Postmark Bayou Chene

by Gwen Roland

“Of course, how could you know?” Mrs. Barclay rose from her chair and tapped across the porch. “Here, feel my bodice.”

  She picked up Loyce’s hand and guided it to a high collar, stiff as bark, pressed into the skin beneath her jaw. More unyielding fabric pulled across her collarbone into sleeves tight as winter stockings but without the stretch. Her middle was hard as a china doll. A corset! All the grown women at Loyce’s school had worn them. All except the cook whose big soft bosom used to be as comforting to a sick child as the cocoa and toast she brought to their beds.

  “My word, Mrs. Barclay, how do you get anything done girded up like that?”

  For the first time Loyce heard her break into a deep laugh. At least her voice had taken off some layers.

  “Just call me Roseanne, Loyce,” she said, still laughing as she quick-stepped back to her chair. Then she took a sniffy little breath of air and started over. “Things are so different out here. Back home dressing is not about getting things done. It’s about looking appropriate for the occasion.”

  “What occasions do you dress for like that?”

  “Oh, just about everything—outings of any kind, art exhibits, musical performances, plays, lectures, as well as just gatherings of acquaintances for dining and visiting. Entertaining is important for my family’s businesses.”

  Loyce’s attention jerked to a stop at the mention of music. “Oh, what I’d give to hear some of that music!” She sounded wistful. “We used to go to concerts a couple times a year when I was at school. I even heard a woman sing from an opera once, and the magic of it just opened me all up inside. Now, sometimes when a showboat comes through, I’ll get to hear a fine piece of music, but I can’t remember it long enough to get back home and try to play it. And Val brings me tunes he picks up on the river, but it’s not the same kind of music.”

  “Oh yes, we attend operas regularly,” Roseanne said. “I can’t say many of them resonate with me. Mostly it’s about the dresses, the hats, the hairstyles.” She chuckled again.

  Then Loyce heard her sigh and turn more catalog pages, stopping now and then to take a better look. The turning slowed, then was broken by spells of silence.

  “Where are the housedresses? Here we go! Not just a straight sack style like you wear nor a tight bodice like I customarily wear. Sort of in-between. Slightly gathered top caught in at the waist. I can do whatever a day’s work calls for and still look decent. Just to make sure it fits, I’ll even get a size larger than usual,” she said. “What do you think about a russet—that’s always one of my best colors. And maybe the dark blue.”

  “You’re asking the wrong person about that!” Loyce couldn’t help but laugh. Sometimes the people who were around her the most forgot she didn’t see.

  “Pardon me, you are right about that,” Roseanne chuckled. “But you can help me with another decision. After ordering two dresses, I’ll have enough left out of my $3.50 to buy either a larger corset or a pair of comfortable walking shoes. My feet hurt all the time, but the looser dresses won’t bring much relief if I’m still wearing a tight corset. You just don’t know what it’s like to never be able to take a deep breath. You are so slender you can get away with just a chemise under your dresses. If you had a curvaceous figure like mine or if you ever start wearing fitted tops, you’ll know what I’m talking about.”

  Loyce was only half-listening now. She was still thinking that it might be worth girding up her bosom or any other body parts if it meant she could sit in a big crowd of people listening to beautiful music. Not that she was ever likely to get that chance. She was jerked back to the reality of the porch when Roseanne turned a page and gasped.

  “Oh my goodness, look—I mean, listen to this, Loyce! The drawing shows what appears to be a corset with the bottom cut off, leaving the midsection completely unbound—a secret that would be all too plain to anyone who accidentally brushed against a woman who dared to wear such a thing. Really, all it amounts to is a sling contraption that simply pillows the bosom! The caption under the drawing says it’s a brassière. French—no surprise there. It’s described as a ‘healthful’ alternative for vigorous exercise. Of all things! It’s a scandal, that’s what it is!”

  She sniffed and quickly turned the page. It was Loyce’s turn to chuckle again as she picked up her shuttle and cotton line.

  After more scratching and erasing on the order form, Roseanne finally sighed and settled on the shoes.

  “I’ll just eat less and try to let out my old corset strings until I can afford a larger one,” she said. “Well, Loyce, this catalog order marks the first time in my life that I have spent money I earned myself. It’s a good feeling; I just wish there was more of it.”

  Loyce paused in her work and tilted her head to one side as if hitting on a brand-new thought herself.

  “Tell you what, Roseanne. I have some money saved and nothing to spend it on, so how about I give you enough for that new corset. In return you take my measurements and order me a new dress as well. Do they have one my size colored like a great blue heron?”

  It was a morning well into June when the dresses were delivered in a crate of dry goods from Morgan City. By that time Roseanne had caught up with stocking the store’s backlog of inventory. She opened the crates the same day they arrived, a novelty for the customers, who were accustomed to scavenging for items they wished to purchase. Roseanne would have the goods displayed on shelves or tables by the next afternoon, but first she had to run upstairs to try on the dresses.

  Her bedroom door had barely closed when she removed the fitted bodice and unlaced the old corset with a sigh of relief. There was a zigzag of cord across her skin where she had let it out way past modesty’s sake. She laced up the new, larger size, guessing at how tightly to draw it in so that it would just fill out the new bodice. Then she pulled the lightweight, cotton print dress over her head. While buttoning the bodice front, she shifted her bosom from side to side and found there was still room to loosen her corset even more. Oh, could life get any better! She didn’t take the time to loosen it at the moment since she could already breathe more deeply. Besides, there was a crate still waiting for her to unpack. She flew back down the stairs, feeling unfettered for the first time in years.

  A few hours later the flow of customers thinned out as people began heading home to start afternoon chores. The new frocks had launched Roseanne into a celebratory state. Loyce was out front to keep company with any customers who dropped in, making this the ideal time for Roseanne to wash her hair. She stopped by the porch to tell Loyce and then whisked out to the cistern with two buckets.

  On the porch Loyce’s rocking chair creaked to fit the rhythm of her shuttle. Knitting could be satisfying like that. Put the twine in your left hand, then the right hand moves on its own, in and out. She didn’t even think about it. Val had told her that the shuttle she used and the knot it made were the same all around the world. The very same! He read to her about it one afternoon from that magazine of the National Geographic Society. Now wouldn’t it be fine to just pick up something like that and read about shuttles on her own? But she wouldn’t stop there.

  “Hmmph!” She had butted in to his reading. “If I could read, I’d be learning more than shuttles and knots. I’d read about explorers and thinkers. What people eat in other countries. I’d find out how cotton goes from being a plant to a piece of cloth. And what about thunder? No one on the Chene can explain to me what makes that booming noise during summer storms and why we don’t hear it in winter when it rains every day. There’s smart people out there who know so many things, but they’re not likely to come here and tell me about it.”

  Val hadn’t said anything, just turned another page. For some reason that vexed her even more. People liked to watch her demonstrate how braille worked, but truth be told, most of what she could get in braille was for youngsters learning to read—there wasn’t much for grown-ups. Oh, Adam was happy to read to her from his books, but even she understood that was easiest done by da
ylight when he was already so busy. And Adam’s books were mostly novels from a much earlier time. What did she care about old stories and make-believe characters? She wanted to know real things!

  After stewing awhile, she had felt ashamed for cutting in on Val, who could have been doing something other than sitting on the porch reading to her. Whether or not he really was sweet on her, as Fate kept saying, he clearly thought about her even when he was away from the Chene. Her room was decorated with little gifts brought back from his travels. Things no one else would guess she was interested in. A smooth rock from the Ohio River because there were no rocks in the swamp. The face of a tiny monkey carved into a peach seed. He even guided her fingers around the features to give her an idea of what a monkey looked like. Val understood her restless curiosity the way no one else did, and he got such a kick out of bringing the world to her. At least as much of it as he could carry in his own hands.

  “I do appreciate you reading to me and telling me what you see up and down the rivers,” she had said by way of apology, “but that only makes me want to know more. Like that World’s Fair in St. Louis that even Wambly Cracker went to and learned all kinds of things that he won’t do nothing with but botch up. Imagine the things I could have learned there just by listening, touching, and smelling. It wouldn’t matter that I can’t see—I just need to get to where it’s going on!”

  How high-handed she had been with Val! They were used to listening to each other sound off, but maybe that day she did make him feel a little guilty about being able to just take off and go places while she was stuck there every day of the year. Other than a few dances at the schoolhouse or a showboat passing through now and then, there wasn’t much at Bayou Chene for a blind girl to do.

  Oh well, for every time Val had listened to her complain about being a prisoner, she had listened to him wish he could get off the river and settle down. He had even hinted that he’d like to settle down right here on the Chene. Fate said if Val did that, the next thing they’d know he would be asking Loyce to marry him! That’s Fate for you, thinking up stuff that might bring more complications than it would solve. Loyce figured it all came down to everyone wanting what someone else has, even for a little while to see how it fits.

  Suddenly through that quiet afternoon—so quiet she could hear fish rippling just under the water, not even breaking the surface—she felt someone watching. Not close, not like the kids who sneaked up behind her chair and had her guess their names. It was like a furtive breeze on the back of her neck. She felt it the way she could feel a hand passing close but holding back from touching her face.

  Why watch someone rocking and knitting a net? She stopped rocking, tilted one ear up, and held her breath to get a better listen. Was she imagining it? No, a low growl was purring up from Drifter’s throat. Loyce felt the little dog ease up from her napping position to her feet, softly, just like when she was creeping up on a lizard. Both of them tensed, waiting for the person to step out and yell a greeting. Seconds ticked by. She couldn’t stand it any longer.

  “Who’s there?”

  No answer.

  “You! That’s watching me. Who are you?”

  Drifter growled again. Across the bayou on Indigo Island—a stagnant hole of no use to anyone—unseen by Loyce, two buttonwood bushes eased back into place.

  After that afternoon Loyce strained to hear any new sound through the usual clamor around the post office. An unfamiliar voice or a new step that could explain her uneasiness. Days passed, and nothing out of the ordinary happened. Eventually, she shook it off and even blamed her own imagination for Drifter’s continued anxiety. The little dog went beyond keeping her company, staying so close underfoot that Loyce stepped on or tripped over her several times a day.

  10

  The pan slapping against the picket fence was enough to break into Mame’s thoughts. Some days it didn’t take much. Other times she kept her mind shuttered from daylight to dark. That day she stopped stabbing the earth and watched the hens tackle the pile of corn shucks. They finished scratching for stray kernels and then went on to block Loyce’s way on the plank walk, hoping for better pickings. The little black dog rushed back and forth, back and forth, barking, trying to make a path for the blind girl.

  “Shoo, shoo, you’re just making it worse,” Mame heard her fuss in that voice so much like Josie’s.

  The sound of that voice almost sent her back, but then she was caught up watching how expertly Loyce kicked one foot at a time out in front, fighting her way through the chickens and dog. Determined, Mame thought. Like Fate says, a force. That boy might as well try to smooth the hackles of a coon caught in a leg trap as to watch out for Loyce.

  The shuffling, barking, pecking crowd, absent a few feathers, was almost to the house when Mame heard the pony cart coming faster than usual down the woods path. She squatted back on her heels and pushed her bonnet up to see.

  “That’s it—he’s done it now!” The voice was even louder than the rattle of the cart shaking to a stop at the edge of the garden.

  The old woman squinted up. Mary Ann. Married to York Bertram, son of Mame’s brother, Martin Bertram. Wasn’t she usually smiling? Mame couldn’t remember for sure. Maybe she had someone else in mind.

  Heat or no heat, Mary Ann wore a long-sleeved shirt tucked into men’s pants that flared out and then dipped into the top of her rubber boots. She mopped her face with a bandana that was hanging around her neck. Blue eyes burned from under her hat. Pirates came to mind, and Mame glanced around to get her bearings. It didn’t take much for her to drift off track. She wanted to keep up in case there was something she could do to help.

  Mary Ann’s goat Fredette bleated from the back of the wagon, hooves clattering to keep balance through the stop. Shiny brown like a mink, a black stripe bristled straight up from her backbone. She tossed her bony little head bearing a swoop of horns sharp as daggers.

  Looking every bit the demon York swears she is, Mame thought. Or did she say it out loud? So hard to tell anymore after years of talking to the dead.

  “Has anyone around here seen or heard my litter of red hogs?” Mary Ann shouted to anyone in hearing distance. “The gate was open, and nary a one was around this morning. I know he did it a purpose—that’s the spitefullest man I know.”

  Fredette cut her short by crashing into the back of her knees. Mary Ann scrabbled for balance in the rubber boots but plopped down anyway. Anger whooshed out of her. That seemed real enough to Mame.

  “Mame, does meanness just run in the men of your family?” The wagon seat groaned under her shifting weight. Fredette clattered back and forth.

  “Oh, I’d say it’s mellowed some in the passing down.” She removed her bonnet for an unobstructed view of Mary Ann’s face. The younger woman’s eyes softened and focused back at her. Mame took that to mean she really was talking out loud, so she worked more on that thought before it got lost again.

  “York’s got a ways to go if he’s gonna catch up to his daddy in meanness, better yet his grandpa—Father Bertram. Since you didn’t grow up here, you had the pleasure of not knowing York’s grandparents. Martin and me had to call them Mother and Father Bertram, if that tells you anything. I still got the scars on my knees from the hours we spent kneeling on shell corn as young’uns. I tried to shield Martin from the worst of the whippings, but when the notion would take over, there was no stopping Father Bertram.”

  Mary Ann’s eyes shifted from Mame’s face to the path ahead. Did that mean her words had already curved in on themselves and were thoughts again? Whether she was thinking or talking, the stream had to run its course.

  “And Mother Bertram was no bosom of kindness for her part,” she kept going. “Many’s the time she not only whipped me but made me do the entire day’s wash over again because of one bird dropping on a piece of clothes. Like I could help that! And while she was too frail to do a lick of housework herself, she could get around good enough to crawl under the beds with a candle to make sure I
got all the dust. She’d even whip me for whistling! Said a whistling girl and a crowing hen were headed for a bad end, or some such. No wonder Martin and me both left home as soon as we were able. I went to work for Elder and took over raising Josie like she was my own. Never regretted it a minute.”

  “I didn’t know you wasn’t Josie’s mama,” Mary Ann said, a little calmer. Mame pushed ahead through the fog that was closing in.

  “Of course. I suppose you wouldn’t.” Even she could hear her voice beginning to drift.

  “All that happened so long ago, most people who were born here don’t even remember it. Elder’s first wife, Maudie, died of the typhoid right before the war. She was as jolly as my own Mother Bertram was mean. Fact was, I called her Ma. It was short for Maudie and made up a bit for having to call my own mama Mother Bertram. I found reasons to hang around the store even before Maudie came down sick. Josie was born around that time.”

  Mame’s voice dropped to a mumble, but her mind kept running.

  Still happens a lot out here—what with no doctors, even young women die, leaving a husband with kids. And what with drowning, hot tar, snakebites, card games, and such afflicting the men, some wives outlive two or three husbands. People marry up again, and after a few years no one keeps track of who the different kids came with.

  Especially that year Maudie died . . . ’60? ’61? I can’t remember for sure, but it was so pitiful. The typhoid was like an epidemic that spring—so many people got sick and died. Right about that time Father Bertram just seemed to sprout meanness like the horns on that goat. My brother, Martin, took off for the war, along with Josie’s brothers and most of the other young men around here. I started out taking care of Maudie till she died and then raising Josie.

  It worked out for everyone when Elder asked me to stay on permanent by marrying. Not one of Elder’s boys made it back from the war, so Josie and I were all he had. He was some proud when Lauf come along so quick the next year.