He drank from his glass of ice and soda and lime, an innocuous light in his eyes. "Not running off, are you? You forgot your book. Here, I'll bring it to you," he said.
But she rushed through the vestibule into the next car, the big wood beads of her fifteen-decade rosary clattering on her hip, the whoosh of the doors like wind howling in a tunnel.
On Saturday afternoon Father Jimmie and I went together to the Flannigan lawn party at Fox Run, down Bayou Teche, in St. Mary Parish. The home had been constructed during the early Victorian era to resemble a steamboat, with porches shaped like the fantail and captain's bridge on a ship and cupolas and balconies on the upper stories that gave a spectacular view of the grounds, the antebellum homes on the opposite side of the bayou, and the sugarcane fields that seemed to recede over the rim of the earth.
Live oaks draped with moss arched over the roof of the house, and palm trees grew in their shade to the second-story windows. A visitor to the lawn party could ride either western or English saddle around a white-fenced track by the horse stables, or play tennis on either a grass or red-clay court. The buffet tables groaned with food that had been prepared at Galatoire's and Antoine's in New Orleans. The drink table was a drunkard's dream.
The guests included the state insurance commissioner, who was under a federal grand jury indictment and would later become the third state insurance commissioner in a row to go to prison; petrochemical executives from Oklahoma and Texas whose wives' voices rose above all others; two New York book editors and a film director from Home Box Office; an ex-player from the National Football League who rented himself out as a professional celebrity; career military officers and their wives who had retired to the Sunbelt; the former governor's mistress whose evening gown looked like pink champagne poured on her skin; and state legislators who had once been barbers and plumbers and who genuinely believed they shared a common bond with their host and his friends.
Father Jimmie had worn his Roman collar, and the consequence was that he and I stood like an island in the middle of the lawn party while people swirled around us, deferential and polite, touching us affectionately if need be but avoiding the eye contact that would take them away from all the rewards a gathering at Castille Lejeune's could offer.
After a half hour I wished I had not come. I went inside the house to use the bathroom, but someone was already inside. A black drink waiter in the kitchen directed me to another bathroom, deeper in the house, one I had to find by cutting through a small library and den filled with fine guns and Korean War-era memorabilia.
A steel airplane propeller was mounted on the wall, and under it was a framed color photograph of Castille Lejeune and a famous American baseball player, both of them dressed in Marine Corps tropicals, standing in front of two vintage Grumman Hellcat fighter planes parked on a runway flanged by Quonset huts and palm trees. In another photo Lejeune stood at attention in his dress uniform while President Harry Truman pinned the Distinguished Flying Cross on his coat.
But the photos that caught my eye were not those of Castille Lejeune's career as a Marine Corps pilot. A picture taken at his wedding showed him and his young wife, in her bridal gown, standing on the steps of a church. She was tall, dark featured, and absolutely beautiful. She also looked like the twin of her daughter, Theodosha.
When I went back outside the sun was setting beyond the trees on the bayou, the sugarcane fields purple in the dusk, the air cool and damp, thick with cigarette smoke and smelling of alcohol that had soaked into tablecloths or had been spilled by the guests on their clothes.
In my absence Father Jimmie had cornered both Castille Lejeune and Merchie Flannigan and was talking heatedly with them, his coat separating on his chest when he raised his arms to make a point, one foot at a slight angle behind the other, in the classic position of a martial artist.
"Let me finish if you would," he said when Merchie Flannigan tried to speak. "You say you're cleaning up the Crudups' property? The place is floating in sludge."
"I'm sure Merchie is doing his best. Why don't you help yourself to the food, Father?" Castille Lejeune said.
He was a trim, nice-looking man, with a lean face and steel gray hair that he combed straight back. He wore a white sports coat and dark blue shirt and a gold and onyx Mason's ring on his marriage finger.
"No, thanks," Father Jimmie said, wagging two fingers as though brushing Castille Lejeune's words from the air. "So let me see if I understand correctly. In 1951 you took a friend to Angola Prison to record Junior Crudup, but you have no idea what happened to Junior later?"
"I was doing a favor for my wife. She was fond of folk music. That was a long time ago," Lejeune answered, his eyes crinkling at the corners, his gaze wandering among his guests.
"But a retired guard, a man named Strunk, says you got Junior pulled off the levee gang."
"I don't remember that. I wouldn't have had that kind of influence," Lejeune said.
"Really? " Father Jimmie said. "You wouldn't throw a fellow a slider, would you?"
The insult to a man of his age and position seemed not to register in Lejeune's face. Instead, his eyes crinkled again. "Have a good time," he said. He placed his hand warmly on Father Jimmie's arm and walked away.
"Let me get you a beer, Father," Merchie Flannigan said.
"Shame on you for what you're doing to those black people in St. James Parish," Father Jimmie said.
Father Jimmie's heart might have been in the right place, but it was embarrassing to listen to him berate Merchie Flannigan in front of others and I didn't wait to hear Merchie's reply. I walked out of the backyard and into the oak trees, then witnessed one of those moments when you realize that each human being's story is much more complex than you could have ever guessed.
Between the horse stables and the bayou was a white-railed, sloping green pasture containing a fish pond and a small dock. A gas lamp mounted on a brass pole burned above the dock, and I could see moths flying into the flame, then dropping like pieces of ash into the water. As I stood among the trees I saw Theodosha watching the same scene, one hand on the fence railing. The electric lights were on in the stables and I could see her face clearly in the illumination, her brow knitted, the muscles in her throat taut, her hand gripped tightly on the rail.
I walked toward her but her attention had been distracted by the strange red reflection of the sun's afterglow on the bayou. A little boy and girl, not older than four or five, climbed through the fence on the opposite side of the fish pond and ran giggling toward the dock. I had no way of knowing the depth of the pond, but a spring board was attached to the end of the dock, which meant the depth was certainly over a child's head.
Theo looked back from the sunset at the pond and saw the children almost the same time as I. She bit her lip and raised her hand as though to warn them off, but she remained outside the fence, frozen, as though an invisible shield prevented her from entering the pasture. The children thumped onto the dock and danced up and down, then bent over the edge of the dock and peered at the fish feeding on the moths dropping from the flame in the gas lamp.
Theodosha heard me walk up behind her. She turned abruptly, startled, her expression one of both fear and shame.
"That water is fairly deep, isn't it?" I said.
"Yes," she said, turning back toward the pond. "Yes, those children shouldn't be out there. Where are their parents?"
I started to climb through the fence.
"No, I'll do that. I'm sorry. I'm " She didn't finish whatever she was going to say. She ducked under the top rail of the fence and ran awkwardly onto the dock, then returned, clasping each of the children by the hand.
The children's faces were hot, angry, a bit frightened, their cheeks pooled with color.
"We didn't know we did anything wrong, Miss Theo," the little boy said.
"You shouldn't go near a lake or pond or the bayou without your mother or father. Don't you ever do this again," Theo said, and shook him.
Both of the
children began to cry.
"Hey, you guys, let's get a soft drink," I said.
I took them by the hand and walked them to the drink table and asked the waiter to give each of them a Coca-Cola. Through the trees I saw Theodosha walking rapidly toward the back of her house, her arms clinched across her chest, as though the temperature had dropped thirty degrees.
I decided I'd had enough of the Lejeune family for one evening. I told Father Jimmie I'd say good night to our hosts for both of us and went to find Theodosha inside the house. I didn't have to look far. She was in the den with her father, sitting on a stuffed leather footstool beneath the mounted airplane propeller, her face in her hands. Castille Lejeune stood above her, stroking her hair, his eyes filled with pity.
Neither one of them saw me. I backed out of the doorway and joined Father Jimmie outside.
"Do you know where Merchie is?" I asked.
"He and another man went to the stables. The other guy seems to have his own Zip code," he said.
"Let's go, Father."
"I was too hard on Flannigan?"
"What do I know?" I said.
We got in my pickup truck and headed down the long driveway toward the state road. I thought the bizarre nature of my visit to the plantation home of Castille Lejeune was over. It wasn't. In the glare of flood lamps by a long white, peaked stable, Merchie Flannigan was perched on top of a fence, drinking from a bottle of Cold Duck, while a tall, gray-headed, crew-cropped, angular man in cowboy boots and western-cut slacks was lighting strings of Chinese fire crackers and throwing them in the air while a group of children screamed in delight. In the background, a half-dozen thoroughbred horses raced back and forth across a fenced pasture.
Merchie flagged me down and walked toward my truck, slightly off balance.
"Not leaving, are you?" he said.
"Looks like it. Thanks for having us out," I said.
Merchie bent down to window level to see across me-. "I'm a bum Catholic, Father. But I try," he said.
"You were in the reformatory?" Father Jimmie asked.
Merchie's face reddened. "Yeah, I guess I was."
"We'll compare stories sometime," Father Jimmie said.
The tall, crew-cropped man lit another string of firecrackers and threw it popping into the air. One of the thoroughbreds struck the fence and knocked a slat onto the grass.
"Why are you letting that guy panic those horses like that?" I said.
"That's Will Guillot. Those are his kids," Merchie replied, then seemed to look into space at the vacuity of his words. "Will does things for my father-in-law. You don't know him?"
"No."
"You should," he said.
"Why?"
"You're a police officer," he said. He leaned on his arms against the side of my truck, his eyes slightly out of focus, his breath like a wine vat.
CHAPTER 5
The telephone call to Father Jimmie came on Sunday afternoon, while he was watching a pro football game on television at the rectory. It was raining, and through the window he could see the rainwater cascading off the roof, pounding the small garden he tended in the green space between the gray, back wall of the church and the alley where the sanitation service picked up the garbage.
"I need to go to confession, Father," the voice said.
"Reconciliation is scheduled every afternoon at four, except Sundays," he said.
"I need to go now."
Father Jimmie looked over his shoulder at a quarterback completing a thirty-yard pass on the television screen.
"Can it wait?" he asked.
"I have to get something of a serious nature off my conscience."
In the silence Father Jimmie could hear die man breathing into the receiver. "I'll be in the confessional at four o'clock," he said.
He finished his sandwich in front of the television, and a half hour later walked down the center aisle of the church toward the three confessionals that were inset in a side wall at the rear of the building. The inside of the church was magnificent. Twin balconies draped with brilliant red tapestries extended all the way from the choir to the altar area. The pulpit was hand-carved from teak wood and had been constructed high above the laity, in a time when there were no microphones to magnify the minister's voice. Whenever the sunlight struck the stained-glass windows, the effect inside the church was stunning. The celestial scenes on the ceiling and the paintings depicting Christ's passion in the Garden of Gethsemane and his ordeal by scourge and mockery and spittle and finally crucifixion made the viewer swallow in both reverence and trepidation.
The front doors of the church were open, and Father Jimmie could see the grayness of the afternoon out on the street and the drabness of the neighborhood and the rainwater welling up from the storm sewers. Perhaps a dozen people were in the pews, all of them old, their clothes shabby, their rosary beads wrapped around their hands. Some nodded at him and smiled as he passed. Their faith was genuine, he thought, their level of devotion long since proven by the lives they had led, but if they did not have this place to visit, where they could say their beads and confess sins that were either imaginary or inconsequential, he knew they would have no lives at all.
A homeless man slept in a back pew, curled up in a fetal position, his odor rising from his clothes like a living presence. A bottle of fortified wine had fallen from his coat pocket and was precariously balanced on the edge of the pew.
Father Jimmie picked it up, tightened the cap, and placed it on the floor, within arm's reach of the sleeping man.
Then, on the far side of the church, he saw a man he had never seen before. The man wore a tight-fitting tan raincoat buttoned to his neck, like a prison on his body. His face was beaded with water, his ears like small cauliflowers, his hair cut short, combed neatly, reddish in color. He was sitting rather than kneeling, his hand resting on a domed, black lunch box. His eyes never made contact with Father Jimmie's.
Father Jimmie went into the vestibule of the church and smelled the wind and rain and leaves blowing in the street. He wished he had not answered the phone in the rectory. It was a gray, wet day, with a touch of winter in the air, but it reminded him of Kentucky in the late fall, just before Advent, when a great dampness would settle on the Cumberland Mountains and the color would drain out of the sky and the fields and the leaves of the hardwoods would turn to flame in the hollows. It should have been a day to watch football and eat soup and hot bread and perhaps jog in Audubon Park. But he could not refuse a request for reconciliation, no matter how neurotic, self-absorbed, or irritating the source was.
He opened the door to a side corridor that led to the back entrance of a confessional, placed his stole around his neck, and sat down inside. He heard someone open the door to the adjoining box and the person's weight depress the kneeler that was attached to the partition separating the penitent from the confessor. Father Jimmie pushed back the wood slide that covered the small, grilled, gauze-covered window through which the penitent, in this case a man who smelled of street damp and hair tonic, would make his confession.
But the man did not speak.
"Are you the gentleman who called the rectory?" Father Jimmie asked.
"That I am, Father."
"What is it you'd like to tell me?"
Father Jimmie could see the outline of the man's head. The ears looked like they had been carved around the edges with a paring knife. He heard the man snuff down in his nose and shift his weight on the kneeler.
"Been a while since I've visited one of these," the man said.
"Yes?"
"I'm a bit flummoxed. Hold on a bit, Father, while I organize my thoughts."
Father Jimmie heard what he thought was the man's lunch box clattering open inside the confessional. "What are you doing in there?" he asked.
"Nothing." The man was breathing hard now. "I met a Catholic sister on the train. I was rude to her. She's a friend of yours. So I apologize for that."
"Oh, you're the fellow. Well, she already cal
led me. I'll pass on your apologies. Is that it?"
"I scared the shite out of her. She tell you that?"
"Don't do it anymore and it won't be a problem. Is that all you have to tell me. Because if it is "
"No, it is fucking not, sir."
"What did you say?"
The man was breathing hard through his nose now, a ray of light from outside the confessional glimmering on the planed surfaces of his face.
"I said give me a fucking minute, if you please," he said.
"Are you drunk?"
The man did not reply. He seemed to burn with energies he couldn't express. He rocked on the kneeler and twisted his head from side to side, then made a grinding noise in his throat. The lunch box clattered with sound again, as though the man had dropped a heavy object in it and snapped the latch on the lid.
"Tell the nun she's a splendid woman and I hope she lives long enough to have a bishop for a son. Send up a thanks to your patron saint, Father. Maybe buy a Powerball ticket while you're at it," the man said.
He flung open the door of the confessional and stalked through the vestibule and out the front of the church. Father Jimmie followed him as far as the front steps and watched him walk toward Canal, a golfer's cap pulled down on his head, his narrow shoulders hunched forward in the rain, his lunch box glistening with moisture. The man looked back over his shoulder at Father Jimmie, his face contorted, as though he had just fled a burning building.
It had rained through the night in New Iberia, and in the morning the sun rose like a pink wafer out of a blanket of fog that covered the cane fields. When I got to the office the parents of Lori Parks were waiting for me. Sometimes the survivors of family members who meet violent deaths have no place to direct their anger and loss other than at the police officer who is assigned to help them. Their rage is understandable, particularly when a cop is straight up and informs them the percentages are not in favor of justice being done. But sometimes the anger of the survivors has more to do with guilt than grief.
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