Under the Bayou Moon

by Valerie Fraser Luesse

  The highway sounded different as she drove onto the bridge that would carry her across Lake Pontchartrain and into New Orleans. Though Highway 90 spanned a narrow channel between marshlands, she could look to the northwest and see the vast, unknowable waters that stretched far beyond the tenuous safety of the bridge. Mabel’s tires bumped along as they made it across, only to thread more water, with Pontchartrain on one side of the highway and Lake Saint Catherine on the other.

  Ellie found herself surrounded by simple wooden houses on stilts—most with some kind of boat on a trailer parked in the yard—separated by the occasional bait-and-tackle shop or small grocery store. The landscape was flat and stark, the sky a brilliant sunny blue. Now and again, Ellie would glimpse a woman watering her flower beds or a man loading fishing rods into his boat.

  As Mabel carried them through a string of small towns, they passed lakes and crossed bayous, sometimes on bridges so rickety that Ellie held her breath from one side to the other. She imagined Mabel doing the same. Though she had seen the bayous around Mobile and Biloxi, Louisiana was a different kettle of fish. Bayous here were boundless and dense, lit with shades of green—from deep ivy to bright chartreuse—as algae, lily pads, and water hyacinth spread over them. They were dotted with ancient cypress trees, their Spanish moss hanging like the lace-gloved fingers of a Louisiana debutante, reaching down to stir ripples on the water.

  Ellie began to encounter more traffic and bigger houses as she drew nearer to New Orleans, guiding the old Ford along a now busy Highway 90 until she made it into the city and caught her first glimpse of the road sign she had been waiting for: Vieux Carré—the French Quarter. She followed Esplanade to Royal Street and almost wrecked Mabel as she marveled at the plaster walls in shades of yellow, burnt orange, red, and forest green, with weathered old shutters hanging just enough askew to show they’d lived a life. Scrolled black wrought iron framed upper balconies where hanging baskets bursting with ferns, begonias, and periwinkle spilled sweet potato vine all the way down to the sidewalk. Mysterious garden gates, tucked into alleyways, conjured notions of romantic assignations in the hidden courtyards that lay beyond. Ellie wondered what the gas streetlamps would look like once they began to flicker in the darkness. New Orleans was everything she had imagined and then some.

  Careful to dodge bicycles, taxicabs, and street vendors, she slowly made her way to a hotel she had heard about from a fellow schoolteacher who moved to rural Alabama from Birmingham. Adele had grown up in New Orleans and gave Ellie a well-marked street map, circling all the things she “absolutely must see.” Ellie had memorized every street name, landmark, and critical turn as best she could but still kept the map spread out on the seat next to her, stealing a glance whenever she came to a stop sign or traffic light.

  At last she spotted it—the Hotel Monteleone—and sighed with relief. After parking Mabel, she made her way to the main entrance, a blue overnight case in hand, and tried not to look like a hayseed as she took in the palatial lobby with its grand pillars and gorgeous chandeliers. The Monteleone looked like something out of a movie, and Ellie imagined herself not in the cotton dress she wore but decked out in a sequined evening gown, an air of mystery about her. The thought of it made her giggle out loud—Ellie Fields gussied up like Ingrid Bergman.

  “Now that’s what we like to see at the Monteleone—a happy guest,” said a voice behind her. She turned to see a smiling bellman in a crisp gray jacket and black pants. He tipped his hat to her.

  “Between you and me, I’m not a guest yet,” Ellie confessed. “I’m hoping they’ll rent a room to an Alabama girl who has no idea what she’s doing.”

  The bellman raised his eyebrows. “First time in New Orleans?”

  “First time ever,” Ellie said.

  “Aw, you’re in for a treat!” the bellman said. “My name’s Theodore. I’ve lived here all my life. You have any trouble, you send for me.” He gestured toward a long, ornate front desk. “It would be my pleasure to escort you to reception.”

  “Thank you so much.” Ellie fell into step with him. “I’m Ellie—Ellie Fields.”

  “I’m honored to meet you, Miss Fields.” Theodore led Ellie to the front desk and introduced her to a hotel clerk, who looked to be about her father’s age. Then he took the overnight case from her. “This’ll be waitin’ for you in your room.”

  “Thank you again.” Ellie was about to turn back to the clerk when she remembered Adele’s instructions: Don’t forget to tip in New Orleans! “Oh, wait, Theodore!” She caught up with him, slipped a quarter into his palm, and whispered, “Did I do that right?”

  Theodore gave her a slight bow. “Perfect. And I thank you, Miss Fields.”

  Ellie hurried back to the front desk and checked in, then caught the elevator to her floor and wandered several long corridors until she found her room. There, on a luggage stand just inside the door, was her overnight case as Theodore promised. She kicked off her shoes, removed her hat and gloves, and carried her friend’s map over to the tall windows, where she set about getting her bearings.

  The Monteleone faced Royal Street. With an upper-level room on the front of the hotel, Ellie could look across the block and see what had to be Bourbon Street, already lit up like a carnival even in the afternoon sun. She had heard tales of its debauchery but also of its music, which she intended to hear. With any luck, the serious sin wouldn’t start until later in the evening. She could hear some jazz and retreat to the safety of the Monteleone before then.

  The hotel bathroom was the fanciest Ellie had ever seen, all white tile and marble, with a gilded mirror, plush towels, and hand soaps that smelled like gardenias. She stared at her reflection in the mirror. Geri said she had a face like an angel, but Ellie couldn’t see it. Her maternal grandmother, Mama Jean, would often say to her with great pride, “Your name might be Fields, but you are a Galloway!” Then she would trace Ellie’s cheekbones with her fingertip. “You did not get those doe eyes and these fine Scottish features from their side!” she would proclaim.

  Ellie splashed a little cool water on her face and patted it dry with a fluffy hand towel. She ran a brush through her hair, which she had always considered an indecisive brown. It looked like it couldn’t make up its mind whether to be dark or light, so it had settled on deep brown streaked with a lighter shade here and there. Once, she had driven to the salon at Loveman’s in Birmingham to get it colored, but the stylist flatly refused, saying, “Do you have any idea how much women in this city would pay to get what you’re asking me to cover up?” Ellie had reluctantly agreed to a shoulder-length cut, which the stylist promised would still be long enough for her comfort yet short enough to ensure that she didn’t look juvenile. It had a natural wave to it, so at least it was easy to curl. That was something, she guessed.

  Her overnight case had room for only one outfit, and she would need that tomorrow. New Orleans would have to take her as she came—wearing a deep-rose cotton dress with a full skirt, cap sleeves, and a sweetheart neckline. She would wear her wide-brimmed hat to keep the sun off her face but forgo the formality of gloves. On this, her first trip to New Orleans, Ellie would embrace the storied city bare-handed.

  TWO

  AT THE CORNER OF IBERVILLE AND BOURBON STREETS, Ellie tried not to gawk. Nothing could’ve prepared her for this—the lights and the crowds, the noise and the music, and the sheer grit of this famous thoroughfare. Up and down Bourbon Street, jazz music seemed to seep through the iron-wrapped walls of Spanish-tinged buildings that looked hundreds of years old.

  Ellie started walking, slowly making her way to St. Peter Street. She stopped whenever the music called, listening to street musicians and jazz bands before following her map to Jackson Square and St. Louis Cathedral. By the time she headed back to Bourbon, the sun was going down, making all the neon signs glow ever brighter, a beacon to the nighttime crowd Adele had told her about, those ready to answer the city’s call to laissez les bon temps rouler—“let the good times roll.”<
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  Somewhere between St. Peter and Toulouse Streets, she spotted him—a tall young man who looked to be in his twenties, taking pictures with a box camera. He was lean and tan, wearing khakis, a white cotton shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and a white straw fedora with a black band. Standing on the sidewalk across the street, he was aiming his camera at something beyond the open door of a bar called Tipsy’s. Ellie watched as he peered inside, adjusted his stance a time or two, and took the picture, then ambled on. She had to wonder: In a place like this, swirling with people and music, what would’ve caught the photographer’s eye?

  Her curiosity drew her across the street to the doorway of the bar. Ellie immediately spotted the photographer’s target. The room was narrow and tight, with space for only one line of bistro tables against the left wall and a long bar with an elevated stage behind it to the right. A girl in a red-sequined dress was onstage, singing “Love Me or Leave Me.”

  Seated on a stool at the corner of the bar, close to the door, was a blonde wearing a strapless blue cocktail dress that was a little too tight and a little too short for a woman her age. She was alone, smoking a cigarette as she stared at nothing in particular, absently running her finger around the rim of a half-empty highball glass. She wasn’t so much beautiful as arresting, with a hardened glamour that made you wonder what she might’ve looked like ten or fifteen years ago. Was she waiting for someone, or had he already come and gone, abandoning her to this bar for the night? Perhaps many men had come and gone, dropping in and out of her life and leaving her alone in places like this.

  Ellie was startled when the woman turned, met her gaze, and smirked at her wide-brimmed hat. “What’s your problem, Bo Peep?” She practically spat the words. Ellie was stammering an apology when the woman raised her glass as if she were about to offer a toast, then threw the rest of her cocktail toward the doorway.

  Mortified, Ellie fled, running as fast as she could until she was several blocks from the bar, where she stopped to catch her breath beneath a corner lamppost. She leaned against it as she took off her hat, using its wide brim to fan the steamy New Orleans heat off her face. She saw a couple of men on the street do a double take and checked to see if any of the hurled drink had landed on her skirt and stained it, but her dress looked fine. Who knew what made people in New Orleans stare? As Ellie had just proven, she was guilty of it herself.

  She kept fanning with her hat, thinking of the day she bought it at Marlene’s dress shop in Sylacauga. The saleslady had said it made her look elegant, and that’s how Ellie always felt when she wore it—until a blonde woman on a bar stool suggested otherwise. Now she just felt stupid. She had presumed to judge and instead received judgment, revealing herself for what she was—a hayseed who didn’t know how to handle herself in New Orleans.

  Ellie eyed a metal garbage can next to the lamppost. She briefly clung to the hat and a memory of the girl who bought it, then slowly extended her arm above the trash can and dropped it in.

  “I can’t believe you just did that.”

  Ellie looked up to see the photographer watching her with a sad expression on his face, his camera pointed in her direction. She didn’t know what to say. “It’s just a hat,” she finally said with a shrug as he approached her at the lamppost.

  “I don’t think so,” he said, slowly shaking his head.

  “It’s kinda your fault, now that I think about it.”

  He raised his eyebrows and pointed to himself.

  “That’s right. If I hadn’t been trying to figure out what you were taking a picture of back at Tipsy’s, I wouldn’t have made a bumpkin out of myself, staring at that blonde lady at the bar who, in case you’re interested, called me Bo Peep and threw her drink at me.”

  The photographer winced. “Ouch! That was mean, even for Bourbon Street. Woulda made a great shot, though.”

  “Not for me, it wouldn’t!”

  The photographer laughed. “No, I guess not. Well, it seems I owe you an apology, which I sincerely offer.” He took off his hat and bowed dramatically. “I am your humble and contrite servant, Heywood Thornberry of the Du Quoin, Illinois, Thornberrys. You may call me Heywood.”

  Ellie responded with a deep curtsy. “I am Miss Ellie Fields of the Maribelle, Alabama, Fields. You may call me Miss Ellie Fields.”

  They laughed together before Heywood looked around as if he were making sure no one could hear and leaned toward her. “I should advise you, Miss Ellie Fields, that the only women in New Orleans who park themselves against corner lampposts on Bourbon Street are, shall we say . . . open for business.”

  “What!” Ellie shrieked and leaped off the curb, which made Heywood laugh again. “Are you kidding me, Heywood?” she demanded, standing in the street with her hands on her hips.

  He held up his right hand. “So help me, I speak the truth. I just thought you should know—before a line begins to form.”

  Ellie covered her face with her hands. “I’m an idiot!” she shouted, her voice muffled by her hands and dampened by the din that engulfed them.

  Heywood pulled her hands away from her face and smiled down at her. “Not true. You, Miss Ellie Fields, are merely out of your element. Temporarily. I predict you will own this fair city before it’s over with. Now let us put your brief career as a lady of the evening behind us and grab some supper.”

  “You promise you’re not a violent criminal?”

  “Ma’am, I am far too poor to be a criminal and far too lazy to be violent. Also, I am betrothed to another and, therefore, completely safe.”

  Ellie’s eyes narrowed as she frowned at Heywood. “Your intended doesn’t mind if you pick up strange women on Bourbon Street?”

  “She does not,” Heywood assured her. “She says I have far more to say than one woman has the capacity to hear and therefore encourages me to engage the company of others.”

  Ellie had to laugh. “Well, in that case, I’m in.”

  Heywood offered her his arm. “Let us repair to a po’boy emporium.”

  He escorted her to a small café called Ollie B’s a couple of blocks off Bourbon and found them a table.

  “Heywood Thornberry, you better get up from there an’ gimme some sugar!” cried an ample woman. She wore a long orange caftan—striking against skin the color of rich espresso—along with large gold hoop earrings and a bright orange-and-yellow turban.

  “Miss Ollie!” Heywood shouted. He jumped up, hugged the woman, and kissed her on both cheeks.

  “When you get back to New Orleans?” she said, holding him at arm’s length and looking him over.

  “Just a few days ago. You know I ain’t stayin’ here long before I got to have one o’ your po’boys.”

  She slapped her leg. “I know that’s right! Have mercy, Heywood, I thought you’s gon’ turn into a big ol’ shrimp last time you’s here, what with all them po’boys you put away.”

  “Well, you oughtn’ to make ’em so good! How’s Mr. Welton?”

  Miss Ollie shook her head. “Welton done got the cancer.”

  “Oh no.” Heywood clasped her hand between his. “I am sorry to hear that. What’s the doctor say?”

  “Nothin’ I wanna hear. But what you gon’ do? You gotta just keep it goin’, don’t you, Heywood?”

  “Yes, ma’am, you sure do. You let me know if I can help at all.”

  “’Course I will.” She smiled and patted his cheek. “Now who dis?”

  Heywood turned to Ellie, who was watching them from the table. “This is Miss Ellie Fields, fresh from Alabama. I accidentally got her into a mite o’ hot water on Bourbon Street and thought I’d make amends with your fine cookin’.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Ellie,” Miss Ollie said. “You in dang’rous comp’ny.”

  “I guessed as much,” Ellie said with a smile. “It’s nice to meet you, Miss Ollie.”

  “I best get back to my kitchen,” she said. Then she turned to the bartender and called out, “Pinkie, cool ’em off with a storm—on the house.
”

  The bartender nodded to Miss Ollie and soon arrived at their table with a tray that held two glasses of ice water and two tall cranberry-orange-colored cocktails.

  “What’s that?” Ellie pointed to the tall glass.

  “That, Miss Ellie Fields, is called a hurricane,” Heywood said. “Drink one and you’ll forget all your troubles. Drink two and you might end up in the Mississippi River.”

  She took a tentative sip. “It’s good.” She took a long drink.

  “Give it a second,” Heywood advised.

  She soon felt the effects of the drink and shook her head. “Maybe I’d better stick to Coke.”

  He motioned for the bartender to bring her one.

  “Do you live close to New Orleans?” Ellie asked him.

  “Not too terribly far,” he said, taking a sip of his drink. “I work on an oil rig around Morgan City, but I slip up here now and again to take pictures.”

  “Is that what you want to do—become a photographer?”

  He frowned and thought it over. “That was never my intent, but I seem to be drifting in that direction. There’s just so much to look at down here. We don’t have Spanish moss in Illinois. No alligators, either. Everywhere I look in Louisiana, there’s something I want to remember, so I take pictures all the time.”

  Ellie nodded. “I can understand that. I’ve never seen anything like New Orleans. I’ll bet there are lots of rich people in town with plenty o’ money to hire a photographer for portraits and weddings and fancy parties. You could make money off that and photograph cypress trees and alligators in your free time.”

  Heywood smiled at her. “Yes, I suppose I could—if it turns out I’m any good. We’ll just have to wait and see.”

  “Well, if you’d ever like someone to review your work, I happen to be the former senior photographer of the Maribelle High School yearbook.”