Bayou Magic

by Jewell Parker Rhodes

  Mister Cochon looks like a pig, but in a good way—pot-bellied, soft-skinned, with wispy red hair on his head and arms.

  “I was showing Queenie’s granddaughter—”

  “Queenie’s granddaughter? That her?” Mister Cochon waddles close, his chin jutting forward.

  “Which grandbaby, you?”

  “The youngest. Madison—Maddy.”

  “Ah. The last one.” The way he says it, the last one, makes me quiver.

  Mister Cochon pays no more attention to Bear, just me. He circles me. I feel shy. Mud, dirt, and grass stains are all over my overalls, hands, and arms. My face is sweat-dirty. If my sisters were here, they’d make fun of me. They’d say, “Maddy doesn’t know how to be pretty.”

  Mister Cochon grunts, like he’s satisfied. “You look like Queenie.”

  I feel proud. Bear winks.

  Mister Cochon turns to Bear. “Forgive you this time for taking my boat. Anything for Queenie’s granddaughter. Teach her about the bayou. But next time, Bear, ask. Else I’ll tan your hide.”

  Bear grins and we follow behind Mister Cochon, chubby, low to the ground.

  “Smelled fish miles away. You cook good, Bear. But fish ain’t enough for a growing girl. Need stew. Andouille sausage. Shrimp. Rice.” Mister Cochon’s hands flail, punctuating the air with each ingredient.

  Bear flails his hands, too, making me giggle.

  “Yes, now, fish is not enough. Need to blend, mix it up. Feed our guest right.

  “Maddy, Maddy, Maddy. Mighty tiny, tiny mighty,” chants Mister Cochon.

  “Bear,” I whisper, “what’s he mean?”

  “You,” Mister Cochon shouts back, leading the way. “Like Queenie. Tiny mighty.”

  Me?

  Firelight

  “Meet Queenie’s granddaughter,” Mister Cochon calls as we near a small town. The tree limbs shake. An owl hoots. “Meet Madison Lavalier.”

  “Johnson.”

  “What?”

  “Pa’s a Johnson.”

  “You’re a Lavalier here,” he says, bellowing. “Come meet Madison Lavalier.”

  I tug his shirt. “Johnson.”

  “Lavalier,” he shouts. Then, more softly, “Johnson.”

  Pitch-black, beyond the fire, I can’t see anything.

  Mister Cochon lives in a shack half the size of Grandmère’s. His kitchen is outside. A cast-iron pot sits atop crackling wood and burning red stones. His stew smells better than me and Ma’s jambalaya. Spicy, savory, garlicky. Gulf fresh.

  “Something told me I should cook my special jambalaya today.”

  I peek into the pot. The shrimp still have shells; the sausage is cut into quarter-sized rounds. Onions and rice float on top of the red broth. Every stew is different.

  “What’s it need?” asks Mister Cochon. He hands me a spoon. I taste.

  “Hot sauce.”

  “How hot?” Mister Cochon peers at me as if this is the most important question in the whole wide world.

  “Very hot.”

  Gleeful, he smacks his plump lips. Then he shouts like a kid on a playground, “Everybody, everybody, come out. Won’t be disappointed. Come on out. Come meet Queenie’s grandchild.”

  Huge fireflies—no, they’re kerosene lamps—sparkle between the trees. I catch my breath. It’s unsettling to see flames, even if they’re trapped in glass, swaying in a forest.

  One by one, folks come. Shadows become bodies separating from trees, edging closer to the campfire. Closer to me, Bear, and Mister Cochon. Folks, all colors, live in the bayou. Some are red-haired, some blond or brunette. A stew. They all feel like kin to me. Like a family I didn’t know I had.

  “This here’s Bolden. Catches shrimp. Makes the best haul in the Gulf.”

  Bolden’s thick-bodied and tall. “Haul isn’t as good as it used to be, but I do all right.” He grunts, sticks out his hand. It’s thick, scarred. His hand could snap mine in two.

  Everybody watches me.

  I shake Bolden’s hand. He barely squeezes mine. His grip is the gentlest I’ve ever felt.

  “I’m Pete. Me and Queenie used to play together. We weren’t older than you and Bear.”

  “Really?” Pete’s face is raisin-crinkled. I can’t imagine he was ever a boy. Or Grandmère a girl, for that matter.

  “I’m Liza. Used to help Queenie take care of your ma when she was an itty-bitty baby.” Eyes blue-cataract-white, she is old-beautiful. Almost as beautiful as Grandmère.

  I can’t imagine Ma being little, either. “Was she good?”

  “Too good. Not enough sauce.” Liza hugs me, nearly squashing my ribs. “Have you got sauce?”

  I’m confused. Ma says, “Be good, Maddy. All the time. I don’t want Johnson girls acting like hooligans.” And I try. Oh, how I try.

  “What’s sauce?”

  “Adding flavor. Hot peppers. Cooking a fine stew.” Mister Cochon hands me Louisiana Hot Sauce. “Shake, little Queenie. Shake.”

  I dash sauce into the pot. A dozen folks watch, like I’m making magic. I hear murmurs: “Add more sauce.” “Best jambalaya.” “Can’t believe she’s here.”

  I can’t believe it, either. The outdoor fire is beautiful. Chips of wood sparkle and fly. The air smells of sausage and rice.

  “Folks like food,” says Mister Cochon. “Spice, extra nice.”

  “Hot peppers, best,” says a man in rumpled plaid and jeans, especially pleased. “I’m André,” he says, stepping forward, stirring the stew with a wooden stick.

  “A little sauce goes a long way, in cooking and in people.” He takes the bottle from my hand and splashes a drop on his finger.

  “Tiny mighty,” he says, looking at me. “Just the right amount of sauce.” He touches the hot-sauce dot to my fingertip. “Glad to have you in Bayou Bon Temps.”

  “Know what that means, Maddy?” asks Mister Cochon. “Bayou Bon Temps?”

  “Good times bayou.”

  “That’s right.” Mister Cochon bows. “You’ve made it even better.”

  “’Cause she’s got sauce,” says Bear. “She isn’t afraid of adventure.”

  I blush. “Didn’t my sisters visit?”

  Mister Cochon pats my shoulder. “Your sisters never visited. Never left Queenie’s porch. We all hoped you’d be different.”

  “Glad you like the bayou, Maddy,” says Liza.

  “Glad you like our home,” echoes Bolden.

  Some folks nod; some clap; some just smile. They all make me feel welcome.

  “Time to eat!” yells Mister Cochon.

  Bear grabs the first plate.

  I take the second, but after filling it with stew, I hand it to Liza.

  Everyone eats. I marvel Mister Cochon doesn’t run out of food. It’s like he knew a slew of folks were going to share his pot.

  Pete blows a harmonica. Another man with a washboard strapped across his chest starts scraping the ridges, making them sing. Mister Cochon squeezes an accordion, in and out, matching the snappy, staccato rhythm. A woman wearing a bandanna plays a fiddle.

  “Party,” hollers Bear. “Party.” He reaches for Liza, bows, then takes her hand and places his other hand on her back. The music is fast, bouncy, jerky. Zydeco. I’ve heard it but never danced to it.

  I look about—everyone’s stomping or twirling.

  Me and Bear are the only big kids.

  Bolden introduces his little ones. Ben. Charlotte. Douglass. None is older than six. They rumple, reminding me of the baby rabbits.

  “My wife, Willie Mae. She goes shrimping, too.”

  Willie Mae, a black braid swinging at her waist, says, “Boat with us. See bayou glory while you still can.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” I say, respectful. The Boldens look as old and as nice as my ma and pa.

  An elder, snapping the only two fingers on his right hand, asks, “Dance?”

  I hesitate.

  “Don’t worry ’bout my hand. Not contagious. Snapper bit off my pinkie and the next. My middle
finger got sliced by fishing wire.”

  “Did it hurt?”

  “You bet. But nothin’ better than Gulf fishing. ’Sides, I can still snap.”

  I snap my fingers, too.

  “I’m Old Jake.” A gold tooth sparkles.

  “Old Jake rescues birds,” says Bear. “Fixes them up when they break wings, a beak, or a foot.”

  “Can I help?”

  “You bet.” He snaps his fingers again. I snap mine.

  Hands together, our arms start swinging. Bouncing, we step, dip, step, dip, side-to-side. He lets go one hand, lifts my other hand, and I just know I’m supposed to spin. Twirl like a top beneath his two-fingered hand.

  “Look who’s here—Queenie’s come,” chortles Mister Cochon.

  “Grandmère!” I shout, skipping forward for a hug.

  “You had a good day.” Grandmère knows. She can tell.

  She waves to Mister Cochon. A red turban is wrapped about her head. Gold hoops swing from her ears, like she’s going to Mardi Gras.

  “Cochon, smelled your good food miles away. Brought corn bread to share.”

  Everyone surrounds Grandmère. Liza kisses her cheek. Bear hops, cheerful, from foot to foot. Bolden gives Grandmère a big bear hug, lifting her off the ground. Willie Mae curtsies as if Grandmère really were a queen.

  Grandmère’s almost swallowed, dwarfed by bayou folks. Men form an outer circle, while, inside, women and children hug her or kiss her cheek.

  Grandmère’s coming is a celebration. Folks are drawn to her like bugs to light. She’s happy, beautiful.

  Mister Cochon winks at me. “I knew Queenie would come.” Gleeful, he rubs his palms.

  I suspect he wasn’t surprised to meet me at all. He planned this. Everyone did. Like Grandmère planned on me meeting Bear. Another test?

  I scratch my head, feeling blind even though I can see.

  “Here, Liza, for your arthritis.” Grandmère hands her a small jar. “Cochon, I brought you some mint. ’Specially for you. Brings bees to your hives.

  “Willie Mae, here’s some nice blue thread to finish Charlotte’s blouse.” Deep blue, the thread shines like Gulf water.

  “This’ll be perfect.”

  Small, useful gifts. A cup of rice, a cotton handkerchief, a fishing hook. Grandmère has something for everyone.

  “Baby lettuce. For you, Pete. Soft to chew.” (He hasn’t any back teeth.)

  She hands peppermint sticks to Charlotte, Douglass, and the oldest, Ben.

  “I hurt,” says a woman, fair and tall. “My shoulder, here.”

  “Come see me, Jolene. I’ll make a poultice,” murmurs Grandmère.

  “Elle est reine,” Mister Cochon hollers.

  Elle means “she.” Reine means “queen.” Grandmère’s a queen.

  Bolden, Liza, and Pete repeat, “Elle est reine.”

  Then everyone turns and looks at me. The music stops.

  Grandmère tilts her head, hands on her hips, her eyes gleaming.

  Uneasy, I stare at my feet. I cross my arms over my stomach.

  I stub my toe in the dirt, making a small hole. I don’t like everyone looking at me. Except Bear’s not. I’m grateful. He’s standing beside me studying dirt, too.

  Grandmère claps, and music squeals, jumps, and swings alive. Folks dance; I tap my feet; Mister Cochon scoops seconds of jambalaya; and Bolden hugs Ben.

  “What about me?” asks Bear, pushing forward. “A gift for me?”

  Grandmère pulls a silver tin out her basket. “Open it. Filling for a moon pie.”

  Everyone “oohs” and “ahs” like the sugary filling is gold or magic dust.

  Bear opens the square tin. He dips his finger into the filling, then puts his white-sauced finger into his mouth.

  “Taste it, Maddy.”

  I shake my head.

  “Try.”

  I don’t want to do it. I didn’t like the moon pies I’ve had at Mardi Gras. Still, I dip my finger and scoop a bit of white fluff.

  Mmm. Vanilla marshmallow with a hint of pepper spice. The best filling I’ve ever tasted. Using two fingers, I scoop some more. Lick my lips to get every last bit.

  “Don’t need any crust if you’ve got filling,” crows Bear, scooping more and more. “Filling is the best part.”

  “What about Maddy?” asks Bear. “Did you bring her something, too? Something special?”

  Everyone quiets, stills, looks at Grandmère. Looks at me. I don’t like being the center of attention.

  “Bear’s right. Come here, Maddy.” Grandmère holds out her hand. A firefly lights on her palm.

  “Queenie’s pet!” shouts Mister Cochon.

  “I’m giving Miss Firefly to Maddy.”

  “I want one,” coos Charlotte. “Me, too,” whines Douglass.

  Hand outstretched, Grandmère walks to me.

  The firefly crosses her hand to mine. It’s—no, she’s the firefly from the car ride. I know it. Black beady eyes. Tiny feet.

  “Call them, Maddy,” Grandmère whispers. “Call the fireflies.”

  I gulp. My sisters don’t even come when I call. Fireflies? Lightning bugs? Coming to me?

  “Call them, Maddy.”

  I don’t say anything. Just watch Miss Firefly.

  Pete starts blowing his harmonica. Folks start dancing again. Only Bear sees Grandmère bending her head, whispering to me. He can’t hear her, though. He scratches his head.

  Wings flapping, my firefly rises to the height of my eye. She’s a creature, but somehow not. Her eyes see me like Grandmère sees me. Maybe she can talk like Sweet Pea talks? Or like Grandmère talks, sometimes, without saying a word?

  “Miss Firefly, call your family, friends,” I mumble.

  “You call them, Maddy,” says Grandmère.

  I blink. Me?

  “Call nice and quiet.”

  “Fireflies,” I say, my voice trembling. I swallow. My mouth’s dry.

  This is silly, I think, about to cry. Other than helping Ma cook, no one counts on me for anything.

  I look across the yard. Bear is dancing with little Charlotte. Feeling me watching him, he stops, waves. I smile.

  Miss Firefly glows, encouraging me.

  “Fireflies, come.” Remembering my manners, I add, “Please. Pretty, pretty.” I suck in air, then exhale, “please.”

  Like a gust of wind, like blowing candles on a birthday cake, a breeze sweeps through. Fireflies—hundreds of them. Maybe thousands. I gasp. Swaying lights streak through air, the sky.

  Everyone is speechless, studying the flying lights in the sky. Only the little ones squeal.

  A firefly lights on Bear’s nose, making him cross-eyed.

  Grandmère’s eyes say she’s proud of me.

  I cup my hands together. Miss Firefly sits inside them like a tiny lamp. She’s my good-luck charm.

  I laugh as fireflies, streaking like lightning, surround me—head to toe, over, above, and about my body. Yellow light cascades. I feel like a Fourth of July sparkler.

  “It’s wonderful. Isn’t it, Maddy?” Bear asks.

  I catch glimpses of wondrous, happy faces. Everyone is curious—some extend their hands so a firefly can light; others sway like they’re dancing with the streaking lights. Grandmère just stands, eyes closed, as fireflies rest in her hair, on her shoulders and arms.

  Bear and I, shoulder to shoulder, squeeze hands as over, behind, and around us, ribbons of yellow-green light swirl.

  I can do magic!

  I laugh out loud.

  Firefly Tales

  “Hush and I’ll tell you a tale.” Grandmère sits like a queen in the porch rocker, her feet flat, arms resting on wood as night air ruffles her hair.

  I sit, cross-legged, pleased with myself. My firefly rests on my knee. I want to pet her but she’s too, too tiny.

  “Ever since Lavaliers have been in America, they’ve been calling fireflies. Our family secret, Maddy.”

  “Did Ma?” I ask, but I think I know the answ
er.

  Grandmère pats my head. “No, Maddy. Sometimes the gift skips a generation. Skips a child. I’ve been waiting a long time for you.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, you. You felt it, too, non?”

  I did. Do. I’m different from my sisters. Different from Ma.

  Nobody in my family has dreams like me. Sometimes when I wake, I feel special, as if I’ve left a mysterious world, part wondrous, part scary.

  “Do you dream, Grandmère?”

  She cradles my hands. “Dreams are just another way of knowing the world. I dream sleeping. I dream wide awake.”

  “Awake?” Did I daytime dream the girl in the water? “Grandmère, tell me about me,” I plead. “Tell me about you. The other Lavaliers.”

  “I’ll tell you,” she says, rocking forward. “Been waiting to tell you since the day you were born.”

  I lean against the post. It’s way past bedtime at home. But it feels good being awake after midnight, like I’m growing older, finally old enough.

  Miss Firefly flits about the kerosene lamp. Grandmère’s eyes grow dreamy, like she’s pulling memories from the dark.

  “Did you know that when Africans were first captured, Nature cried?”

  I shake my head.

  “Trees bowed down, their leaves falling, boughs scraping the ground. Mister Wind blew and blew, trying to whip women, men, and children free from their chains. Birds—even the buzzards that scavenge dead things—joined herons, pelicans, and crows, squawking until the sky shook. Clouds turned gray—sun slipped down into Mistress Earth. Lions roared, even though men had guns to bring them down. Gorillas, wailing, pummeled their chests. Elephants trumpeted horror. Earth trembled, but nothing, no one, could stop the slave trade.”

  Grandmère leans forward, head on her chest, hands wrapped about her stomach like it aches. She lifts her head, staring at nothing; her voice sounds hollow.

  “My great-grandmother Membe belonged to a great river tribe. Taught to praise, to believe in Water’s wonders, how its sound soothed hearts and spirits. How it cleansed wounds. Provided food for both people and animals. How it nourished and grew life.

  “Now, here she was on a ship. Damp, dark, and foul. Folks screaming, crying. Hundreds packed and chained in a tight space like sardines in a can. She was ten, and of all the village girls, she loved the water most. Every day she swam, fished in beautiful waters, clear, cool.