Blood in the Lake

by Anne L. Simon

  “Now you are thinking like a prosecutor, suggesting to the witness what he really heard.”

  Ouch. Tom changed the subject. “Anything special on for tonight, Mandy?”

  “I promised Taddy I’d go to his soccer game at five. You sure can come too.”

  “I accept. And then dinner?”

  “Yes.”

  The trial didn’t leave Tom’s thoughts for long. As we walked down to the parking lot he pulled out his cell phone and began to swirl through his contacts.

  “We learned something from Sarah today. I’m going to get an investigator to do more digging to find Richard’s family. I hear from Buddy the mother is round-the-bend crazy, but maybe Sarah has found someone else. We’d better look ourselves.” Then he had another thought. “Sarah has to disclose to us the name of her expert witness on the effect of cocaine and alcohol. If he’s that guy from Florida with the wacky institute, I don’t think Judge Bonin is any more likely to accept him as an expert than the judges who knocked him out the last couple of times a defense lawyer tried to get him qualified. I’ll be asking you to get the scoop on him and to absorb those dense papers he writes. I sure like the decision in the Daubert case. Until recently we had all kind of quacks paraded before our gullible juries. Now the judge decides if they’re legit.”

  Did Tom plan to leave the defense with no expert? I thought I remembered hearing that could be a problem. A defendant has to be allowed to make some kind of defense.

  * * *

  “Tom, who’s Mary Jane?”

  “Mary Jane who? I don’t know any Mary Jane.”

  “The Mary Jane who has something to do with Buddy Aymond. The mere mention of her name makes Deuce double over with laughter, and I think she’s the reason you stopped dead in your tracks when telling me about Buddy’s marriage breaking up after he cleaned out the Vermilion Parish bunkhouses.”

  “Oh, yes. Deuce is right. You do have the curiosity of a detective. But trust me. You don’t want to know about Mary Jane.”

  “Oh, yes I do.”

  Maybe because we were both totally relaxed, sated with sex, good food, wine, happy with where we were with our case, whatever. Tom broke down and told me.

  The first part of the story continued his account of Buddy’s fine undercover work at the bunkhouses, and his success in getting a fourteen-year-old girl away from her pimp. But when she vanished, which is not uncommon, Buddy wouldn’t give up.

  “Half of the girls who run don’t survive more than a year. Buddy felt responsible. For six months, he used every nonworking hour on the hunt. His wife misunderstood. He never found the girl, and she’s probably dead by now.”

  I’d read Buddy wrong. He had a heart, after all. I had to remind Tom we hadn’t gotten to Mary Jane.

  “OK. Buddy continued to help the Vermilion deputies with their surprise monthly checkups at the bunkhouses, and everything seemed to be under control. Then one night...”

  “Keep going, Tom.”

  “You asked for it. Buddy got to wondering about a lamb he kept seeing chained to a fence behind one bunkhouse called—I’ll never forget it—Old MacDonald’s Barnyard. No girls around anymore, of course, so the guys used a sheep. They named her Mary Jane.”

  “What? What are you saying? A sheep?”

  “I told you, you didn’t want to know about this.”

  “My god! That works?”

  “Hell, I don’t know. But you put guys out on the water for months at a time, then in an all-male bunkhouse when they’re on shore, and they’ll think of something.”

  When I recovered my cool, I got to thinking like a prosecutor.

  “What charge do you bring for that, Tom? Aggravated Animal Cruelty?”

  “Hell no. The DA couldn’t let the story go public, be picked up by national news, and make us a laughing stock. He took a plea to some unknown misdemeanor with parish line probation—go away and don’t come near Vermilion Parish ever again.”

  Sister Agnes' Jubilee

  WHILE MOM SWEPT up the rust-colored blanket of fallen cypress needles on the patio, I answered the phone. “Aunt Mazie calling for you, Mom.”

  Mom scowled. She propped her broom against the railing.

  “Doggone it. I bet someone told her we were going to New Orleans to see Aunt Mimi. Probably Tut. She’s nicer than I am. Mazie’s gonna want to come along.”

  “That’s OK. We have four places in the car. You, Aunt Tut, me and now Aunt Mazie.”

  “That’s OK for you to say. You’ll have your hands on the wheel and your eyes on the road—an excuse not to have to listen to her. Tut and I’ll be captives for three straight hours each way! I hope to heck she doesn’t have some new ailment to tell us about.” Mom sighed. “Oh my goodness, listen to me. On my way to see my holy aunt, and I’ve nothing but ugly thoughts. I might as well take a deep breath and face the inevitable.”

  Brushing her hands on her jeans, Mom picked up the phone, gave me a wink, and invited her sister to come along for the ride to Aunt Mimi’s Golden Jubilee.

  The Sisters of Mount Carmel are teaching nuns, and teaching clearly called PawPaw’s younger sister Mimi. By the time she was twelve years old, she had become Mama B and PawPaw’s best nanny for their brood of eight. Years later, the nieces and nephews never forgot their aunt’s devotion. Aunt Mimi became marraine—godmother—to five of PawPaw’s grandchildren, including me.

  Aunt Mimi went to what they called the Normal School to study to be a teacher and then took her vows as Sister Agnes. The order first posted her to an orphanage in the northern Philippines. She returned home five years later, taking a position teaching second grade girls at Mt. Carmel Convent in New Iberia. Religious customs changed, but not Sister Agnes. She always wore a long black robe and white wimple, keeping traditional dress long after her fellow sisters changed to pastel polyester skirts with matching long-sleeved shirts.

  Every few years the staff at Mt. Carmel lost nuns and gained lay teachers. When Sister Agnes retired, nuns no longer drilled arithmetic into the heads of little girls in brown plaid skirts quaking before chalk-covered blackboards.

  According to the custom for retirement, she went to live at the mother-house in New Orleans. Within a year of the move, her health began to fail. The family wondered if she’d retired because of illness or the other way around. Perhaps she faded because she mourned the loss of the work she loved. We had no one to ask. Aunt Mimi belonged to the order, not to her family.

  Mom and I picked Aunt Tut up in town, and the three of us had a good visit during the first part of the drive to New Orleans. We exchanged what we knew of family news and shared a few laughs. When we stopped in Houma to pick up Aunt Mazie, the mood soured.

  “So, Tut,” Mazie asked her back seat partner, “what’s your daughter Eula Mae doing these days? Did she get back into college? Back into college? Or does readmission have to wait until next semester?”

  I looked in the rear view mirror and saw Aunt Tut’s upper lip stiffen.

  “I’m not quite sure, Mazie.”

  “And how about Burt, Jr. Is Burt, Jr. doing OK?”

  “He’s just fine.”

  “I’m sure he is. Yes, I’m sure he is. There are wonderful treatments available today. Wonderful treatments.”

  One topic Aunt Tut wanted to discuss even less than her daughter Eula Mae’s academic difficulties might have been Burt, Jr. getting busted. Then Mazie turned on Mom.

  “Have you put on a few pounds, Mimi? Becoming on you, I think. You know, I always say we need a little more weight as the years go by. A little weight as the years go by, I say.”

  Does this woman eat bitter lemons for breakfast? My turn came next.

  “Mandy, am I hearing you’re our prosecutor Tom Barnett’s latest fling? That man does indeed like to find ‘em young, that’s what he does. He’s a good-looking fella, all right. Good looking. Young women just can’t seem to resist his charms, although I don’t much like the accent. Quite a north Louisiana drawl, he has.”
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  Her comment stung. I caught my breath to cut off a response. Aunt Mazie kept at me.

  “I suppose you’ll hear the results of your Bar Exam pretty soon. Pretty soon now. And then I guess you’ll stay around here with us at long as the romance lasts. Or maybe until our trial is over. Until the trial, right?”

  I gripped the steering wheel and fixed my eyes on the road ahead. I heard Mom exhale. Mom and Aunt Tut were right. Poison. I could be grateful for one aspect of Aunt Mazie’s chatter; since she didn’t listen to anyone, no responses were necessary. In fact, she let the dig about my private life blow away in the wind. With hardly a pause to take a breath, she moved right on to disparaging comments about ‘Tienne’s wife and Ti Pierre’s grandchild.

  My stomach felt like I’d swallowed a bad oyster. Any normal man over thirty had some history. I expected that. I was only twenty-six and had my own. And I really didn’t care anything about who Tom had been seeing before I came on the scene. But was I just another fling? Tom and I never talked about where our relationship might go. Did that mean something?

  I pushed my questions down, out of sight, resolving to ignore Aunt Mazie’s venom.

  As I expected, the Golden Jubilee Mass for Sister Agnes warmed our hearts. In order for all the old sisters to attend, Mother Superior moved the service from the little chapel in the retirement home to the church next door. An attendant from the home, also retired, doing her duty as a geriatric nurse, rolled Sister Agnes’ wheelchair right up to the altar rail. In praise of her lifetime dedication to children, the homilist preached on Jesus’ words, “suffer the little children to come unto me,” and “in as much as you have done it to the least of these...” He delivered a message far better than what we hear from our country priests.

  Aunt Mazie sat enraptured, her hands folded across her breast, but I heard Aunt Tut whisper to Mom. “This priest is gettin’ to me, sis. It isn’t Aunt Mimi’s funeral.” To tell the truth, Sister Agnes looked as if it could be. Her little frame curled into her wheelchair, still and pale as a corpse.

  The Mass over, Sister Agnes invited us to join her in her room while she took a rest. We entered a stark cubicle no more than ten feet square. Only a simple crucifix, a framed picture of Pope John Paul, and a statue of the Blessed Virgin—the Sacred Heart version with the droplets of blood on her breast—adorned the white walls. The attendant helped her to bed, pulled up a cover, and brought four straight wooden chairs in from the hall. No need to have seats in each room; few here had much company.

  Mom, Aunt Lou, Aunt Mazie and I took our posts at bedside, in vigil over a devoted servant of God resting from a lifetime of prayer and service. She dozed off. The attendant slipped out, on the way assuring us that Sister Agnes would want to visit with us again when she awoke.

  We waited. Not even Aunt Mazie dared to break the silence. We were surrounded by a faint scent of candles, and a strange calm prevailed. Mom closed her eyes; she looked as if she wished she could slip in beside her aunt. I pulled a book out of my purse and read to myself, frequently pausing to conjure up the natural world evoked by my new favorite poet, Mary Oliver.

  An hour later, Sister Agnes opened her eyes and stretched out her arms to her nieces.

  “Thank you for your patience, my dears. You minister well—the ministry of presence.” She wanted a complete report on the family, inquiring about the health, occupations, and the happiness of each of PawPaw’s children. Recalling the names of all of the grandchildren put her memory to a test. She passed.

  “Are there any vocations?” she asked.

  “Lay Eucharistic Ministers we have aplenty, but no priests or nuns,” Mom replied.

  “Without imports from other parts of the Catholic world, I fear for our future. Our schools have all lay teachers now, and I understand that in the country our priests must travel every Sunday to say Mass in several parishes. That cuts down on their availability for pastoral care. I’ve been blessed by a life of prayer and service and have wanted nothing else, but men and women today are not so inclined. Good people, mind you, but unwilling to take on the sacrifice of total commitment to serve Christ.”

  “Your life has been a blessing, Sister Agnes. A total blessing. Yes, your life has been a total blessing.” Aunt Mazie again.

  Aunt Tut put a hand over her eyes. “This time the cock crows thrice!” she muttered.

  Sister Agnes changed the subject. “Tell me, my dears, about the man who performed that dreadful act on my brother. I hope you are praying for his soul.”

  Mom and Aunt Tut started and looked up quickly. Mom’s left brow pulled toward her nose. Aunt Tut recovered her composure first. “Aunt—Sister Agnes, did you know that the person responsible for what happened—his name is Remuald Richard—will soon be going to trial? The police tell us there’s no doubt about his guilt. He’s admitted his responsibility.”

  “And so he should be tried, my dears. His responsibility for the death of my brother should be determined legally by the civil authorities.”

  Mom had the guts to take the next step. “One of the possible sentences the man could receive for first degree murder—that’s the crime he’s charged with—is the death penalty. The district attorney has hinted to us that whether he will ask the jury to impose that sentence depends on what the family wants.”

  “Human life is a gift from God, my dears. Only God decides when this life is over. I hope you’re very clear to your district attorney about that. We cannot teach killing is wrong by asking for killing in return.”

  I expected that to be her opinion.

  Mom responded. “Not everyone in the family thinks that way, Aunt Mimi. Ti Pierre, for example, is adamant. He believes PawPaw would want us to avenge his death.” Mom’s voice quivered, and she forgot to call her aunt ‘Sister Agnes.’

  “In that case, I will pray for Ti Pierre as well, my dears. And so should you.”

  And please pray for a few more of us.

  Sister Agnes wilted. Her eyes glazed over; her chin dropped. Mom glanced at Aunt Tut, who nodded in agreement with the silent message. We needed to leave the old one to her rest. Mom and Aunt Tut stood up, stepped softly forward, and touched their lips to their aunt’s forehead. Aunt Mazie and I followed. The attendant outside the door must have been listening for the scrape of our chairs. She came into the room and adjusted the pillows on the bed.

  We’d all been full of joy during the Mass, but now Mom had the courage to speak about our thoughts.

  “Where are you on all this, Mazie. Would you be in favor of asking the district attorney to let Remuald Richard plead to life in prison?”

  “Me? Oh, me. Oh, my,” Aunt Mazie sputtered. “I leave such matters to Ti Pierre. Yes, let the oldest son in the family make the decision for all of us. That kind of decision is not for us. No, No. Not for us to decide. Men decide those things.” Her words kept rhythm with the quick tapping of her steps.

  I could just about feel the steam coming from Mom’s ears. Her words tumbled out. “There’s one thing I’m absolutely sure of, my dear sister. We girls have as much right to have an opinion on this subject as anyone. In fact, we have an obligation.” Mom turned to me. “Let me drive home, Mandy,” she said. “Tut, sit in the front. We have some talking to do.”

  When Mom gave crisp instructions, I always obeyed. And so did Aunt Tut. Before we left the city, Aunt Mazie had fallen asleep on the other side of the back seat. I thanked God for that mercy.

  “How about you, Tut? I’d like to know. Where are you on this?” Mom asked.

  “I’ve been doing some thinking, of course. Aunt Mimi’s—Sister Agnes’—words touched me. Human life is a gift from God. But there’s something else on my mind. Remember before little Jeanne-Claire was born, when my daughter Eugenie was in the maternity hospital in Dallas and I went over to be with her?”

  “Sure. I remember. All of us were so happy to get the news Genny was expecting after eight years of marriage, and we got down on our knees in thanksgiving,” Mom answered. />
  “Did I ever tell you about visiting the neonatal unit?” Aunt Tut asked.

  “Not that I remember. Tell me.”

  Aunt Tut took a deep breath. “It’s kind of a long story but explains some things. Precious little Jeanne-Claire has a special place in my heart, you know. When my sons had babies I was excited, of course, but nothing prepares you for all the emotions you have when your daughter becomes a mother for the first time. It’s all part of that mother/daughter bond. You’ll learn about that when Mandy becomes a mother.” She turned around in her seat and gave me a smile.

  Mom prodded her sister to tell her story. “Go ahead. We’ve got miles to go.”

  “As you may remember, everything went well for Genny the first twenty weeks of her pregnancy, but then she threatened to miscarry. When Charlie called, I jumped in the truck and drove over to Dallas. By the time I arrived, the crisis had passed. I’d overreacted. I visited for a day, and drove home. Genny and her husband have busy lives, and I didn’t need to be in the way. But at about twenty-five weeks, Genny’s problems began again. The doctor put her on bed rest with a fancy monitor on her barely rounded belly. Time and again, in the middle of the night, they tore across town to get to the neonatal emergency room. After the fourth nighttime rush, and the fourth all clear, Charlie agreed with the doctor they couldn’t risk the distance. He checked Genny in for the duration, and we prayed she’d be there to term. Each morning the nurses took her for an ultrasound. During the day she rested, read, did crossword puzzles, and waited for the evening when Charlie would come to visit after work. The emergencies continued, and passed. She didn’t tell me about most of them.”