by Lois Lenski
“The little birds, they my brothers,” said Marteel, with a smile. “Now, they not be sold by Père Eugène’s store, they not be et in a stew, they not stay all the time in a cage. Now, they fly in the sky—high, high, like the clouds. They sing all day, they sing because they happy, they sing because they free.”
“W’at you doin’, Noonoo?” asked Suzette. She went over to a tin tub, which stood beside the old skiff.
“Look!” cried Noonoo, pointing.
“Felix’ baby alligators!” exclaimed Suzette.
The bottom of the tub was packed with wet mud, on which crawled three or four baby alligators, each five or six inches long, while several others sunned themselves on a branch of wood sticking out of the mud.
“Remember the eggs the boys got that day in the cypress swamp?” said Suzette. “Felix took ’em away from Ambrose and hatched ’em out.”
Marteel took a baby alligator up in her hand. “W’y he not have water in the tub so they can swim?” she asked.
“Too lazy to fill it, or else he forgot,” said Suzette. “Looks like the mud’s dryin’ up, don’t it?”
“Yes, they’re dyin’,” said Marteel, frowning. “They’re not lively the way they should be. En’t got enough water and en’t had enough to eat. Felix ever feed ’em?”
“Some flies now and then when he happen to think about it,” said Suzette.
Marteel held out her skirt and put the baby alligators carefully in it, one by one.
When the two girls came round in the front yard again, Marteel stepped lightly up on the gallery and opened the door of the bird cage hanging there. The yellow oriole flew out and away.
“Mechante gamine!—you mischievous girl!” shrieked Ophelia, appearing at the open window. “You can’t do that, you!” She stamped her foot angrily. “That my oriole, you!”
“No more it en’t!” said Marteel, calmly.
“W’at you gonna do with the baby alligators?” asked Suzette, when they had closed the gate behind them. Luckily, Ophelia had not seen them.
“Take ’em back to the swamp where they won’t die without water and food,” said Marteel, starting off down the bayou path.
Suzette hurried home with little Noonoo. Fortunately Maman had been so busy she had not had time to miss him. Papa Jules came back to the wharf again, with his hunting dogs, Roro and Toto, at his heels.
Suzette was troubled about the birds and the baby alligators, and about what Felix would do when he found out. Felix found out soon enough. It was Ophelia who told him. He came rushing to the wharf.
“Where that Sabine?” he demanded, angrily.
“Gone!” said Suzette, trembling. “Me, I don’t know where.”
“Wait till I ketch her!” threatened Felix, darkly. Because Papa Jules was there, he said no more.
It was after dark that night when Marteel returned.
Maman scolded her for running away. “You can’t have no supper, you. Go on back to the woods.”
“Plenty berries, plenty pecan to eat in the woods,” said Marteel, but she made no move to go.
The next day Maman’s hands were sore. She had used too much lye in the wash water and burned them. Her knuckles were sore, the palms of her hands were sore and she could do no work. But she could still direct others. She set Suzette and Marteel to work to finish sewing the shirts she was making for Papa Jules. They sat on the back doorstep.
Marteel took up the needle and sewed a few stitches. Then she watched Suzette. Suzette repeated Maman’s instructions all over again, so Marteel would be sure to understand. Marteel took up her needle again, but she only looked at it.
“The Injun squaws, they don’t like to sew,” said Marteel. “They like better to make baskets. They take cane and palmetto strips and weave them. They make dyes out of roots, to color them red and yellow and black. They boil the bark and roots of the live oak tree to make a bright red …”
But Suzette was not listening.
“The back-stitch, it hard to make,” she said, eyeing her work thoughtfully. “I wonder, me, if I make it right. I go ask Maman, me.”
She went indoors to show her seam to Maman. When she came back, Marteel was gone. Her sewing was left lying on the doorstep. Suzette went on with her work, stitching industriously, expecting each moment that Marteel would return.
But Marteel did not come.
Remembering Felix and his threats, Suzette was worried. She picked up Marteel’s sewing and took it in the house. When she heard loud voices of children screaming not far away, she hurried off down the path. Soon she joined the crowd.
Felix had Theo Bergeron down on the ground. He was pommeling him hard and calling him a Cajun. Several other boys had Marteel cornered. Ophelia and some of her friends were there too.
Suddenly Ophelia pointed her finger and yelled very loud: “That Injun girl, she turn my yellow oriole loose!”
“She turn all my blackbirds loose!” shouted Felix, jumping up. “She steal all my baby alligators!”
Marteel faced him bravely and said nothing.
Felix marched up close, as if he were going to fight, but bad as he was, he was not so low as to fight a girl. Instead, he shook his fist under her nose and shouted:
“Hello, Bean,
Where you been?
I been to Bayou Sabine
To get some haricot bean.”
Marteel’s face was very sober. She gave one despairing glance at Suzette, then she turned and ran. All the boys joined in a chorus of “Hello-Sabine-where-you-been” and chased Marteel down the bayou path.
Suzette stood still and watched. Marteel was going to the woods again. Each time she went, Suzette never knew whether she would come back again. She hurried home and burst into tears as she told what Felix had done.
“That petit terrible!” cried Papa Jules, in anger. “Poor Marteel! She don’t like to be called Sabine no more than we like to be called Cajun.”
“Good riddance!” exclaimed Maman. “Let the little savage go back to the woods. That where she belong.”
“You can’t tame a wild thing,” said Papa Jules. “You can put a wild duck in a cage, but that don’t make it tame. You can’t change its nature by coopin’ it up. Better let her run loose, yes.”
“En’t I lettin’ her run loose?” cried Maman. “En’t I let her drop her sewin’ on the doorstep and skip right out from under my nose? W’y she not stay in the woods? W’y she all the time comin’ round here?”
“For some strange reason she likes it here,” said Papa Jules, smiling. “She’s starved for a leetle affection, that’s all. She en’t never had a mother’s love.”
The next day Marteel was back. She brought two Indian baskets with her. They were very old and were made in intricate design. They were so beautiful Maman could not help but be pleased. She had never seen such fine baskets for sale at Père Eugène’s store. She knew he would ask large sums for them if he had them.
Marteel was sorry over running away. She put her arms tight around Maman’s neck and kissed her.
“Marteel not Injun no more,” she announced. “Marteel white girl now. Suzette’s sister, me.”
Maman was touched. She could not scold Marteel for running off without showing ingratitude for the baskets.
“W’y you not shoo her away?” asked Papa Jules.
“W’at good it do?” said Maman. “The next minute there she is, back again, with both arms round my neck.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Tit-tit’s Doll
The minute Grandmère came in, everybody knew something was wrong. Grandmère’s face was white and her eyes had a frightened look. She was short of breath and sank quickly into a chair.
“W’at the matter, Grandmère?” asked Maman, alarmed. “You walk too fast? You gonna faint?” She turned to Jacques. “Run, get Grandmère a drink of cold water.”
Jacques ran out to the rain-water cistern—a large tank behind the kitchen, which drained water from the roof. He unscrewed the faucet an
d filled a glass with water. Grandmère did not open her eyes until after she had swallowed it.
“Run, Lala, fetch the palmetto fan,” said Maman. “Fan her good. She’s over-heated. She shouldn’t walk all the way to the graveyard in the hot sun.”
“W’at is it, Grandmère?” asked Suzette. “The cows, they break down the fence again and walk on your graves? The graves, they been dug up for gold?”
“The graves, they been robbed?” cried Maman, imagining the worst. “Are there low-down thieves w’at …”
“The man from Minnesota, has he …” began Ambrose.
“Be still, all of you!” ordered Papa Jules. “Can’t you see you make her worse? Now tell us, ma Mère.”
Grandmère was silent for a moment, then she spoke. “No! It not the man from Minnesota, but little Tit-tit …”
“W’at!” cried Maman Clothilde, now distracted. “W’at! Somet’ing it happen to my baby?”
“Tit-tit’s grave-box … it been opened … her doll-baby … it gone!” Grandmère’s words came slowly.
“Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh!” “Helas! Helas!” “Robbed! Stolen! Robbed!” Cries and screams filled the air.
Eulalie was washing dishes on the pot-shelf at the open window facing Tante Toinette’s. “Tit-tit’s grave-box, it been robbed!” she called in excited tones to Tante Toinette.
“Ma cher!” cried Tante Toinette. She ran to her window on the other side to tell the news to Tante Thérèse and Tante Thérèse, in like manner, shouted the news to Tante Henriette and she to Tante Céleste. The news spread up and down the bayou through the open windows of the close-set houses.
The whole family was upset and grief-stricken. Anything on hallowed ground was considered sacred. That the doll had been stolen was a shock past believing. Such a thing had never been known to happen before.
The aunts all came running in—Tante Toinette, fat and waddling, Tante Thérèse, neat and stylish-looking, Tante Henriette, untidy and skirts dragging, and Tante Céleste, long arms waving and finger pointing. Nonc Moumout and Nonc Lodod came too. Only Nonc Serdot, away on a fishing trip, was not there. The neighbors appeared and Maman was asked to describe the doll again and again.
“It had a china head with black hair,” said Maman. “It had a red and yellow calico dress and two petticoats.”
“I know, me!” cried Tante Céleste, eagerly. “It that ole tramp I see round here yesterday. He sleep anywhere, in people’s shed, in the ditch, the field. He took it.”
“W’at a ole tramp want with a doll-baby?” growled Nonc Moumout. “He spends his time frog-huntin’ and snake-huntin’.”
“There he goes now—the thief!” cried Tante Céleste, pointing out the door. “Jules, Moumout, Lodod, w’y you not ask him w’at he got in that big bundle?”
The tramp, a forlorn-looking man, whiskered and ragged, was hauled in and questioned. Roro and Toto and even little Poo-poo sniffed at his heels suspiciously. His bundle was opened, but when it was found to contain only a ragged shirt, he was allowed to go on his way.
“It was a beautiful store-bought doll,” Maman went on. “Me, I get it by Père Eugène before Papa Jules, he got shot. We had plenty, plenty money then.”
“I know! I know!” cried Tante Céleste, excitedly. “You talkin’ ’bout brother Jules, how he got shot, it make me remember, that.”
She rushed over to her brother. “Jules,” said she, “you en’t forgot Claude Broussard, no? How you all the time say he your one big enemy?”
All the people crowded close to listen. Interest in the feud between the two families was always keen.
“Eny man w’at shoot me in the back en’t no longer my frien’,” said Papa Jules, in a loud voice.
“You en’t forgot how you don’t speak no more to Claude Broussard? And how you won’t let your children speak to his children?”
“W’at you drivin’ at, Céleste?” broke in Nonc Lodod, angrily. “En’t we got trouble enough between the Durands and the Broussards but you gotta hatch up some more?”
Nonc Lodod was dressed in his best store clothes. He had a gold watch in his pocket and a gold chain hung across his vest. He had just returned from New Orleans where he had taken a boat-load of fish, crabs and ducks, which he had sold at a good profit.
Tante Céleste went on mysteriously.
“W’at you say, brother Lodod and brother Jules and brother Moumout, if I tole you w’at I see yesterday? If I tole you I see one Durand and one Broussard walkin’ together arm-in-arm down the by’a path and sittin’ together on a by’a bench, holdin’ hands?”
All the uncles and aunts looked from one to the other, and a murmur of astonishment arose. “Who?” “Where?” “When?”
Suzette had been standing unhappily by, listening. Now she cried out at the top of her voice: “W’at that got to do with Tit-tit’s doll-baby?” But nobody listened.
Eulalie turned white as a sheet and leaned against the doorpost for support. Her eyes glanced once toward the outer door as if seeking escape, but she did not move.
“Where you see this, Céleste?” asked Papa Jules, angry now.
“W’at you say, brother Jules,” Tante Céleste went on, “if I tole you I see, with my own eyes, one Broussard crawl out from under the graveyard fence, with one bundle hid under her arm?”
“W’at Durand been walkin’ out with w’at Broussard?” demanded Papa Jules.
Tante Céleste pointed her finger at Eulalie. “That one!” she said. Everybody looked. “I see Lala holdin’ hands with young Jean Broussard on the bayou bench.”
“It not true!” cried Suzette, shrilly. “It not true! Lala, she hate ’im, she tell me so!”
But nobody paid any attention to Suzette.
“Eulalie!” said Papa Jules. “It true or not?”
Eulalie nodded her head. “He my frien’,” she said, in a voice scarcely above a whisper. Then she lifted her chin and, with true Durand courage, spoke out boldly. “Jean, he not do not’ing. He can’t help it, his Papa do the shootin’. Me, I can’t help it, my Papa he got shot!”
“Eulalie! Lala, Lala! It en’t so, it en’t so!” cried Suzette, sobbing as if her heart would break.
Silence filled the room.
Papa Jules sat down in a chair and put his hand to his head. Everybody looked at him and wondered what he was going to do. Eulalie walked out of the room. The people, staring, let her pass. Papa Jules turned to Tante Céleste.
“We gotta find Tit-tit’s doll-baby for her,” he said. “W’at Broussard you see, with one bundle under her arm?”
“The leetlest one, Ellen Elaine, I t’ink, me,” said Tante Céleste.
Felix piped up. “Yes! ‘Ellen Elaine, she can’t speak plain!’ Me, I see her with one big bundle myself.”
Nonc Lodod sent Felix to fetch Ellen Elaine at once. She came, a shy little girl of six, and her father with her, Claude Broussard himself. He was a large, heavy man with a round face. Several other Broussards of various ages, including Elise, waited by the gate.
Papa Jules got up to face his enemy. The room grew tense.
“We en’t speak together, Monsieur Broussard, for a long time,” said Papa Jules. “Today we speak on one important matter. The grave-box of our leetle Seraphine, it been robbed. Her leetle china-headed doll-baby, it been stole out of the box. Somebody here, they see your leetle girl crawl through the graveyard fence with one bundle under her arm.”
“W’at o’ that?” roared Claude Broussard. “W’at you make o’ that, Monsieur Durand?”
“We want to know one t’ing, Monsieur Broussard,” said Papa Jules, calmly. “We want to know w’at was in the bundle.”
“Tell him, Ellen Elaine,” said Claude Broussard.
“My Maman’th wathing,” said Ellen Elaine, lisping. “Me, I took our wathing to ole colored Annie, and next day, me, I go get it.” Everybody knew that colored Annie lived in a shack back of the graveyard and took in washing.
“You see, we en’t stole your precious doll-baby
, you!” roared Claude Broussard. “You believe me, yes?”
“I not believe one word you say!” shouted Papa Jules. He was angry now. “But I believe your leetle girl, even if she not speak plain. She en’t old enough to lie like her father.”
“You not believe me, no?” demanded Broussard, again.
“I not believe you when you say you hit closer to the mark, ’cause you lie. You lie, to get one big, fat hog to eat. When you don’t get the hog, you come and shoot me in the back.”
“So that how you t’ink!” replied Broussard. His voice was quieter now and more earnest. “Mebbe it time for me to set you right about that shootin’. There plenty people here to witness w’at I say it true.
“It was accident. I not mean to shoot. My brother, he come behind me. He pass his gun to me when I not lookin’ and it go off when we behind you. That how you got shot. Me, I ver’, ver’ sorry it happen. I lie awake at night t’inkin’ ’bout all the trouble I make.…” His big face was red with embarrassment, and he twisted his hat in his hands.
The room was silent with the echo of his words.
Jules Durand said nothing. Broussard took Ellen Elaine by the hand and walked out. The neighbors stepped aside to let them pass. The dogs growled angrily.
“Me, I don’t believe you!” shouted Papa Jules, running after Broussard and shaking his fist. “You not sorry, you want to shoot me. You want to shoot me, ’cause I better shot than you, ’cause I hit closer to the mark, ’cause I the best shot on the by’a!”
Claude Broussard and his little girl joined the rest of his family at the front gate. He did not answer or look back.
“W’at you mean, lettin’ your son Jean, make up to my girl Eulalie?” shouted Papa Jules after him.
But again he got no answer. The Broussards walked slowly up the bayou path and turned in at their own gate.
After a while all the people went away and things quieted down. Suzette brought wood in from the wood-pile and helped Maman start supper. But her head ached with all the tragedy and confusion of the day’s happenings. She thought of Eulalie and her story about Jean. She thought of Claude Broussard and his story of the shooting. Her world was suddenly turned upside-down. Was it possible that Papa Jules was wrong? She thought of Ellen Elaine and her story about her Maman’s washing—then she remembered the lost doll again.
