Part of Me

by Kimberly Willis Holt

  That first night in Houma we tried to be as quiet as mice, tried to take up as little space as possible. The sofa became Possum’s bed, and I slept with Momma and Pie in Momma’s old bedroom. We hadn’t eaten since our breakfast of Rice Krispies, straight from the box. But we didn’t ask for food. Surprisingly, Pie didn’t either.

  * * *

  Antoine Marcel acted like we were invisible. He ate his breakfast of eggs, grits, and toast alone, not offering us a crumb. Momma waited until he left to gather his oysters before she slipped into the kitchen to get us a bowl of rice for breakfast.

  Pie studied her bowl. “I bet Chinese people eat rice for breakfast, too.”

  “Rose,” Momma said, “you take Pie and Possum to school today. I need to find some work.”

  “Shouldn’t I go to the high school after I take them?”

  “Tomorrow,” she said, looking past my shoulder, avoiding my eyes.

  She made sandwiches for the three of us, spreading a thin layer of blackberry jelly on crusty slices of French bread. I didn’t know why she was so stingy with the jelly since there were three full jars of it. It was as if she didn’t want to owe Antoine Marcel anything more than she already did.

  Before beginning her job hunt, she dropped us off at the grade school. In the office, I filled out paperwork for my brother and sister. The women studied us suspiciously.

  “Where are you from?” the school secretary asked. She was shaped like a bell, skinny on top and a big round rear. I swear she’d ring if she wiggled.

  “We’re from outside Amarillo,” I told her.

  Every woman in the office looked up at us.

  “And why did you move here?”

  I didn’t know how to answer that. I wasn’t going to say because our papa left us and we had nowhere else to go. So I said, “We’re staying with my grandfather for a while.” It was the plain truth.

  The school secretary’s eyebrows shot up. “And who is your grandfather?”

  “Antoine Marcel.”

  She looked like I’d socked her right between the eyes. “Antoine Marcel? The oyster man? I didn’t know he had any grandchildren. Is Marie your mother?”

  “Yes.”

  “And Conrad McGee is our papa,” Pie said.

  I hadn’t heard the mention of Papa’s birth name in so long.

  After filling out the forms, I headed back to Antoine Marcel’s house, hoping I wouldn’t have to go through the same nosy questions tomorrow when I started school.

  At home, I wrote in my journal. I wrote more than I’d ever written before. I wrote about the journey, Momma’s lie, this new place, this new grandfather—the oyster man.

  Momma got a job that day, working as an oyster shucker at the Boudreaux Oyster Company. She came home that first night looking like she’d hitched a ride in a tornado. Some of her dark hair had escaped the pins, and her dress was wrinkled like it had never been in contact with an iron. Scrapes and cuts covered her hands and forearms. Her face looked pinched, and instead of smelling like the Emeraude perfume, she smelled like bayou.

  That evening, Antoine Marcel fried a huge platter of oysters, too many for him to eat. The smell of the hot oil cooking those oysters drove me crazy. He slathered some bread with mayonnaise and ketchup. Then he placed some oysters on top, shook some hot sauce over it, and ate at the table alone, again. After he washed his dish, he pointed to the heap of oysters. “Someone better get rid of dose oysters. Dey won’t be no good tomorrow. Maybe dat dog of yours will want dem.”

  We wanted them, but we waited until he left the room, then hurried toward the platter like hungry orphans. I’d never tried an oyster and if I hadn’t been so hungry I would have spit out the salty, squishy thing. Momma must have noticed my disgust as I struggled to swallow because she said, “Deese oysters fed and clothed me.”

  Momma said that every Tuesday and Friday afternoon Antoine got into his pirogue and rode up and down the bayous playing his fiddle, letting folks know that he was there with his oysters. She said, “All along de water, people call out, ‘Antoine Marcel is coming!’ And dey meet him on de docks with sacks in der hands.”

  “How does he steer the boat and play the fiddle at the same time?” Possum asked.

  “I used to steer de boat,” Momma said. “I don’t know who does now.” She stared at the wall, and I could tell her mind was a million miles away.

  “These oysters taste funny,” Pie said, then she seemed to notice Momma’s frown and quickly added, “but I think I like them.”

  “They’re delicious,” Possum said, gobbling down a half dozen in no time at all. But he thought possums and squirrels tasted good.

  After we finished eating, we went outside and fed some to Radio, who ate them right up, then sniffed and licked our fingers.

  “How was school?” Momma asked my brother and sister.

  “My teacher talks funny, just like you, Momma,” Pie said.

  For the first time in a very long time, Momma laughed. “Don’t tell her dat.”

  “Oh.” Pie sucked in her lips, and of course, we all knew she already had.

  That afternoon I had waited for my brother and sister outside the school building. Pie came out of the main entrance skipping, her long hair bouncing with each step. She chattered away, covering every minute of her day in detail. Possum hadn’t said a word.

  Now Pie was telling it all again. I escaped into the bedroom and read chapter four of The Good Earth. I wondered what books we would read in my new English class. Rain began to fall, hitting the roof with a loud patter. I was deep into the story when Momma handed a newspaper to me.

  “Read dat,” she said, pointing to a classified ad. Her Cajun accent had grown even stronger since our short time in Houma.

  WANTED: BOOKMOBILE DRIVER

  Must be 17 with a chauffeur license

  Must know how to read

  Contact the Terrebone Parish Library

  “I’m fourteen,” I said.

  “You look seventeen.”

  “That’s lying.”

  “Dat’s surviving. You want to stay with dis old grump forever? We need to make money so we can move into our own place. You go back to school later.”

  My heart plunged. “When?” I asked.

  “Not long. A year.” Momma picked up an old copy of Ladies’ Home Journal she’d brought with her from Texas and flipped to one of the stories.

  A year was a long time. And how could I trust her about going back to school then? She’d lied about my grandfather being dead. Momma thumbed through the magazine while I listened to the pulse of the thunder as lightning flashed outside the window.

  Momma was becoming someone I didn’t know. I missed Papa. I missed his easygoing manner, his hearty laugh that ended with a high pitch. We needed Papa here to balance out Momma and her crazy ideas.

  That night I opened my journal and wrote.

  My dream of becoming a writer is like a fallen leaf swept up by the wind—dancing inches from my reach, teasing, never letting me touch it. But somehow I hope that my life will have some meaning one day.

  The next morning, I sat at the courthouse, saying my new birth year over and over in my head. 1922. 1922. I was thankful that I’d brought my book to read, because no one seemed to be in a hurry to give me a driving test. A woman wearing a blue suit told me to sit on a bench in the main hallway outside the office and wait until they could help me. Then she disappeared into the office directly across the hall.

  Try as I may, it was hard not to be distracted. Thick Cajun accents flowed from the offices and I tried to understand what they were saying. When I wasn’t carried away by their voices, I was consumed with thoughts of how I would ever pass a driving test when I’d driven only one day in my life.

  I wished I’d driven more on the way to Houma. I probably didn’t stand a chance to get that bookmobile job. Now I wanted it more than ever, because I knew I’d have to work, no matter what. I didn’t want to stand morning until night like Momma. At least M
omma hadn’t dragged me to the Boudreaux Oyster Company to work beside her.

  When the clock struck noon the people in the courthouse poured out of their offices and left for lunch. “You’ll have to go, miss,” the woman in the blue suit said. “We’re closing for lunch.”

  “But I didn’t have my driving test yet.”

  “Come back at one o’clock,” she said, unsnapping her purse to fetch her lipstick.

  Bayou du Large was too far to walk back for lunch. Momma had dropped me off that morning on the way to work. Later I was to walk to the Oyster Company and wait for her to finish working. Then we’d ride home together.

  I left the courthouse and walked around the town. An aroma of gumbo and fried fish drifted from a diner. My stomach grumbled, but I didn’t have any money. So I strolled down the street, peering into the store windows.

  In a barbershop, I noticed a handsome man with sandy hair, holding a toddler on his lap. The barber moved around him with his long, narrow scissors, trying to cut the boy’s hair. The little fellow scrunched up his face, poked out his lips, and began to wail. His father looked helpless, bouncing the child on his lap. Finally the poor barber threw up his arms, surrendering.

  When the boy turned my way I smiled and gave him a small wave. His face relaxed and his blue eyes lit up. He smiled, pointing at me with a plump finger. His father looked in my direction with the same blue eyes and when he noticed me, he grinned. Now the barber was smiling at me, too.

  I hurried away, embarrassed. I wasn’t used to men smiling at me, just boys back in Texas. Only every time they gazed at me, with that longing-for-a-kiss look, they made me think of how they could stop my future plans cold. Now Momma had done that for me.

  “Rose!” The voice came from behind.

  I swung around and discovered Antoine Marcel standing outside the barbershop. He started toward me and I waited for him to catch up.

  “Rose, what you doing looking in barbershop windows smiling at men for?” The two vertical lines between his brows deepened.

  I felt like he’d knocked the breath right out of me. “I was just walking by the barbershop and I only smiled at the little boy.”

  “I just learn about you. Now you gonna make me disclaim you?”

  Something surged inside me. “Isn’t that what you did to Momma?”

  Antoine Marcel lowered his eyebrows. “Why you talk like dat? Your momma is de one who left me.”

  I stared down at my book. I knew better than to sass my elders, but I didn’t feel much like apologizing.

  “What you doing down here?” he asked.

  “I’m trying to get my chauffeur’s license.”

  He twisted up his face. “Chauffeur’s license? You going to drive a bus?”

  “I’m applying for the bookmobile driver’s position at the library.”

  “Dat new library?”

  “I think it’s new.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Four—seventeen. I’m seventeen.”

  His eyes narrowed. “What year?”

  “Nineteen twenty-two,” I said without hesitating.

  “Nineteen twenty-two?” His chest rose and fell as he stared at me in a trance. “I thought so.”

  I wondered what he meant by that, but I didn’t ask. “No one will pay attention to me at the courthouse. I’ve been waiting all morning and now everyone’s at lunch.”

  He rubbed his beard. “You need patience to catch de fish.”

  “I’m not a fisherman.”

  “You live here, you better learn to be a fisherman. Don’t dat Texan teach you to fish?”

  “You mean Papa? He taught Possum.”

  “I see.”

  “I have to go.” I turned on my heel and hurried away. I didn’t like how Antoine Marcel called Papa “that Texan.” He said it as if Papa wasn’t worth the ground he walked on.

  * * *

  At one o’clock, I reached the courthouse, but the doors were still locked. Finally, at 1:15, a few people returned, including the woman in the blue suit. I found my place back on the bench in the hall and sat.

  Twenty minutes later the woman came out of the office and said, “What is your name, miss?”

  I straightened. “Rose McGee.”

  “McGee. Hmm, don’t know any McGees.” She seemed to be waiting for me to explain. When I said nothing, she went back inside the office and turned on the radio. “The Music Goes Round and Round” played.

  I guess McGee was the wrong name for Houma. It didn’t sound like Arceneaux or Lirette or Dupre. Maybe I should try to talk like Momma. Then they’d at least think I belonged here. The last few years, I’d gotten pretty good at imitating Momma’s accent. It made Papa laugh. Of course, I never let her hear me.

  People came and went in the next hour. No one else was asked to sit on the bench and wait. They seemed to get what they came for and then they left. The afternoon sun streamed into the hallway through the glass panels making it difficult to read. I looked at the clock: 2:30. I was midway through chapter ten. I closed the book and sighed. I tapped my foot. I chewed my thumbnail. Why were they ignoring me? Was it because they’d never seen me before? Then I realized that even if I got their attention and they gave me the test, I’d probably fail.

  The main entrance door opened, and I saw the outline of a man walking in my direction. The sun’s glare made the hallway bright. Purple dots floated in front of my eyes as I tried to see the man’s features. By the time I realized the man was my grandfather, he’d passed me by and disappeared into the office. I’ve been waiting as patient as a fisherman, I wanted to tell him. And see, it’s no use.

  A second later, I heard the woman’s voice. “Well, Antoine. Look, everyone—it’s Antoine Marcel.” There was such a commotion you would have thought President Roosevelt had walked inside their office.

  A man said, “Hey, Antoine, you brought us some oysters?”

  “If you like,” my grandfather answered, “I get you some. First I want you to meet somebody.”

  Suddenly four people—my grandfather, the woman, and two men—were in the hallway in front of me.

  “Dis is my granddaughter, Rose.”

  “Dis is your granddaughter?” the woman asked.

  “Dat’s right.”

  “Oh, she’s a pretty t’ing,” said a man with suspenders traveling over his barrel belly.

  “You must be so proud.” The woman smiled at me like she was seeing me for the first time.

  Another man scratched the dome of his head. “What she doing here?”

  I started to say something, but everyone’s attention was directed toward Antoine Marcel.

  “She needs a chauffeur license,” my grandfather said.

  “A chauffeur license?” the heavy man asked. “A pretty little t’ing like her? What she gonna do? Drive de bus?”

  Everyone laughed, except me.

  “Dat’s what I say, Thomas. But no, she wants dat job at the library.” They were closing in around my grandfather. He stood in the center of their circle, nodding, his arms and hands flying about as he spoke.

  “Ooooh, dat’s a nice library,” Thomas said. “Dey got all kinds of books der.”

  The woman nodded. “Yeah, my aunt was one of da women dat got dat library going.”

  “Dat something, all right,” said Antoine.

  “What she gonna do at dat library?” the woman asked.

  No one was bothering to ask me. My blood boiled under my skin.

  “She want to drive dat bookmobile,” Antoine said.

  Then they all talked at once.

  “How nice.” “I see.” “Oh. Dat right?”

  Antoine nodded. “Dat de truth.”

  Thomas tucked his thumbs under his suspenders and leaned against the wall. “Well, why didn’t you say so?” He was looking at me. Now everyone was looking at me.

  Then Thomas turned toward the woman and said, “Give dat girl her chauffeur’s license.”

  He turned toward my grandfather.
“Antoine, it was good to see you. I’ll be looking for dos oysters.” Thomas walked back into his office and Antoine tipped his hat to me before leaving the courthouse.

  The woman motioned me inside the office. Finally I was going to get a chance at that driving test. A tremble shook through my whole body. My mind tried to trace that one day I’d driven in Texas. I wondered what kind of vehicle I’d have to drive to get a chauffeur’s license. Would I remember how to shift? Would they make me drive on a busy road?

  “My name is Jeanette,” the woman said. “So your momma is Marie?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “She broke your grandpa’s heart when she ran away.”

  I bit my tongue to keep from saying something that might stop me from getting that license.

  Jeanette took my picture and slid a paper across the desk.

  Filling out the form, I was careful to write 1922 as my birth year instead of 1925.

  Jeanette flicked her eyes over the page when I gave it back to her. “Nineteen twenty-two? I t’ink dat was de year dat Texan came and took your momma away.” She peered over the paper.

  I felt myself blush, realizing what she thought she was putting together. My face grew hotter when I recalled the conversation Antoine and I had earlier. Momma never was good at math. She should have thought about what people would think they were putting together about her and Papa by making me three years older.

  “Sign here,” Jeanette said, handing the form back to me.

  Ten minutes later I walked out of the office with my chauffeur’s license without a driving test.

  Outside the courthouse, Antoine Marcel was leaning against an oak tree, his arms folded across his chest. “See,” he said, “what I tell you? You need to be a fisherman.”

  Books on the Bayous

  (1940)

  MOMMA’S WORKDAY was longer than mine, so I dropped her off each morning at the Boudreaux Oyster Company, before heading to the library. My first day on the job I was paired with a librarian who had just graduated from Louisiana State University in Baton Rouge. Marlene Dupre was pretty with long black hair, eyes dark as coal, and a pug nose that looked like it belonged on a child’s face. She grew up in Houma, on Bayou Blue, and knew everyone there and everything about them. She talked nonstop, her arms moving at the same speed as her lips. Sometimes I had to duck to dodge her hands.