by Cynthia Lott
Thomas sipped his scotch.
“She looks familiar. Yeah, she’s pretty, really love her jaw line. How long have you been drawing?”
“Only recently. I learned from a skilled artist who used to live in the city. She’s moved on to another place but left me with her talent. Is this where you do all of your photography, here in this studio?”
“I would have never guessed you just starting drawing…not by looking at these. They’re pretty damn good. I do most of my photography here, but I sometimes go on location. It all depends. It changes weekly.”
“You’re well known, which is why I came to you. I’m also interested in purchasing some of your photos, especially the ones you took of various cemeteries around the city. They’re moving. They were included in a book, A Separate City: The Cemeteries of New Orleans. Is that correct?”
“Yeah, that was a few years ago. I’m glad you liked it. It was a great project…one of my first real portfolios. I’ll show you a catalog of the photos. You can choose from any of them.” He walked towards a small office near his dark room.
When he returned, he noticed Thomas perusing the gallery, looking at the large photos hanging from the ceiling and the smaller ones stuck between them. They were photos of New Orleans on both the large and microscopic scale, from the Cabildo to a lizard sitting on the edge of a plate in a restaurant’s courtyard. Photos Stuart had taken over a nine month time period…a gestation of his work, if you will.
“You said you learned from another artist in New Orleans. Did you study with Connie Sartain by chance?”
Thomas turned around and walked over to him, gently taking the catalog from his hands.
“Yes – yes, I did. She was an amazing teacher. I learned a lot from her. Did you know her well?” He leaned his head to the right.
“No, I didn’t know Ms. Sartain. I knew her work but never had the chance to meet her. Now that she’s been murdered – that will never happen, unfortunately.” Stuart took another sip of his scotch.
“Yes, murdered. A nasty business. What a terrible thing to hear about on the news. I was fortunate to meet her before that untimely incident.” Thomas opened up Stuart’s catalog and flipped through the pages until he landed on one in particular. He placed his hand on the photo of the St. Roch Cemetery and closed his eyes.
“You like that photo?” Stuart looked at his glass in confusion. He was barely finished with his first drink despite an overall feeling of intoxication.
“Yes, I do. This cemetery holds an important person to me. Long since gone.”
“Family?”
“You could say that.”
Stuart was moved by the look on Thomas’s face. As Thomas caressed the page, Stuart felt an impulse to take his photo right then and there.
This is how I operate. I have to capture the essence of a person the moment I feel it.
“Thomas, do you mind if I grab my camera? I would love to take a photo of you if that’s all right.” He took the catalog from Thomas’s hands.
“By all means. I would be most flattered if I could be the subject of a Stuart Myers photo session.”
Stuart placed the catalog on his desk and retrieved his camera from its case. As he walked back over to Thomas, he noticed how perfect his skin was. There wasn’t a wrinkle on his face and the tone was even, delicate, handsome.
“How old are you, Thomas?”
“I’m twenty-two. Although I’m sure I may seem a lot older than that. At least that’s what I’ve been told.”
“Yeah, you definitely have an aura of someone who has been around for a long time. Look into the lens and relax.”
This guy is a natural. He could be a model.
He snapped pictures of Thomas and with each flash, felt as if he had known this man before…in the past, in some other time. There was something nostalgic about him. Stuart lowered the camera, realizing that something, too, didn’t seem right.
“When did you say you studied with Connie?”
“A month ago. Before her unfortunate death. She was…an excellent teacher.”
Stuart thought about Juliet…what she was allowed to share with him about her ongoing cases. One involved a young man who targeted artists. He let the camera hang around his neck. This is what didn’t feel right…he knew there was something about Thomas too good to be true.
Stuart, Stuart, Stuart, maybe you’ve been completely naïve about this guy. Focus. Focus. Why do I feel intoxicated? What the hell is going on? Have I been drugged?
“That’s impossible. She had sent out a memo to all artists in the New Orleans area that she was retiring from teaching and no longer accepting students. That was six months ago. How did you schedule a session with her? She was highly reclusive. Believe me. I tried to pencil in a meeting with her myself. She flat out refused,” Stuart said, caressing the camera strap around his neck.
“I had my connections. Is there a problem?” Thomas stepped towards him.
“No, not a problem. I’ll go put this film into the developing fluid. Give me a moment.” Stuart fell under some strange blanket of forgetfulness. He walked towards his darkroom, now oblivious to the conversation he had shared with Thomas.
Am I losing my mind? I have too much going on…I’m overstretched. What had we been discussing? The cemetery book? My upcoming wedding? I can’t remember. I just know I want to develop this man’s pictures.
“Do you mind if I join you? I would love to see the process. I’m not a good photographer, although I have a feeling that will change very soon.”
“Sure. I’m always up for sharing that. It’s simple, actually. Follow me into the Myers Beloved Darkroom.”
Thomas followed him and watched as Stuart placed the film in the stop bath. When he flipped the pictures over with his tongs, Thomas whispered into the air between them.
“I’m so very sorry about this, Stuart.”
“Sorry for what, Thomas?”
And there it was again: the feeling of dread, of something off, not quite right about Thomas or his intentions in visiting the studio. That was when Stuart knew it was too late.
“Sorry about this.” Thomas placed his hand on the back of Stuart’s neck and forced it down into the developing fluid. His strength was more than Stuart could handle as he struggled, grabbing at Thomas’s arms and attempting to push himself away from the developing sink.
All the times I’ve used this darkroom for my photos, spending hours with the one thing that brought me happiness, outside of Juliet, and I’m going to go out like THIS?
* * *
Chapter Twenty-Two
Thomas M. Carpenter
In 1878, he was twenty-two years old and everything he envisioned for his life was about to come to an end. He hadn’t foreseen it but they were all living in questionable times, a year plagued by the yellow fever that caused others’ actions to become…unpredictable. Months before his death, however, he fulfilled a wish that some people never experience in a lifetime: he fell in love. True, deep love…the kind that tempts someone to abandon anything and everything without hesitation.
The first thing he noticed about Elsie Coupout was her dark eyes, matching his own. Layers of brown hues with green pigments throughout. Electrifying. Exotic. Her flawless skin the color of café au lait, her thin frame draped in a white ruffled blouse, long brown skirt. Slender arms reached over her vegetable stand that was located in the French Market. Delicate hands sifted through bell peppers and onions.
She gracefully moved among crates of tomatoes and garlic, her long brown hair flowing over her shoulders, stopping right underneath her small breasts. She was exquisite and lovelier than any woman he had ever seen.
Why did I even come here? I can’t remember. That’s right…to buy some vegetables for a stew I want to make for my father.
He stepped closer to her stand. Everyone around him could have died from the yellow fever right then and there and he wouldn’t have cared. All he wanted was to be alone with her.
; “May I have three bell peppers and two onions?” He held his breath as she looked into his eyes. He swallowed hard and waited for her response.
“Of course you can. Here you are.” Her voice blocked out the sounds of other patrons, the few that had ventured out into public places. It brought with it glorious warmth compared to the coldness of the city’s pervading illness. He wanted to stand there all day, listening to it, silky and peaceful in his ear.
He took the bag from her hands, touched the delicate tips of her fingernails. They were smooth, un-calloused.
“What’s your name?” He held the bag of vegetables close to his chest.
“Elsie Coupout. What’s yours?” She smiled, hesitant. White teeth, beautiful lips.
“Thomas Carpenter. It’s good to meet you.” He handed her his money, feeling the energy of the exchange between their hands.
“Likewise, Mr. Carpenter. Here, have some celery, too. Courtesy of my parents. They won’t mind at all.”
“That’s very kind of you. Now I have the holy trinity of vegetables. I wouldn’t have that without you.”
“You’re welcome. You’re one of my few customers today. Not that I can blame them.” She glanced around the market and smoothed her hair back behind her ears.
“Does this stand belong to your parents?”
“Yes. I’m just here to help out. They’re off visiting some of the sick. We’re immune to it….the fever I mean. We’re from Saint-Domingue and grew up with this plague. We all survived it there so we’ll never be afflicted with it again. A real asset. To be around the dying knowing you won’t catch their death.”
“Yes, it is. Your family is very lucky. It’s a horrible death. I know people who have died from it. So if your parents aren’t here, who would give permission if I were to ask you to dinner tonight?” He bit his lip, shocked at his own forwardness.
But wasn’t it best to be candid in times like this? What does one have to lose?
“That’s rather bold of you, Mr. Carpenter, but you won’t need their permission. You have mine and I say yes.” She straightened her whole body.
He clutched the bag of vegetables even closer to his chest, feeling their hardness against his rapid heartbeat.
“That makes me very happy.” He kissed her hand, her skin smooth against his lips. It was at that moment that Thomas knew he would do anything to protect her, and as life would have it, he did in his own way.
Later in the evening, at a small French café, they shared the specialty, Shrimp Creole, and glasses of red wine. Candles lit the dim space, wax dripped onto tables, Elsie and Thomas’s shadows reflecting on the wall. He felt a heightened intoxication in her presence – in the spicy scent of her body and the lilting sound of her voice. It took him to another place: one free of responsibility, pressures, and disease. As his father’s apprentice, he spent a lot of time in their studio, creating and designing various wood tables: buffets, side tables, dressers, and armoires – all with their signature etchings of his mother’s favorite flowers: lilies and roses. The café was nearly vacant minus a few other couples enjoying crab au gratin and crepes with honey.
Our own private space. Just how I like it.
“Why haven’t you caught it?” She sipped from her glass of Bordeaux, watching him look at her over the top rim.
“I’m not sure. None of my friends have either. Luck, I guess. Where I’m from in Italy there’s a tradition of placing herbs in the beaks of masks to ward off infections. My father and I make our own carnival masks. I sometimes wear one for that purpose when I’m visiting a place that might prove too contagious. Maybe that’s it? I’ve been told that the herbs are an effective tool although that could be complete superstition.” As he emphasized the last word, her brows furrowed.
“There is nothing wrong with superstitions if done or handled in a positive way. I’ll make sure you don’t catch the yellow fever.” She took out a red gris gris bag and placed it on the table. “I have a spell in here. It’s to protect you from the disease. I’m not as powerful as Marie Leveau, but I’m in tune with emotions, what’s good about others. I know the nature of people’s spirits. And your spirit is beautiful, Thomas.”
Her delicate fingers untied the strings on each bag and she poured a yellow powder into his wine. It dissolved and he sniffed the glass.
Nothing about her scares me…I want to do whatever she desires.
“Don’t worry. Voodoo is meant to protect and bring positive things into your life. The powder is made from the finest ingredients. Drink it. I’ve had it blessed. No disease will come over you.”
He looked at her dark eyes as he drank from the glass, warmth rushing over his whole body. There was no distinctive taste to the powder, only an added sweetness that complemented the wine.
“I feel so comfortable around you. As if I’ve been waiting for you.” He finished his glass of wine and watched her place the gris gris bags back into her small purse.
“That’s because you have been waiting for me. And here I am.”
She finished her own glass of wine and laid her fork across her plate, making it clear that she was ready to leave. They left the restaurant and walked through the streets that led to Thomas’s apartment above his father’s studio.
“I would love to invite you in as forward as that might sound.”
“Nothing would please me more than to spend the evening with you, Thomas.”
He guided her up the narrow wood staircase, to the front door that opened up into a small but cozy apartment.
“This is adorable. Perfect for you,” she said, looking around the living room which also served as his bedroom. And your father’s studio is downstairs?”
“Yes, he lives in a small home near here. When I turned twenty he gave me this apartment.” Thomas poured them both more red wine and sat next to her on his bed.
“Are you comfortable here?” he asked, running his hand through her hair.
“I am.” She put down her glass and pulled his face towards hers, kissing him passionately. Her tongue explored his lips and mouth. His hands ran along her white blouse, untying the front, pulling it over her head. Her small breasts welcomed his hands, his mouth. He slid his hand underneath her long brown skirt as she kicked off her black shoes. Finding her sex he caressed it, causing her to moan, exciting him even further. Her hands wrestled with his pants, pulling his cock towards her. Her delicate frame fit against his body with perfect precision. It had been seamless…the move from complete stranger to adored lover and he yearned to be lost in her. And he was lost. Inside of her. The smell of her skin like nutmeg, calming every nerve in his body. Afterwards, he held her close to him, caressed her smooth back.
“So are you really a Carpenter, Thomas?” she asked teasingly, her face against his chest. The vibration of her voice moved through his whole body.
“Yes, I am. My father changed our name from Milano when we immigrated. I guess he thought we would fit in better…I was a child. My mother passed away in Venice when I was nine and he wanted a new life for us. We came here. In her honor, we make furniture etched with the flowers that remind us both of her, lilies and roses. I’ll show you some of my pieces one day. I think you’ll find them beautiful…like yourself.”
“I would love to see them. Is this your mother, in your locket?”
She caressed the necklace around his neck, her finger running along the intricate flower etchings.
He opened it to reveal a small picture of his mother, her dark hair and eyes against the purity of her face made her seem like a Madonna. He often caressed the locket, especially when he sought calmness and encouragement.
“Yes. I carry her with me always. Maybe that’s why I’ve been protected up until now. Perhaps she’s been watching over both my father and me. But I have a new reason to feel safe with you around me. I’m certain she would’ve approved.” He lifted her face up to his own and kissed her. He never wanted to let this sensuous and delicate woman out of his arms.
As t
he days turned to months, Thomas became intrigued with Elsie: her voodoo beliefs, Haitian background and her love for him, which was unlike anything he experienced before. As the yellow fever crept over the city, it devoured the family members and loved ones of his closest friends. He had known all of them for five years, mostly through his father’s shop, but a couple from his final year in school.
They had been good friends, especially his classmates, Marcel and Nigel. The two of them met the other three friends later, creating an absolute group of like individuals.
But in their losses, they grew angry at what they perceived to be his abandonment of them for a “voodoo witch.” Their hatred for her was apparent.
“You know how they feel about you. They hate you for whatever reason. You don’t have to come over there with me. It’s a night for the boys anyway. You’ll only be bored.” He ran his hand through her long dark hair.
“I don’t care what they think of me.”
“All right – but they don’t understand my love for you. If you feel awkward or ready to leave, let me know and we’ll go. They have a hard time accepting my choices.”
“I’m in your life to stay. One day they’ll have to grow used to that.”
“I don’t think they will ever get used to that.”
The evening spent at Marcel’s home started out friendly, playful. All six friends bet on games of cards, drank bourbon and found reasons to laugh despite the fact that death surrounded them.
“Thomas, you play a good game. Congratulations. There was a reason we invited you over tonight. There’s…another game that we have for you,” Marcel said, looking over at the other men, laughing.
“You know I’m always up for a new game. What do you have in mind?” Thomas took a sip of his bourbon.
Marcel’s eyes were wired, crazed. Thomas looked around at his other friends. They too had grown rabid looking, alien to him.
“It’s called ‘Teach a Lesson to Friends that Abandon You.’ You think you might want to partake in this little game of ours?” Marcel laughed again, finishing his glass of bourbon in one gulp.
