by Sandra Hill
She shrugged, obviously not really understanding the male yen for adventure. Then she told him all the interesting stuff she’d learned about folk healing from her mother and grandmother, and how she eventually expected to take over the business.
He marveled at the uses made of native herbs and animal parts, and laughed at some of them. Like gator teeth or egret feathers or snake skins in natural remedies. And the dangerous expeditions Louise had made into the swamps to gather herbs with her mother and aging mawmaw.
“And you wouldn’t believe what I can do with love potions,” she told him, batting her eyelashes seductively.
“Should I be worried?” He laughed.
“I joke about some of the weird potions, but, really, Phillipe, the folk remedies passed down for generations are often as good, or better, than modern medicine.”
“I’m not arguing with that.” He put up his hands in surrender. “Odd, but I can see how the two could work together…my practicing professional medicine and your folk medicine.”
“You say that like we have a future together,” she remarked, but not with any surprise. She had to be aware of this “thing” blooming between them.
And they hadn’t even kissed yet.
“Would that be so hard to believe?” he asked, putting his arm over the back of her seat and stroking a swath of her hair which had a tendency to curl around his finger.
She shook her head. “I knew back four years ago, but you were such a clunkerhead when it came ta seein’ me as more’n a chile.”
He tipped her chin toward him so that he could see her face more directly. “You knew what, darlin’?”
“That we would be together some day.” She made that bold statement with such surety that he couldn’t help but feel she knew something he’d been too dull to understand. A clunkerhead, for sure.
He thought about telling her how impossible it would be for them to have a future together. First of all, there was the war. Then the years left of medical school, followed by even more years in the military as a physician before he could ever contemplate a private practice. Sure, some military men married…in fact, lots of them were rushing to get hitched before they shipped out…but Louise was a Cajun girl. He couldn’t see her being a Navy wife, moving from post to post, far from any bayou.
Holy-hot-damn-hell! Marriage? Am I crazy? We haven’t even kissed yet, and I’m planning the wedding.
But then he kissed her.
And that ended all questions.
He was in love. No question about it. In an instant. No choice. Bam! Just like PawPaw had predicted. There was no reason involved…the logistics of war separation, the impossibility of a Cajun girl living up north or across the ocean, his need to focus on his medical career. None of that mattered in this burst of insanity.
This was bad, bad, bad.
No, this was good, good, good.
And then she kissed him back, her sweet lips telling him more than words that they were meant for each other. The future be damned! In this moment, despite all the obstacles, anything was possible.
Chapter 2
Accentuate the positive…
The next day, Louise was in the passenger seat of Phillipe’s decrepit roadster, cruising along the one-lane road leading to her family’s cottage on Bayou Black. It was barely ten a.m., but already the late April air was warm and humid, promising a hot Louisiana day of at least eighty degrees.
With the top down on Phillipe’s sports car (which was a stretch for this rattletrap if sports car denoted luxury), she took a deep breath of the bayou air. She smelled wild magnolia and swamp mud, dew on wet grass, and slow-moving water, but more than that. She recognized the mixture of scents for what it was. Home.
There was an added dimension to her pleasure today—Phillipe. With him sitting beside her, taking her hand when it was free from the gear shift, the emotional impact was almost too much. And yet not enough.
She was so happy, she couldn’t stop grinning, occasionally letting loose with laughter at nothing in particular. In fact, she was practically jumping in her seat with excitement.
“Are you always so happy?” Phillipe asked when he slowed down behind a tractor. “You’re like a giddy butterfly, fluttering about, spreading your joie de vivre.”
“Is joy of life a bad thing?”
“Not at all. In fact, you’re a breath of fresh air in a dreary world.” He grimaced. “Could I sound any more sappy? Can you tell how uncool I am?”
If he only knew how uncool she found him! More like hot, hot, hot. As for “a dreary world,” he must mean the war. Instead of bringing up that subject, she accused him, “A poet now. Be still my heart.”
He chucked her under the chin in reprimand for her teasing. “I read that line in a greeting card, except it was a pretty butterfly, not giddy, and instead of joie de vivre, it was sunshine.”
“You don’t need fancy words to woo me over.”
“What? You’re already wooed?”
“Uh-huh.”
“You shouldn’t tell me that.”
“Why?”
“It gives me ideas.”
“I like ideas.” She could tell that she disconcerted him with her racy words. Good! Phillipe was too stiff and serious by nature, always had been. He needed shaking up.
“I just wondered if you’re always so happy, or is it just being with me?” he asked, attempting to steer the conversation in his own direction.
“Oh, you, definitely,” she said with a smile.
Phillipe returned her smile.
The farmer veered his tractor off the road onto a lane leading inland toward a barn, and Phillipe shifted gears to a higher speed. Conversation was almost impossible in the open car with the roar of the engine and the wind. But they didn’t need to talk. This unspoken something between them was a blossoming swamp flower. Wonderful and scary at the same time. Too precious to dissect for fear of it wilting before it had a chance to bloom.
Now she was the one turning into a corny poet. But she noticed Phillipe following her suit in inhaling the unique bayou air, like he was storing up memories. When they slowed down once again, this time for an alligator crossing the road, she remarked, “It’s true what they say. You can take the man out of the bayou, but you can’t take the bayou out of the man.”
He squeezed her hand. “Or the woman.”
“Mais oui,” she replied. “Especially if they are of the born and bred Cajun persuasion. I might have flown the coop, working and living in Nawleans the past two years,” working out my Cajun wild, according to my mother, “but it’s this stretch of Bayou Black that I still call home. And not just because Mama and Papa are here, holding down the roost.”
“I get it. Your roots are here, firmly planted in this little stretch of heaven…Bayou Black.” A sadness suddenly filled his face which surprised her, but then he added, “You could never live anywhere but here, or close by, could you?”
Ah! Now she understood. He was wondering if she’d ever be able to live up north, or wherever the military sent him. With him? Oh, there was a question! With him, she was pretty sure she could live in Alaska, or some Amazon jungle, maybe even California. But those were questions and answers to be dealt with later. Today, she wanted to bask in this first day of their new life. And that’s exactly how it felt. No longer her life. Now, it was their life. ”Don’t be too sure about that, Phillipe.”
The gator finally crossed the road and ambled toward the bayou stream, and Phillipe gunned the engine and shifted gears again so they could go faster. She inhaled deeply, and had to admit, she would miss all this. Even as she worked and lived in the city, she had to come back often for her bayou fix, especially this time of the year. Spring was her favorite season, but springtime on the bayou was especially wonderful with its almost overpowering assault on the senses. The smells, the sounds, and the sights overwhelmed some folks, but not her. And they were ever-changing as new animals were born, new plants budded, new bayou streams rose up out of
nowhere. Always something new. At the same time, the bayou stayed the same. Ancient live oak and bald cypress trees had probably been here in prehistoric times.
Not so ancient were the Burma Shave signs spaced far apart along the road that drew a smile. They’d been changed since she was here last month.
If hugging
On highways
Is your sport
Trade in your car
For a davenport
Burma Shave
She and Phillipe exchanged smiles. “Do they have these signs up north, too?”
“Oh, yeah! My favorite is: “Let’s make Hitler, And Hirohito, Look as sick as, Old Benito.”
“I know another war one. My roommate saw it when she was in Baton Rouge. ‘With glamour girls, you’ll never click, Bewhiskered like a, Bolshevik.’”
“Lots of guys grow beards.”
“Oh, don’t grow a beard. You’re so handsome clean-shaven.”
“I’ll never have a beard then,” he promised and gave her a wink, which made her insides feel sort of quivery.
As they traveled along the familiar road, there was little traffic, but when there was, one vehicle had to pull off to the berm, which was what Phillipe did now, letting Jake Hebert pass them in his milk truck. Jake waved at her and saluted Phillipe, even though Phillipe was out of uniform. Today, Phillipe wore a white button shirt, open at the neck with the sleeves rolled up and tucked into tan, pleated slacks, with suspenders (for effect, mostly, he didn’t have any fear of losing his pants), scruffy old canvas boat shoes, and a straw fedora. He could have been wearing bib overalls, like her daddy did on the shrimp boats, and she would have still considered him the handsomest man around.
Beulah Mae Petit, sweeping the front stoop of Boudreaux’s General Store, yelled out, “Welcome home!” Louise wasn’t sure if the welcome was intended for her or Phillipe.
And then a truckload of soldiers from Fort Polk, who’d probably been out on some kind of early morning maneuvers, approached, and Phillipe pulled well off the road to give them room. The soldiers whistled and waved, definitely aiming their regards at her. Fort Polk was some distance away, but with the war in Europe and the new Selective Service Act, thousands of boys were being drafted every day. Then, too, the training grounds of the Military Maneuvers operation in Louisiana, started two years ago, were often moved off base to environments like the bayou which facsimililated some jungle habitats in the Pacific where they might be sent to fight. Like that Guadalcanal place.
Finally, Phillipe pulled onto the crushed-shell driveway on the side of her family’s cottage, which had been built years ago in the old Cajun style of bousillage—fuzzy mud mixed with Spanish moss and pulverized clam shells. The Cajuns, or Acadians, who’d been exiled to this new land in the 1700s were ever the survivors. Didn’t matter that the land was swampy or that they’d have to subsist on animals no one else would eat, like possum, or squirrel, or even gators. Or build their homes of mud.
It was a humble, two-bedroom house, but neat, with a stretch of lawn in back leading to the narrow bayou stream. Sitting dead center in the yard was a young fig tree which might begin bearing fruit for the first time this year, just in time for her mother’s famous jelly. Usually, her mother bought the fruit by the bushel from the French Quarter Market on one of their periodic treks to New Orleans, but then her father, Samuel Rivard, had given a fig plant to her mother three years ago for their thirtieth anniversary on condition that she would make her Figgy Cake with Buttermilk Glaze on every special occasion. As if her mother didn’t already!
Yes, it would be hard to live somewhere else, Louise realized, but then she glanced at Phillipe, seeing the sad understanding in his eyes. “It doesn’t change anything,” she whispered.
He looked skeptical.
And, of course, there was a vegetable patch off to the side. Forget about the Victory Gardens that President Roosevelt urged patriotic Americans to plant. Cajuns already knew about subsistence gardening. And in this sub-tropical climate, everything flourished…okra, string beans, peas, carrots, radishes, peppers, tomatoes, potatoes, melons, garlic, cabbages, celery. You name it, they grew it.
It being springtime, the garden had been recently tilled and seeded, but the only things showing were fall-planted kale and Swiss chard, and early onions and lettuce. Her mother was out there now with a hoe in hand, which she was using to loosen the soil between the rows. But then she suddenly used the hoe to lift a garden snake out of her way. She didn’t kill it because garden snakes were mostly harmless and actually beneficial, eating some of the pesky insects and slugs.
The engine idled as Phillipe took in the setting, which was pretty much like his parents’ place up the bayou a few miles. “I’ll pick you up in a few hours, chère, and we can spend the rest of the day together. Maybe drive up to Lake Pontchartrain?”
She nodded, a bit distracted by his fingers which were laced with hers now, the thumb stroking her wrist. Could he feel how fast her heart was beating? Did he hate being apart for even these few hours, like she did? “I could bring a picnic basket.”
He looked at her like she was the only food he needed. More stroking, and that look in his eyes. Hungry, it was.
But she didn’t have any time for these thoughts because her mother had turned and was shading her eyes from the already bright sun before recognizing her.
“Louisey! I dint expect you so early,” Mama exclaimed, using the nickname she’d been given long ago by her older brother Frank who’d been eleven years old when Louise, the unexpected “oops” baby, had been born. Putting down the hoe, she left the garden area and walked toward Louise, a welcome smile on her face, soon replaced by confusion as her glance hit on Phillipe. Suddenly, the smile returned. “Phillipe Prudhomme, is that you, boy? I hardly recognized you. Las’ time I saw you was at the Crawfish Boil in Lafayette when yer pawpaw won the zydeco contest.”
“Mrs. Rivard! I remember that day. I was thirteen years old then. PawPaw put away his washboard long ago. In fact, he played the frottoir only when he was drunk, and MawMaw insisted he give it up or she would burn the thing.”
Her mother laughed, knowing the truth of what Phillipe said. The bayou was a small community with no secrets.
Alma Rivard looked like so many Cajun housewives of certain years. Her hair was pulled back into a soft bun at her nape. Despite the gray threads in her brown hair, her face was unlined and glowed with a healthy tan from working outdoors. She wore a mid-calf, faded housedress that buttoned up the front and might once have been red and white gingham, but was now a faded rose. Her legs were bare, leading down to rubber boots that accommodated her gardening, as well as forays into the swamps for the precious roots and herbs that she used in her traiteur, or folk-healing, practice.
Was Phillipe wondering if this was how Louise would look when she was older? If so, he didn’t seem displeased. Instead, he laughed and got out of the car, going up to her mother to give her a kiss on both cheeks.
After exchanging pleasantries, Phillipe declined an offer to come inside for sweet tea, saying that his mother was expecting him for lunch, and his father would want more tall tales of his military feats, and his grandfather likely had the fishing poles baited and ready to drop into the nearest bayou stream. He soon left, promising to be back in three hours.
Louise’s mother was sure to have lots of questions about Phillipe, especially since Louise had never brought a young man home before, and especially with the good-bye kiss Phillipe had dropped on her lips. But she had other issues first.
“Lord help me!” Her mother made the sign of the cross when she took in Louise’s attire, especially the pants. Trousers on ladies were still a rarity here on the bayou—scandalous, really. Women her mama’s age considered them suitable only for horseback riding or work on a factory assembly line. Even then, only loose women would dare expose their bodies like that.
Louise’s pants were far from tight, but they were red, made of a silky blend. A white blouse with sh
oulder pads and three buttons undone for cleavage (not that she had much of that, despite her padded bra) was tucked into the high waistband, accentuating her figure. White wedgie sandals gave her added height, along with her upswept hairdo which had been kept mostly in place with a scarf while they’d been riding in the open air.
Her crimson lip color would also be a red flag to her mother, who believed red shoes and red lips were an advertisement for prostitutes. In fact, she claimed that red shoes were a signal that a woman wasn’t wearing any underpants. Where she’d got that idea, Louise had no idea. Probably from the spicy detective paperbacks her father read and hid under their mattress, as if they were something forbidden. Good thing Louise wasn’t wearing her red high heels today, but then, the trousers and red lips were enough of a shocker.
Her mother shook her head with dismay. “Wild! You allus was a wild chile, and it appears nothin’ has changed. Why you gotta dress lak a loose lady?”
Louise barely stifled a laugh. “Oh, Mama, loose ladies don’t dress like this. In fact, I’ve never seen a prostitute in slacks strolling Bourbon Street.”
“For shame! To even speak of such! I swear, you mus’ have wildness in yer blood from yer father’s side of the fam’ly. It certainly dint come from my kin. Talk about!”
It was true. Louise had always been a wild child, a fey, barefooted sprite running through the swamps and coffee-colored streams of Bayou Black. And she was a wild woman now, but only in the sense she was a free spirit. Yes, she liked fancy clothes, dancing, and the occasional hard liquor. No one could toss back an Oyster Shooter, or two, like Louise, and still shimmy till dawn. Then get up for work.
But not wild in the promiscuous or immoral sense. In fact, at twenty years of age, more than few people would be surprised to learn she was still a virgin.
Louise loved giving the wrong impression.
But she loved her mother and didn’t want to hurt her. Reaching out, she pulled her mother into a tight hug and said, “Oh, Mama, not ta worry! I’m still a good girl.”
