By the time Father got all the particulars from the phone call, Mother had already said three Hail Marys under her breath. She knocked on my door and entered. I pretended I was asleep.
She announced, “Your cousins are coming today.” And she wasn’t the least bit pleased.
• • •
“Man, that’s fucked-up how you doin’ your cousins,” Mike said while I was two levels away from the high score on Galaxian at the arcade by my house.
I ignored him. I knew it was fucked-up. We had been at the arcade for two hours. This allowed me the opportunity to avoid calls from my visiting cousins, who wanted to hang out with me. Mike had taken his grandmother’s Caddy out for a quick trip to Walgreens and ended up at my house. We had plans to go to a teen dance at St. Francis Parish Hall later, and there was no way I was going to that dance with my cousins. Mother knew what I was up to.
Booger was right over my shoulder, scarfing down a bag of Funyuns.
“Damn, dawg. Back up a bit with them Funyuns,” I complained, but he didn’t go anywhere.
Raymond Earl was pop-locking by the entrance. Run-D.M.C.’s “Peter Piper” rang, the song’s famous chimes marking time with the buzz and bleeps of the arcade.
“Say, Johnny. You heard ’bout Joe Boy?” Raymond Earl asked while doing the tick.
“Nawh.”
“Maan, he got in a fight at Videocity and got his ass thrown in jail.”
“No shit?”
Videocity was a nightclub for teens at AstroWorld that was located right next to an arcade. It was the perfect spot to meet girls after hours of walking around the amusement park in dizzying rotations looking for familiar faces and females. By dusk, the teen girls collected at Videocity and the arcade, engaging in games of chance that cost not a case quarter but rather a phone number on a napkin or necking in the dark corners of the park. Of course, this cattle call increased the teen pressure already prevalent the minute they pushed through the turnstile entrance with a Coke can or a season pass. Who’s he? Who’s she? She’s cute. He’s fine. He runs track for Worthing. She’s a cheerleader at Booker T. Questions. Inquiries. Where’s your boyfriend at? Can I talk to your friend? Lemme holla at you. Hours of the flirting merry-go-round of AstroWorld culminating in the main event—Videocity. And it’s that very pressure, that need to make a connection with the opposite sex with very little experience, that almost always prompted fights among the boys.
But that was AstroWorld. This was South Park. Fighting was a matter of personal politics and predilections. Hooking up with girls was stripped down to whether the girl would give you some. That simple.
Julius, Booger’s daddy, appeared out of nowhere, as crack-heads were known to do, and commenced to begging with vaudeville theatrics. Today’s performance? Michael Jackson’s “Thriller”—move for move. He’d perform the entire video without missing a step. Booger pretended he didn’t see him. Raymond Earl and I honored his decision.
“Shit!” I yelled. My flashy Space Defender died a horrible and tragic death to swarming, vicious electronic blinking lights. I looked around as Julius moonwalked out the front door and almost got run over by a white Rolls-Royce. The Rolls belonged to the biggest drug dealer in Houston—Champ Lewis. A black Mazda B2000 pickup pulled up behind him. Raymond Earl’s older brother, Andre, got out of the pickup, followed by a tall guy with red hair. They spoke with Champ from the back window of his Rolls. Then the window rolled up and the Rolls drove off—
An empty forty-ounce bottle spiraled toward the redhead.
“I’ma kill you, nigga!”
• • •
The lit announcement sign by the parking lot read: “Teen Dance 7 P.M.–11 P.M., DJ Victor Bass, $3.” In the upper right corner of the sign was a brown cross, I guess to remind teens that God was charging them three dollars to shake their asses. Sodas were fifty cents. Frito pies, a dollar. Chips, twenty-five cents. Malt liquor around the corner, ninety-nine cents on sale and cold as a witch’s titty.
St. Francis Xavier was an upscale alternative to St. Philip’s, and barely a mile separated the two parishes. It boasted a much larger congregation, which meant more girls. The teen dances held at St. Francis were more community events rather than social communion for believers. Sterling, Worthing, and Jones high schools were well represented, as well as Thomas and Cullen middle schools. Eighth-grade girls eyed high school boys. Middle school boys watched from afar, trying to decipher high school politics. Folding chairs lined the wall. A dim red light glowed near the DJ booth and, but for the bright light at the entrance, the place was fairly dark, which was perfect for grinding to UTFO’s “Fairytale Lover” without being detected. That’s what I was doing around 10:00 P.M. Her name? I forgot her name, but she smelled good and let me grind. Patrick was watching from the wall with Raymond Earl and Booger.
By the middle of the song, she’d started sucking on my earlobe. I noticed a few girls watching and pointing. Yeah, I was a real player with it.
“Damn.”
“What?”
“My boyfriend just showed up.”
At the well-lit entrance, he stood with his boys—the tall redhead guy with a bandage on his head. Ah, cher bon Dieu.
(Hot thick bayou air in an air-conditioned parish hall.)
Patrick and I stood near the wall watching. Booger came over.
“Maan. Ole boy say he gonna whip your ass, Johnny,” he reported.
“I ain’t know she had a boyfriend,” I answered.
“I told him that, but he don’t give a shit. That nigga crazy too.”
“Ain’t that Andre’s boy?”
“Yeah, but Raymond Earl say he ain’t in that shit. You better try to get up outta here ’cause he got like ten niggas from Worthing with him and that girl’s in the bathroom crying ’cause he done already put hands on her. You next.”
“Maan, yawl ain’t gonna help me out?”
And with that, Booger joined the rest of the guys in my neighborhood by the DJ booth. Joe Boy was pointing and laughing. Everyone else just shook their heads. Fuckin’ assholes. There was no way I could beat this guy. He had to be at least seventeen and I had a few months to go before I’d turn fifteen.
Nothing’s worse than knowing you’re about to get your ass kicked. The redhead guy just stared at me across the room while other boys whispered in his ear and pointed at me, instigating shit.
Whatsoever you do to the least of my brothers, that you do unto me—
(Hot thick Houston bayou air interrupts the cool, refreshing air-conditioned parish hall when the entrance door is opened.)
I felt it as I rushed to the bathroom with Patrick in tow.
“Stay by the door and don’t let nobody in,” I told Patrick.
“Maan, I can’t stay out here. Dey gonna whip my ass,” Patrick said.
“I ain’t gonna be long. Just stay here.”
I rushed into the bathroom. I spotted a small window over a toilet stall. Small enough to fit through. I went into the stall and stood on the commode. I pulled the lock latch and gave the window a tug with purchase. Nothing. The damn thing must’ve been glued shut. There must be air without interruption or obstacle. Think quickly. Patrick can’t fight. I jumped off the commode and yanked loose the toilet seat, then back up. Eyes closed, I slammed the seat and the window shattered. Perfect. Now stop. Remember. Look. There. There it was, hiding between aluminum eaves and the top of a pinecone tree—the sky.
Make the request in the cupped palm of the right hand three times. Extend the right index finger above the head. Draw the opening to the East. Draw the required lwa or ancestor to the North. Write the request West of the opening. Recite the Act of Contrition in Latin. Wash the right hand. Three revolutions to the West. Three revolutions to the East. Sign of the cross.
Desperate eyes stared back at me from the looking glass. Was this against God’s will? I was scared. Maybe I should have said a Rosary. No time for a Rosary. Shit, God hates me. I’m gonna get possessed by the Devil like
Linda Blair. Oh shit. Help.
Patrick banged on the door.
“Johnny! Hurry up, dawg,” he yelled.
My damp right hand trembled.
Young Arthur pulled the sword from the stone. Moses split the Red Sea. The Evans family got out of the projects. Black Jesus turned Houston tap into Wild Irish Rose. Linus saw the Great Pumpkin with his own eyes. Perseus killed Medusa and the Kraken. Miracles happen every gotdamn day, right?
I stepped out of the bathroom expecting God to strike me down with His hottest lightning bolt. This was the first time I used the left hand.
(Hot thick air rushes through the air-conditioned parish hall as several enter.)
“Ti’ John! Boy, where you been?”
At the entrance, the whole rambunctious crew had arrived just in time—drunk, country, and anxious—ladies and gentlemen, back from a statewide tour of terrorizing southwest Louisiana, let’s have a round of applause for the Boudreaux boys with special guests, the Augustine Brothers.
They were more than excited to see me. Hugs and hand slaps went around with every other statement—“Johnny, who’s that girl?” Everyone in the hall took notice, especially the vengeful redhead guy. Oh, the odds were even, all right. In fact, any odds-maker or sporting man would wager that I now had a slight edge. The truth is that I actually had a complete advantage. My cousins enjoyed fighting, the same way I enjoyed Galaxian, maybe more. All they needed was a reason, and it didn’t take long for them to find one.
“Eh, Ti’ John. That girl say them boys over there gonna beat your ass. For true?” Poon Boudreaux asked. I nodded.
“Look right here,” Poon said, then pulled his pants leg up to reveal a chrome revolver tucked away in his snakeskin boot.
“Don’t shoot nobody in here, Poon,” I requested.
He just smiled. He didn’t need the gun. He lived in New Orleans in the St. Thomas projects.
“How yawl got up here?” I asked.
“Uncle Coon let us hold his truck,” Alvin Augustine answered, “as long as we don’t wreck it and fill it up.”
Patrick leaned into my ear. “Let’s get the fuck outta here.”
“Alvin, can you give us a ride home right now?” I asked.
Poon interrupted. “What? We just got here. You ain’t gotta worry ’bout that nigga.”
“Poon, I just wanna go home. Yawl can stay, just don’t shoot nobody.”
Ten minutes later, Patrick and I were sitting on my roof passing a bottle of “Ricky’s” (Wild Irish Rose wine). No one said a word except “Pass the Off!” I guess the mosquitoes were in league with the redhead guy.
“Funny how you spent the whole day trying to avoid them and they just saved your ass,” Patrick said.
No need to respond. Of course I felt foolish. I was so busy trying not to act like family, but I had no idea how deep family went for each other, particularly among the Boudreauxs. I’d learn soon.
And after all that hoopla, it finally hit me. The petition worked!
The next day I sat at a long picnic table covered in newspaper and loaded with boiled crawfish and family. My cousins knew that I had been trying to avoid them, but they never mentioned it. Father knew too, which is why he loaned them his truck and told them where I was hiding. Mother had argued, but Father said that what I was doing wasn’t right. Them your people, whether you like it or not, whether they like you or not. Them your people. It didn’t matter if I had more or less of anything than them—them your people. It didn’t matter if I had better grades in school or thought that I was better than them—them your people. Opinions didn’t matter. The fact was—them your people. I looked at Poon and Alvin at the other end of the table. They laughed and joked, forgetful of all the negative things people said about them in Louisiana, forgetful of the warrant out for Poon’s arrest in Orleans Parish, forgetful only for this moment, when crawfish brought family together.
“Eh, Ti’ John. What was that girl’s name last night?” Poon asked.
“I don’t know,” I responded.
Everyone broke out in laughter.
“We went through all of that and you don’t know her name. Couillon,” Poon chided and the conversation changed.
My entire life had been one endless pursuit to fit in with South Park and the guys in my neighborhood. Yet when the chips were down it was my cousins who came to my aid. They loved me even though they knew I carried some bias toward them. Poon glanced at me with a rotten-tooth grin. I was ashamed. After Patrick and I left that dance, so I heard, Poon and the guys waited for the redhead guy outside the parish hall and beat him within an inch of his life. Not Booger. Not Raymond Earl. But family.
I looked at the tree near the fence, the tree that I would climb when I was younger when things didn’t go my way, and there sat Nonc Sonnier drinking a beer. I placed my right hand over my heart, then extended it out. Sonnier did the same, then disappeared. I turned to see Father watching. He nodded stolid approval.
My wandering ear could hear the noise and commotion and music and laughter on Ricky Street, but I was no longer intrigued. They turned their backs on me and left me with only one opinion—fuck them. They didn’t matter anyway because now I had proof. I was a gotdamn witch.
twenty-six
couche-couche et caillé1 for skeptics
Grease. Burning grease in the air. Hog skin. Wild hog skin. Wild hog skin burning in grease. I can smell it. Am I at St. Andrew’s trekking along the tree line? No. I hear a fiddle. Scratchy. Buoyant. Delightful. An old fiddle. An up-tempo waltz accompanied by a heavy stomp. I’m facing a forest. The beginning of the forest. I turn around as an anxious hawk falls upon a smelly cottonmouth, grapples with claws. Up they go. Up to that Great Albino in the sky for cottonmouth court bouillon. Behind me I see a large, dried-out field littered with dug-out holes, pockmarked.
People are in the forest. I hear their voices. Familiar voices. I think they know me. It feels that way.
The hawk is a dot in the sky.
I take a step toward the familiar.
I’m in the woods. I’m sure of it. But I’m not in the woods behind my house. I’m somewhere else. It smells different. Burning grease. The fiddle plays, calls. I’m moving through the forest and I haven’t taken a step. Hickory nut. Fig. Cypress. Oak. Pine. Pine needles. There’s a creek with tadpoles that glow. I drink the water from the creek. Sweet water. Over the creek. The voices are louder. This ain’t no dream, my boy. Someone is singing along with the fiddle. A man is singing in Creole. Past the creek there is a house with a tin roof. The house is made of cypress planks and sits on two-foot wooden blocks. In the yard, several men are gutting a huge hog. The back door is open. On a stump, a tall man with big hands and broad shoulders plays the fiddle with closed eyes. He is my grandfather, Paul Boudreaux. I never met him and have only seen one picture of him, but I know it’s him.
I’m in the kitchen now. Several women are cooking and chatting. I listen. Creole. I’m managing. Amédé Ardoin died in an asylum in Pineville. Timothé Fontenot was still missing. The women are stuffing boudin. The Klan are burning down black-owned grain silos. Pa-June got thrown in jail in Elton. Emile Victorian is still courting that Laurent girl. Coon spotted Nonc Sonnier by the creek. What?
I’m in the woods again near the house. A little boy sits on the ground digging a hole next to a sweet potato kiln. He puts a clay crock jar in the hole and covers it. I remember what Father said—
“Back in the country when I was small, we’d have a boucherie ever so often. We’d kill a couple of hogs, maybe a cow, then carve up the meat and give it out to everybody in the area. With the hog skin, we’d fry it for cracklins. We’d salt the meat, put a veil on it, then bury it in the ground to keep it fresh. In those days, everbody was poor, so we’d have a boucherie to share the meat ’cause it was important that we all had something to eat. We took care of ourselves.”
“Mon Neg!”
The little boy turns quickly toward the voice.
“Venez ici!�
�
He looks around a bit frightened. It’s the voice. He knows that voice and it scares him. I’m near. I look down at my bare feet. I take a step, then another, and walk closer to him.
“Qui ce que toi?”2 he says, voice gently trembling. He’s no more than three years old. His little face is dirty, as are his hands and clothes. His cotton shirt is too big for him. He wants to run away, but he sees that I am bigger and I can catch him.
“Fais pas epouvanté,”3 I say as calmly as possible.
He doesn’t believe me. He looks familiar, more than familiar. His dark, fine hair is pulled back into a ponytail tied together with a worn shoestring. He’s poor. He’s been poor for some time. Ghetto. It’s in his eyes, his big chestnut eyes. I know him. I hold out a hand to him. He holds out an open palm. Something is in his palm. Something stares at me from his palm. A red cicada. Quiet. Still. Winged ruby of God. It stares at me. It’s hot. I feel it. The child smiles.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” I say, but he’s circumspect. The fiddle changes tune and tempo, more spirited, more intense. The women laugh in the kitchen. He doesn’t understand English. I remember. I slowly place my right hand over my heart, then extend that hand to him, palm to the sky. He understands and smiles with the innocence of a newborn. He places the red cicada atop his head and takes my hand as he rises. Lève-toi. He’s peed on himself, but he’s not embarrassed. He’s too young to be vain.
“Qui ce que toi?” he asks again, but how can I tell him he’s my father?
“Ton ami,” I say.
He smiles and takes the red insect from his crown with precious reverence.
“Baisse-toi,” he says.
I bend over, and he places the red bug atop my head. It’s heavy, very heavy and hot. Hot coal. But it doesn’t burn; rather, it belongs. I don’t sense this belonging. I know it like old thoughts. I don’t know why. I straighten up. It’s heavier but it’s not heavy anymore. It’s hotter but it’s no longer hot. The child smiles proudly as the red bug on/in my head begins to sing. God watches, doesn’t watch. Time passes, doesn’t pass.
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