One Must Wait

by Penny Mickelbury

  Carole Ann returned to Houma, now confused as well as skeptical, and becoming something close to angry. She pulled into the parking lot of the Terrebonne Museum at exactly two o'clock, got out of the car, slamming the door much harder than necessary, and was looking for the building's entrance when she spied the old woman, wearing not a slave costume but a simple and pretty flowered cotton dress and a wide-brimmed straw hat. Her feet were encased in blue canvas espadrilles. A straw purse dangled from crook of her left arm. She looked like anybody's present-day grandmother. She raised her right hand in greeting, raised it like a person taking the oath, and everything that had been brewing inside Carole Ann, including the anger, dissipated. She felt all the heaviness drain away as she crossed the parking lot, and the closer she got to the old woman, the more relaxed she felt.

  "Good afternoon," Carole Ann said.

  "You keep good time, Cher," the old woman said, and took her arm and guided her around the side of the building where Carole Ann saw a boardwalk leading to a dock. "My grandson is waiting for us at the boat," she said, walking that brisk walk again, a stride that belied her age.

  Oh, shit, Carole Ann thought. Grandson. Boat. Water. I still don't know this woman's name or who she is and I'm getting into a boat with her and her grandson. "Where are we going?" She tried to conceal the fear and anger and skepticism and helplessness that suddenly reclaimed her. She stopped walking when the old woman tightened the grip on her arm.

  "You want to go to Poule Creek, no?"

  Carole Ann was about to say, "No!" when some instinct took control of her mouth. Poule Creek. Chicken Shit Creek. "Yes," Carole Ann said, and resigned herself to accepting whatever was ahead. Whatever it was certainly would be more different than anything she'd known thus far. And, she hoped, more informative.

  The grandson was a man Carole Ann's own age who'd apparently inherited his grandmother's preference for verbal conciseness, along with other genetic traits. He was less than six feet tall and brown-sugar brown and reed-thin and wiry and erect. A lot like Jake Graham, she thought, though where Jake almost quivered with pent-up energy and emotion, this man was as calm as the swamp waters. He helped his grandmother into the flat-bottomed boat and into one of two chairs. Then he reached for Carole Ann, helping her to the other chair. Then he turned from them and started first one, the other of the boat's two engines, and powered the boat out into the water. In a matter of seconds the dock and the museum were specks on the horizon and Carole Ann was thinking perhaps they were cruising in the Gulf of Mexico. Then the grasses appeared, tall and wavy and green-brown, and there was nothing else to see. Except egrets and herons and turtles—huge ones, not the tiny pet store variety. And oh dear Christ, water moccasins and alligators. Or were they crocodiles?...alligators, she told herself. Crocodiles lived in Africa and South America. Didn't they? She watched the horny, ancient beast, watched its snout and eyes, and pondered the majesty of creation as snakes slithered across the water’s surface.

  They now were further inland, or perhaps they had been all along and Carole Ann had not noticed. But now she noticed because the alligator cruised in for a landing, causing quite a commotion on the bank as several varieties of fish, fowl and mammal vacated the reptile's space. The overhanging trees and the moss that dangled from them created a mottled shade that neither cooled nor protected from the sun, which played and danced on the water like nothing she'd ever seen. This truly was another world, another way of life and living.

  The grandson cut the engines with one hand and, without seeming to look, grabbed for a long-handled net behind him with the other. A smile creased the old woman's face and she raised her hand to silence Carole Ann even before the thought to speak reached her brain. So she watched, too, as the grandson held the net, watching the water...watching...and swoosh! In a single motion, the net swooped into the water and returned, full of a huge, wiggling, glistening fish. The old woman clapped her hands like a delighted child as the man dumped the fish into the ice chest. He turned to face his grandmother and no longer was a grown man, older probably than Carole Ann, but a boy proud of having pleased his grandmother. He grinned, blushed, ducked his head, and restarted the boat's engines. And soon they were skimming along the water again, creating their momentary path in the reeds and grasses that sprung back into place and obliterated their intrusive presence forever.

  "I'm called Sadie Cord," the old woman said, leaning toward Carole Ann but not speaking any louder than before. She smiled her powerful smile at Carole Ann's reaction and explained that her family had owned the restaurant in Houma for two generations, but always had assumed a subservient public role because that is what the white tourists wanted and expected from ante-bellum Louisiana. So, Sadie dressed as a slave and cooked and occasionally served the food, all the while owning the most prosperous eating establishment in a town comprised of and sustained by tourist attractions. She shrugged eloquently. "They were so happy back then," Sadie said gently, and Carole Ann almost missed the flash of steely irony. She patted Carole Ann on the knee and pointed to the rear of the boat. "He is my first-born grand. Named Herve, after my husband, who died long before that boy was born. He's my favorite." She shrugged again. "The first is always special, Cher. Don't mean the others are less. I now have thirty-two of them, grand and great-grand and great-great grand, and they all are special. But he," and she pointed over her shoulder, "is the favorite special."

  Carole Ann was about to comment when she suddenly was assaulted by a powerful and disgusting odor. She raised her head to the wind to determine the direction of the smell, and as she did so, Herve turned the boat toward it, into it, and Carole Ann almost retched. She tried to take a deep breath, but could not. She felt faint and dizzy and nauseous and lurched to the side of the boat and leaned over. What she saw choked the sickness back. The water had changed. There no longer were green-brown wavy swamp grasses. There no longer was vegetation of any kind, or fowl or reptiles or mossy trees. The swamp was ugly and heavy. It no longer even looked like water. Herve cut one of the engines and slowed the boat and crept through the rank, oily sludge. Carole Ann's guts settled and she pulled her eyes away from what should have been water to study the coast line. As if rising from the sea, it appeared: First the dock and then the boats and then the village itself. Al's "swamp village." The Chicken Shit River. And the "Conjure Woman," who was seated behind her in this boat.

  Carole Ann was buffeted by emotion more powerful than any she'd felt since the night Jake Graham told her Al was dead, and it was not only because Al had been to this place, but also because of what this place was and had been. It was ancient and Carole Ann could feel its antiquity as strongly as she could smell the destruction that was devouring it. Looking and Sadie and Herve was like looking at images in a history book, except that bound version of the past was flat and dead and Sadie and Herve were life itself. Past life and present, Carole Ann mused, recalling Sadie's slave masquerade. And Al had been here. Had seen it all. Had known and understood and had died because of it.

  "The man who came here, Mrs. Cord, I don't know how he found you, but he was my husband. Al Crandall was his name and they've murdered him. And I've come to find out who and why." Carole Ann was shaking and boiling inside. She closed her eyes as Herve eased the boat to the dock, and she put out a hand to steady herself. Her hand was caught in a firm, gnarly grip, and she held on because suddenly it all felt like too much. Last night's clarity and security evaporated on a whiff of death and destruction.

  "I can tell you the 'why,' Cher," Sadie whispered, “and I will help you find the 'who.'"

  Herve helped them out of the boat and on to the dock, then he secured the skiff and hopped back into it, straightening and ordering what must have been the neatest craft on the bayou. Then he hoisted the cooler and stepped from the boat on to the dock, as if from a carriage to a red carpet. He bowed from the waist to his grandmother and ducked his head to Carole Ann and, without a word, lifted the cooler to his shoulder and walked off down the ro
ad.

  "Then please tell me why, Mrs. Cord. Perhaps if I can understand the "why," the "who" won't matter quite so much."

  "I think perhaps it will matter more, Cher," Sadie Cord said quietly, and, taking her hand again, began to walk and talk.

  Pointe Afrique—the town had been called that by the people who founded it and whose descendants had lived in it for more than one hundred years—was the only entity in that part of St. Martin Parish not owned by Parish Petroleum. As it turned out, that didn’t matter much since Bay Afrique and everything in it and near it and around it had been poisoned by the sludge Parish Petroleum had been dumping into the Poule River for twenty years. For twenty secret years, for this is where the company moved its operation after the lawsuit that closed its Assumption Parish operation in back in 1976. Pointe Afrique inhabitants had supported themselves fishing and harvesting rice until about 1985, when the land and the people first began to display the effects of Parish Petroleum's poisonous activities. Because they were familiar with the events in Assumption Parish, most of the younger residents fled, taking their children. Most of the older residents and a handful of single men remained behind to preserve and protect Pointe Afrique, and to prepare for the day when it would be safe for the refugees to return. It seemed as if that day finally would arrive when word filtered through the surrounding towns that Parish Petroleum was shutting down.

  Sadie stopped talking and took a deep breath, giving Carole Ann a welcome and much needed opportunity to ponder all she'd seen on her walking tour of Pointe Afrique before settling down in the old woman's living room to drink strong, sweet ginger root tea and listen to her talk, for what she'd seen had astounded, excited, amazed, and angered her. Point Afrique was indeed a village, a very old one comprised of weathered wooden buildings on stilts, sturdy and in good repair. The commercial district was comprised of a general store, a smaller version of Eldon Warmsley's; a church with a cemetery; a barber shop; a carpenter who doubled as shoemaker; and an establishment that could best be described as a juke joint, though it seemed that its liveliest days and nights may have been in the past. Still, the place contained a dozen round tables and assorted chairs, an ancient juke box, and a stocked bar.

  The hard-packed dirt roads of the village were swept smooth and clean and hugged by bright green borders, which Carole Ann realized was some form of artificial turf. Colorful plastic flowers bloomed in urns in the cemetery, and a profusion of greenery and flowering shrubs lived and thrived in planters in front of every structure, residential and commercial. So desperate were these good and simple people for some semblance of real life that they'd laid down fake grass and planted plastic flowers. Carole Ann ached at the thought of it.

  "It wasn't 'til he came that we understood that we weren't safe. That we weren't never gon' be safe," Sadie said, the sadness that settled over her making her look like the old woman she was. "Your man is the one who told us the truth, told us what that Parish Petroleum really was up to."

  And what that was, Carole Ann learned, was an expansion of operations, not a cessation. Production was halted at the St. Martin plant only until surveyors and engineers could complete an assessment of the long-dormant property in St. Mary Parish: Land area more than double that of the St. Martin property, and extremely valuable now because of its popularity as a tourist retreat. Parish Petroleum officials were in the process of deciding whether to build a new plant in St. Mary or sell that land and use the proceeds to expand the St. Martin operation.

  "But it's not their land to sell," Carole Ann blurted out, so angry that she wasn't thinking rationally, and instantly realized the error, for the old woman had gone still and silent. Had closed up her eyes and her expressions and her movements. Had locked Carole Ann on the outside. So, for the third time in almost as many days, Carole Ann found herself telling her story, leaving out many of the details, but including what Warren Fourchette told her about the judgment awarding Parish Petroleum's assets to the plaintiffs, and her discovery of the original Parish Petroleum filing in the state archives. And the more she talked, the more the old woman relaxed, until finally she was ready to speak again.

  "Nobody knows that but you, Cher. They thought your man knew and that's why they killed him. He was trying to find the proof for us when his boss sent for him to come home."

  "When was that?" Carole Ann stiffened.

  "Last time he was here, back in January. He told his boss that Parish Petroleum didn't own that St. Mary Parish land so they couldn't sell it and his boss told him to drop everything and come on home. He was sittin' right over there, talkin' on that phone you see there." Sadie Cord turned and looked at the old fashioned black rotary telephone perched in the center of the white lace doily was in the center of the three-legged table in the corner of the room. Carole Ann followed her gaze, easily imagining Al's long, lanky body, perched on the edge of the chair that would have been too small, legs splayed out in front of him. Could imagine his anger at being ordered to return home.

  "Did he say anything to you then, Mrs. Cord?"

  "He said he would get us the proof that Parish Petroleum cain't sell that land. And he said he'd make em' pay to clean up our little place here, and our river."

  "Now I'll do it, Mrs. Cord, and hang Larry Devereaux out to dry in the process."

  "Who?" The old woman snapped to attention, her eyes flashing and her hands trembling. "Who you say you gon' dry?"

  Carole Ann smiled at the malapropism. "Al's boss, the one who made him come home. Larry Devereaux is his name."

  The old woman emitted a heavy sigh and slumped back into her chair and into herself. Her eyes no longer flashed but dimmed as they looked far into some other place. "So that's what happened to Lawrence," she said, more to herself than to Carole Ann, to whom she said, looking directly at her now, "Well, Cher. That's your who."

  "Who is?" Carole Ann now was confused, unable to follow the old woman's ramblings.

  "That Larry Devereaux. If he's who I think he is, his true name is Lawrence Warmsley"

  Carole Ann lost control and gave full rein to all the feelings and emotions that had been gathering force inside her all day. She cursed and wept and cursed again and, finally spent, listened to Sadie Cord tell her the story of a woman—a white woman named Ella Mae Scarborough—who lived on an Assumption Parish bayou and who had the same two lovers all her life: A Cajun named Leland Devereaux and a Creole named Lawrence Warmsley. Ella Mae had given birth to seven children: Lafayette, Leland, and Jeanette Devereaux; and Lawrence, Eldon, Ella Mae and Earlene Warmsley. Eldon Warmsley, Sadie said, would be the older brother of Larry Devereaux, who had joined the Army after his high school graduation and had not been heard from since. Everyone had assumed that he was somewhere passing, and no one had attempted to locate him, to violate his privacy or threaten his secret life.

  Carole Ann shook her head and laughed out loud. It was all too ludicrous. Had Al known this? Had he suspected? This alone would be reason enough for Larry Devereaux to have killed him; perhaps this wasn't a Parish Petroleum issue at all. She stopped laughing when she remembered she'd told Warren Forchette about Larry Devereaux. Would he have told Eldon Warmsley?

  "Of course, Cher!" Old Sadie exclaimed, looking at Carole Ann as if she were a strange new species. And after she finished explaining why, she went into the kitchen and got Carole Ann a beer. The same kind of beer Warren Forchette had given her on the porch of Eldon Warmsley's store, the same night they'd had dinner at Eldon Warmsley's house. At his Uncle Eldon's house.

  It was all too much. To imagine, to believe, to process, to understand, to fit into a familiar framework, to build a murder around. It was her experience that crime was simple; stupid, even. Vicious, violent, evil—of course. Crime was never polite, but it rarely was complicated. Even the white collar criminals—the embezzlers, the racketeers—ultimately were easy to figure out: They were motivated by greed. Money. Power. Even when they attempted to construct elaborate schemes, first to effect and then to conceal the
ir avarice, their crime eventually unraveled and deconstructed into simplicity: They wanted more money or they wanted more power, usually that which belonged to another. But this mess! Her husband had been murdered by a Black man who'd been passing for white, a lawyer who faced certain disbarment for his part in whatever the Parish Petroleum business would turn out to be, whose white brother just happened to be a member of the United States House of Representatives. Any one of which sufficed as a motive for murder, not to mention the Parish Petroleum money. And she, Carole Ann Gibson, had entrusted her mission to the white-looking Black brother and nephew of the murderer, either or both of whom might already have warned him that he was under suspicion. Louisiana was swampy, murky, in more ways than she cared to consider, the familial ties as intricate and unfathomable as the rivers and tributaries and bayous and swamps that all connected, that all sprung from the same source and led to the same, eventual destination. She felt nauseated, and it had nothing to do with the odor emanating from the Chicken Shit River, which she'd almost ceased to notice.

  "You are safe, Cher," Sadie Cord said softly, but Carole Ann shook her head. There no longer was such a thing as safe, and if there was, Carole Ann no longer believed in it.

  "I'd like to go back to my car, please."

  "Herve cooked the big fish for you," Sadie said, again softly. She said "feesh," so it took Carole Ann a moment to understand, and when she did, she knew enough about being Southern to know that to refuse would be an unforgivable breach of etiquette. So she nodded and tried to smile and finished her beer and followed the old woman through the three rooms of her tiny house out the back door and onto an enclosed porch that also was an outdoor kitchen. Herve was there, with the big fish and a dozen big shrimp on a grill and a bowl full of chopped vegetables in a huge glass bowl resting in a tub of ice, surrounded by bottles of beer. He removed two, opened them, and placed them on a pine board table. He nodded at the two women, and they both sat.