A Twisted Ladder

by Rhodi Hawk

  He turned around. “Hold up a minute, Madeleine.”

  He reached for her again. This time his warm hand went to the small of her back, and he kissed her fully, a firm, slow indulgence. And while this kiss was not entirely unexpected, the lusciousness of it did surprise her. The way he leaned into her; the way he tasted. His lips were soft and firm and confident and downright delicious. It felt as though currents of electricity had joined between them.

  Her left hand slid up the wall of his chest and curled around his neck. He smelled like sandalwood and sun-drenched granite. Warmth radiated out to her limbs.

  He released her, his fingertips just below her ear.

  “Call you Tuesday,” Ethan whispered, and then he turned and left.

  MADELEINE WATCHED THROUGH THE glass inlay as Ethan strode to the hybrid. Her body held on to the feeling of sparks flowing through her. She still thought they made an unlikely pair, she and Ethan, but one dinner wouldn’t hurt. And maybe one more taste of those sparks. She turned toward the kitchen and switched on the light.

  “Nice boy, that Ethan.”

  Madeleine jumped. “Daddy! How long have you been standing there?”

  He stepped toward his daughter. “Not too long. Long enough.”

  “Shame on you!”

  “Well it didn’t look like y’all wanted to be interrupted.”

  She shooed him into the kitchen and huffed, checking the kettle. The water was still hot. She steeped two mugs with tea and settled down with her father.

  Daddy dunked the tea bag a couple of times. “Thank you, hon. I don’t suppose you have a little nip of something for this?”

  She rolled her eyes. “You’re lucky you don’t get a spoonful of cod liver oil.”

  “Or Chloe LeBlanc’s voodoo brew.”

  Madeleine raised her brows. “I take it you saw her at the gala tonight?”

  He nodded. “God help me.”

  “You know when this whole thing started, I was surprised to find out that Mémée’s mother was even alive. You never talked about her.”

  “Well, honey, your grandmother never thought much of Miss Chloe, even though she was her own mother. Wasn’t till after your grandmother died that I ever even met her. My mother kept her well away from us kids.”

  “And you kept her well away from us, apparently.”

  Daddy shrugged.

  “Why did you?” Madeleine said.

  “I don’t know. It’s complicated. Felt like I was being disloyal to my mother as it was. And anyway . . .” He sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. “Miss Chloe’s an odd one. Old school river folk, you know? She has a funny way of showing you things. You wind up following her somewhere dark and weird. Don’t get me wrong. She’s smart, and she knows things. Next thing you know she’s led you into the attic of a burning house, and she’s guarding the escape ladder. Know what I mean?”

  “No. As a matter of fact I have no idea what you mean.”

  He sighed. “Like I say, it’s complicated. You kids were young, you had enough troubles. Didn’t need to be bringin some crazy woman around to make things worse.”

  “She said she’d kept an eye on Marc and me from a distance anyway.”

  Daddy gave a rueful laugh. “Lotta good that didja.”

  And then he sobered, running his hand along his jaw and gazing into his cup. “I can’t imagine why I wouldn’t have just done right by you kids. You didn’t have a mother, and I was no use as a father.”

  Madeleine’s lips parted, surprised by the suddenness and vulnerability in his change of tone. “You loved us, Daddy, and you were there for us when you were well. We made it through OK.”

  “Did you?” His blue eyes held hers. “And where is Marc now that he made it through OK?”

  Madeleine swallowed and said, “It’s not your fault.”

  She averted her eyes, running her hand across the worn kitchen wall to that same scar, the place where paper bubbled up, and let her fingers explore the loose corner where it pulled back.

  “Don’t know why, but after all this remodeling, I can’t seem to bring myself to tackle the kitchen.” She looked at her father. “Tell me what else you know about Chloe.”

  He sighed. “Not much to tell, other than folks were afraid of her. My mama wanted nothing to do with the woman. Said Chloe’s about as huggable as a frog in formaldehyde.”

  Madeleine grinned, not realizing she was still tugging at the bit of wallpaper until it pulled free an inch. “Oops.”

  The opening revealed several layers of paint and some crumbled plaster. To peel back two or three more inches would be to reveal the blemish where the wallpaper bubbled out.

  Daddy nodded at the scarred wall. “Better leave that alone.”

  “I know. Can’t seem to let it be. Like peeling a sunburn. And I’m convinced there’s a mouse or something living in there. I’ve caught movement going on.”

  “What, you heard?”

  “Not so much heard, but I could just tell . . .” Madeleine swallowed, unable to finish the thought, as she recalled that last phone conversation she’d had with her brother.

  Daddy watched her face. “You’re just fiddling because of worn nerves. Guess I been putting you through the paces lately.”

  She shook her head. “All I ask is that you keep up with your meds, Daddy. That’s it. The rest of it . . .” she waved a hand.

  He retreated within himself a half step. “Sure kitten. Sure I’ll take’m.”

  His sincerity was underwhelming. Maddy felt her ears at her shoulders again. Let smoke be smoke.

  He said, “I’m telling you darlin. You pull that off, you might find a whole lotta mess under there.”

  “What? Oh.” She’d unconsciously resumed fiddling with the wallpaper, and it lifted another inch even as she saw what she was doing. She smoothed the loosened corner back against the wall but as soon as she removed her hand, the paper floated backward again. It looked as though once uncovered, it would never go back.

  Daddy leaned forward and flicked a bit of material that dangled from within the layers. “Look at that. They plastered right over the original wallpaper. In fact it wudn’t even paper—looks like they used fabric. The same pattern from the center hall. My mama said that was specially commissioned from Paris a long time ago.”

  “How long?”

  “Four generations at least. Maybe more.”

  Madeleine swept her gaze over the kitchen and the foyer beyond, taking in the tray ceiling and other details that made the house unique. “Really? Paris?”

  “Yeah. All these old Victorians put the best materials into the grand old center halls. Make a fine impression when you first walk in. Never mind that the rest of the house is shadows and dust.”

  “And beauty.”

  He smiled at her, miles of blue in his eyes. “You’re right, kitten. Endurable beauty. You’ve kept the house up real well, too. Way better than I would have. Kitchen aside.”

  She laughed.

  He pointed out the mahogany and cypress millwork. “See that? That’s my favorite part. Cypress wood straight from the bayou. Local craftsmen right here in New Orleans carved those panels when they built this place. See that sugarcane motif on the frieze? Same as the one outside on the verandah? Cane’s what led to the family fortune.”

  “Yeah. Funny. I didn’t even recognize that was a sugarcane motif. Always thought it was just grass or something—some generic pattern like acanthus leaf.” She paused, thinking about her grandmother and Chloe, and all the documents Marc had left spread out all over the little Creole cottage in Houma. “What else do you know about our family?”

  “Not a hell of a lot, really. My mama didn’t like to talk about’m. All kinda rumors about . . .” He paused with a laugh. “You know, family gossip.”

  twelve

  HAHNVILLE, 1912

  WHEN THE RIVER HAD burst through the sandbags and spread across the land, the initial wave had mellowed to a broad, shallow, creeping body. The rural folk, a
lerted to the situation by the sheriff and deputy, had watched the stealing tide as it crossed fields and swirled upon their shanties. The thin sheet of water hadn’t seemed threatening at first. Its approach had been slow enough to allow people to grab belongings and move to higher ground. But its lean, sluggish movement had also deceived them into thinking they were not in danger. When the ankle-deep body of water had raised itself to waist level and then higher, the quiet tide carried relentless force. People who hadn’t made it to the high ground had found themselves shooed up onto their rooftops, waiting powerlessly in the cool intermittent drizzle. People, dogs, mice, cats, and rats all shared the same rooftops and trees. Stranded cattle had waded through the swamped pastures with wild eyes, heads tilted above the surface, lowing, and then drowning.

  Rémi and Francois had taken two vessels down the main artery of the Mississippi River to Glory Plantation—Rémi’s bateau which was powered by a two-cycle gasoline engine, and the simple plantation pirogue trailing behind it in tow—where they’d found Jacob fishing from his balcony. They’d also collected several plantationers strewn along corrugated metal rooftops, the same Glory workers who had been sandbagging the levee the day before. A dry stretch of high ground outside Vacherie had served as a good location for a makeshift tent town that provided some shelter against the elements. Rémi and Francois had continued to gather those who were stranded, ferrying them to the high ground. They’d all been through this many times before.

  By the second day, a nagging itch on Rémi’s feet evolved into fiery boils. Helen’s servant Chloe had made him a salve which soothed the fungus, and he’d continued the rescue efforts barefoot.

  Now, on the third day, the rain ceased altogether and the weather was warm. Helen wanted to see about her mother who was suffering frail health in the wake of the flood. The rescuers had already found and relocated most of the people stranded by the floodwaters, and the Red Cross had managed to provide emergency shelter and food to the displaced evacuees, and so Rémi agreed to take her to the train station.

  He perused the gallery, looking out over the expanse of his property while Helen, bags packed, gathered sweet peas to take to her mother. Terrefleurs’ broad avenue teemed with the refugees who’d been rerouted as overflow from the tent city. The Mississippi sparkled innocently in the morning light, swollen but otherwise revealing none of the past week’s treachery. But something else was wrong. Rémi couldn’t say what. A quiet fiend, like termites in the foundation.

  “Tant de gens,” came a woman’s voice.

  Rémi wheeled. Helen’s servant Chloe was standing near the rear stairwell, a basket over her wrist.

  “I’ve told you to use English,” Rémi said.

  She did not reply, only stood watching him. She turned and started down the stairs.

  Rémi said, “But you’re right, Terrefleurs is full. The workers are two and three to a bed.”

  She paused and turned back toward him. “Is dangerous. There will be fights.”

  “You know of some trouble?”

  “Nothing in plain sight. Not yet.”

  “It’ll only be for another day or two. The water’s already receding. We’ll keep them working—idle hands are the devil’s playthings.”

  Chloe turned and continued her descent down the stairs.

  Rémi saw Helen below in the kitchen garden, and watched as Chloe moved to the gate and across the whistler’s walk to join her. Nearby, the gardener’s six-year-old son, a harelip named Laramie who’d just recently begun plantation school, was picking debris out of the garden and loading it onto a wheelbarrow. He could barely reach the top but his deformity and his disposition made him look as though he wore a permanent smile.

  Ironic that the little Laramie should be assigned to the whistler’s walk; he was incapable of whistling. In the early days of Terrefleurs, servants were made to whistle as they carried trays from the kitchen to the main house—a way to keep them from sneaking food from the plates. A strange tradition of recent past, and an attitude that had long since faded. Nowadays, Tatie Bernadette’s strategy for keeping servants from stealing food was to make sure their bellies were full.

  Helen’s long dark hair was woven into an elegant twist and neatly pinned under her bonnet, and she stood with her hand at the slender curve of her waist. She and Chloe commiserated in the shadow of the white-painted brick pigeonnier while the birds watched and cooed from their apartment perches. Chloe snipped stems of sweet marjoram and showed them to Helen who in turn examined them closely, smelling the leaves and tucking them into the basket. Rémi thought of the salve that Chloe had made for his foot, and wondered about Chloe’s background, and where she might have acquired her medicinal knowledge.

  The sensation returned to him, that an invader had come. He panned the area. His vision straining, he closed his eyes in frustration, and then opened them again.

  Movement from the path below caught his eye. A tall black man clad in worker’s overalls entered the garden. The man’s gaze was fixed on Rémi with a striking expression—the lack of respect in the eyes; rotted teeth in an unsavory grin. He was not a field worker at Terrefleurs. Must have been an evacuee. As Rémi watched, he leaned over and whispered to little Laramie. Laramie looked different. A golden shimmer seemed to dance across his skin. Actually, to Rémi’s tired eyes, that shimmer seemed to be coming from deeper within the child.

  “Hey, garçon!” Rémi called to the stranger.

  But the worker turned away from the harelip child and started toward the garden exit.

  Rémi leaned forward and called again. “Hey, garçon! Arrêtez!”

  The worker slowed. Helen, Chloe, and the child looked askance at Rémi for a moment, and then looked toward the far hedges where the worker was striding away.

  “Arrêtez!” Rémi called again.

  The worker halted. And then he turned around slowly, wearing an expression that registered somewhere between surprise and delight.

  But that delight had aggression in it, the look of a coyote challenged by a housecat, and Rémi had to bolster himself to maintain an authoritative voice. “Viens ici. Qui es-tu?”

  The worker gaped back with that same grin, only this time, the grin widened. And Rémi was certain he saw viciousness in it. The man’s African skin lacked any sheen of sweat. His eyes were dark as though the pupil swallowed the whole of the iris. The man stepped toward Helen.

  “Arretez!” Rémi said, jabbing out his hand and pointing at him.

  He just continued, very slowly, each step in blatant defiance of Rémi’s order. Chloe was wary and alert, her eyes trained on Rémi. The worker reached Helen and then leaned and whispered something into her ear. Helen seemed barely to notice; she gaped at her husband, bewildered.

  Rémi darted for the stairs.

  The worker turned and walked away, leaving through the garden gate, striding past the kitchen house.

  “Ho!” Rémi called after him.

  But by the time Rémi made it to the bottom of the staircase, he was gone. Rémi trotted in the direction the worker had been moving. Nothing.

  He circled back to the garden where Helen and Chloe had resumed collecting legumes for Helen’s mother.

  Rémi called over to his wife, “Chérie, who was that? What did he say to you?”

  She turned and looked back at Rémi with a hand to her bonnet, straining to see him over the hedge wall.

  “What did you say, dear?”

  “Who was that? That man! He just spoke to you!”

  “I can’t hear you.” Helen shook her head. “Is it time to leave for the station? We’re ready.”

  “What?”

  Rémi cursed. He looked out toward the woods, then back at his wife. He nodded. He would talk to Francois about this man.

  thirteen

  NEW ORLEANS, 2009

  A LITTLE BOY SPREAD his arms like airplane wings as he ran around the great oak tree near the Audubon gates. There were other children playing, too, but Madeleine was drawn to t
his one, perhaps because he was a mulatto like herself. He looked striking with bronze-colored hair and light brown skin and freckles on his nose. Nearby stood a couple that must have been the child’s parents, a black man and a white woman carrying plastic cups filled with something cool. All three of them—from the little boy to the parents—seemed happy.

  Watching them, Madeleine felt she could identify the weft and warp each parent had individually contributed in giving life to the little creature.

  Creating a creature. A creature is a creation.

  The little boy’s golden hair color came from the mother, but the curly texture was from the father; as were the big brown eyes and soft wide lips. Cheekbones from mom. Madeleine wondered about the hidden traits: the pieces of his personality, the likes and dislikes, the medical conditions, the mental disorders.

  And then she saw Ethan walking toward her.

  “There you are, watching the children play. Cute, aren’t they?” He kissed her cheek.

  “Hi. Oh, yeah.”

  He looked at her face. “Wait, you weren’t thinking about how cute they are.”

  “Well they are cute. But no, I was thinking about the traits.”

  “Traits?”

  She shrugged.

  He looked back up toward the great tree, where the children climbed and shrieked and scrambled around trying to catch each other. “Very observant, Dr. LeBlanc. And have you ever considered splicing your own traits with another humanoid? Purely in the interest of scientific investigation, of course.”

  “I—I . . .” her shoulders ratcheted toward her ears, a thing she would never have been conscious of until Sam had pointed it out.

  He grinned. “Come on. You know you want to try your hand at creating creatures.”

  She gave a start at his choice of words. “Create creatures?”

  “Why you lookin at me like you seen a ghost?”

  She blinked, trying to think of a clever response, but he’d already taken her elbow and was pulling her toward the entrance.