Lura adjusted her glasses and cleared her throat. “It would seem to me, Senator, that all Brother Lester succeeded in doing with his alligator hunt was to give the Cajuns a common enemy. He pulled them closer together, when what you want is division. I would suggest removing him from the picture, upping the ante considerably on that alligator—say, $20,000—and making the hunt open to local residents only. White trash would hunt their own mama for that kind of money.”
“That’s a lot of money, Lura.”
She smiled and nodded. “Yes, Senator, it is—which is why no one but you will collect it. I’ll find out who the best hunters are down there, and your mad dog Luetrell can tail them, do what needs to be done to make sure that once they find the alligator—if anybody finds it—he’ll collect the reward and return it to you for whatever fee you deem appropriate.”
A smile broke across Big Roy’s face as he leaned back in his chair and lit a cigar. “Why I ever listen to anybody but you is a mystery even to me, Lura. I thank you. Just take this mail back with you and do whatever you see fit. You can sign my name well as I can. And when you get back to your desk, pop open the safe and grab yourself a fistful. Just put it on my expense report under ‘Miscellaneous.’”
THIRTY-TWO
“HEY, FOOTSIE.”
“Hey, Remy.”
“You catchin’ anything?” Remy sat down on the cool ground underneath an oak tree where Footsie Taylor was fishing with a cane pole and cast his own line a few feet to the right of his friend’s cork, which was bobbing along in the water.
“Ain’t caught nothin’,” Footsie said, shaking his head. “Sho’ is a purty mornin’, though. Reckon I could find me some worser things to do than chase after fish on a day like today.”
Footsie was the youngest of ten children in a Creole family who lived a few miles down the bayou from Bernadette. His father worked the cane fields during the harvest, and he caught crawfish to sell at Chalmette’s the rest of the year. He often played guitar at the dance hall on Saturday nights, with Footsie and Remy skipping rocks on the creek out back while the adults danced inside.
All of Footsie’s clothes were hand-me-downs and a little too big for him. The straps of his overalls were forever slipping off his shoulders, and he had to roll the pants way up so he wouldn’t trip over them. He also had rolls of cotton fabric around both arms, where he had turned up the too-long sleeves of his shirt. Footsie never wore shoes. That’s how he got his nickname. His wide-brimmed straw hat—his fishing hat—was frayed around the edges, but he had a nicer one—his “go-to-town hat”—that he saved for special occasions.
“You sure are lucky, Footsie, you know that?” Remy said, scratching his jaw.
“You outside yo’ mind, Remy?” Footsie tugged his line to the left a foot or two. “I’m po’, I’m colored, I got no schoolin’, an’ I ain’t never put on nothin’ that wasn’t wo’ out when I got it. What you think lucky ’bout that?”
“I’m sorry,” Remy said. Footsie kept staring out at the water. Remy put a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Really, Footsie. I mean it. To me, we’re the same. But I reckon we ain’t. And I’m real sorry I forget that sometimes.”
Footsie shrugged and smiled at him. “I know you don’t mean nothin’ by it.”
“That don’t make it right. I just meant that you know where you belong. You got a mama and a papa and a bunch o’ brothers and sisters. Ain’t no doubt where you belong.”
“You got folks, Remy.”
“Not like you,” Remy argued.
“That schoolteacher mean to you at home?”
Remy shook his head. “No. She’s real nice. Always wants to know what I’d like for supper and if I’m worried about anything.”
“What ’bout yo’ Uncle Raphe? Don’t he want you no mo’?”
Remy frowned as he watched his cork go under but then pop right back up. “He ain’t changed at all. We still do all the things we used to do together. But I don’t see how that’s gonna last. Won’t they have kids like Aunt Kitty and Uncle Nick?”
“If they was colored, I’d say yeah, but you can’t never tell what white folks gon’ do.”
“I reckon I just gotta own up to it, Footsie. I ain’t nobody’s kid and I ain’t never gonna be.”
RAPHE CAME HOME LATE IN THE AFTERNOON and found his house empty. He could smell jambalaya in a covered cast-iron pot on the stove. Remy was likely playing with Footsie. But if his wife wasn’t here to greet him when she knew he’d be coming in from a long day on the river, that meant she had a problem she wasn’t ready to tell him about and had sought Tante Dodo’s counsel. She was homesick for her mother and her Mama Jean, which happened only when she was very upset about something. He quickly washed up and changed his clothes, leaving the dirty ones outside in the washtub. Then he sat in the porch swing and waited.
Eventually he saw Juliet paddling his grandfather’s pirogue into the slough. She looked startled to see him when he walked down to the bank to greet her.
“I thought you wouldn’t be home till later,” she said.
He smiled and pointed to the sun dipping low in the sky. “It’s later.”
She shook her head as if she could shake her troubles out of it. “I’m sorry. I’ll get supper on the table.” She tried to hurry past him, but he put an arm out, caught her around the waist, and gently pulled her against him.
He held her as he felt her relax into his shoulder, first sniffling and then sobbing against his shirt. Raphe patiently waited for her to cry until she didn’t want to anymore, then wiped her tears with his fingertips, took her by the hand, and led her to one of their favorite spots on the bank, a sandy clearing beneath a tall, shady cottonwood. Raphe would always sit against the tree. Juliet would sit between his legs and rest her back against his chest. He would put his arms around her, and they would make any big decisions they needed to make.
Late this afternoon, his wife didn’t so much rest against him as collapse into him. “Tell me why you cry, Juliet.”
She took a long, deep breath. “I’m such a failure, Raphe.”
“That’s a pretty big thing to say.” He twirled a strand of her hair through his fingers. “What makes you think so?”
“Remy.”
“Did he give you trouble today?”
“No. Remy never misbehaves. It’s just—I can’t seem to get through to him. It’s my job to get through to children, Raphe. I do it all day, every day. I get through to the children of people I barely know, but I can’t reach Remy. I can’t make him believe he has a home with us.”
“Ah, that.” Raphe sighed and nodded, tightening his arms around her.
She turned so she could wrap her arms around his waist and rest her head on his shoulder. “I’ve been doing everything I could think of—learning to cook his favorite foods, reading to him, spending some time with him when it’s just the two of us, making sure I stay out of the way and give him time with you . . . But today—just when I thought we were having a great talk—he looked up at me and said, ‘It’s okay if you want me to leave when you start having babies.’”
Raphe winced, feeling his wife’s pain and his nephew’s all at the same time.
“And the thing is, Raphe, he wasn’t whining or complaining the way most kids his age would. It was so matter-of-fact—like he was pretty sure it would happen and he needed to start making arrangements or something. And when I tried to assure him that he was part of our family and this was his home . . . he just smiled and said he’d like to go play with Footsie. He didn’t believe me. I at least know enough about kids to know when they’re not buying what I’m selling.”
He leaned down and kissed her on the forehead. “And what does Tante Dodo advise?”
“She says making a child feel secure, ‘ca demande un tas de patience.’”
“Did she know who she was talking to?” Raphe asked.
At last Juliet laughed. “Are you suggesting I’m no good at things that demande a lot of patience?”
“I would not say you are impatient. I would say you are determined.”
“And I would say you’ve been married long enough to become a really great liar. It’s a quality I admire, by the way. Sometimes the truth is just too blooming hard to hear.”
“In that case, I think your gumbo is delicious.”
“Stop it!” She was laughing again.
“Remy has to find his own way, Juliet,” Raphe said. “We can try our best. We can give him all the love in the world, but if he can’t accept it . . . I’ve been trying so long. I’ve done all I can think of.”
She raised up and smiled at him. “We’ll just have to think a little harder.”
THIRTY-THREE
ELLIE WAS LOADING A PICNIC BASKET on her table when she looked out the front window and saw a familiar but long-absent sight: the Whirlygig chugging into the slough.
She put her fried chicken—one of Remy’s new favorites, she was proud to say—into the basket before hurrying down to the dock. “State your name and state your business!” she shouted over the loud engine.
“Thornberry’s the name, picnicking’s my game!” Heywood shut off the engine and pitched Ellie ropes from the bow and the stern.
She tied up the Whirlygig while he collected a couple of sacks from the boat and climbed up. He set them down on the dock and hugged her.
“Miss Fields—I mean, Mrs. Broussard—you are a sight for sore eyes on this fine spring morning! Where’s the mister?”
“Where do you think?”
“On the river.”
“Exactly. He and Remy had to make just one quick run before the picnic.”
“Good!” Heywood said. “I’m glad he’s gone. It’ll give us an opportunity to talk about him.”
“Want some cold lemonade, New Orleans style?”
Heywood clutched his chest. “Be still, my foolish heart. I would love some.” He grabbed the two sacks and followed Ellie into the house. “I come bearing Gambino’s.”
Ellie leaned over the sacks as he set them on the table and took a deep breath. “Heavenly days, I love that bread. Too bad it’s not full o’ Miss Ollie’s shrimp.”
“If I coulda figured out how to keep those delectable crustaceans hot and fresh, I would’ve procured some.”
“Well, I’m not complaining,” Ellie said. “I’ll take Gambino’s any day. Let’s sit on the porch where it’s cool.” She poured them lemonade from the icebox as Heywood pulled off two pieces of bread from one of the French loaves he’d brought.
They carried their bread and lemonade to the porch swing. Ellie took a bite and sighed. “This makes up for any flaws in the entire state of Louisiana.”
“Found many?”
Ellie tilted her head sideways as she thought about it. “Aside from the snakes and the mosquitoes, nothing much comes to mind. But then I haven’t been through the heat of a Louisiana summer yet. I hear they’re dreadful. Right now I’m just glad it finally stopped raining, or we would’ve had a soggy picnic.”
Heywood smiled at her. “I would ask how married life suits you, but I can see it on your lovely face. It suits you quite well. And I’m ashamed to admit it, but I am completely jealous of you and Raphe. Each of you ended up with one of my favorite people on this whole dadgum planet. I am green with envy.”
“Heywood Thornberry, you’ve never been jealous of anybody in your life, and I can tell you why. Want to hear?”
“Do tell.”
“Because, deep down, you know you shine a little brighter than the rest of us.”
Heywood gasped. “Mrs. Broussard, are you suggesting that you find my boy Raphe dull in comparison to moi?”
“Actually, the mere sight of your boy Raphe makes my heart flip-flop, even when he’s hot and sweaty from a day on the river, but he thinks you’re way more interesting than he is, just like I think you’re way more interesting than I am. Neither one of us could ever keep up with you, Heywood. That’s why we’re always so glad to see you.”
“I am deeply flattered and wholly undeserving.”
“By the way, you’re staying through your birthday. That’s final and nonnegotiable. You can share Remy’s loft if you don’t want to sleep on your boat.”
“You two don’t have to babysit me until the ill-fated thirtieth birthday,” Heywood said.
“No, we don’t. But you’re here, and I don’t see any reason why you can’t share your birthday with us. It won’t hurt you to hang around and fish with Raphe for a couple of weeks.” Ellie grinned at him. “Claudette’s welcome to come.”
Heywood clasped his hands together and shook his head sadly. “Alas, she has accompanied her family on a spring trip to Grand Isle. Lest the death knell toll for me.”
Ellie smacked him on the back of his head. “Quit spouting that nonsense. You’re gonna live long enough to make Methuselah look like a spring chicken.”
Heywood was laughing. “Now that’s old.”
“Oh, look—they’re back!” Ellie pointed to the dock where Remy was tying up the bass boat and Raphe was climbing the ladder with their fishing rods.
“Mind your manners, boys, we’ve got company,” Ellie said as Raphe and Remy came onto the porch.
“Mr. Heywood!” Remy exclaimed, giving him a hug and grinning up at him. “Got anything special on the boat?”
“I do indeed, you little mercenary! Go and fetch it from the captain’s seat.”
Remy took off as Heywood got up to shake Raphe’s hand and clap him on the shoulder. “In your absence,” Heywood said, “I attempted to steal your bride, but she would have none of it.”
“Pretty sure I’m supposed to feed you to the alligators for that,” Raphe said.
“Can it wait till after lunch? I’m starving.”
“Oui,” Raphe said with a shrug. “Remind me to end you after we eat.”
“Looks like y’all didn’t have much luck on the river,” Ellie said as Raphe propped the fishing rods in the corner of the porch.
“I think Remy scared ’em away,” Raphe said. “Couldn’t stop talking about the picnic. I’ll go clean up real quick.”
Raphe went inside as Remy came running onto the porch. “Mr. Heywood, it’s a beauty!” He was holding a bone-handled pocketknife.
“Come over here and show me you know how to use it right.” Heywood sat down in the swing next to Ellie, who was shaking her head at the thought of a boy with a knife.
“Remy, you know you have to be very careful with that,” she said.
“Yes, ma’am, I know,” he said as he opened the knife the way Raphe had shown him.
“That’s good,” Heywood said. “Show me how you close it without cutting your hand.”
Remy safely closed the knife.
“Outstanding. Now I’ll tell you what she’s thinking.” Heywood nodded toward Ellie. “Never run with it open, never throw it at anybody, and remember it’s a tool, not a toy. Got it?”
“Got it!”
“It really is a beautiful knife, Remy,” Ellie said. “What do we say?”
“Merci!” he said to Heywood.
“You’re more than welcome.”
Ellie reached out and combed through Remy’s hair with her fingers. “Remy, honey, I filled the pitcher on your washstand. Run upstairs and clean up so we’ll be ready to go, okay?”
“Okay, M’Ellie!” He ran up the porch stairs to his loft.
“M’Ellie?” Heywood said.
Ellie glanced up toward the loft and smiled. “It’s something he started a few months ago. After we married, I told Remy he didn’t have to call me ‘Miss Ellie’ at home. He tried ‘Tante Ellie’ for a while, but that never seemed to suit him. I think he’s just shortening ‘Miss Ellie’ to something a little more familiar.”
“Or maybe he’s shortening Maman Ellie to something a little less familiar till he’s sure it would be welcome.”
Ellie shook her head and sighed. “I wish.”
Heywood gave her a gentle nudge with his elbow. “
Is this my rebellious Miss Ellie Fields, the one who would not be corralled, longing to be Maman?”
“Yep,” she said with a smile. “I would love to be Maman to Remy. I’d love for him to feel that secure with me. As for being corralled—Raphe doesn’t make me feel hemmed in at all. I guess it’s because he wants me to do whatever makes me happy. And what makes me happiest is making Raphe and Remy happy. Heavens to Betsy, I sound like a sap, don’t I?”
“Yes, but a highly sophisticated one.”
Ellie giggled. “Oh, I am the picture of sophistication with my cast-iron skillet and my pirogue, chalk dust in my hair half the time.”
“But you’re happy.”
“I’m very happy, Heywood. And I want you to be too.”
He put his hands up in protest. “Stop! Don’t say it! Married women always think everybody else needs to be married.”
“Because you do!” Ellie was laughing the way she always did when they were together.
“He does what?” Raphe said as he came onto the porch.
Ellie got out of the swing and put her arms around her husband. “He needs to get married so he can be happy like us!”
Heywood hung his head. “Broussard, what have you done? Ellie was my friend, my confidante. Now she’s one of them! The meddlesome married women.”
Raphe looked down at Ellie and smiled. “I like meddlesome married women.”
“Gabby’s gonna be at the picnic,” Ellie said.
“I keep telling you, I am betrothed—wait, is Gabby the curvy one with the dark eyes, the curly black hair, and legs clear to Texas?”
“The very same,” Ellie said.
“Well, I will of course be polite,” Heywood said.
Ellie rolled her eyes. “You’re hopeless.”
“Ready to load up?” Raphe asked her.
Under the Bayou Moon Page 18
