Under the Bayou Moon

by Valerie Fraser Luesse

  “Truly?” Heywood said with a grin. “I had no idea I was in the company of a professional.”

  “I was perhaps best known for my blurry action shots,” Ellie said, “but I am most proud of my beauty queen portraiture. I feel I captured their true essence, all the while keeping their tiaras in focus.”

  “I am in the presence of greatness.”

  A teenage boy brought their food out of the kitchen. “Extry sauce?” he asked.

  “Not for me. Ellie?” Heywood asked.

  “I’m fine,” she said.

  The two of them dug into po’boys—eight inches or so of crusty French bread, split down the middle and filled with the crispiest golden-fried shrimp Ellie had ever tasted. It was dressed with lettuce, tomato, and a sauce she couldn’t exactly name—not quite mayonnaise and not quite tartar sauce but kin to both.

  “Man!” she said, reaching for an extra napkin.

  “It’s the best, right?”

  Ellie dabbed at the corners of her mouth. “What does Miss Ollie do to those shrimp?”

  “I have no idea, but nobody else does it.” Heywood took a long drink of his hurricane and leaned back in his chair. “The bread is key—comes from a local place called Beulah Ledner’s. Well, it used to be—it’s Gambino’s now—and you can’t find it anywhere else.” He took another drink and looked at Ellie. “But enough about our mutual gluttony. Tell me your story. What brings you here from Alabama?”

  “A job,” she said. “I got a teaching position in a little town called Bernadette. Ever heard of it?”

  “I know it pretty well.” He picked up a stray shrimp and popped it into his mouth.

  “What’s it like?” Ellie wanted to know.

  “Small. Rural. Whole lot o’ water. It’s got the biggest general store you’ve ever seen—Chalmette’s—and you’ll love the people. Most of ’em are Cajuns, but there’s some Creole families down there too.”

  “I read up on Creole food for my trip to New Orleans, but what’s Cajun mean?”

  “Short for Acadian—French Canadians. The older ones don’t speak English, so if you don’t speak French, you might want to pick up a dictionary before you leave town.”

  “They don’t speak English at all?”

  “Just the old folks—most everybody else down there can parle some anglaise. Take ’em as they come, and they’ll do the same for you. They’re good people. Biggest hearts of anybody I ever met, but they’ve got a low tolerance for bull—that is, baloney—so always be straight with ’em. But you still haven’t answered my question. What brings you here? There’s gotta be plenty o’ teachin’ jobs in Alabama.”

  “True. But there are too many people there tryin’ to tell me what’ll make me happy. How can they know that when I don’t even know myself?” Ellie took a small sip of her hurricane. “Whew, that’s enough o’ that,” she said, pushing the drink in Heywood’s direction.

  A smile broke across his face as Ellie shook her head, trying to shed the effects of the drink, and reached for her Coke. “Don’t let ’em put you in a bandbox, Ellie. Break that ribbon and climb on out o’ there.”

  “I mean to try. I have no idea what’ll come of it, but I do mean to try.”

  “And when did you call off your engagement?”

  Ellie looked up at Heywood, who was draining the last of her hurricane. “How’d you know?”

  He pointed to her left hand. “Now and again, you twirl a ring that isn’t there.”

  “How do you know he didn’t break it off?” she said, looking down at her hand.

  “Because he’d have to be an idiot, and I doubt you’d ever date one.”

  “That’s kind of you, Heywood.” Ellie sighed. “His name was Gunter. We’d only dated for a few weeks when he tried to give me a ring. About a year later, I accepted. Or at least, I thought I did.”

  “Those naggin’ doubts are a pill, aren’t they?”

  “Yes, they are.” Ellie ran her thumb over the bottom of her ring finger. “He took me out to dinner in Birmingham a few weeks after he gave me the ring—we were about to start making wedding plans—and over pecan pie and coffee he said, ‘I guess it’s time for you to let the school know you won’t be coming back.’ Just like that, as if it were a given—a minor detail no more important than the reception punch or the rice bags. When I told him I didn’t want to quit teaching, that I loved it and had worked hard to get my degree, he said, ‘Now, Ellie, I can’t have the whole community thinking I can’t support my wife. Surely you can see how that would make me look.’”

  “What a fathead.”

  “It wasn’t just what he said, it was the way he said it—so sure I’d do whatever he wanted—and that he kept it from me, what he really thought. He said what I wanted to hear until we were headed for the altar, and then he pulled back the curtain when he figured it was too late for me to do anything about it. He figured wrong. I gave him his ring back right there and caught the bus home.”

  “Ellie, you’re my new hero,” Heywood said.

  She absently toyed with the straw in her Coke, slowly plunging it up and down in the ice. “Some hero. I let myself be totally fooled for a whole year—at least, that’s what I tell myself. Maybe I was the one doing the fooling. And now here I am, going to a place I’ve never seen to live with people I don’t know. I’m a hero, alright. Break out the ticker tape and throw me a parade.”

  “I predict enormous success for you in Louisiana,” Heywood said. “I believe its untamed character will suit you to a T. Now quit worryin’ about tomorrow and eat your po’boy before it gets cold.”

  They finished their supper, then went into the kitchen to say goodbye to Miss Ollie. Ellie saw Heywood slip her some cash money before paying their ticket and leading the way back to Bourbon Street. They spent a couple of hours ducking in and out of dimly lit, tightly packed clubs, listening to jazz and blues singers pour out their hard times and lost loves. Then Heywood escorted Ellie back to the Monteleone, stopping outside to buy her a rose from a woman selling them on the street. He ceremoniously kissed her hand in the grand lobby and promised to look her up in Bernadette. As she stepped onto the hotel elevator, Ellie wondered if Heywood really would come to see her. She hoped so. Right now, he was the closest thing she had to a friend this side of the Mississippi River.

  THREE

  THE FRENCH QUARTER WAS STILL SLEEPING when Ellie awoke and looked out her window the next morning. She had slept soundly, a better rest than she had enjoyed since she made the decision to leave home. She wasn’t afraid of any challenges that lay ahead. She was afraid of coming up empty-handed, of going through all this upheaval only to discover that Louisiana held no more direction for her than Alabama.

  Picking up the rose Heywood had given her, she breathed in its fragrance as she gazed down at the empty streets. A solitary woman was weaving her way toward the Monteleone from the general direction of Bourbon Street. She wore a vibrant purple dress with a yellow feather boa hanging off one shoulder and dragging on the sidewalk behind her. She carried her shoes in her hands. Ellie wondered what had happened to her last night. Where had she been and what had she done? Why was she walking the streets of New Orleans in clothes made for night, as daylight penetrated even the darkest corners of the French Quarter?

  Something about her reminded Ellie of the blonde woman Heywood had photographed at Tipsy’s. Did he spend a lot of time with women like that? Or did he just capture their image and walk away? Last night he had been a perfect gentleman, but Ellie suspected he was what her mother called “a hard dog to keep under the porch.” She seriously doubted that he called it a night after dropping her off. And she wasn’t sure she believed he was engaged. Even so, she was glad they had met. Heywood had a way of putting whatever she was trying to say into sharper focus, like the pictures he took with his camera. Sometimes she needed that.

  The woman in the purple dress staggered, dropping one of her shoes as she struggled to steady herself, then turned down an alley and vanish
ed, like a nocturnal vapor absorbed into the morning light.

  What would that be like—to drop out of your life and disappear into a place like New Orleans, perhaps indefinitely, maybe even forever? The woman in purple seemed to have lost herself in the French Quarter, but could it be possible to find yourself here?

  Ellie imagined never going home and never showing up in Bernadette but instead opening a corner bookstore—maybe on Royal Street—and living above it in a building with plaster walls painted bright yellow. It would have tall wooden shutters and a balcony wrapped in wrought iron. Each morning, she would water her hanging baskets as she called out a greeting to the shop owners across the street.

  All of her friends would be musicians and artists—or waiters and carriage drivers hoping to become musicians and artists. She would dress for her own comfort and wear her hair in a long ponytail all the way down her back. Then again, maybe she’d cut it short. Her store would be a gathering place where interesting people shared interesting ideas over beignets and chicory coffee. She would sketch in Jackson Square on Sunday afternoons.

  Ellie could see her bohemian existence plain as day. But then her own responsible nature reminded her that she had made a promise to Bernadette, and it would cost a lot of money to open a bookstore. Reluctantly, she pulled herself away from the window, bathed, dressed, and packed her overnight bag. She snapped the stem off Heywood’s rose and pinned the bloom to her blouse. Then she took the elevator downstairs and went to the reception desk to check out.

  “Leaving us so soon, Miss Fields?”

  She turned to see Theodore the bellman smiling at her. “I’m afraid so,” she answered. “If I’d known I was going to fall head over heels for New Orleans, I’d have gotten here a long time ago.”

  “Well, now, you’ll just have to come back real soon. Can I help you to your car or call you a cab?”

  “No thank you,” Ellie said. “I sure do appreciate your kindness, Theodore.”

  He gave a slight bow and tipped his hat to her. “My pleasure. I wish you a safe and blessed journey.”

  ELLIE WAS ON THE LAST LEG OF HER TRIP, crossing a landscape that grew more watery by the minute. She had finally parted company with Highway 90, which faithfully carried her all the way across the coast, and was now following much rougher state highways over an endless series of bridges, some more questionable than others. In places, the roadway seemed little more than a roughly paved mound of dirt and gravel snaking through the water. The corner of Louisiana she had crossed yesterday was flat and open, but as she drew closer to Bernadette, traveling deeper into bayou country, cypress trees soared out of the water, their moss-draped branches snow-tipped with white herons and egrets.

  For the first time in her life, Ellie wished she were a real photographer like Heywood. He was right. There was just so much to see here. Louisiana looked like something out of a movie—dreamy and exotic, cloaked in green, with water everywhere you turned.

  She drove back and forth over creeks, rivers, and swampland before she could finally see what must be Bernadette up ahead. The pavement had played out, and now Ellie was guiding Mabel over a gravel road that led into town. Drawing closer and closer, Ellie at last saw it—the general store Heywood had told her about. Chalmette’s was a white clapboard building with a deep porch across the front and two gas pumps right by the street. It would’ve occupied a whole block if Bernadette had blocks.

  What a pretty town it was—tiny, with one main street, and you could just about throw a rock from one end to the other. The wide gravel main street led to a beautiful old church facing the town and watching over it like a sentinel. Its soaring steeple had a cross on top, silhouetted against a bright blue morning sky. Dotting both sides of the roadway between the store and the church was a scattering of storefronts: a post office, a sawmill that looked shuttered, a beauty parlor that appeared to be closed, and a cannery like the one back home, where all the women came together to put up peaches and tomatoes and green beans for winter.

  Ellie couldn’t help comparing Bernadette to her own hometown, which was small but not this small. Maribelle had a filling station, a town garage, a dress shop, a little café and a burger joint, a high school, and an elementary school.

  Driving slowly down the street, Ellie came to a T in front of the church—St. Bernadette’s. Now she knew where the town got its name. Maybe twenty yards or so to the right of the church was a tin-roofed structure even bigger than the general store, with picnic tables scattered around it. Just left of the church was a two-story schoolhouse, unpainted but neat and well-kept with a bell tower out front. Beside it was a white wooden building that looked like a small store, but “Doctor’s Office” was painted on a sign out front.

  So this was the place. The job offer Ellie had received by mail instructed her to report, upon arrival, to “the doctor’s office.” No address was provided, nor was the doctor’s name, though Ellie knew it—Arthur Talbert, author of the letter that had spurred her on whenever she doubted her decision to move to Louisiana.

  There were no signs of life at the schoolhouse or the church, so Ellie steered Mabel onto the graveled area in front of the white building and parked next to a black Ford. She climbed four wooden steps to the front porch, took a deep breath, and opened the screen door. A string of bells attached to it on the inside jingled as she stepped into the waiting room. Lined with ladder-back chairs, the room had a bench down the center and a big wooden desk with a telephone in the corner to the right of the front door. No one was sitting there.

  Ellie heard voices coming from a closed door opposite the front entrance, but there was no one in sight. She took a seat in one of the chairs against the wall, holding her purse in her lap and hoping the doctor—whoever he was—didn’t notice the wrinkles in her navy-blue skirt and polka-dot blouse. She wanted to make a good impression. Lightly running a finger over Heywood’s rose, she tried to steady her nerves.

  A glance down and she could see that her navy pumps were covered with dust. Bending over to brush them off, she heard a noise and looked up to see two hens underneath the desk. Each had an ear of dried corn, calmly pecking at it and occasionally looking in Ellie’s direction. She was trying to figure out what chickens were doing in a doctor’s office when the bells jingled on the screen door and a guy who looked a little older than Ellie came into the waiting room, carrying an ear of dried corn and another chicken. He did a double take when he spotted her.

  “Bonjour,” he said with a slight nod before placing the chicken under the desk with the others, pulling back the shucks on the corn, and laying it on the floor.

  “B-bon-jour,” Ellie attempted.

  He immediately turned to her and frowned. “English?” he said.

  Ellie nodded. “Sorry my French is so bad.”

  He shrugged and smiled down at her. “Not so bad.” His deep voice was rich and smooth like chocolate. He was handsome in a working-man sort of way that Ellie had always found honest and appealing—tall and strong with slightly wavy black hair and tanned skin, no doubt from many hours on a fishing boat. His eyes were the color of cornflowers, with long dark lashes. He was wearing overalls tucked into rubber boots, his blue shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows.

  For a moment, he stared straight into her eyes. Then he said, “Au revoir” and left before Ellie had time to answer. Through the screen door, she saw him turn and walk up the street toward the general store just before one of the interior doors of the doctor’s office opened. A kindly man of about sixty stepped out, followed by a young woman carrying a baby, with two more children holding on to her skirt.

  “Merci, Doc,” the woman said. She looked under the desk and nodded. “Ça c’est bon, he remembered to bring another hen.”

  “Well, that wasn’t necessary, Kitty, but I appreciate it,” the doctor said. “You remember to give the baby those drops three times a day and let me know if Sylvie and Luc have any kind of reaction to their vaccines.”

  The young woman was making
her way to the door when she and the doctor finally noticed Ellie.

  “May I help you, miss?” the doctor asked.

  Ellie stood and offered a smile. “Hello. I’m Ellie Fields—the new schoolteacher.”

  The young woman recoiled, giving her a look that seemed equal parts fear and resentment. She wrapped an arm protectively around the child closest to her and hurried out the door.

  “Welcome, Miss Fields!” The doctor clasped her hand between his. “I’m Arthur Talbert, but everybody around here calls me Doc, for obvious reasons.”

  “Want to tell me what that was all about?” Ellie nodded toward the door, still ajar, where the young mother had fled with her children.

  “I’ll do my best,” he said with a sigh. “Let’s have a seat and I’ll give you the lay o’ the land.”

  Doc was tall and broad-shouldered with neatly trimmed silver hair, blue eyes that twinkled when he smiled, and wire-rimmed glasses. His kind voice had the timbre of reassurance. No doubt it had convinced many a frightened patient that everything would be alright. Ellie immediately liked him.

  He offered her a seat beside the big desk before settling into the leather swivel chair behind it. The chickens, their dining hall disturbed, strutted out and began wandering around the waiting room.

  “What would you like to know first, Miss Fields?” Doc leaned back in his chair, and Ellie noticed how very much at home he appeared in his office. He probably spent as much time here as he spent at his own house.

  “Could we start with the chickens? And please, call me Ellie.” She watched as the birds leisurely roamed about, softly clucking.

  “They’re payment for services rendered,” Doc explained. “Feathered currency, if you will.”

  “Your patients pay you with chickens?”

  “Now and again.” Doc smiled and ran his hand slowly back and forth over the blotter on his desk as he explained his unique billing system. “This is a wonderful community, Ellie, but it’s not a rich one. There was a time when all the families around here lived completely off the land—still do to some extent. They grow their own fruits and vegetables in a community garden right down the road.” He pulled back the curtain covering a window behind his desk and pointed toward town. “And then the women get together at the cannery and put everything up.