by Emery, Lynn
“I can’t help that. I want someone to spend my life with.” Simon stared out the window. “I want children, a dog, the whole bit.”
“Me too.” Baylor rubbed his face.
“I’ll even drive a station wagon for the right woman.” Simon grinned at him. He knew how Baylor felt about his white Corvette.
“Let’s not get totally crazy, brother.” Baylor gave a shudder. “Don’t take this wrong, but the quiet family scene doesn’t sound like something Rae Dalcour is into. Folks say she likes the free life of a blues musician.”
“Stupid gossip,” Simon said with force. “Rae is strong willed and not afraid to speak her mind. But she’s got a soft, sweet core. Family is important to her, too. But she doesn’t have to give up being a musician. She’s opening the dance hall, you know.”
“Sounds like you’re thinking long-term. I’m glad for you, man. Straight up. But, fasten your seat belt, life is about to get real bumpy.” Baylor nodded slowly.
Simon wished he could make a convincing protest, but Baylor was right. “I know, my brother, I know.”
*
“Ooo, Raenette!” Marcelle cradled baby Felicia in one arm while holding a tumbler of iced tea in the other. “No, you didn’t!”
“I did.” Rae shot her a look that was a cross between defiance and annoyance. “What’s the big deal? We hit it off.”
“He is too fine. I can’t say I blame you for fallin’ hard.” Marcelle made soothing sounds at the fussing baby until she settled back into slumber. “He’s got a body that begs for attention, child.”
“I did not fall hard. Like I said–”
Marcelle gave her a knowing look. “Rae, this is me you’re talkin’ to.”
“I… He… Damn! Why didn’t I just pack up and leave after the funeral?” Rae got up to pace her friend’s front porch.
“Because you made a promise to your daddy, that’s why. Wait a minute.” Marcelle eased out of the rocker, took the baby into the house, and returned. “She’s all settled in the crib. Now, about you and Simon…”
Rae twisted a thick tendril of hair through her fingers. “I know, I know. It’s stupid and I should back away.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“A minute ago you were acting like I’d lost my mind.” Rae realized her hair was all knotted and set about untangling it.
“You just caught me off guard. I mean, things kinda developed fast.” Marcelle wiggled her eyebrows. “Go girl.”
“Yeah, right. What started out as a way to piss Toya off has gotten me in trouble.”
Rae gazed out at the trees swaying in the slight breeze that brought little relief from the heat, but what she really saw was trouble ahead. Her mind tried to make her heart believe that being with Simon was something she did not truly want as a woman. So far, the heart was winning the argument hands down.
Marcelle folded her hands in her lap and rocked. “Um-hum, coulda told you so.”
“Then why didn’t you stop me, Miss Know-it-all? I would have avoided this mess,” Rae said.
“Hey, don’t try to blame this on me, cher.”
Rae sat down next to her. “Marcelle, everything tells me this is crazy. I’m wild with a smart mouth; he’s quiet and sensitive. I’m a blues guitarist, used to travelling; he’s lived in this parish all his life.”
“He’s a St. Cyr and you’re a Dalcour,” Marcelle said, adding the obvious.
Rae pulled her hair back from her face. “Right.”
“Not to mention he was married to Toya the Terrible. Come here.”
Marcelle fished a hairbrush from the pocket of her sleeveless jumper. Rae slipped down to sit on the floor in front of her, so that her friend could brush her hair.
“What to do, Marcelle?”
Rae leaned back between the other woman’s knees. The sensation of soft bristles whisking through her dark, coarse hair was helping her to relax, much as when her mother had tamed her unruly mane when she was a little girl.
“Seems to me you oughta forget what happened fifty years ago. Love is too hard to find, cher.” Marcelle wrapped a rubber band around Rae’s hair, making a thick ponytail, and then rested her hands on her shoulders.
“I can’t forget my promise to clear Pawpaw Vincent’s name,” Rae said.
“Then go ahead with that. I mean don’t let what happened come between you and Simon. Either your pawpaw did it or he didn’t. Got nothin’ to do with y’all today.”
“I don’t know. We still have to face folks in this town. I’m not sure Simon realizes how deep feelings run against the Dalcours.” Rae got up and sat in the rocker next to Marcelle again.
“He’s not dumb, girl. Anybody who grew up around here knows about all that stuff. You worried he doesn’t care enough to put up with it.” Marcelle nodded at her with the look of a wise woman. “That means you’re in love, deep love.”
Rae jumped up from the rocker. The word scared her. “All I wanted was to show this town what us Dalcours are made of. I didn’t wanna leave just because they wanted me to leave, ya know?”
“Uh-hum. Been like that as long as I’ve known you. Nobody’s gonna tell you what to do.”
“Then Toya got in my face and I wanted to show her. That and my promise to Daddy, to do what he’d wanted to do so bad all his life, made me know I couldn’t leave.” Rae took a deep breath.
“Now you’re in love with him,” Marcelle said in a quiet voice.
Rae stared ahead. “I don’t know if it’s love. Maybe it’s just that I need someone; dealing with Daddy’s death and all. I’ve been on the road a lot, doing without the kind of warmth Simon gives.”
“And you thought you didn’t need it.” Marcelle sighed. “Cher, you’re only tough on the outside. You’ve got a whole lot of love bottled up, waitin’ for the right man to unstop the cork. Looks like you found him.”
“But a St. Cyr, Marcelle! Why did it have to be him? Daddy is probably setting speed records spinning in his grave.” Rae covered her head with both hands.
“Come on and have some more iced tea.” Marcelle poured a glass from the large pitcher. “Sit down now. Let me tell you how it’s gonna be.”
“Marcelle, you’re starting to sound just like your monmon. Next thing, you gonna pull out some gris-gris and start predicting the future.” Rae sat down as though releasing a heavy burden.
“Lord, wouldn’t mama have a fit? She still fusses at her mama ‘bout all that old superstition. But you don’t need no bones or conjure to see you and Simon are in love.”
“I don’t know–”
“L-O-V-E, cher. Don’t interrupt me again!” Marcelle folded her hands in her lap again. “You gonna have rough times, that’s a given, but you can make it.”
“And my promise to Lucien to find the truth?”
“Simon will understand that, Rae. Tell him about it. He’ll support you.” Marcelle rocked, looking satisfied.
Rae felt a sinking feeling. “Marcelle, we forgot something.”
“What’s that?” Marcelle sipped her tea.
“If Pawpaw Vincent didn’t steal the money, there are only two other people who could have taken it.”
Marcelle lowered her glass slowly. “Henry Jove or…”
“Joe St. Cyr,” Rae murmured.
Chapter 9
Two days later, Rae was sat at the breakfast table in Tante Ina’s kitchen, eating apple pie. As the sun streamed through the windows, the yellow checked curtains made the white kitchen look even brighter. Rae was reminded of all those times she’d sat here with her cousins when they were children. There was always laughter and singing at Tante Ina’s, in sharp contrast to her own house.
For two days Rae had put off coming here. Not because she didn’t want to see her aunt, but because Rae feared asking her the questions that could lead LaMar to unlock the past. A past that seemed like Pandora’s Box, no matter what answers came popping out.
“My Michael tells me the dance hall is lookin’ good, yeah.” Tante Ina
eased down into the chair across from Rae. “Says it’s gonna be the biggest thing to hit this town since the seafood plant opened eight years ago.”
Rae picked at the flaky crust. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Says you gonna have the best Zydeco and blues folk around. People will be comin’ from all ‘round here, even New Orleans.” Tante Ina sipped her strong coffee. “Mon Dieu, Lucien would be so happy.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Sa va bien, oui?”
“Oui. Things are going well. The dance hall should be open in another week or so,” Rae replied.
Tante Ina raised both eyebrows at the morose expression on her niece’s face. “You lookin’ mighty pitiful to say life is goin’ so good.”
“I didn’t say that, Tante. I said the dance hall is coming along okay.” Rae put down her fork.
“I knew it. Don’t nobody neglect my pie without a good reason,” Tante Ina said with a chuckle, “especially not my tite mouche à miel (little honey bee).”
“Why did you always call me that, Tante?”
“Because you can make sweet music, like the bee makes honey. But you got a bad sting when you get mad.” Tante Ina pinched her chin.
“I never thanked you.” Rae caught her soft, plump hand.
“Thanked me for what?”
“All those days you let me sit in this kitchen with Elise, Michael and the rest without asking why I showed up.” Rae kissed her aunt’s skin, rough from hard work. “You don’t know how much it meant to me.”
“Oh poo,” Tante Ina said in a gruff voice. Her eyes were glassy. “Stop your nonsense – you one of my children. I tell everybody I born six, but I got ‘bout twenty altogether.” She got up to put her cup in the sink. Before turning back to sit down, she dabbed at her eyes.
Rae laughed. Tante Ina was right. Uncle David would just shake his head when he came home from work to find the house full of children. Nieces and nephews crowded into Tante Ina’s living room and kitchen, and spilled out into the yard. Rae thought Tante Ina was the quintessential mother hen.
“Now don’t try to change the subject on me. What’s got you frownin’ like this, cher?” Tante Ina would not be put off.
“Back about two years ago, when Daddy was so sick that time and I came home, we had a long talk. We worked out a lot of things. Daddy said he was sorry for making Mama so sad.” Rae could see Lucien with the vividness of a color photograph, sat in his favorite easy chair with a cotton afghan covering him from the waist down.
Tante Ina nodded. “Broke my heart to see it. ‘Letha was good for Lucien, but he hurt her bad. There were women, too, you know.”
“I heard the talk, but… So it was true?” Rae had already guessed as much, though her mother never said a word against him. Lucien had alluded to being no good as a husband.
“Not so many as some tried to put out, but yeah. I told Lucien one was too many. But it wasn’t just that.”
“I know. Anyway, Daddy said he wished the dance hall could be open again to give us something of our own, along with the land.”
“And you doin’ that, cher. A good job of it, too, to hear your cousins braggin’ on you.” Tante Ina patted her hand. “So why the long face? You made peace with your papa.”
“He begged me to prove Pawpaw Vincent wasn’t a thief.” Rae gazed into Tante Ina’s eyes, the color of pecan shells. “I’ve hired a private investigator to try and track down what happened to him.”
“Mais, jamais de la vie (well, for goodness sake),” Tante Ina said in a soft voice. “He wants to talk to you, so he can get more information to go on.” Rae watched her aunt with growing concern. Tante Ina sat staring out the window at the landscape. “To find out the truth.”
“The truth could snap us up like a big alligator, cher. I ain’t talked about that in years.” Tante Ina blinked as though trying to gain her bearings. She looked at Rae. “We were all tore up, you know. Us children cryin’ for Papa, and Mama half out her mind for days, my lord. Then she got quiet. That scared us even more.”
“So much pain. Maybe he left and that was wrong. But Daddy was so sure.” Rae had been moved by Lucien’s faith in the father he had not seen since he was six years old.
“Lucien thought Papa hung the moon. He was still cryin’ for him long after us older children stopped. But your daddy was just a baby, cher. He couldn’t know.”
“Maybe, but nobody knows for sure. There could be another explanation.” Rae did not add that even she couldn’t think of one.
“I’m gonna tell you somethin’ I never breathed to another livin’ soul before now, not even David.” Tante Ina leaned forward. “I was there the night Mama caught Papa with Miss Estelle. She couldn’t sleep. She followed him one Friday night. When he got home ‘bout three in the morning, Mama let him have it. I was hidin’ under that old sofa with the claw legs. He finally owned up to it and swore to break it off.”
“Then that proves–”
“Don’t prove nothin’. A week later they were back at it, honey. Old Miss Dixie, with her gossipin’ self, told it. Not that she was much different from the other folks in town. They said Miss Estelle was still steppin’ out with a man and Henry Jove was boilin’ mad.”
“But that was just gossip like you say.” Rae tried to find some hope.
“I put two and two together, and came up with four.” Tante Ina got up and poured more coffee in her cup. “Tell me you think different.”
“That does look bad,” Rae admitted. They sat quietly for a time. “But they said some man, not Pawpaw Vincent.”
“Yeah, say she was ridin’ in the car toward Lake Charles and couldn’t see who was drivin’. In that Ford Mr. Henry bought for her, too.”
“Then it might not have been Pawpaw Vincent.” Rae sighed at Tante Ina’s look of skepticism. “Yeah, pretty flimsy.”
“Child, we both grabbin’ at straws. We never wanted to believe the talk but… I remember that day.”
“Tante Ina, Daddy never told me much besides saying Pawpaw didn’t do it.” Rae wanted a first-hand account, as much for herself as for LaMar.
“It was September, ‘round Labor Day. We were all gettin’ ready for a parade down at Chauvin’s field.” Tante Ina’s voice took on the smooth tone of a storyteller and she smiled at the memory.
Rae did not want her to stop. “Mr. Chauvin’s field was where black folks had picnics,” she said in a soft voice, to prompt her aunt for more.
“Yeah, nice man. I dated one of his boys for a while. Mr. Chauvin had some big tables he built and would rent out his park, or so he called it. We called it a field.” She chuckled. “Used to make him so mad.”
“It’s a nice park now, with swings and such for kids; a building for receptions, too. Pawpaw Vincent took y’all there?”
Tante Ina continued, “Usually, on holidays, but that time, no – he didn’t come home that night. Mama got up and packed a basket. I heard her tell Tante Marguerite she wasn’t gonna let Papa spoil our fun. She sat off talkin’ with her sisters. Like kids, we knew somethin’ was wrong, but soon got caught up in playin’ and the firecrackers.
“Long ‘bout two o’clock, Henry Jove come barrelin’ up in that big Chrysler of his, and jumps out. He starts yellin’ how Papa was a thief. Mr. Joe tried to get him to lower his voice so us children wouldn’t hear, but he was too out of his mind. Mr. Henry was yellin’ ‘bout his Estelle. And, I’ll never forget this, he cried. That man just sat down and bawled. ‘Fore long we heard there was money missin’, too.”
“They searched for them, right? I don’t understand why they didn’t find them,” said Rae, thinking that even in 1963 they must have been able to trace people.
“The law didn’t much care ‘bout black folk business back then. Old Sheriff Leblanc flat out said he wasn’t gonna waste his resources runnin’ up and down the countryside. The sheriff in New Orleans found Miss Estelle’s car. That fine car would have given them up for sure; the color of a sable coat. Guess that’s why they ditched
it,” added Tante Ina.
Rae thought her aunt seemed all talked out, her face tired and sad looking. “I didn’t mean to get you upset, Tante.”
“I’m okay, baby.” Tante Ina wore a slight smile. “Fifty years helped me get used to it. But the talk after Papa left, the way we got treated, was awful.”
“You’d think Monmon Marie would have gotten sympathy. She was a victim, too.”
“Folks couldn’t take it out on Papa, so… Besides, Mama had a bad temper, even back in those days. She told ‘em what was on her mind. Said Papa shoulda taken their money cause they was all fools to trust Henry Jove. They said Papa must’ve left her some ‘fore he took off. Mama kept us goin’ on hard work. If there was extra money, I couldn’t tell.” Tante Ina closed her eyes.
“Will you talk to LaMar?” Rae had to ask. Everything she’d heard left her wanting to follow any thread, no matter how weak; there were too many unanswered questions.
“LaMar Zeno? That boy who helped out Savannah and Paul?”
“Yeah, that’s him. Savannah gave me his name.” Rae had called her cousin when she remembered how a black private detective had helped her out three years earlier.
Tante Ina patted Rae’s head. “I’ll tell him as much as I can remember, cher. Just hope you don’t get your heart broke fishin’ for the truth.” She started washing the dishes.
A sense of foreboding ran through Rae at her aunt’s words. She began to wonder if there could be an answer to this mystery that would not hurt someone.
*
The next day, Rae sat on her back porch strumming her fingers across the strings of her old, acoustic guitar. She played for at least an hour every day. Not so much for practice, though that helped, but as a kind of extension of herself. It was part of her daily routine, much as others had a second cup of coffee or read the morning paper.
She strummed a Creole tune that Monmon Marie had taught her when she was four years old. The summer evening’s still bright sunshine brought a faintly cooling breeze, which rustled the leaves of the trees. Rae changed to a blues song that told a sensuous tale of true love finally found. The last notes faded away; a deep thrumming that implied passionate lovemaking without one word of lyric needed.
