Cajun Persuasion

by Sandra Hill

  It was not yet dawn, and Fleur was sitting at the kitchen table working on her laptop, as she had been for more than an hour, a way to occupy her nervous mind. What was taking Aaron so long? And why hadn’t he called to give her a report on what was happening? Maybe he was hurt. Maybe he was dead. Oh God, please, no! She forced herself to be positive. No news was good news. For now.

  Tante Lulu’s receipt books were spread out before her, and she had to marvel at the richness of the material. It really would make a good book, and not just for the LeDeux family. What made the written words so interesting was not just the uniqueness of the ingredients (Possum gizzards, anyone?), or the bizarreness of some of the maladies (Hot Tongue, Swamp Boils, Tick Fits, for example), but the little side notes that Tante Lulu or her ancestors had made in the margins. Sometimes the remarks were simple, like, “Rubbish!” Others were more detailed, like “Dbl dose Susie L’s lazy eye, worked, but now she blinks like a lighthouse.” And some told a story, “Love potion given Rufus the Trapper by Patsy Mellot, he threatens shoot me, she has watermelon belly.” Or the colorful “P.U. This stinks!” In fact, one of the recipes was for “Stinky Salve,” which apparently cured everything from poison ivy to yeast infections.

  Fleur heard footsteps on the floor above her, followed by a squawky “Holy shit! Holy shit! Holy shit!” as whoever it was passed by the parlor where Samantha’s foul-mouthed cockatoo held residence.

  She heard a voice with a decided Irish lilt say, “Shut up, ye filthy bird. I’m no St. Francis of Assisi. They ate fowl like you in Ireland during the famines, y’know?”

  To which an unintimidated Clarence replied, “Holy shit! Holy shit! Holy shit!”

  “At least you speak in triads,” Brother Brian muttered. Fleur knew from her brief interactions with him over the years that the Irish loved not just their proverbs, but their triads, as well. Such as, “Three best friends and three worst enemies: fire, wind, and rain.” Or “Three good things: a wooden sword in a coward’s hand, an ugly wife married to a blind man, and poor clothes on a drunken man.” He and Tante Lulu should write a book together. They could call it Irish Cajun Wisdom. Or Irish Wisdom on the Bayou.

  She was smiling when Brother Brian came down the back stairs into the kitchen.

  “What has you grinnin’ like the wee fairies drunk on dew in a field of shamrocks?”

  “I heard you speaking to Clarence about triads,” she said.

  “You could hear me all the way down here?”

  “Sound travels in a quiet house.”

  He nodded and walked over to the coffee maker on the counter. He set down the small Bible in his hand before pouring himself a mug of the strong brew. Coming back to the table, he asked, “Mind if I join you for a bit?”

  “Not at all.” She shoved some of her papers aside so that he could sit opposite her. It was a huge table, four inches thick and ten feet long, probably a primitive antique from antebellum days, that could seat at least twelve, with long benches on either side and straight-back chairs at the ends.

  “You’re up early,” he remarked, sighing as he took a long sip of the hot coffee.

  “I couldn’t sleep.”

  “Me neither. What is all this?” he asked, waving a hand at her paperwork.

  She explained the project she was working on for Tante Lulu.

  “A fascinating woman! And you’re writing her biography, too? There’s a good story there, I wager.”

  “I suppose. I’ve only gotten bits and pieces so far. She keeps referring to her Big Grief.”

  “Ah! Don’t we all have one of those?” She would have liked to question him more about that enigmatic comment but he’d opened his Bible, made the sign of the cross, and began to read silently.

  She had no choice but to continue her work, the quiet broken only by the tapping of her keys or when he rose to refill his mug, then return to his Bible reading. She’d already said her morning prayers up in her room, a habit she’d developed living in the convent. Despite his unconventional priestly attire (Today it was a ratty Air Force T-shirt and jogging shorts with rubber flip-flops, but a crucifix on a chain around his neck.), she could tell that Brother Brian was a spiritual man. Maybe that’s what the clergy needed to be in a modern world, part of it and yet apart.

  Suddenly, the sound of a vehicle could be heard out front. At first, she looked up with alarm. It was five a.m. but still dark outside.

  “It’s only Aaron, returning,” Brother Brian said.

  How he could be sure of that she did not know, but she trusted his assurance. And he was right. Aaron soon walked into the kitchen, coming through the ground floor hallway from the front. “I saw the light—so, I headed over here before hitting the sack for another hour or two of sleep.”

  He did look exhausted. Wearing a faded Air Force T-shirt, similar to Brother Brian’s, with the jeans he’d had on earlier, and a pair of athletic shoes, he should have looked grungy, but, instead, he exuded male virility. And she was reminded of their shared dream. The blush on her face must have revealed her thoughts because Aaron sank down next to her and whispered in her ear, “Miss me?”

  She would have made a snarky, click-worthy remark, except that the expression in his eyes gave him away. Something bad had happened.

  “Oh, my God! Did you run into Miguel?”

  “No. Nothing like that.”

  “What is it?” Brother Brian asked, also aware of Aaron’s silent message of bad news to come.

  “Let’s wait until Dan and Tante Lulu come down so I can spill it all in one telling.”

  Fleur got up and gave him a mug of coffee, which he mostly ignored. “You two been praying together?” Aaron asked, eyeing the Bible on the table. For some reason, he asked his question in a negative manner. He probably figured it was a sign of her leaning more toward the religious life than toward him.

  They were saved from answering by the arrival of Dan and Tante Lulu, together. To Aaron’s shock, and her own surprise, Fleur reached under the table and squeezed Aaron’s hand, as if communicating that she was not yet a nun and might never be. Where that thought came from, she had no idea. She would have been distressed, except that his gaze at her held such thankfulness that she just nodded. And she didn’t draw her hand away when he linked their fingers and squeezed back.

  Something had changed between them. Whether it was the dream, or some woo-woo curse of Tante Lulu’s or celestial matchmaking that had caused the dream, she was softening toward the man. She was so confused.

  But for now, Aaron began describing what he had found at the cottage, and the real shocker was that Tante Lulu was so calm about the destruction. She always said that people underestimated her, and she was right.

  “Look, no one was hurt. There ain’t nothin’ there that can’t be replaced. Will I clobber that Miguel fella if I ever run inta him? You betcha. First thing this mornin’, I’ll go over and clean up. And if the bum shows up, well, I got a Luger in my bread box.”

  “No, you will not go back there today,” Aaron declared. “Luc and John agree with me that you need to stay hidden. For now. As for the Luger, John took it with him.”

  “Does she mean a pistol?” Brother Brian asked with shock.

  The old lady was about to protest the order (Not about the gun, though. She probably had others hidden around the place), but then she shrugged. “Well, leave the pantry alone then till I can work on it myself. Fleur already made an inventory fer me, dint ya, honey? So, we’ll be able ta tell what’s still useable and what needs replacin’.”

  “I had a text message from Brother Jake during the night,” Brother Brian said then. “I’ll inform him about this break-in, but I doubt it will affect the mission one way or another. We can discuss the new details on the ‘exchange’ later this morning. By then, the police might have some info for you, Aaron, though I doubt they’ll be able to trace Miguel’s whereabouts. He’ll lie low now.”

  “I have some news,” Dan said. “At our appointment yesterday, Sama
ntha’s doctor advised her to go into the hospital for bed rest the next six weeks, until the babies are born.”

  “Oh, man! I never asked about your appointment. Are the babies okay?” This from Aaron who stared at his brother with dismay.

  “The babies are fine. It’s just a precaution. Twins at Samantha’s age . . . it’s best to be careful.”

  “Oh, my!” Tante Lulu exclaimed. “What kin we do ta help? Can’t she rest here?”

  “No, a hospital setting is better. Monitors, nurses, that kind of thing. Plus, the stairs are an issue, which she needs to use if she wants to take a shower or bath. This isn’t an emergency order, just a recommendation,” Daniel emphasized.

  “It’s all the stress I’ve brought here, isn’t it?” Fleur asked. “I’ll leave. I can go back to the convent.”

  She felt Aaron stiffen next to her, and his hold on her hand tightened at the prospect of her leaving.

  “Your being here is not a problem, Fleur. In fact, it’s been a distraction for both of us so we don’t obsess over the babies,” Daniel told her. “Besides, my brother would probably go into chronic depression if you left. Bet he’d start playing sad Barry Manilow songs. Might even drown himself in that imaginary pool he’s planning.” Daniel winked at her and made a face at Aaron, who just shook his head at him.

  “That’s settled then,” Tante Lulu said as she handed Daniel a cup of coffee and prepared to start a fresh pot.

  Hardly, Fleur thought, yanking her hand out of Aaron’s grip as she stood to gather up her papers and close her laptop. But then, Tante Lulu probably just meant that there was nothing more that could be done for now.

  “You know, Tante Lulu,” Father Brian said, “Fleur has been telling me about your folk medicine.”

  I have?

  “We have folk remedies passed on through Irish families, too.” His blue eyes twinkled and Fleur recognized that the priest was about to tell one of his “tall tales” as a means of further distracting them all. “In fact, one of my favorites is for increasing male virility. A pinch each of dried and ground bitterroot, snakeroot, wormwood, saffron, and the rind of oranges, all steeped in a jar of whiskey . . . uh, tea.”

  “Seems to me that it’s the whiskey tea that does the trick,” Fleur remarked with a laugh.

  “Or the wormwood. That’s the main ingredient in absinthe, the psychedelic drink that turned many a Southern planter’s brain to mush,” Daniel explained.

  “Sounds like a load of BS to me,” Aaron observed. “Or is it blarney to you Irish bullshitters?”

  Tante Lulu slapped Aaron on the shoulder with a dish towel. “What is blarney, anyhow?” Tante Lulu asked the priest. “I’ve heard of kissin’ that blarney stone but I never knew what it was.”

  “Ah, well, ’tis a lovely story,” Father Brian began. “No one knows for sure if the rock which is now located at Blarney Castle near Cork originated in Ireland and was moved elsewhere, then returned, or if it was always there. Legends claim it to have been the rock Moses struck with his staff to supply water to the Israelites fleeing Egypt, or it was Jacob’s pillow, or David hid behind the boulder when running from King Saul. Some say it was returned to Ireland from Scotland by the Crusaders. Whatever its history, those who kiss it are blessed with the gift of gab. An eloquence in speaking.”

  “You must have kissed it a bunch of times if your talent for BSing is any indication,” Aaron remarked to Brother Brian. “You would not believe the stories this fool used to tell us when out on Air Force maneuvers,” he told the others.

  “Aaron! Ya cain’t call a priest a fool.” Tante Lulu gave him another swat with her dish towel.

  “Can’t priests ever be fools?” Aaron asked Brother Brian with exaggerated innocence.

  “Only rarely,” Brother Brian replied and gave Tante Lulu a sweet smile.

  Samantha came lumbering into the kitchen then, huffing for breath. She wore a loose, voluminous, calf-length nightgown. Well, calf-length in front, ankle-length in back. Fleur could swear the poor woman’s nonexistent waistline had grown another two inches overnight.

  “Samantha!” Daniel exclaimed, rushing over to her. “You’re not supposed to come down those stairs.”

  “I called, but no one heard me, except for Clarence. Didn’t you all hear him?”

  They all glanced at each other. Mostly, the bird chirped so much, the same expletive over and over, that it had become easy to tune him out. Had Samantha been calling for them, maybe even screaming, and no one had heard over Clarence’s squawking?

  “Oh, sweetheart,” Daniel said, leading her toward a chair, which she eased into carefully. “What did you need?”

  “I need . . . I think I need to go to the hospital. Now!”

  All pandemonium broke out then.

  The fates were working against him . . . or was that for him? . . .

  “It’s a false alarm,” Aaron told Tante Lulu and Aunt Mel after ending his phone call with Dan.

  “Thank God!” Tante Lulu said from where she sat on a stool by the kitchen counter, dicing vegetables for gumbo or jambalaya or something massive that was going into a canning pot (Who knew we had a canning pot at Bayou Rose!) to simmer all day for dinner. No one had been much interested in eating breakfast, except for coffee and toast after Dan rushed Samantha off to the hospital.

  “Ahhh! I was looking forward to holding those babies today,” Aunt Mel said, looking up at him. She was on the floor, on her knees which were covered with special pads, scrubbing the slates with a soapy brush. (A tension reliever, she claimed! The hard work, not the pads or the brush.) “But I guess it’s too soon.”

  Way too soon! Even Aaron knew that babies born at seven and a half months, and twins at that, would be at risk. Probably rushed into incubators. Isn’t that what they call those glassed-in baby things, or am I thinking of chicks? Whatever!

  “Dan says they’re going to keep her in the hospital, though. He cancelled his appointments for the day so he can stay with her.”

  “Is there anything we can do?” Aunt Mel asked.

  “She’d like a nightgown and robe so she doesn’t have to expose her butt in a johnny coat, and make-up and stuff, but she’ll call you this afternoon to give you a list.”

  “Good.” Mel turned to Tante Lulu. “That throws a wrench into our plans for a baby shower, though, doesn’t it?”

  “Mebbe they would let us hold a shower in the waiting room on her floor,” Tante Lulu mused. “I still say, it would be a lot easier to have a theme, with colors, if we knew the sex of those little ones. Betcha I could find out.”

  Aaron did not want to know what she meant by themes and colors. When guys threw a party, all they needed was beer . . . and sometimes strippers. But that was a taboo subject now that he’d met Fleur.

  “How?” Aunt Mel asked. “How could you find out the sex?”

  Whoa! I must have missed that. “What sex?”

  “Get yer mind outta the gutter, boy,” Tante Lulu said.

  “Oh.”

  Tante Lulu grinned, knowing perfectly well what he’d thought. Then, she told Aunt Mel, “I have ways and means fer findin’ things out.”

  She probably did. A friend of a friend, or the second cousin of a third aunt in the ultrasound department. But he needed to nip this thought in the bud. “No!” Aaron declared, realizing what she might be planning and that she might very well be successful. “If Dan and Samantha don’t want to know the sex ahead of time, they certainly don’t want anyone else to know, either.”

  “Party pooper!” Tante Lulu muttered. “I was only kiddin’. Anyways, how bad are things back at my house?”

  Aaron had just returned from Tante Lulu’s cottage when he’d received Dan’s phone call. “Your great-nephews and nieces, Remy and Luc and René’s kids, are hard at work, rock music blasting in their ears, cleaning up the mess, and making an inventory for you of items to be replaced. Window glass, picture frames, new kitchen faucet, shower curtain, that kind of stuff. And, yes, they’re fol
lowing strict orders not to go into the pantry.”

  “Kitchen faucet! Why would those dopes wanna break my kitchen faucet? Did they think I was hiding clues ta Fleur’s whereabouts in the pipes?”

  He shrugged. “Who knows! Probably just random vandalism.”

  “Hmphfh! Just meanness, if ya ask me.”

  Knowing she was antsy to go see for herself, Aaron gave Tante Lulu a more detailed description of the conditions at her cottage, and he told her what the police had to report this morning, which was nothing. Other than her neighbor, Jackson Dufrene, no one had seen anything.

  He saved for last what he knew would outrage the old lady the most. “They also kicked over your St. Jude birdbath statue in the backyard, and stomped over some of your flowers in the process.”

  “Whaaat? Thass the las’ straw.” The old lady slammed her knife on the counter, causing veggies to fly. “Someone’s gonna pay fer that. God doan like people foolin’ with his saints. Nosirree.”

  If Miguel or one of his cohorts were around right now, Tante Lulu probably would have sliced and diced them with her paring knife. He and Aunt Mel exchanged grins.

  “There’s one saving grace in all this,” Aaron continued. “When the perps were desecrating your St. Jude, Useless must have sauntered by. By the looks of a scrap of bloodied denim on the ground, it appears the gator took a hunk out of someone’s leg.”

  “Serves ’im right!”

  “Some people have guard dogs. You have a guard gator.”

  “And why not? If ya live on the bayou, ya make do. Us Cajuns learned that a long time ago. I’ll hafta give Useless some extra Cheez Doodles.”

  Aaron answered a bunch of other questions then before he had a chance to ask, “Where are Fleur and Snake?”

  “I wish ya wouldn’t keep callin’ a priest a snake. It’s a sacrilege or sumpin’,” Tante Lulu said.

  “I’m not calling him a snake. Snake is his nickname.”

  “Not anymore,” Tante Lulu insisted, pointing her knife at him . . . to make a point.

  He laughed. “Okay, where are Brother Brian and Fleur?”