Red Now And Laters

by Marcus J. Guillory

  Claude was twenty-four years old, married to Christina Papillon from Eunice, and he managed half of the Boudreaux rice farms in the area. Starting at thirteen years old, he took over the farm management after our father decided to skip town for Haiti when word reached him that Mme. Sonnier was with child. He hated me because in his eyes I stole his father, so he took advantage of me at every possible turn. And although Nonc Manuel would’ve put a stop to this abuse, I couldn’t bring myself to tell him or Edmund. I honestly believed that I had caused enough trouble and times were difficult. So I retreated to my tree, and it was at my tree where I first saw it—the red cicada.

  As the years moved along I sequestered myself in the area near the tree, setting up a small camp where I slept, cooked my meals, and began receiving visits from the ill for treatment. Edmund frequented my camp most days with reports of the goings-on in St. Landry Parish. The Reconstruction efforts were tearing apart Louisiana and les gens du couleur libres in particular, but it didn’t bother me; I had bigger problems. Although I was far enough away from the Boudreaux house, Claude saw to it to regularly stop by my camp and beat me for his own pleasure. He knew I would make no report of it, which only emboldened him to more heinous grievances against me. Edmund found out, but I made him promise not to tell. I knew that I had to do something about this, then I remembered something from Haiti while I was tending an old man suffering from arthritis. Etienne once told me that there was a time when we didn’t have to say a thing, but it was heard. Just by the will alone, we could take action.

  I thought about my half brother. I thought evil things that I shouldn’t have. And when Edmund was sent for me to treat Claude for some mysterious illness that befell him, I was nowhere to be found. I had burnings to do, burnings at the direction of the red cicada.

  Many treaters were called but none could save Claude, and he succumbed after two months of anguish. My father’s son was dead. I could have saved him but I didn’t. I didn’t have the desire plus I was on urgent business with Squirrel, business that was foolhardy but would prompt a secret night and a secret meeting.

  La Grande Promesse

  Bois Mallet, Louisiana, 4:30 A.M., July 24, 1877

  After the war, Les Americains realized that these free people of color had amassed a significant amount of wealth and land in La Louisiane, yet now we had the same political standing as the freedman, which sent the Democratic Party’s White Vigilante League into full furor against us. They wanted our land and sought to disenfranchise our vote, so they employed various intimidation tactics that included murder, rape, and theft. I recalled stories from Saint-Domingue—Toussaint, Dessalines, and Christophe. I decided to take action. If they sought to take our land, land that we’d cultivated from dirt and weeds since they were in Europe, then I decided to attack their lands with fire. From 1876 to 1877, Squirrel and I routinely set ablaze the crops of white farmers in St. Landry Parish, particularly those farmers who were part of the secretive White Vigilante League. But I made a serious miscalculation. The more white farms I burnt to the ground, the more aggressively these whites sought to take the plentiful lands of les gens du couleur libres. Whereas I thought I was helping my people, I only hurt them, so the leadership of our community gathered to sort things out—a meeting that would remain a secret for over a century.

  We knew that times were changing for the worse, changing for our people and for our culture, which meant that our next moves had to be strategic and clandestine. And I wouldn’t have been invited to this meeting if the crop burnings weren’t my fault. Rumor held that I had caused Claude’s demise, which made me a pariah to other treaters in the area as well as both the Boudreaux and Guillory families. I had broken a sacred rule—never harm your blood, because by harming your blood, you harm yourself. With that realization, I began to drink.

  At the meeting were Emmanuel and Edmund Guillory, Jean-Philippe Mouton of Plaisance, Rene Metoyer of Cane River, Pierre Chevalier of Frilot Cove, Leon Fontenot of Bois Mallet, and Narcisse Donato of Opelousas. These men were farmers and businessmen of southwestern Louisiana who had everything to lose if the next steps for our survival were not taken in unison. And although I can’t tell you the particulars of what they discussed because they wouldn’t say anything in front of me when I was dragged in by gunpoint, I can tell you that at that moment I was conscripted into the medicinal services of our community and the assistance of making whiskey with Fontenot and my father in the woods of Bois Mallet. The men were quick with me and quicker after I agreed. Edmund walked me out of Fontenot’s parlor to the front yard, where he was joined by Nonc Emmanuel.

  “Go inside, Edmund,” Emmanuel told his son, who left quickly.

  Nonc Emmanuel and I stood in the dark yard, night creatures about reporting concerns. I couldn’t tune them out because I was a bit drunk. Nonc Emmanuel was concerned.

  “Jules, I’m sorry I didn’t protect you from Claude, but . . . Claude was your blood like me, whether you liked it or not, whether he liked you or not. And what they’re saying you did was wrong. Do you understand that?” Nonc Emmanuel asked.

  I nodded. I was ashamed.

  “Now, the girls will leave you alone, that’s true, but I’m sure you heard that your father has had another child. A son. Paul. I’m entrusting you with Paul’s safety, do you understand?”

  I nodded.

  “No! Let me hear it. Tu comprends?”

  “Oui, monsieur,” I answered with my head still down.

  “Leve ta tête and look at me,” he demanded.

  I raised my eyes to his. So much he had seen. So much he had gone through for his family, for his blood.

  “You have a gift, Jules. God’s given you something special. Do not misuse it. For what can be given, can also be taken away,” he said, then returned to the house.

  Paul would be my obligation. This I promised to the lwa.

  twenty-one

  holy week (easter basket rock)

  Houston, Texas, c. 1985

  Palm Sunday

  Raymond Earl and Pork Chop said that Mr. Harris had a brand-new set of sparkling, chrome valve cover caps on his dualie truck and if I didn’t hurry up and get them, they might very well be gone by sundown tomorrow. Those caps were probably the last of their kind in the whole neighborhood because not a single BMX rolled up Clearway Drive without the small but magnificent mark of distinction gleaming from its wheels. I’d have to go in the morning, adhering to the rules of petty ghetto theft. Pork Chop would have to pump me on his sister’s bike because, well, I hadn’t finished making my bike; I had everything but the handlebars and the seat. And, of course, the deal was he got two caps and a mini pack of red Now and Laters. Transportation cost. Ten o’clock Mass was fast approaching, so I had to move quick.

  We set out early on Palm Sunday morning—the beginning of the blessed Holy Week, marking our Lord and Savior’s journey to martyrdom. Across the globe, palm fronds would be twisted and contorted into miniature crosses, transforming Death’s instrument into the divine light post. Of course, none of that mattered to me. Holy Week signified closure of the Lenten season; candy and cartoons would soon return to my twelve-year-old agenda. No more fish on Fridays or Stations of the Cross. One more week and everything would return to normal. I’d even complete my bike by then.

  Pork Chop waited on the corner with Raymond Earl on his sister’s bike with the banana seat and sissy bars and a pair of pliers. I jumped on the back, and we rode off. Raymond Earl decided to jog. Rocky had been on TV the night before. Funny thing. It was seven thirty in the morning and Pork Chop smelled awful. The roomy banana seat had the distinct but unmistakable stench of ass. But it wasn’t unusual; Pork Chop always stunk.

  We rode quietly past parked cars, yards, street signs, and the thick morning humidity of Houston. The targets were in sight, implanted on the wheels of this massive pickup truck. He wouldn’t miss them. I mean, it wasn’t like the tires would deflate. I jumped off the bike and scooted over to the back wheel. I looked a
round. Pork Chop gave me the thumbs-up.

  THOU SHALT NOT STEAL

  Father Jerome had gas that morning while putting on his vestments. Bobby Le Det smirked; he was a rookie altar boy. His momma had just been elected president of the Ladies Auxiliary of the Knights of Peter Claver, so getting little giggly Bobby on the altar wasn’t a problem. I shot him a glance to cool it.

  Being an altar boy was fresh. First, you didn’t have to dress up for Mass because you wore the robe. Second, you got to watch the entire congregation from high up. It felt majestic sitting on the altar—a prince monitoring my subjects. The parishioners responded with a subtle air of deference. Such a nice Catholic boy.

  Everything was set. The palms were on the altar, the organ chiming “We’ve Come This Far by Faith.” The pungent incense. The stale wafers. The polished crucifix. All ready to welcome the mighty J.C. to Jerusalem.

  This year was going to be special, a grand performance. Father Jerome was going to ride a donkey up the aisle to the altar. Aisle-seated parishioners had been supplied with palm fronds and were instructed to throw the palms in his path as he approached.

  Father Jerome was quiet and routine, but I knew he was excited. He avoided my eyes, sensing my awareness, masking his eagerness to ride the donkey before his chocolate flock—God’s very own cowboy.

  Ushers opened the chapel doors. Parishioners peeked from the pews. The donkey moaned as Father Jerome climbed on and gave the beast a Florsheim three-inch heel to the ribs. Nobody rode donkeys anymore, the poor animal reflected, its eyes saddened, harkening to its ancestor’s burden.

  “Bobby’s gonna carry the cross,” said Father Jerome.

  What the fuck? Just how far did Momma Le Det’s pull go? I handed giggly Bobby the heavy brass crucifix. He could hardly balance it. Father Jerome charged me with making certain that young Bobby didn’t drop the crucifix. He could tell I was not taking the demotion lightly and promised that my cross-carrying duties would be restored next Mass.

  “Let’s go.”

  And off we went in full majesty. I saw Mother’s shining eyes above heads and shoulders. She was proud, almost tearful. I felt the valve covers in my Toughskins pocket, and I beamed bright as any sun on any Sunday morning. Father Jerome piloted the woeful donkey down the aisle with poise and grace in an altered state, consumed with role-playing. Parishioners gazed upon him with hope and wonder, disregarding his now apparent flatulence and the fact that little Bobby wasn’t going to make it down the aisle. His little arms were beginning to falter, palms perspiring, betraying his grip. He hadn’t yet discovered the therapeutic nor calisthenic wonders of masturbation. With every step, he feigned a smile while sweat collected on his brow, figuring out the running order of each drop. Yeah, Bobby wasn’t laughing anymore. And Momma Le Det sat her big ass on the front pew with her Kodak wearing an obnoxious pre-Easter hat, resting on her crown like a bonnet on a sow. Bobby’s big fuckin’ day.

  As we approached the altar, she navigated her torso out of the pew stage left of the altar. Her stocking-draped thighs rubbed together with each movement, providing an accompaniment for the organ.

  At the altar, the donkey stopped. Momma Le Det aimed her Kodak. Bobby timidly leaned forward to bow, then . . . the cross fell over as Momma Le Det snapped the photo. The donkey was startled by the flashbulb and began bucking and hee-hawing. The parishioners gasped. Bobby fell to the floor. Father Jerome held on as the donkey bucked and kicked. And I just watched and secretly counted to eight, waiting to see if he could win the buckle.

  I AM THE LORD YOUR GOD, THOU SHALT HAVE NO OTHER GOD BUT ME

  Mother was quiet on the way home, probably sympathizing with Father Jerome, little Bobby, even the poor donkey. I felt the valve cover caps in my pocket, the light contraband. I had the remainder of the day figured out. First, I’d grab a snack, probably Doritos and a Capri Sun. Then off into the streets in search of handlebars and a seat. I seemed to recall an abandoned bike in Ms. Bunky’s backyard. Of course I’d have to explain to her how I knew about things in her backyard, but it wouldn’t be a problem. She was sure to be on her porch drinking malt liquor and listening to gospel.

  I swear to God, Mother was driving extra slow. Her two palm fronds rested between us, still segregated and awaiting their holy union. Something was bothering her. I didn’t ask any questions. I only thought about finishing my bike. I had even chosen a color—black.

  We arrived home, and Father’s truck was parked in the yard, which was odd. Mother cut off the car and stared at the house. Stuck. I heard the ice cream man coming, and it was starting to get humid in the car. She still hadn’t unlocked the doors.

  I wanted some red Now and Laters.

  She turned to me with stone gravitas. “When we get inside, go straight to your room.”

  I walked in behind her, uncertain of any pending threat, and there he was, sitting at the dining room table drunk as hell. Father.

  He was barefoot and his feet were dirty. That’s what I noticed first. At his feet, the gray indoor-outdoor carpet was littered with folding money and jewelry.

  “I’ll say it again. It ain’t right. None of it. Them the same dice. You looked at them. Quit looking at me, ole winehead nigga. I don’t know you, mister. My name is John Paul Boudreaux. Everybody calls me John Frenchy . . .”

  He didn’t notice us.

  “Yeah, like that pope. Nawh, he named after me. What? Is that right? That’s Sonnier’s fault, not mine. Take that up with him,” Father continued.

  “John!” Mother yelled, but he kept going while collecting the money and jewelry on the floor.

  “No, dammit. That’s for him,” Father grunted while collecting the shiny things.

  I looked in the kitchen. Maybe he was talking to Nonc, but I didn’t see the strange Burning Wood Man. My feet itched. He heard voices whispering, many voices. It was obvious. Mother was stone still—standing at the edge of the Grand Canyon on a plastic straw, waiting to fall or fly.

  He put the jewelry in a Crown Royal bag.

  “Come here, Sonny,” he said.

  I stepped forward.

  He held out the bag.

  “This is for you. All this. I’m gonna give it to him for you. ’Cause you just like me,” he said.

  “Don’t say that, John,” Mother pleaded.

  “Shut up, woman. This don’t concern you. Ti’ John. This is what you is. You one of us. So I gotta go pay you off. Comprends? I gotta do this for you,” he concluded.

  I had no idea what he was talking about.

  He rambled some gibberish about “gimme five,” and I obliged. The purple Crown Royal bag rested by his elbow next to a half-empty Mason jar of whiskey. His bloodshot eyes swayed from his soiled feet to Mother to me with suspicion, that suspicion that hides the drunk’s guilt and pain—that helpless suspicion, transparently built on nothing. I took my cue and headed for my room. I loved Father and didn’t want to witness him at his lowest. I wasn’t supposed to see him like that; the same way a little boy shouldn’t see his mother naked. So I darted past my sticker-laden door to my sanctuary. And no sooner had I fully armed my G.I. Joe men for a Palm Sunday battle royale than the yelling commenced.

  I couldn’t understand what they were saying, but I found it interesting that Mother’s tone was explanatory and apologetic. Hell, Father was the one who was drunk on a Sunday afternoon. Then went the dishes crashing against the wall and the heavy steps to the bedroom. Mother burst into my room and grabbed me by the wrist. She was crying and scared as she half-dragged me out of the house and across the street.

  We rushed to the house of our neighbor, an elderly woman whose home smelled like mothballs and cats, but Mother beat on that door like her life depended on it, and maybe it did.

  Father burst out of the front door brandishing a shotgun, and he was headed straight for us while chambering a shell. Neighborhood kids started hiding behind cars. Everyone was heading for church or just getting back, and Father was on display, acting a damn fool.

/>   After fifteen minutes of him yelling at us to come out, the police finally arrived. Father sat in the back of the squad car crying off his drunk. Mother answered questions and chose not to press charges. And me? I sat under the chinaberry tree in my front yard, admiring my shiny valve cover caps. Pork Chop, Booger, and Raymond Earl passed by on bikes and just nodded. I could’ve been embarrassed but didn’t have to be—not in my neighborhood. Domestic disputes were about as regular as the mail. Sure, I’d get teased about it tomorrow, but Raymond Earl’s dad was dead, Pork Chop’s dad was in jail, and Booger’s dad was the neighborhood’s first initiate in, at that time, a new urban cult—the Order of the Crackheads. I watched Father in the squad car. His head was down as he mumbled to himself. What had happened? What was so important, so critical, so outrageous that he would chase his family across the street with a shotgun? And what was all this business about paying me off?

  He raised his head shamefully and stared into my eyes. He was weak, defeated. I knew he wanted to apologize. And I would’ve accepted it. I wanted to embrace him, let him know that I was still his son and that I loved him. Let him know that he wasn’t alone and everything was going to be all right. But then—hold up—couillon came after me with a shotgun. What in the fuck was he thinking?