Cross of Ivy

by Roxi Bahar Hewertson

  Cut stones set in white pea gravel surrounded the aged weeping oaks and completed the perfect puzzle. Betty’s youngest son played among the bushes and flower beds as a child, loving the myriad of hiding places, the joy of rolling in the soft grasses.

  Reese, his father’s sixth generation namesake, Zach’s four other brothers and his mother were engaged in small talk. Only on the holidays did Reese dare leave the office of Trude Oil to arrive before the family patriarchs. He had come with his wife and three children, all under the age of four. Nathan brought his bride-to-be, Suzanne. They were to marry when he graduated from medical school, a profession he was destined to, one his father insisted upon, never wanting to be dependent on “quacks who don’t know their shin bone from their tail bone.”

  Louis in his stiff military stance scowled as Zach approached the wide stone steps. Reese’s offspring were climbing all over Charles, who sat on the steps and seemed as much a child as they. Luke rocked back and forth in the wicker chair, staring off toward the woods, bored to death until he saw Zach. He popped up as his brother hit the top step.

  “Hey, Zach. Been for a ride on ol’ TD? Should ‘a told me. I’d have gone with you.”

  “Hey, Luke, ol’ boy. Just a quick one. ‘Scuse me, youngin’s. Charles. Well, Reese, looks like your little water bugs are gettin’ big enough to ride.”

  “Oh no, you don’t. Next thing you know, they’ll be wantin’ ponies. How’s moldy oldy Girard treatin’ you these days?”

  “Same shit, different day. Football’s goin’ good though. I been throwin’ bullets. We’re first this year. Only one game left next week.” Betty opened the French doors from the living room.

  “Well, it’s ‘bout time you came in. You had us all wonderin’ if you were going to make supper. I haven’t seen you for five minutes since you got home.”

  “Sorry, Mother.” Her youngest boy leaned over and pecked the cheek she presented him. “Time just flies when I’m ridin’.”

  “So what’s new?” Louis piped in. “You never did pay attention to anybody but yourself. At least go clean up, so we don’t have to share your affliction for horses at the supper table.”

  “Now, Louis, stop that. It’s Thanksgivin’. Can’t we put our differences aside for a few hours?” Charles spoke up from his lower vantage point.

  “I don’t need no advice from you of all people, Chuckie boy.” Louis looked like he wanted a fight. His effeminate brother was everything he loathed. Give him a man’s man any day.

  “Boys. Boys. That’ll be quite enough. I have a terrible headache, and I don’t need your quarreling tonight. Charles is right. We haven’t been all together since before Ashley was born. Why, that’s nearly a year now. So pipe down before your Daddy and Granddaddy get home.” Their mother’s words stilled all conversation as the boys looked down at their shoes or off to the cane fields. They all had been brought up to mind their elders, and mind them they did.

  Betty hailed from one of the finest families in Hammond, good Catholics, old money. She belonged to the Junior League, set her table with flowered china finger bowls, and never wore white before Easter. When it was time for Maury to marry, his father selected a collection of eligible young virgins with proper families for him to meet. She seemed shy, non-threatening and clearly wanted all the same things out of life that the younger Trudeau thought he wanted: money, status, and lots of children. Her lipid grey eyes and light brown hair left no impression. Betty took up space. It was a match made at the bank.

  His striking blonde good looks overpowered the young heiress. Betty’s plainness satiated Maury’s need to outshine everyone who fell in his shadow. She was the opposite of his only sister. Justine, the exotic beauty, voluptuous, eccentric—nothing like the Southern girls his sister went to school with, nothing like the girls who whispered and sat in corners waiting for boys to ask them to dance. Not Justine. She was bold, mysterious, laughing all the time, dripping with sensuality. When she left home to go to Vasser, she took the light with her. Six months later, Maury married Betty.

  Maury made it a habit to come home three times a week and most weekends. The rest of the time, he stayed in his apartment in the city, riding back and forth on the train between Hammond and New Orleans. Betty always tried to keep the peace when her husband was home. He was often silent, but his anger ran deep, and he never forgot a single transgression.

  He and Betty never discussed his time away. She didn’t want to know and didn’t care. She was relieved that he no longer came to her bed, that she needn’t risk his wrath for buying new tulip bulbs or a “silly hat,” glad that he never shared business talk with her like her girlfriend’s husbands. Maury believed his life was none of her business. Theirs was a marriage of convenience. It was her job to take care of the daily routine of house and children. His was the care and feeding of the family farming and oil fortune, and the education of his sons.

  A wake of dust followed the car as old Silas drove the white Cadillac right up to the house with Maury and the elder Trudeau deep in conversation in the backseat. They spoke only of business, Granddaddy having recently retired to fishing, traveling and cavorting with as many young women as his energy would allow. He hadn’t quite let go of the company, sitting as Chairman of the Board while his only son took the executive reins. In business, they respected each other, even consulted frequently. It ended there. They had nothing to say outside the board room.

  All the affection that had been denied his son, he lavished on his grandsons and great-grandchildren. He had the time now and the will. Saving the family business through the Depression kept him away from his family even on the day his wife, Maury’s mother, died in childbirth with Justine. His guilt had nearly destroyed him; even the memory of his young, vibrant violet-eyed Martha made him sink into depression. She was a goddess in his mind, and she had left him alone with two babies. He never remarried.

  Silent suppers were often the rule except when Granddaddy came. His stories kept the boys on the edge of their seats. Some they’d heard over and over. They each had their favorites. Granddaddy was coming to supper tonight, and even Louis had said he was glad for that.

  The two senior Trudeau men rose from their comfortable white leather seats into the fresh cool air of the country. Dusk settled in, the horizon melting beyond the tree line. Maury’s boys left their mother standing with Reese’s wife, baby Ashley wiggling in her arms, and Nathan’s fiancé as they descended the steps to welcome the men home.

  It was their custom to line up and be inspected. Even though they were grown, the habit ran deep, and they moved automatically toward the car. Little Maurice VII, otherwise known as Buddy, and his brother James tumbled over each other in an effort to reach Great-Granddaddy first. They knew he invariably brought treats in his big pants pockets. They giggled, passing by Maury, rushing to the older man.

  “Ah, there you are, little men. Come to see old Pappy, eh? Well, lookie what I have in my pockets.” He tousled the tops of their blond heads and raised his arms so they could reach into that magic place where surprises always hid.

  The little boys squealed with excitement, one pocket for each. In the folds of the material lay two rubber snakes, one orange, the other green, and deeper still were two silver dollars. The treasure found, they hugged a leg apiece, looked up with wide grins and ran smack to their father.

  “What do you say to Pappy, boys?” Reese asked as he looked down at his sons.

  “Thank you, sir.” “Tank ‘ou pappy.” They obeyed, only momentarily distracted.

  “My pleasure, men. Just don’t scare your sister with those, or I’ll have to take ‘em back home with me, ya hear?”

  “Yes sir.” “Yeth thir.” They ran off in gales of laughter, thinking the same sinful thought.

  Maury spoke up. “I see everybody made it. Good.” He eyed them over as they stood in a line, oldest to youngest. He was pleased with most of them. They were largely a strapping lot, with the exception of Louis, but he could be forgiven
his shortcomings since he at least found an honorable profession with the military.

  Charles on the other hand was almost too good-looking, pretty even. Maury hated that his fourth son was an artist, mingling constantly with the artsy crowd in the Quarter. He wondered if he’d ever grow up and act like a man. Reese was coming along nicely, although he still couldn’t make a decision to save his life. And Nathan, serious Nathan. It would be good to have a doctor in the family. Maury even approved of his bride-to-be. She was a little too flirtatious but pretty girls always are, he reasoned.

  Luke and Zach stood at the end of the line. Maury was concerned that Luke refused to go to school beyond Girard, but pleased that he’d taken such an interest in the farm. Somebody had to; it was getting too much to watch from the office.

  Zach kicked some mud off of his boots. He reminded Maury so much of himself at that age, only Zach was better, a born athlete, something Maury always wanted to be. Zach would live the life Maury once longed for. Lack of talent and the intrusion of the family business prevented even a slight realization of his dream. His youngest and favorite son must feel the glory that had eluded the father, must have what he needed to be taller among men. Whatever it took, Zach would have it all. Maury would see to it.

  It was good to see them all, even though doing so tore him away from the city he loved and his other life, a life that made coming home to Pride at once difficult and bearable. For eighteen years he had played the game and won. He was a lucky man, he mused.

  Inspection complete, Maury walked down the line, shaking each son’s hand. They walked together toward the house, taking turns chatting with their father and grandfather.

  As they ascended the porch steps, Maury looked up to see his wife. “Betty,” he nodded.

  “Maury,” she said and looked away.

  CHAPTER 9

  Maury fumbled for the right key and slid it into the lock. The windows that faced the street were draped with billowing chiffon that made everything inside look soft behind the lights.

  Thanksgiving had been a mixed affair. While he enjoyed riding with his sons and playing with his grandchildren, the old man’s stories bored him to death, and Betty made it worse with her incessant drinking and complaining. He was glad it was over. He was glad to be back in New Orleans—back home on St. Charles Street.

  One step at a time—it used to be two—he climbed the stairs to the bedroom floor of the three-story brick house. Desiree stood in front of the mirror, aware that she was being watched. She turned towards him.

  “Hello Daddy,” she giggled. “I knew you were there. I’ve missed you.”

  “Ah, caught me again.” He walked across the bedroom and kissed her on the forehead. “Sneaking up on you used to be so easy.” Her father shook his head and sighed, “Where’s your mother?”

  “She’s gone out. Shopping, I think. Mother told me to pour you a drink and make you put your feet up. She said you’d be tired. Are you tired, Daddy?”

  “She did, did she? Well, that sounds fine. I was fixin’ to do just that. Come on down with me, princess. We’ll catch up.”

  He had missed her, too. His only daughter’s smile and radiant bronze beauty warmed him. She moved with a quiet grace, a genetic trait inherited from her mother. His only regret was that he couldn’t be with them all the time. But Desiree must never know about his regrets. She must always believe that she was his only child, his only distraction from the busy life that took him away half the week and holidays. Here he was free to be loving and loved. She must never know about the others.

  Father and daughter were lost in cascades of laughter when Nicolette floated in on a lilac cloud through the beveled glass doors of their home, her trademark scent preceding her.

  “Hello, my darlings. Up to your silliness as usual, eh?” She leaned over them one at a time, kissing their cheeks, her net bags overflowing with hot breads and fresh flowers.

  “Come help me unpack, Desi. Good to have you home, my love,” she said to Maury. He kissed the hand she laid on his shoulder. Even after she left, her presence remained, settling lightly on Maury. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. So good to be home.

  Nicolette looked more like twenty than thirty-six. To Maury, she hadn’t changed at all since he met her at a bachelor party for a forgotten acquaintance, nineteen years ago. Her face still wore an innocence, wiser perhaps, more reserved, but still the same unaffected girl he fell in love with.

  She was a belly dancer then, a rhinestone in her navel, sparkling ruby sequins dangling from her dress, reflecting the lights. Flowing cotton skirts hugged her oiled mahogany skin as she swayed effortlessly to the exotic music. Even then, she had an ethereal quality about her. Every movement of her supple and lithesome body intoxicated him. So much like Justine, only younger and darker.

  The other men made lusty, crude remarks through their liquored lips. They pawed at her. She deftly avoided them, clearly accustomed to the ritual. Maury watched with glassy eyes, a steady, curious smile glued on his face. Her presence filled the room so completely that the gawkers became a blur to him, like the background in a close-up picture. When the music stopped, he awakened abruptly as if from a long dream. Nicolette became his obsession—after money, after hours, after that night.

  Nicolette Sanderson had become adept at fending off men and boys. She learned early that men wanted to use her, like they had her mother. Mattie and Naomi had taken her in when she was only five. Her mother had been their friend, until she disappeared into the night. They protected the child as much as they could and taught her to read. She could pass for Creole like her mother. The women who fed and clothed her for ten years warned of the evil in men’s hearts. They knew too well that a few dirty dollars made johns feel they owned your soul.

  “Girl, you ain’t never gonna be the flavor of the night for nobody,” Mattie said to her as far back as she could remember.

  It was too late for Nicolette’s adopted mothers. But it was not too late for the child—she was still undamaged. At fifteen, they got her a job as a waitress and a dancer. Somehow, she had to make it and make it clean, for all their sakes. Naomi and Mattie taught her well.

  At the party, Nicolette noticed Maury, too. The quiet one. The beautiful one, with hazel eyes rimmed in green, strong chin, big hands. She noticed that he didn’t taunt her or try to touch her. When he offered to take her home, she welcomed the chance to save bus fare. Maury drove her to the French Quarter.

  After peering down the alley that led to her gloomy building, he insisted on escorting her home.

  The flat sat atop a noisy café, the smell of steaming hot crawfish and red sauce permeated the air. As they walked up creaking, well-worn stairs, a cursing old man in a torn undershirt and boxer shorts emerged from the single bathroom the tenants shared. He spat on the floor behind them as Nicolette opened her door.

  When she turned on the light, Maury’s face wore his shock. She owned so little—a mattress, a table and a few pillows strewn over the tattered, green rug. Yet, it was all so clean and orderly. She invited him in. It was nothing, a hovel, but she pointed with pride to her latest acquisition, an old seventy-eight record player. As she walked near it, her calico cat curled through her satin legs.

  After that first night, her face and creamy smooth voice burned into his thoughts, making it almost impossible to work, eat or sleep. He often took the chance she’d be home. When he was wrong, the pit in his stomach filled up with acid. Missing her was like missing breathing, an automatic reflex, essential for life, his life.

  He compared her only once to his wife. There could be no comparison after that. Betty was a product of all the things he was supposed to want—proper family, prestige, money, old South. She had borne him six sons, the last, Zachary only a few months old. That was all that she could do. Betty was as dead as her pansies in winter.

  Nicolette was young and alive, sensuous, vibrant, full of contradictions. She was at once independent, definite and determined, yet she revealed a c
hild’s vulnerability through her ebony eyes, darting here and there, looking for the unconditional love that eluded her.

  Their visits became more frequent, but he never touched her, except to kiss her hand, which always smelled like fresh-cut lilacs. At first Maury brought little things, not wanting to embarrass her. He brought records, flowers, food.

  One night, he came to her with four red foil boxes embellished with a dozen gold bows. Each one was smaller than the next. Her hands shook as she opened each shining package. Inside the tissue wrapping she found an elegant long, black dress accented in gold piping, matching shoes and gold rosebud earrings with diamond centers. She cried as she unwrapped each new gift. No one had ever given her such lovely things.

  He had planned the evening for weeks. It had to be right. She had to want him like he wanted her. Maury escorted her to a late dinner at the Fountainbleau’s La Chandelle. After making love with their eyes, their fingertips, their glasses of wine, they stood to go. He took her hand, and she leaned against his broad shoulders.

  Some of the dinner guests watched as the elegant bronze girl-woman and the white gentleman moved together down the hall. The men looked on in envy while their wives fired shots of venom through their eyes. They knew a mistress—a mixed-blood mistress to be sure—when they saw one.

  Nicolette was a seventeen-year-old virgin. Maury took her with a gentleness that surprised him. She was his flower, his fragile crystalline jewel. The lovers relished every moment, the sweet taste of new love. Nicolette soon learned how to please him and took pride in finding new ways. Maury discovered a part of himself he never knew existed, a tenderness that had lain dormant, tucked away beneath all the pomp, the pretending. She liberated him from his cage. Nothing was ever to be the same.