I asked around, and people told me to hire Thaddeus Stevens. His law office was over the Western Auto. It was late August, hot as blazes, and when the secretary showed me into the office, I was pleased to see a rotary fan riffling the papers on Mr. Stevens’s desk. He was talking on the phone, and he lifted one finger, as if to say, Be right with you.
I glanced around at the knotty wood paneling where dozens of mounted animal heads and humongous fishes stared down at me. I knew then I’d found me the right lawyer. I opened my purse and dug out all the money I had—fifteen dollars and sixty-seven cents from cleaning rooms at the Driftwood Motel over by the lake. I had give the rest to Dolph, but the police had tooken it.
“I don’t need any money,” said Mr. Stevens. He’d never known anybody who’d killed a actual bear, and it tickled his fancy. He told me not to fret, he’d take care of things. “Just tell me one thing,” said Mr. Stevens. “Where’s the bear?”
I played with the handle of my pocketbook, twisting it back and forth, wondering if I could trust him, this gray-eyed man. Nailed to the wall above his head was the biggest catfish I ever saw. Next to it was a twelve-point buck. Its glassy eyes looked sad.
Mr. Stevens watched me stare at the dead animals. Then he said, “Anything you or Mr. Boudreaux tell me is privileged. That means that as your lawyer, I cannot—and will not—tell anybody. Believe you me, it’s in both our interests for me to keep this information confidential.”
I told him that Dolph threw the bear into the back of his truck and drove it to his sister’s house in Mississippi. She didn’t want to put the bear in her deep freeze, but Dolph made her.
Mr. Stevens whistled, then he leaned across the desk. “Must’ve been a big freezer?”
“Yes, sir. When all this blows over, Dolph wants to make a bearskin rug, complete with the head and teeth.”
“I want to see this rug,” said Mr. Stevens, laughing.
The judge scheduled to hear the case was Mr. Stevens’s fishing buddy, but he had pneumonia, and they brought in a judge from another parish. He ordered Dolph to say what he’d done with the bear carcass. Dolph said he reckoned another wild animal dragged it off. Then he said it could’ve been another hunter. He got sent to Angola Prison.
Mr. Stevens felt terrible and offered me a job. “I’ve got two little girls, and my wife is sickly,” he said. “We could use live-in help. I’d pay you good, and you could stay in the guest room. Well, just think about it. But I’d sure appreciate any help you could give.”
I wanted to ask what kind of sickness she had, and if it was catching. I dabbed my eyes with a handkerchief. “Well, I reckon I could go with you,” I said. I followed him out to a green Cadillac. He drove one block away from Lake Pontchartrain and turned into a sandy driveway, all strewn with pine needles. I saw a red brick house with white shutters, not any flowerbeds. Maybe they did need help. I could stay here awhile and save my money. Plus, I could walk to town on my day off.
He led me into a sunny yellow and purple kitchen where checked curtains sucked against the screens, bringing in the heat and smell of late summer. A wooden footstool was pushed up to the sink, and I wondered if the wife was also a short woman. Down the hall, I heard the TV. Roy Rogers and Trigger was having an adventure. Mr. Stevens waved his arm. “My wife loves the colors of Mardi Gras.”
“It’s lively, all right.” I glanced at the purple dishes stacked in the cabinet. “And clean.”
“My daughters see to that.” He poked his head into the hall and whistled out. “Girls? Come on out, I want you to meet somebody.” He turned back to me. “The extra bedroom might need airing out. Just tell me what you need in the way of sheets or pillows. Or if you want to paint the walls, just say the word.”
Two little blond-headed girls appeared in the doorway. “Girls, I want y’all to meet Mrs. Gladys Boudreaux. She’s going to take care of things.” The taller girl, Abigail, wore thick eyeglasses; the short one, Shelby, had round gray eyes and a little turned-up nose. The girls shook my hand and said pleased to meet you and whatnot, real polite but in a weary, grown-up way.
Mr. Stevens led me down the hall. Here, it was dark and smelled dank. I stepped past pecan shelves that was crammed with books and silver trophies and pictures of a pretty blond woman in a tiara. A banner across her chest read, “Miss Louisiana.” He stopped at a door and knocked twice. “Emma Gail, honey? I found somebody to help around the house, and I’d like to introduce y’all. Can you come to the door a minute?”
Inside, I heard a scrabbling noise. I just stood there, looking straight ahead. The door cracked open, and the stench of cigarette smoke and Vicks VapoRub hit me. A woman stuck out her head. It was X’d with pincurls. She looked thin, all weak-eyed and sickly. Behind her, the room was piled high with junk and clothes. There was no room to walk, just little pathways to the bed. Mr. Stevens made the introductions, and when I shook his wife’s warm, damp hand, I did not think she was long for this world. Those poor little girls would soon be motherless.
After Mr. Stevens drove back to his office, the little girls helped clean my room. They bustled around like grown women, dragging out the Electrolux, flinging open windows, ripping off the sheets. A sick parent will do that to a child. Later, we walked to town and bought a cartload of groceries. The girls showed me how to charge it to the Stevens account.
I found a pressure cooker in a cabinet, and I made a pot of chicken gumbo. I fixed a right nice tray for Emma. Shelby wanted to take it to her mama, but I said, “Maybe she can join us in the kitchen.”
“Mama can’t leave her room,” said Abigail.
“I can carry her. I’m a stout woman,” I said, wondering if Mrs. Stevens had been struck with polio. “Let’s find her a comfortable chair.”
“It’s not that.” Abigail stared at the floor. “She can walk. She just likes to stay in her room.”
“All right, then,” I said, but I didn’t understand. Abigail picked up the tray, and from outside, I heard music. I peeked out the window and saw a white ice cream truck with a great big fake Creamsicle on the roof. “Y’all better hurry up and get y’all a Popsicle,” I said.
Shelby’s cheeks turned red, and Abigail said, “We can’t eat sweets.”
“Plus, we don’t have money,” Shelby added.
“How much is it?” I reached for my pocketbook.
“A nickel,” said Abigail, setting the tray on the table. “But I already told you Mama doesn’t allow desserts.”
“Once won’t hurt,” I said, and pushed open the screen door with my hip. “Here’s enough money for you both—but hurry! Y’all are going to miss him. You better run!”
They walked into the yard all stifflike, but when they saw that the truck was leaving, they broke into a run. The truck wheeled over to the side of the road. I went back inside, picked up the tray, and carried it down the hall, trying to walk slow to keep the dishes from rattling. Her door wasn’t pulled to all the way. “Mrs. Stevens, I brought you some chicken gumbo,” I called.
“Come in,” she called.
I nudged the door with my shoe, and it swung open. I stepped into that smelly sick room. Golden light seeped through the venetian blinds, spearing through cigarette smoke. She was stretched out on the bed, the sheets mismatched and wrinkled.
Above the bed hung a picture showing a mermaid sitting on a rock, combing her hair.
“Just set the tray on the dresser.” Mrs. Stevens lifted one bony hand and pointed. “And thanks. What did you say your name was?”
“Gladys Boudreaux.” With my elbow, I pushed aside empty teacups and made a place for the tray. I tried to guess her age—thirty-five? Forty? But that couldn’t be right, not if she was the lady in the Miss Louisiana picture.
“I’m Emma. And don’t worry, you can’t catch what I’ve got,” she said. “My trouble is in the brain.”
“A tumor?” I asked, then clapped my hand over my mouth.
“Heavens, no.” She fingered a pin curl. “I just have conniptio
n fits when I leave this room. I can’t stand open places. I’ll shake and vomit. Actually, I’d rather have a tumor.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You don’t understand, do you? Well, I’ll explain. First, you have to know how a small town works. The worst thing you can be is crazy. Tuberculosis, they understand. So, a long time ago, I started a rumor on myself, and now everybody thinks I’ve got a fatal disease. Sickness doesn’t cause vicious gossip if people know what you’ve got.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said again. It wasn’t my place to judge, and I didn’t. She kept on talking, claiming she’d been drove crazy by Mr. Stevens himself. When he wasn’t at his law office, he was at the hunting camp or fishing down at Grand Isle. He would go off with judges, lawyers, buddies from high school. He hadn’t been present at the birth of either child. With Abigail, he was quail hunting, and when Shelby was born, he was deep-sea fishing in Biloxi. He couldn’t remember Christmas presents, Easter baskets, birthdays, anniversaries. He was no good in bed, couldn’t get it up half the time, and when he did, it was over in three minutes.
From the hallway, I heard a sniffling noise. I turned and saw the girls. Abigail was licking her Creamsicle, but Shelby had finished hers and was chewing the stick.
“I’ve told y’all not to eavesdrop!” Emma clapped her hands. “And where did y’all get that ice cream?”
“I bought it for them,” I said.
“Gladys, you shouldn’t have.” Two lines creased Emma’s forehead. “My girls aren’t allowed to eat sweets.”
“Please don’t talk ugly to Gladys,” said Shelby.
“I wasn’t talking ugly, and even if I was, I can’t help what I say. I’m a lunatic, my mama was a lunatic, and so was her mama. Before it’s over, you girls will be just like me.”
“I’ll never be like you!” Shelby threw down her Popsicle stick, then took off running.
“Oh, yes, you will,” called Emma, the veins standing out on her neck. “You can’t escape it.”
I measured time by the holidays. Not only did Halloween pass us by, so did the trick-or-treaters. For Thanksgiving, I pan-fried quail that Mr. Stevens had shot. Christmas almost rolled by, but not before I made him buy those girls a tree. They’d not had one since they were itty-bitty babies. By Easter the girls’ faces had filled out. Mr. Stevens took Emma’s old wood-paneled station wagon off the concrete blocks, where it had been setting in the side yard for Lord knows how many years, and taught me how to drive. I had never drove Dolph’s old truck, and even if I’d wanted to, the police had done towed it off for evidence.
Driving sure did come in handy, because every week the Stevens girls got one invitation or another. This surprised me, but Emma explained that Mr. Stevens’s family was old and respected, and just because she was an invalid, it didn’t cast a full shadow on those girls. They didn’t have overnight guests; in fact, they didn’t have no company. But they was invited to birthday and slumber parties, hayrides and scavenger hunts. I was evermore driving them to one brick house or another. Mr. Stevens used to take them, and it wore him to a frazzle.
I knew better than to ask if the girls had ever had a birthday party. They couldn’t invite children to the house. So I got me a idea. During the week, when the girls was at school, I made Emma my especial project. Every day I’d make her take one step farther from her room. At first, she hollered and slapped me upside the head. But I kept at it. She got to where she could stand in the hall for a minute, then five minutes. I’d stand there, holding her hands until she stopped shaking.
By Memorial Day she could sit in the living room and watch Wild Kingdom with the girls. On July 4, she joined us in the kitchen for a hot dog supper. But no amount of coaxing would make her step outside the house.
When I’d worked there a little more than a year, I sent the girls into the attic for their sweaters, and they brought down a dusty Royal typewriter with a missing N key. It had a wrinkled piece of paper jammed inside it. Abigail squatted on the floor and started banging keys, then she hit the silver bar and it made a ding.
The noise drew Emma from her room. She stared down at the machine, smoking fiercely for several moments. “What is it for, Mama?” asked Shelby.
“For? Your grammar is offensive, my dear,” Emma said, then she began to circle the machine, her house slippers flapping against her heel. “It’s a relic from my days at Newcomb.”
She sent the girls to town for crisp white paper, a typewriter ribbon, and a eraser. After they left, she hoisted the Royal onto the kitchen table, then lit a cigarette and blew smoke over the machine. Dust swirled up, hanging in the air. I sneezed into my apron.
“Sorry about that, Gladys. Actually, I’m sorry about a helluva lot. Did I ever tell you that I was an English major at Newcomb? My junior year I heard that a New York publisher was having a contest, so I sat down and wrote a novel in three months. I didn’t go to class, didn’t eat, didn’t comb my hair. I still made straight As.” She reached up and patted the spongy, home-bleached curls. “My poor hair was never the same, but my novel won the contest. The publisher flew me up to New York City, and they took me to the Rainbow Room.”
“So what happened?” I lifted the teakettle and poured steaming water into the china pot. The only book I’d read was the Bible. Many a time I had dusted the Stevens’s crowded pecan bookcases, and never once did I guess that Emma had wrote one.
“Do you know what autobiographic is, Gladys? Well, it’s a true story. A lot of people chalked it up to a vivid but twisted imagination. But other people knew better.”
“What was it about?”
“A Tulane English major named Bethany. Only I changed Tulane to Toulouse University. I was—I mean, Bethany was in love with a porter at the Fountainbleu Hotel.”
“She was really in love with a porter?”
“Actually, I’m Bethany. And I never got over him. I’d hoped the book might be a catharsis, but it only brought it all back. I dropped out of school three months before graduation and went home to Alexandria. My mother and Aunt Abby had been scandalized by my novel, and they insisted I redeem myself by entering the Miss Louisiana pageant. I won it, but Atlantic City was a washout. I did a dramatic reading from my book. A big mistake.
“So I came home, and as the reigning Miss Louisiana, I had all these silly official duties. They sent me down to New Orleans to shake hands with the customers at Maison-Blanche. That’s where I met Thaddeus Stevens. He had on a white short-sleeved shirt and a maroon bow tie. But he was looking for a pin-striped suit. He thought I was a saleslady and asked if I’d help. He’d spent the last year in the law library and hadn’t even heard of my book. However, he’d watched the Miss America Pageant. He’d rooted for me. Two weeks later, I married him at City Hall. We moved across the Pontchartrain to Covington to his hometown. His daddy set him up in a law practice, and I started having babies. But I still thought about Shelby and wondered where he was.”
“Shelby?”
“That was my porter’s name. But in the book, I changed it to Samuel.”
“Did you ever find out what happened to him?”
“No, but I named my baby daughter after him.” She lifted one eyebrow. “If you tell anyone, they won’t believe you. What a strange world this is, Gladys. The truth is perceived as a lie, and lies are taken as the gospel. Maybe I should write about that. If I remember how.”
When the girls got back with the supplies, she let them pound on the machine. Then they got bored and ran off. Emma pulled up a chair and rolled a new white page into the Royal. Then she set her trembly fingers on the keys. The clacketing started up, and in all capital letters she typed, “DAUGHTERS OF REVOLUTION, A Novel by Emma Stevens.”
I grabbed the feather duster and tiptoed into the dark living room. The curtains were pulled tight and gave off a mildewy stench. What this house needed was a good scrubbing with Bon Ami. Then I would open every window and let the stink blow out.
She wrote her book in four months. It was the story
of a ex beauty queen who married a sports fanatic lawyer but got her revenge by seducing a whole slew of married men. She put the loose papers in a blue Madame Alexander doll box and sent me down to the post office. “You take good care of this,” I told the clerk. “It’s going all the way to New York City.”
Before the book came out, Emma started practicing to be a famous writer. She went to the kitchen door and just stared through the screen mesh. Then she pushed it open and stepped outside. First, she started shaking, then she vomited in the lilies. It looked like a real illness to me, one that had swooped down and just sucked the breath out of her little body. I ran outside and put my arms around her. “Gladys’s here,” I said. “Don’t be afraid. Gladys’s here.”
“My heart is whirling out the top of my head,” she whispered.
Every day she stepped a little farther into the grass until one day she made it to the mailbox. “I might beat the crazies,” she said. “If I make any money, I might leave this damn town and move to New York. Do you want to go with me?”
“No, ma’am,” I said. “There is Mafia up there.”
“There’s Mafia in New Orleans,” she said.
“I don’t go there, either,” I said.
By the end of summer she was strong enough to visit Mr. Pierre’s Beauty Shoppe in downtown Covington. I stayed with her while Mr. Pierre detangled, trimmed, and conditioned her hair. We even got her nails painted. Then we drove over to Taylor’s Mercantile and bought her some knit suits and low-heeled pumps. She did not shake or vomit. She even made small talk with Mr. Taylor. If you didn’t know anything about her, you would take her for a regular Covington housewife.
We stepped out of the store into the sharp, Pontchartrain-scented light. She lifted her face up to the sky. “I’m going to be all right, Gladys,” she said. “Really, I am going to be a whole woman.”
Then the book came out and the town was all abuzz. Emma and I set up a little card table at Piggly Wiggly with her books all piled up, ready to be signed. She didn’t intend to sell them. They was extras from her publisher, and Emma said they was free.
Mermaids in the Basement Page 6
