Bayou Angel

by Sandra Hill

“Just ask her for a date,” she concluded.

  “Hard to go on dates when we’re hiding out here.”

  “It won’t be forever.”

  “Feels like it.”

  “Angel already has the house framed out. The electricians and plumbers will be there today, and the LeDeuxs will be putting up drywall this weekend. It’s taking a bit longer than originally planned, but I predict you’ll be in your new house within two weeks.”

  “Do you really think I’ll be able to go to college?”

  She nodded. “If that’s what you want, Tante Lulu will find a way to make it happen.”

  “We owe her a lot, don’t we?”

  “A lot, but she doesn’t do it for the kudos. She genuinely likes to help people. The best way you can show your thanks is by doing the best you can to be good people. Adopting St. Jude as your favorite saint helps, too.”

  Ella ran in then and yelled, “Holy crawfish! Tante Lulu says fer you two ta hurry up. The dilly willy mushrooms are bloomin’ t’day, and we gotta go pick ’em lickety-split. They’re the bestest thing fer zits and goiters.”

  Grace and Lionel grinned at each other. The old lady’s colorful language was wearing off on all of them.

  “And pack a picnic lunch, too,” Ella told Grace. “And doan fergit the leftover shrimp hushpuppies and okra salad and a mess of them greens from the garden.”

  Yep, a definite Tante Lulu influence.

  A short time later, Grace was paddling a pirogue down the bayou, heat shimmering off the coffee-colored water, with Tante Lulu in front of her, while Lionel and Miles rowed the second one, with Ella in the middle. A disgruntled Lena was ordered to stay indoors to study for her GED and not to answer if anyone came knocking.

  Before they’d taken off, Tante Lulu advised the kids, “Put on long pants and shoes jist in case ya get bit by a snake. That way the fangs won’t break the skin.”

  It was a sign of how accustomed they were all becoming to the old lady’s ways that no one had even flinched at the mention of snakes. Actually, Grace wished Miles would flinch or say something. He was way too quiet for a ten-year-old boy. If he’d had his way he’d have stayed back at the cottage with Lena, glued to her side.

  “And doan be givin’ me that Hannah Banana bizness, either,” Tante Lulu had advised Ella. “Her clothes is too sexy fer a mite like you.”

  Ella, who had been wearing a Hannah Montana bandanna, a “Girls Rock” camisole, and too-short shorts, had made a huffing sound of indignation that anyone would criticize Saint Hannah, the idol of adolescent girls and boys. “It’s Hannah Montana, not banana.”

  “Montana, Banana, Fofana, same thing,” Tante Lulu had said.

  Now, as they skimmed through the tranquil waters in their low-riding pirogue, Tante Lulu, sitting behind Grace, said, “Kin I ask ya somethin’, Gracie?”

  Oh, boy! Tante Lulu never asked permission to speak. This ought to be good. “Sure.”

  “You a virgin?”

  Grace burst out with a laugh. “Good heavens, no. What made you ask that?”

  “Well, I knowed ya a few years now, and I ain’t seen ya with any boyfriends.”

  “There haven’t been many lately, but take my word for it, I’m not a virgin.” In fact, I’m a mother.

  “Ya ever been in love?”

  “I thought I was once, but it turned out to be puppy love. I was only a teenager.”

  “Don’tcha think it’s time fer love? Ya already lost one good man. Angel. Yer not a young chicken anymore, bless yer heart. Well, yer a young chicken compared ta me, but iffen yer fixin’ ta have any chillen, ya best be findin’ a man ta marry.”

  Grace was beginning to learn that in the South you could toss out any kind of insult as long as you attached “bless his or her heart” to it. Like, “Jolie had a baby when she was only seven months pregnant, bless her heart, and the baby weighed twelve pounds.” Grace also knew she would never be considered a true southerner, best explained by that famous saying, “I’m a southerner born and a southerner bred, and when I die, I’ll be a southerner dead.”

  But that was neither here nor there. “Tante Lulu, I won’t ever marry or have children.”

  “Fer goodness sake, why not?”

  “It’s something I don’t discuss. Sorry.”

  “Don’tcha like babies?” Tante Lulu persisted.

  “Of course I like babies.”

  “Is it ’cause you were a nun? I mean, didja take a vow or sumpin’?”

  Grace smiled. “No.”

  “Mebbe ya oughta dye yer hair blonde.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Red ain’t done much fer ya so far. Besides, they say blondes have more fun.”

  “I’m having plenty of fun.”

  “Hah! Hangin’ around with an eighty-year-old woman is yer idea of fun?”

  Grace smiled. Tante Lulu hadn’t seen eighty for a number of years, but who was Grace to correct a woman lying about her age? It was an age-old, God-given right. Eve probably lied about her age to Adam.

  “An’ ya oughta buy sexier clothes. I’ll go clothes shoppin’ with ya, iffen ya want. Another thing—ya oughta have Charmaine give ya some of them sculptured nails, too. Ones what are strong as cement and cain’t be bitten down.”

  “Do they make nails that hard?”

  “Iffen they don’t, we could come up with a concoction.” In the middle of her discourse to Grace, she yelled out to the other pirogue, riding beside them, “Miles, stop draggin’ yer fingers in the water lessen ya want a gator ta bite ’em off.”

  The boy immediately shot upright, hands folded over his lap. His little face reddened with embarrassment.

  Then Tante Lulu directed her attention back to Grace. “Ya need ta buy yerself one of them push-up, see-through bras and a thong. Me, I cain’t see the attraction of having a sling up my crack, but men seems ta like ’em. And a garter belt. Y’know, it’s amazing, women in my time hated those seamed stockings and garter belts. We thought panty hose was the best thing since God invented condoms. Who’da thunk they’d come back in style?”

  All this was being said to Grace’s back, so Tante Lulu didn’t even see her gaping mouth, but she did hear Grace sputter, “I do not want or need sexy clothes. When I’m ready for a man in my life, I’ll do it the old-fashioned way.”

  “Oh? What way is that? Sittin’ on yer hiney waitin’ fer Prince Charming ta come floatin’ down the bayou on his white raft?”

  “Can we drop this conversation? It’s giving me a headache.”

  “Talkin’ ’bout men gives ya a headache? Holey Moly! Ya ain’t one of them lesbos, are ya?”

  Grace rolled her eyes. “No.”

  “Well, then, never say never.”

  “Never.”

  “Hmmmm.”

  When silence finally reigned, Grace turned to look over her shoulder at the old lady.

  Tante Lulu was deep in thought, but then she said succinctly, “Guess I’ll hafta pray on this.”

  That’s all Grace needed.

  Gambling on love...

  Tante Lulu was resting on the blanket they’d spread in a clearing along the bayou, which was tranquil today. That was not always the case, but then, that was one of the things she loved about the moody waters of the swamplands. They were never the same. Nor was the ever-changing bayou itself. Often land here today would be gone tomorrow. Like people.

  Their picnic was over and most of the herbs gathered, including the rare dilly willy mushrooms, which were poisonous when eaten but great in a paste for roach and ant bites.

  The canvas tote at her side held plastic zipper bags of various plants they’d gathered today. Bark from the sassafras tree would be made into a tea good for curing many ailments: poison oak and fever, or into douches to treat bladder infections. Head lice could be killed off with its oils. Then there was ironweed for monthly cramps, spiderwort for stomachaches, trumpet creeper for coughs, bull nettle for mange, stinking arrach for ulcers, and feverfew for migrai
nes.

  Cajuns were known for their frugality, using every bit of an animal. No waste. Same was true of plants. There were uses for the leaves, the seeds, the roots and stems. God gave his bounty, and men had an obligation to use it wisely.

  “Do you want any more of these cattails?” asked Grace, who was standing with the children at the edge of the water. They already had enough of the tall stems to sink a boat.

  “Thass enough,” she said. “Be careful. Doan wade in too far. It’s not jist snakes and gators ya gotta be careful of.”

  It was nice to see the three children playing carefree and happy. Their lives had been so worrisome of late. She was gratified to see all of them interested in the things she’d taught them today, especially Lionel, who was going to make a fine doctor someday. She would guarantee it.

  But it was Grace that troubled Tante Lulu now. Something was seriously wrong with the girl, and Tante Lulu just couldn’t figure it out. Her end goal was to get the girl hitched up with Angel. They were meant for each other. But it wasn’t going to be as easy as she’d originally thought. Something deep and important was troubling the girl.

  In the meantime, the two of them needed to be together more often for Angel’s plan to work. Leastways, she assumed he had a plan. Men were dumb clucks sometimes and thought things could just happen.

  “Why so glum?” Grace asked as she walked up and sat down next to her on the blanket.

  “Me, I was jist thinkin’ ’bout the foundation and all the work that needs ta be done. There’s so much ta do.”

  “You knew that when you started, didn’t you?”

  Tante Lulu shook her head. Bouncy red curls today that pretty much matched Grace’s. “I knew there was a problem, but I never guessed it was so big. I went over that folder of requests with Samantha yesterday, and it jist about broke my heart. So many needy folks!”

  “Well, you can’t cure the world of all its ills, but you can take one case at a time and make a difference. That’s what you always say.”

  “One thing I’m beginnin’ ta learn is that we gotta keep this foundation in the limelight. Allus gettin’ publicity. Allus raisin’ more money. Otherwise, people fergit and go about their own bizness.”

  “It’s a good thing you joined up with the Starr family, then. It has to make things easier for you.”

  “Yes, but we LeDeuxs still need ta keep on our toes. Gotta come up with our own new ideas.” Suddenly inspired, Tante Lulu said, “Oooh, boy! I jist thought of a way ta raise more money fer our charity.”

  “Oh?”

  “It involves you and Angel.”

  “Uh-oh!”

  “Doan be gettin’ yer knickers in a twist. I’m not matchmakin’ here.” You believe that ’n ’ I’ve got a gator farm ta sell ya in Chicago. “Since you and Angel are experts in playin’ poker, mebbe we could set up a poker tournament.”

  Grace tilted her head to the side. “Hmmm. They do hold them for charities, but you have to be careful of local and federal gambling laws. You know, the RICO Act.”

  Tante Lulu waved a hand dismissively. “Not ta worry! This is Loo-zee-anna. I know folks.”

  Arching her eyebrows, Grace continued, “Angel has enough work to do with building the house. I doubt he would have time to—”

  “He’ll be done with the house in no time. Betcha if ya asked him, he’d stay a bit longer and help plan a poker tournament if you asked him.”

  “Me? Why me?”

  “Well, ya know him better than I do.”

  “Not anymore.”

  “Okay, I’ll ask him. If he agrees, you’ll help, then?”

  “Was I just set up here?”

  “I doan know what you mean.”

  When clueless men take advice from clueless old ladies...

  Angel was frustrated beyond belief.

  And he was damn tired of jacking off in the high-tech sex shower, or waking in the middle of the night with a wet-dream hard-on, or mooning over Grace on the few occasions they were within talking distance of each other, or playing this half-assed pretense game that he was dating other women. Almost two weeks in Louisiana, and his plan for happily-ever-after wasn’t working worth jack shit. Something needed to be done.

  He was about to pick up his cell phone and call Grace. He’d tell her to get her sweet ass over here so that they could talk...and stuff.

  Just then the phone rang.

  It wasn’t Grace. It was Tante Lulu.

  Oh, great!

  “I got a great idea.”

  Oh, great! “I’m glad somebody does.”

  “Don’t be sassy.”

  “I’m no sissy.”

  “I said sassy, not sissy. Gol-ly! Best ya get the wax out of yer ears.”

  “I’m not stepping into that shower again. No way!”

  “Huh?”

  “What’s your latest fool idea?”

  “Yer pushin’ it, boy.”

  “Sorry. I’m just frustrated.”

  “So is Gracie.”

  “She is?” Pathetic...I’m damn pathetic.

  “Well, mebbe she is. Or mebbe she’s jist not used ta havin’ four kids livin’ with her. Anyways, you ’n’ Gracie are gonna set up a poker tournament fer Jude’s Angels. That’ll put ya t’gether a lot, I’m leavin’ it up ta you ta come up with somethin’ really cool at the end so you and that gal will end up in bed. A little hanky-panky would go a long way ’bout now, I’m thinkin’.”

  “Tante Lulu!”

  “Hey, I’m old, but I ain’t dead. Yer as bad as Grace. Ain’t ya got yearnin’s?”

  “I’ve got yearnings, all right.” You don’t want to know about my yearnings, you interfering busybody. They are pure, hundred-proof X-rated.

  “Iffen ya need some lessons on how ta get her riled up, I kin send Tee-John over. That boy could charm the undies off a nun. Prob’ly did a time or two.”

  “Don’t you dare.”

  “Whatever you say,” she agreed, way too meekly. “So, will ya do it?”

  “Do what? Get Gracie riled up?” I wish!

  “No—well, yes, but what I meant was, will ya help set up the poker tournament?”

  He lifted his free hand in a hopeless gesture. “What do I have to lose?”

  Later, he wondered if that hadn’t been an ominous question to ask.

  Chapter 9

  Do they make Midol for men?...

  Men! There was no figuring them out!

  Grace sat across from Angel at a folding table in the kitchen of the completed but unfurnished Duval house, watching with amazement as he alternately scowled at her with hostility, then gazed at her with what might be mistaken for longing, then narrowed his eyes with some evil intent, then was so damn polite she itched to smack him over the head, just to get a reaction. She wanted the old Angel back.

  “What the hell’s wrong with you?” she asked finally.

  “Tsk, tsk! Is that any way for an ex-nun to talk?”

  She said something so foul that Angel burst out with a hoot of laughter. At least that was like the Angel she’d known and loved. As a friend, she quickly amended to herself, loved as a friend. God! I’m as bad as he is, needing to make that kind of reminder to myself.

  “Why are you being so moody?” she demanded to know.

  He looked up from the seating charts they were drawing up for the upcoming St. Jude’s Cajun Poker Tournament, which had already met its maximum two hundred entries. And wasn’t that ironical? A saint-sanctioned gambling event. The tournament would be held next week in the basement of Our Lady of the Bayou Church hall, right after 11:30 a.m. lunchtime bingo, which was held right after 10:00 a.m. Mass.

  “I’m not moody,” he grumbled.

  “Hah! You’ve got more moods than Sybil today. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you have male PMS.”

  “Ha, ha, ha. Very funny.” He was not smiling.

  “Angel, what’s troubling you?” She reached across and laid a hand over his.

  He flinched...he actually
flinched. Then drew his hand away.

  That rebuff hurt. Bad. She wasn’t going to let him see that, though. The jerk! “So, how’s your love life? Still seeing the model?”

  “What do you care?”

  “Huh?”

  “Let’s just finish the frickin’ tournament charts. We’ll start with twenty tables of ten players each. I figure it’ll take at least five hours of elimination rounds ’til we get to the final table. We’ll take a break then and hold the finals starting at six p.m. What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “Do you ever miss poker?” she asked, though that wasn’t what she really wanted to know.

  “Sometimes.”

  “I can beat you, you know.”

  He smiled, and the boy did have a knock-’em-dead smile. No wonder women fell like bowling pins before his I-am-so-sexy grins...if not his balls, she joked to herself.

  “Honey, you couldn’t beat me in a million years.”

  “Wanna bet?” She’d blurted out the challenge without thinking, and only because he was being such a prick.

  He tapped the fingertips of one hand on the table for several seconds while he studied her. It was probably a tactic designed to annoy. “We could have an exhibition game between the two of us the day of the tournament. You know, two ex-poker champs dueling it out.”

  “Maybe. What would we bet? I mean, what would I get if I win?”

  “I’d donate a hundred thousand dollars to Jude’s Angels, plus the cost of all the materials I’ve put into this house. Hell, I’ll furnish the damn place.”

  “You would do all that, just for a bet?” Her brow furrowed with confusion. “And if you win? Not that you would.”

  The slow, sexy grin emerged again. He tipped his chair back, folded his hands behind his neck, and said, “One night in the sack with you. All night. Anything I want to do.”

  She gasped and felt her face heat with embarrassment. “Blushes, Gracie? How...sweet!”

  Her face heated even more. “You’re crazy. Why would you even suggest such a thing? You don’t love me.”

  “What’s love got to do with it?”

  “I don’t know. You tell me.”