s no bus. You can’t hop the train, like a hobo. But when the doctor at Mr. and Mrs. Guid
ry’s new clinic attempted to talk to your daddy, he slammed the screen door. I know because daddy drove the doctor to your house.” Augustus and Marie Guidry, both scions of inherited wealth, had established a clinic in their son’s name when he died in World War II. Augustus Guidry coordinated outreach programs while his wife volunteered teaching skills parents admired. “People can’t help if your daddy pushes them away, like you’re doing now.”
Remy slid down in his chair and sprawled his legs beneath the desk. He drew circles on the desktop with his finger. When thunder rolled above the schoolhouse, his hand froze. After the rumble faded, he said, “I feel like I’m on a fence post, between good and bad. Sometimes, what I think is bad, is good or good becomes bad. I’m afraid I’ll fall on the wrong side of the fence post. But I don’t know which is the wrong side. I’m afraid I’ll make a mistake and go to hell.”
Maurice leaned into the aisle, elbows on his thighs. “You’re scaring yourself, Remy, thinking too much.”
“Sometimes I think bad things,” Remy said, as if talking to himself. “I want to think good things and forgive, but I can’t. I think the devil watches me.”
“You’re not going to hell. You haven’t committed a mortal sin. All right, retreating from friends isn’t good. But you haven’t done anything bad, really bad.”
“Yes, I have.”
“Did you kill anyone?” Maurice asked. His voice was skeptical.
“I didn’t do that kind of bad. But what I did was bad enough to get me into trouble, big trouble.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“I’m afraid to tell you.”
“If you hide behind fear, the monster will eat you up and spit you out like a watermelon seed. Tell me the problem. You can trust me.”
“If you knew the problem, you’d get mad.”
“I’m your friend. I won’t desert you.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
“All right. I’ll tell you.”
When he slipped into silence, Maurice crossed and uncrossed his legs. “Well,” he said, “I’m waiting.”
Perspiration formed on Remy’s brow and dribbled down his face. “J—Jesus doesn’t l—love me.”
Maurice’s jaw dropped. “How can you say such a thing? Jesus loves everybody.”
“Not me. Jesus doesn’t love me.”
“Jesus is our salvation. Jesus loves everyone.”
Remy flattened his hands on the desk and rolled the chewed fingernails under. “Moses didn’t get to the Promised Land. How can I—how can Jesus love me after what I did? Mama and daddy are sharecroppers. If Jesus loved poor people, we wouldn’t be poor.”
“Remy, please talk to Jesus.”
“I tried. Jesus won’t answer. There’s no hope.”
“There’s always hope. Have faith in Jesus.”
“You said you’d understand. You don’t,” Remy said, angling out of his chair. “You don’t understand anything.”
“Where are you going?”
“To the bathroom, if you must know.”
CHAPTER THREE
Cookies
Lightning bolts fenced with jagged swords and illuminated the sky with flashes of surreal brightness. When Zeus’s power struck a pecan tree at the far end of the pasture, branches burst into flames. Frightened students cried for help.
“Trees aren’t near the schoolhouse. You’re safe inside,” Mrs. Guidry repeated, rushing from desk to desk, dispensing hugs and pats on the head, and then, to the combined classes, “You’ve experienced weather like this before. Think happy thoughts. Think about the Christmas party.”
Jake whipped around in his chair. A mop of black hair framed sunken eyes in a drawn face. “Please, Maurice,” he begged, “pray the rain stops.” Maurice served as an altar boy when Father Lorio celebrated Mass at the Catholic Church.
“God protects us. The storm will pass.”
“But this storm is different.” His words whistled through the space two rotten teeth had left. “Christmas is coming.”
“Christmas isn’t until next week.”
“You don’t understand,” he said, tightening the suspenders on his father’s overalls. “Santa Claus never comes to our shack because we don’t have a chimney. This Christmas will be like last year.”
“Santa Claus is lagniappe, a bit extra during the holidays. Christmas is about Jesus. Christmas is a birthday party in the heart for Jesus.”
“I know,” Jake agreed. “But Christmas is also about food. Mr. Laurent gives his sharecroppers food for Christmas. Mr. Landry doesn’t give his sharecroppers a crumb, not for Christmas or any other holiday. And Mr. Landry charges rent five times higher than Mr. Laurent’s rent.”
Maurice cradled his head. “Please, Jesus, help me. I can’t solve these problems,” he prayed, then dropped his hands. “Believe in the power of Jesus. Don’t lose hope. Tomorrow will be better.”
“Not the way Mr. Landry treats sharecroppers. He’s not like your daddy. Pigs live better than we do. Pigs die quicker, too,” he said, passing the edge of his hand across his throat. “Mama and daddy die a little at a time, working in the fields like they do, afraid Mr. Landry will fire them.” He slammed a balled fist into his hand. “If Mr. Landry kicked mama and daddy off the farm, I don’t know how we’d survive.”
“Don’t think about what hasn’t happened,” Maurice cautioned, tugging on a silver chain beneath his shirt’s collar.
Jake rolled the pencil in the desk’s well, as if considering what to say. “All right,” he began. “When Henri disappeared, Mr. Landry kept mama and daddy in the fields until after dark to do Henri’s work. About a month later, the noonday sun caused mama to faint. When she came to, blood stained her dress, even the dirt. Mr. Landry got angry when daddy carried mama to the shack.”
Maurice gasped. “Did your mama get better?” he asked, pulling the chain and crucifix from beneath his shirt.
“I think she did later. I’m not sure. Mama cried for a long time. Then she became sad.”
“Henri left last year. Is your mama still sad?”
“Yes. No,” he hedged, scratching crusted dirt off of his neck. “Mama doesn’t smile like before. Life changed when mama fainted. Sometimes I’m scared, especially at night. I dream I fell into a bayou. Alligators circle around me with their mouths open. I wake up before the alligators eat me.”
“Oh, God!” Maurice said, making the sign of the cross. “Tell Father Lorio your dream. He can make the alligators disappear.”
“Daddy told Father Lorio about the extra work when Henri left. Father Lorio tried to help and talked to Mr. Landry. Some help!” Jake snorted. “Mr. Landry told daddy if he talked to Father Lorio again, he would kick us off the farm.”
Maurice threw his head back. “Sweet Jesus, help!”
“I don’t know what to do. I’m sad.”
Maurice’s eyes raced around the Spartan classroom, as if caught in a hunter’s trap. “Maybe,” he said, kissing the crucifix, “happy thoughts about the party will help.”
“I do think about the party. Mrs. Guidry divided leftovers to take home last year. Mama’s desperate for food. We have to eat lard from the can with a spoon because there’s no flour to make bread for a lard sandwich. The other day mama caught my little sister eating dirt.”
Maurice paled. “Mrs. Guidry knows people suffer. I’m sure she’s planned for students to have leftovers.”
“But if the rain doesn’t stop, school buses will come early because the bayou’s dirt road gets slick and pot holes fill up. Even if the bus drivers could manage the muddy roads, a drainage ditch could overflow. My school bus could flip over. I could die! I don’t want to go to heaven now.”
“Heaven!” Leonard snickered, kicking the leg of Jake’s desk. “Snots don’t go to heaven. The devil eats snots like you. The devil loves—”
“Stop it, Leonard!” Maurice demanded, rising in his chair, eyes searching behind Leonard.
He followed Mauri
ce’s eyes. “The teacher’s in the bookroom,” he said, a smirk on his face. “Relax,” Leonard said, throwing his hands up in mock surrender. “I played with Jake. The one I want to talk to is the coward next to you.” He pointed at Remy. “I don’t like cowards,” he said, taking a step.
Bobby Lee scraped his desk into the aisle and blocked Leonard. “Go away!”
Leonard laughed in Bobby Lee’s face. “If I want to talk to Remy, I’ll talk to Remy.”
“Nobody wants to talk to you, not after the way you beat up on people.”
“Stop protecting the worm behind you,” Leonard snarled and reached to pull Bobby Lee’s hair. Bobby Lee grabbed Leonard’s wrist instead. “Let go, Bobby Lee, before I—”
“Before you do what?” Bobby Lee countered, squeezing Leonard’s wrist.
“Stop it! That hurts.”
“What a cry baby!” Bobby Lee said, mimicking a whine, as he released the pressure. “I’m not letting go until you promise to go to your desk—and stay there.”
Leonard half-smiled. “I promise,” he said and jerked his hand free. “After I say ‘hello’ to Remy. I don’t want Remy to think I forgot about him. I might need a worm to go fishing.”
“Antoinette, get Mr. Jarreau!” Mrs. Guidry called, above the din of rain and noisy students. Her firm voice hushed the classroom. She stood in the aisle near the side blackboard.
“Yes, ma’am!” Antoinette rushed to the classroom’s door.
Students held collective breaths until the door re-opened. “Mrs. Guidry, do you need help?” Mr. Jarreau asked. The twenty-something, fifth- and sixth-grade teacher had been on Louisiana State University’s wrestling team.
“Leonard’s misbehaving. I’d like for him to sit in your classroom.”
“Certainly, Mrs. Guidry. I’m happy to help. Come with me, Leonard.”
“That’s not fair,” Leonard complained. “Bobby Lee grabbed my wrist.”
“You attempted to pull his hair,” Mrs. Guidry said, walking toward Bobby Lee’s aisle. “I saw what happened. The minute you think I’m not looking, you find a way to bully students.”
Remy Broussard's Christmas Page 2
