by Rhett DeVane
“She’s still your mother. She did raise you, after all.”
“Like I said, that credit goes to Nana. After Loretta’s husband left—the man I used to think of as my father—my mother fell apart. She started staying out all hours, partying. I don’t think she was ready to have the responsibility of a kid. You see, one way Tillie Davis and Loretta Day were fundamentally different: their ages. Loretta was fifteen when she got knocked up. The wedding was a shade shy of being held at the end of Nana’s butcher knife.”
Mary-Esther drew her legs up and wrapped her arms around her knees. “Nana told me that Loretta and my father met when he was stationed in Pensacola. He was twenty-one. Loretta Boudreau could’ve passed for the same. He and his Navy buddies spent a wild weekend in the French Quarter. He met Loretta. Fell for her, I suppose, or maybe it was only lust. She met him on several occasions whenever he came back into town. Loretta was a wild child. Even with Nana trying to ride herd over her, she was hell-bent on her own selfish passions.
“It wasn’t until she turned up pregnant that he realized how young she really was. I think Nana threatened him because of Loretta’s age. How she found out who he was is still a mystery to me. Nana never said, but I suspect it was one of her many eyes and ears—the folks she knew in every walk of life down in the Quarter.”
Mary-Esther stopped to take in a deep breath and blow it out. “He wasn’t ready to be a father any more than Loretta was ready to give up her party life. After a bit, he skipped out. We never heard from him again. His family certainly didn’t want anything to do with Loretta and her demon spawn. I wouldn’t have a clue as to how to go about finding them either. All these years later, what’s the point? I’m not that child.”
Mary-Esther offered a bemused smile. “How I ended up swaddled next to the baby everybody thought was Sarah Davis is another little twist of cruel fate. He and Loretta came for an ill-timed visit to my father’s family when she was pretty far along. Again, not a forward-thinking gal. She went into labor. The rest is history. Except, the baby she ended up dragging back to Pensacola, and eventually home to New Orleans after he ditched us, was not their biological kin.” She paused. “And the Davis family went through . . . a horrible loss.”
Hattie watched Mary-Esther’s movements. Little gestures: the way she twisted the corner of her mouth to one side when she pondered, her musical laugh, the softness around her eyes. So many things echoed Tillie Davis. Hattie didn’t need confirmation of blood ties. She knew.
“Loretta didn’t move back in with Nana at first,” Mary-Esther said. “She had a way of locating men to shack up with. I probably lived all over New Orleans and most of the surrounding parishes by the time I was a toddler. One day, Nana showed up where we were staying and took me home with her. I lived with Nana off and on after that. Loretta would sober up, vowing to have changed, and Nana would allow me to go back with her. It wasn’t that Nana didn’t want me. She never made me feel unloved. She believed the best place for a child was with her mother. Nana had an unwavering love for Loretta and held faith she could make something of herself.”
Mary-Esther paused, staring at the pond. “Loretta and I would move in with whatever flim-flam man she was seeing at the time. Things would bump along okay for a bit. I remember this one fellow, Charlie, who was kind of nice. I used to see him from time to time, even years later, but he died a few years ago.
“Nana always came for me when I finally had enough—can’t even tell you how many times—and I’d go live in her little wooden house. I was happiest when I was with Nana.”
Mary-Esther’s gaze grew distant. Hattie pulled up what little she knew of New Orleans, tried to gather the feel of the place Mary-Esther had called home. Hattie had visited once during her junior year of college. The only lingering impression wrapped around sugary beignets with chicory coffee and French Quarter streets awash with drunken Mardi Gras revelers. And the smell of stale urine.
“Nana had this way of making me feel as if I was the smartest and prettiest little girl on earth. I used to make up songs and sing for her,” Mary-Esther continued. “I’m tone deaf as a bull gator. To hear Nana tell it, I was bound for Broadway.”
Hattie smiled. “You must’ve gotten closer to your mother toward the end. I remember you said you were living together before . . .”
Mary-Esther’s eyes watered. “When I moved back home to help take care of Nana during those final days, I had pretty much scraped the bottom myself. My last marriage, if you would even qualify it as such, had hit the skids and I had no other place to go. Nana needed me. Then Mama showed up, destitute as usual, and Nana took her in. Again. I was furious at first. Now I had two women to watch over! Somehow Loretta pulled herself together and we took care of Nana as best we could.
“Strange, how good comes from bad. Nana said it often worked out that way.” Mary-Esther’s voice faltered. She cleared her throat. “Loretta and I got to the point we could stay in the same room without sniping and spitting fire. I don’t know if Loretta grew up, finally, or if I did. Suspect it was a bit of both. The last year of her life, we became more tolerant of each other.”
Hattie closed her eyes. The slow rhythm of the rocker eased the tension from her neck. For the first time in weeks, her troublesome shoulder did not throb in time with her heartbeat. One thing Holston had taught her, you learn more when you shut up and listen.
Mary-Esther rocked back and forth, matching Hattie’s pace.
“Loretta got sick, and we were swept up in this nightmare of hospitals, doctors, and no money. It wasn’t until the very end, after I was ready to give her a kidney to help her live, that I suspected she wasn’t my biological mother.”
“Did she know?”
“No. I ordered the DNA test after she died.” Mary-Esther stopped rocking. “Even if I had known earlier, I would not have told her. No way.”
Mary-Esther turned to Hattie. Tears glistened in her eyes. “Losing Nana. Losing Loretta. Losing my home. It’s shown me something I didn’t know before. I had a life in New Orleans. I had a family. Regardless of how screwed-up, it all belonged to me. I didn’t come here to try to steal the past from you. I only wanted to find out who I am, or I should say, who I might have been.”
“We should know for sure in a few days.”
“What then, Hattie? What if I’m just some woman, not your sister? All this you’ve been doing—the picture albums, the stories, the walks in these beautiful woods—what if you’ve been wasting your time? And even if I turn out to be blood-related, I can’t possibly be who you want me to be, can I?”
Hattie rocked, the creak of the wooden deck joints keeping time as the chair moved. “If you are my sister, I’ll be the most thrilled woman alive.” She stopped abruptly and faced Mary-Esther. “If not, I haven’t wasted time if you turn out to like me enough to remain my friend.”
*
Mary-Esther slept in fitful snippets, vacillating between cold enough to wrap in the comforter and hot enough to strip to the sheet. Boudreau tolerated the nocturnal calisthenics for a while but finally relocated to the terrycloth robe Mary-Esther had cast onto the floor. Tonight, the dream started in the usual fashion.
Mary-Esther stands at the bottom of the front steps, looking up to Nana’s time-faded red door. She ascends and lets herself into the unlocked house. The blended scents of Cajun spices and warm sugar pour over her. She continues down the hallway, much longer in the dream than it had been in reality.
Mary-Esther notices the hem of Nana Boudreau’s long skirt floating inches from the worn tile floor. Nana hums. She chops okra, peppers, and onions. Every part of her grandmother sways: hands flying, rear swishing, toes tapping, bosoms bouncing. Mary-Esther calls out. Nana doesn’t appear to hear at first then turns to where her granddaughter waits at the kitchen threshold. Nana’s hand summons Mary-Esther in and she moves closer to linger in Nana’s shadow, drinking in the essence of her grandmother.
Nana leans down. The cleavage between her pendulous breas
ts reminds Mary-Esther of the deep curb crevices that gush with water during a Louisiana summer rain. Nana Boudreau lifts a delicate gold chain circling her padded neck. The amulet, a small, gold cross with a single diamond at the center, dangles on its tether.
Nana’s eyes grow large and round. She swings the cross in the air toward Mary-Esther. Back and forth. Back and forth.
What Nana, what? I don’t understand.
The house, the kitchen, and Nana disappear. Only the image of the diamond-studded cross remains.
Mary-Esther jerked awake, her heart fluttering.
Please, Please, Nana. Don’t leave me. You’re all I have.
Boudreau meowed close-by. He jumped onto the bed and curled up in his customary position next to her heart.
Mary-Esther slipped into a dreamless sleep.
Chapter Twenty-six
Mary-Esther heard a crash, a thud. She threw aside the kitchen broom and rushed toward the back of Rose’s house. A fall often proved an elderly person’s worst nemesis, often initiating a deadly cascade of events. In a small bedroom, Rose’s doll house, she found the old woman perched on a low stool amidst a toppled mound of dolls and cardboard boxes.
“Rose? What . . . ?”
Rose glanced up. She held a porcelain replica of Gone with the Wind’s Scarlet O’Hara. “You’re quite pale, Mary-Esther dear.”
“Because you scared the beejezus out of me. I thought you might have taken a spill.”
Mary-Esther scanned the room. The shelves where the prized doll collection once stood were bare. Dust motes danced in the air. “I thought you were taking a nap. What are you doing?”
The old woman smoothed the doll’s green velvet skirt. “Sorting and packing.”
A flush of anger stung Mary-Esther’s skin. Had the no-account relatives been back while she was at work and convinced the old woman to relocate? “Are you moving out?”
One of Rose’s white eyebrows shot up. “Oh no. I’m not moving, but my baby dolls are.”
Mary-Esther lowered down to sit cross-legged next to the old woman. “I don’t follow you.”
“I’m packing up my babies. You promised to take good care of them.” Her red-rimmed eyes watered. “You promised!”
“And I will, Rose. But don’t you want to have them displayed so you can see them?”
“You must take them out of this house immediately. The only one I will keep here is the rag doll on my bed. Little Lucy has been with me since I was a child. Don’t believe I could get a decent night’s sleep without my Lucy. The rest you must take away from here. I’ll not have that Watson woman defile them with her stingy, piggy little hands. Do you hear?”
“I don’t think they’ll annoy you anymore. Elvina pretty much sent them running. They haven’t been here, have they?”
“No. I don’t believe so.”
Mary-Esther relaxed. The vultures weren’t circling. Just Rose’s fear.
“If you don’t help me get these dolls stored in a safe place, I’ll have to find someone who will.” Rose pursed her lips.
Mary-Esther held up both hands. “All right, Rose. I’ll go to the Dollar Store and buy some plastic stacking bins to seal out moisture. As damp as it can get sometimes in my apartment, I would hate if they mildewed.”
“Go then. Hurry. Pick up some tissue paper too. We’ll tuck them in, snug as bugs in a rug.”
She left Rose smiling, singing little ditties as she hugged one doll after the other. One thing Mary-Esther had learned about dealing with seniors was that she had to choose her battles. As long as Rose’s desires didn’t harm her health or put her in immediate danger, Mary-Esther would play along.
“I sure hope I’m lucky enough to find someone to put up with my crazy stuff when I get to be her age,” Mary-Esther said to no one. She cranked the van.
*
“That’s a weight off my mind.” Rose looked around the empty shelves, her hands propped on her thin hips.
The dolls had been counted, swaddled in protective tissue paper and plastic bubble-wrap, and layered in labeled bins with lists of each doll’s name and origin. Where can I store them? Mary-Esther visualized her cramped apartment. Maybe she could stack them two high, throw tablecloths over the tops, and use them as bedside tables.
Rose regarded Mary-Esther. “Have you seen your young man recently?”
“Jerry? Um . . . yes. He stops by Bill’s for coffee every evening when he’s on patrol.”
“You’ve taken a shine to him, haven’t you?”
Mary-Esther smiled. “Jerry’s a good man. He kind of grows on you.”
“Best watch out.” Rose shook her finger. “That’s the way I feel about my Eustis. Cupid will be shooting an arrow into your heart.”
Troubling. The last couple of days, Rose refused to refer to Eustis in the past tense. Dementia or self-preservation? Did it really matter?
“I don’t know, Rose. I haven’t had such a lucky run with men.”
“You mustn’t give up, dear. If you chase after love, it will hide from you. But if you let it settle down next to you real easy-like, it will stay and be yours forever.”
Mary-Esther fought the urge to roll her eyes like a petulant teenager. “I’d like to believe that.”
Rose turned her head toward the window. “Is that rain I hear?”
“Sounds like it. It’s supposed to shower then turn cold. The weather surely varies. One day it’s fifty and the next, eighty.”
“Never boring, this time of year. Not like summer, when it’s so hot and humid you could melt your shoe soles on the sidewalks. The heat wears me out, anymore. Used to be, it didn’t much bother me. Suppose that comes with age, not doing well with extremes.”
“I prefer fall and winter, myself.”
“Let’s go onto the porch and listen to the rain.” Rose’s voice changed pitch, like a child’s.
They sat side-by-side on the front porch swing, gently swaying forward and back. The rusty chains sang out. The old woman shivered and wrapped her arms around her chest.
“We should go inside, Rose. The temperature is beginning to drop.”
Rose’s lips turned down. “Then we wouldn’t be able to watch the rain.”
Mary-Esther stood and walked inside, returning with a soft pink wrap. She draped the coverlet across the old woman’s shoulders. How frail Rose felt, as if her bones were turning to spun sugar.
“I thank you.” Rose smiled. The old woman’s gaze returned to the steady, soft drizzle misting the fall foliage. “This year, I do believe the trees are as pretty as I have ever seen them.”
Mary-Esther agreed. “I was out at the Davis land a couple of days ago, and the woods were breathtaking. I never realized this part of the South had such great colors in the fall.”
“We have all the trees they do farther north in the Smoky Mountains, for the most part. It takes a year with the perfect combination of cool nights and a little bit of rain, though not too much, to help us have a fall such as the one this year. Some years, the leaves turn brown and fall off.”
“Guess I never paid it much attention, living in the city.” Mary-Esther reached over and repositioned the wrap that had slipped from the old woman’s shoulders.
“City’s good for a lot of things,” Rose stated. “I’ve been to two or three in my time. Eustis is more the traveler. That’s where all those dolls came from. He buys one for me wherever he goes. Doesn’t have to be a special occasion like a birthday or anniversary. He brings them because he wants to please me. The best gifts are that way, given ‘just because.’”
The old woman turned to face Mary-Esther. “I want you to know, I have grown quite fond of you, dear. You’ve been so good to me, especially with Eustis away. He told me, if we could’ve had a daughter, she would’ve been like you.”
Mary-Esther’s throat constricted.
“But you see, I do think of you as my daughter.” Rose took Mary-Esther’s hand. A faint, gentle current of warmth passed between them. “And so does my E
ustis.”
Rose looked back toward the twin, yellow-flocked hickory trees flanking the street. “I do believe, when I take my leave, I’m going to fly right to heaven through those two golden trees.”
*
Mary-Esther stood on the paved landing at the Apalachicola River and received instructions from Jerry.
“It’s easy, Mary-E. All I want you to do is hold onto the bow rope and walk alongside as I back up. When I’m far enough in, the boat will elevate off the trailer. Then, I will pull away. Your job is to hang onto the rope. Once I’m clear, you can start to pull her in a little at a time.” He pointed to a spot downriver. “Best to drag her clear of the cement landing so the bottom doesn’t get scratched up, and you’re out of the way. That place has soft sand; you can beach her so you don’t have to hang on so hard. The current along the bank isn’t strong.”
Mary-Esther saluted. “Got it.”
After Jerry parked the truck and trailer, he loped down the bank, helped Mary-Esther to board, pushed the boat away from shore, and jumped on. For the next few minutes, Mary-Esther watched as he used the power-tilt to lower the outboard motor, cranked it, did a quick check of the dials and radio, and aimed the bow downriver.
“Impressive.”
Jerry smiled. “What?”
“You and this marine thing. I took you more for the hunter/land type.”
“I grew up on the waterways around here. Nearly every weekend and sometimes during the week after school, my buddies and I either came over here or to the Ochlocknee River. I’ve never been one for saltwater fishing, but I could live on a river.”
Mary-Esther admired the cabin cruiser. Not as fancy as some of the boats she had watched coming and going from the Port of New Orleans, but sturdy and adequate. “I noticed the name on her side, Junkyard Dog. Suppose there’s a story behind that too.”
“There’s a story behind everything in this part of the South. If not, we invent one.” He flashed a grin. “Found the hull in a junk yard. Paid next to nothing for it. Loaded it onto a flatbed trailer and dragged it home to Mama’s. I worked on it, off and on, for a couple of years as I had time and money. The most expensive thing on her is the motor. Had to save up for that.” As he talked, he flipped switches and checked some kind of digital monitor. “Her name pays homage to her origins. A junkyard dog may be mutt-ugly, but it’s mean and tenacious, and will protect its territory until death.”
