by Gwen Roland
Oaks of all kind rained acorns—small and round, large and oblong, from almost black through brown, sienna, and tan. Squirrels, hogs, goats, deer, and small furbearers grew fat and shiny on the oily nuts.
Children were sent out with buckets to vie for the muscadines and coon grapes that would be made into jelly, pies, and wine. Around the homesteads oranges, satsumas, and lemons showed their colors among the leathery green leaves. Pomegranates and Japanese persimmons filled buckets and baskets, proving that at least some of Wambly Cracker’s suggestions had worked for the Cheners. Sweet potatoes, onions, hard-shell squashes, and pumpkins were set out to dry on rooftops of houses and houseboats alike, before being stored for winter eating. Even as the summer crops were still bearing, fall gardens were already bright with young winter greens that would produce leaves and roots for months to come.
The Cheners didn’t put much food by, Val noted. When he had been up the river in winters past, he lived on dried beans or wilted vegetables from grocery stores, getting by just like the local residents. At the same time he knew his friends on the Chene would be feasting on fresh lettuce, spinach, or other greens tossed with green onions, a dab of bacon grease, and vinegar. Beetroots stewed in sweet vinegar spiced up plates of wild duck and turnips. Suppers on a cold night might be rutabagas cooked in a brown roux with squirrel, venison, or pork from the smokehouse. Deer, possums, coons, and rabbits were baked, roasted, or smothered in onions until they fell apart, making their own gravy. Even in winter the bayous gave up some fish, and the woods were always full of game.
The swampers prepared for winter in the simplest fashion. Children gathered wax myrtle berries for candles. Even though the candles weren’t as bright as lamps for close work like reading or sewing, they reduced the amount of coal oil needed for extra hours of darkness. Men repaired traps and snares to set out in late winter, when pelts were at their finest. Women carried quilts outside and slung them over picket fences or porch banisters to air. Careful housewives ripped open moss mattresses to fluff and add more stuffing.
Some women preferred the fresh smell of corn shuck mattresses that crackled enough to wake a restless sleeper. Families that didn’t grow corn bartered or bought from their neighbors. They ground most of it into meal, keeping only a portion of it whole for livestock. Great stores of livestock feed weren’t needed because vines, evergreen shrubs, and some grasses grew throughout the warm winters. Chickens, hogs, and dogs also ate trimmings from the garden and the fish cart as well as a bounty of offal when game was killed.
Val had rarely stayed in one place long enough to watch seasons change. In past years he might leave St. Louis during a fresh snowfall only to arrive at Bayou Chene in a heatwave two weeks later. That autumn on the Chene he walked the paths between homesteads as much to feel the rhythm of the changing year as to deliver honey and beeswax to customers. It was the longest time he’d been around to manage the hives he had set up in different locations around the island.
As he watched his bees store the last pollen and nectar before bedding down for winter, Val pondered the fact that he could finally settle down too. No more roaming the rivers, living out of a duffel bag, spending holidays with strangers. He chuckled over the irony that his near death had provided him the chance to live out his dream. Bayou Chene would be his home from now on. Mais oui!
After the initial relief of not having to plan his life around the next boat whistle, Val felt a restless energy in his limbs. That was another reason he roamed the footpaths and rowed Adam’s skiff along the bayous. Maybe he wouldn’t feel settled until he married and built a house or houseboat of his own. Maybe he’d talk to Loyce about it.
Val had never broached the subject of a closer relationship; he assumed Loyce felt the same exhilaration he experienced when they played music or playfully argued with Fate over some unimportant difference of opinions. What if she didn’t share his feeling? He thought of the other young women living around the Chene. He had danced and laughed with them. He spent time visiting when he delivered honey. But he never felt the buzz of excitement, the jubilation, he felt around Loyce. Maybe he’d bring it up tonight. If not tonight, soon.
During his rounds through the community Val crossed paths with dozens of people every day. As autumn stretched out toward winter, he couldn’t avoid the growing controversy over Roseanne and C.B. More of the neighbors began taking sides. It seemed every one was talking about the possibility of C.B. being arrested. Had Roseanne carried through with her threat to mail a letter of her suspicions to the sheriff in St. Martin Parish? Could officers be on their way right now to take C.B. in for questioning? What if they came while Sam was away on a fish-buying trip? What would become of Sam Junior? Did they let babies go to jail with their mamas? It seemed everyone had a different opinion on that as well. Some were of the opinion they needed to close ranks around C.B. and hide her from the law. Others said let her take her chances like anyone else accused of a crime in the United States. After all, she wasn’t even a Chener. Val felt relief when December closed in on the community and no law officers showed up in the Chene.
The discord faded in anticipation of Christmas. He couldn’t remember being so excited about the coming holiday, even as a child. He had started work on boats as a teenager, so most Christmases found him on a boat with crew members and passengers who would have preferred to be home with their own family and friends.
True to his Irish and Cajun natures, Val had always made the best of the holidays by playing music to cheer up the crowds. Soon strangers in a public hall or on a boat would be singing and dancing in time to his music. This year was going to be memorable because he had a warm circle of his own.
The post office and store started bustling early in November, with customers making special orders for gifts and seasonal food. When the first steamboats of December arrived, bananas from South America and apples from upriver filled the building with holiday fragrance. Nuts from other states, and even other countries, were measured out by the pound. Children and grandparents all along the bayous were set to work with nutcrackers and warned not to eat more than they put in the dish for fruitcake. In the final two weeks before Christmas, mysterious packages were tucked under coats or slipped into lard cans for the anonymous journey home in a pirogue or skiff.
Val knew that Mame, Adam, Loyce, and Fate usually joined York and Mary Ann for Christmas dinner at the old Bertram home. This year they welcomed both Val and Roseanne into the family gathering. Val wondered if Fate would make it home for the holidays. Most people who left the Chene to try life outside the swamp never made it back for visits. To them the Chene receded until it seemed a world from another time—quaint, backward in its ways, a place to be from. Oh, they spoke of it fondly whenever he ran into them in the towns along the river. They asked about friends and relatives. They just never made it back. It appeared that Fate, with all his notions, had turned out to be one of those.
Surely he would come back for the wedding, wouldn’t he? Val couldn’t imagine getting married without Fate standing next to him. He must talk to Loyce soon. They would need to plan plenty of time for Fate to get back.
On Christmas Eve, Mary Ann delivered a pork roast and a fat hen for Adam to cook the next day.
“I knew you’d be wanting to start on them before daylight, so I just brought them on over,” she said with a grin. “That way I don’t have to listen to York grumble in the morning when you show up pounding on my door.”
“Whoooeee! This is some fine hen,” Adam exclaimed. “Come see this, Mrs. Barclay.”
Roseanne tapped in from across the dogtrot, where she had been closing up the store.
“So, it passes muster with you, Mr. Snellgrove?” she asked, almost playfully.
Val glanced up from where he was putting last-minute touches on Loyce’s gift—a lightweight chair made of cypress that she could easily move around the porch to follow the sun or the shade.
“I’d say it could be the prettiest and plumpest baking hen I
’ve seen in all my Christmases, Mrs. Barclay.” Adam’s smiling eyes lingered on hers until she glanced away, back down at the hen.
Val looked harder at the two of them standing closer together than the inspection of a dead chicken warranted. Was Roseanne blushing at that last remark? He noticed her hair was not so tightly bound as it once was. She looked softer than when she had arrived last spring, Val thought, and definitely rounder. Maybe she was feeling the same Christmas gaiety that he felt. Maybe it would extend past the season and she would get over her vendetta against C.B.
“And how many Christmases might that be, Mr. Snellgrove?” Roseanne continued to look down.
“Take a guess,” he chuckled.
On the other side of the room Loyce was listening too. She smiled while Roseanne studied her father. She could feel Roseanne measuring him with her eyes. His height. The loose limbs at ease inside his long-sleeved shirt and sturdy work pants. The soft drooping mustache that tickled when he kissed her cheek. The longish hair that swooped back from a wide brow and then tried to part in the middle.
“Fifty-two,” said Roseanne’s voice, as if in a hurry.
Loyce chortled and slapped the arm of her chair in delight.
Mary Ann said, “You let that gray hair fool you. I’ve seen him out there pulling up nets full of fish.”
Adam laughed. “I’ll be forty-six next month.”
Mary Ann, striding around the table for a piece of fruitcake, didn’t notice Roseanne’s eyes open wide as she quickly took in Adam’s entire frame again from the top of his head down the length of his body, but Val did. He smiled to himself and went back to work.
Val also had been watching Loyce follow Roseanne’s assessment of Adam. He admired the graceful, attentive postures that gleaned information overlooked by sighted people. He settled another spoke into the back of the little chair—compact and elegant like Loyce herself because he was building it with her in mind. He even designed it without arms so it wouldn’t impede her playing music or knitting nets.
Maybe Christmas Day would be the time to talk to her. Maybe by next Christmas they would have a home of their own. The chair was a start, enh? It was going to be the best Christmas ever.
Christmas Day dawned blue and gold. The sun promised warmth, but the wind was brisk. Winter birds flitted in bare branches, and squirrels raced up tree trunks as the little group walked the path from the post office to the old Bertram house.
Everyone carried something for the dinner. Adam had the pork haunch, stuffed with garlic and red pepper, then roasted in the cast iron Dutch oven until it was dark crusty brown on the outside and dripping with juice inside. Roseanne carried the baked hen nestled in a pan of cornbread dressing. Val had the raisin bread pudding and the jar of eggnog sauce to pour over each serving. Mame held the bundle of baked sweet potatoes against her bony chest, enjoying their warmth. Loyce carried a basket of rolls over one arm, while she linked Val’s elbow with her other. Drifter, tail wagging in anticipation, followed her nose in and out among the savory smells.
Mary Ann threw open the door as soon as they started up the back steps.
“Well, it’s about time you got here!” she exclaimed, as if she hadn’t just seen them the night before. “Much longer, and I would have had to try to make York talk to me!”
“Wouldn’t want him to strain himself,” Adam said, his easy grin splitting the drooping mustache. “A good Christmas to you.” He kissed her proffered cheek and extended a hand to York.
York shook the hand and held out a glass of wine with the other. “That’s elderberry from three years ago,” he said, by way of greeting.
Adam inhaled deeply before taking the first sip. In his opinion what York produced in spirits made up for what he lacked in goodwill. How was it possible to capture April in a bottle, hold it there, and then release it three years later? A slight nod from York told Adam his taciturn neighbor recognized his appreciation.
The family wasted no time settling in around the long table. Dishes were passed; silver clinked on old china. Another bottle of wine added to the flow of conversation.
“I see you framed that old letter,” Adam said at one point. “Does that mean it brings back more good memories than bad?”
“I guess that’s close to the truth!” Mary Ann grinned. “Gotta admit, we’re both more likely to bring something up for talking before we fly off the handle like we used to.”
“You know, I found out where it’s been for the past forty years,” Adam added. “Sitting in a dead letter bin in the regional post office in Kentucky. Seems all the United States postmasters along the Confederate border states had to confiscate any mail trying to get out of the South. See, that postage was paid for with Confederate money. Most postmasters just threw those southern letters away, but the one in Lexington felt obliged to keep them. Not only that, but he made a special stamp to show why they got stopped. It was that little blue circle you saw on Mame’s letter and the words SOUTHERN LETTER UNPAID. The letters and packages stayed in that bin until he died. When he died, the assistant postmaster who took over his job left the whole caboodle right where they were. But last year a new postmaster came on the job and decided the right thing to do would be to return them, just in case the senders were still alive.”
“What do you know about that!” Mary Ann chortled and slapped her hand on the table. “I wonder if any of the other letters exploded a still?”
Everyone laughed, except York, who concentrated on dishing out another helping of buttered turnips.
Mary Ann went on. “Fate’s been scarce ever since that day. Christmas don’t seem right without him. Anyone know where he’s at? We ain’t seen him since he picked up that boat he had York work on. What’d you do on that boat for him, anyways?”
“Boxed off some bulkheads for ice and packed them with moss to hold in the cold,” York replied.
“Oh, mais cher! Don’t it feel off-kilter without him?” Val chimed in. “I finally make it here for Christmas, but Fate, he’s missing. The last time I saw him wasn’t even on the Chene. It was up around Baton Rouge right before my last trip—must have been late August. All dressed up, don’t you know, having coffee at a café on the dock with three men in suits. Give me a big wave, yeh. Later, when I got off my boat and pass by there, the men—all gone, don’t you know? Fate said they were investors in his new business. They loan him money to outfit his boat and buy his first round of fish and ice. He paid them back already and was trying to borrow again to buy that icehouse. I ain’t heard nothing since.”
“I wonder if he’s making any money with those schemes,” York mused.
“Of course that’s what you care about,” Mary Ann replied. “I’m more worried about what kind of company he’s keeping. There’s some rough customers up there.”
“Speaking of rough customers, doesn’t he have Sam Stockett from over on Graveyard working with him?” Roseanne’s tone suggested she knew Sam was working for Fate, but she just needed to express her disapproval. “I’ve never felt right about that pair, and now that she’s tried to drown that baby I don’t have any use for them at all.”
“Now, Mrs. Barclay, we don’t have any way of knowing what happened that day.” Adam’s voice was light, a feature that rankled Roseanne. He didn’t give enough weight to her suspicions.
“You might not know for sure, Mr. Snellgrove,” she said with a sniff, “but I’ll bet you I’m right. I’m still of a mind to write the sheriff of St. Martin Parish and have him just come on out here and investigate what happened. He could get the truth out of her. And I’d tell him that she was looking to buy those French female pills the very first day she got here.”
“Mrs. Barclay, there’s no need to do that,” Mary Ann joined in the argument, which had grown old with Adam and Roseanne. “Look at how good she is to that baby now, like a mother hen with just the one chick. She wouldn’t do anything to hurt that boy.”
“Me, I think Mary Ann is right about that,” Val said. Then, taking a
new tack, “Let me grab that squeeze-box and Loyce’s fiddle for some music to help this good dinner settle, enh?”
In less time than it takes to tell it, the mood lifted with the music, working its magic the way Val knew it would. They moved to the sitting room, where Roseanne and Adam waltzed and chatted, carefully avoiding any mention of C.B. Mary Ann and York danced through the afternoon and evening. The warring couple did seem to be fighting less in general, Val noticed. Maybe they had learned something from the incident of the letter and the battle of wills that could have killed York.
When they played a waltz as closure, Mame took a turn with York around her old parlor. Just like she may have done with Michaud so many years ago, Val thought. He nodded a greeting to the blue paper with the girlish handwriting, now displayed in a neat frame beside the window. Mame’s old letter to Fate’s grandpa, its mission interrupted by the Great War that nearly brought down the country.
Loyce played her fiddle alongside Val and also thought about the letter. If the return of that piece of paper had drawn the Bertrams closer, it seemed to have driven Fate away. This was the first time she had been in the old Bertram house since she found out she wasn’t blood kin to the family that built it. Everything was the same as she remembered. The horsehair sofa that prickled if her bare skin touched it. The smooth dining table that smelled like lemon oil. The lamps whose crystal teardrops Mame had taught her to tap for the tinkling sound they made. All of the textures and fragrances that belonged to the Bertram family—Fate’s family—people to whom she was no longer linked except through her grandfather Elder Landry’s marriage of convenience to Mame.
