Pamela Morsi

by The Love Charm

  "Of course, Monsieur Sonnier," Aida answered lightly, rising to her feet. "I do not believe that I have shown you my herb garden. And I am sure, being as close to Madame Landry as you are, you must surely have a great interest in cultured plants."

  He must wish to discuss Laron, Aida thought to herself. It must be that he wished to discuss his friend. Otherwise she was certain that Armand Sonnier would not have made such a suggestion.

  She rose to her feet and he offered her hand.

  "If I do say so myself, monsieur," she continued brightly, "I have a way with gardening."

  Determinedly she allowed him to lead her down the steps. She refused to look behind her at their audience as she took his arm and strolled beside him. She began to chatter.

  "It's . . . it's a lovely day," she said.

  "Hmmm? Oh yes," he said.

  She glanced over at him. He was gazing off into the distance, obviously lost in thought. His light brown hair was not slicked down with sweet grease like that of the other young men. It had a tousled, wind-blown look that was attractive in a sort of disheveled way.

  "It's neither too hot nor too cold," she continued. "It seems that this might be the best weather that we've had in several months."

  He nodded.

  "But of course winter is coming," Aida rattled on. "Why, the sky this morning looked like bad weather heading our way soon."

  She heard herself prattling aimlessly, but couldn't seem to stop. The late-afternoon sun threw their long lazy shadows along the grass as they walked. The cool slick grass under her bare feet was soothing; still her heart fluttered nervously.

  Armand Sonnier was Laron's best friend. He was also without doubt the smartest man in the parish. What in the world could she have to say to him that would be interesting or entertaining? He probably spent his days thinking about things that she could never understand. Talking about things she'd never heard of and shaking his head in pity at foolish young women who have nothing more to recommend them than a pretty face and spend half an hour fixing a long thick curl of black hair.

  "Of course, I love winter almost as much as fall," she told him. "All the seasons have their own specialness, I suppose. I love the prairies in springtime when they are full of wildflowers. The bayou is at its best in summer when the hyacinth and lilies bloom on the water. In autumn the leaves on the trees change to red, yellow, and gold. And in the winter, well I suppose that it's the absence of all that beauty that makes us recall it with such wonder."

  Armand stopped still and turned to look at her. His blue eyes studied her intensely. He was no taller than she was. And it was strange, unusual, to look a man straight in the eye, just as if ... as if he were someone just like her.

  Aida flushed and glanced away. Of course he was nothing like her. He was a literate man. Her own father counted on him in trading with the Creoles and Americaines and he was the judge, the representative of the state of Louisiana in the parish. He was not at all like her.

  "And winter is nice also because there is much time for dances and fais-dodo and get-togethers," she added.

  He nodded and remained silent, his expression still pensive.

  What was he thinking? Aida couldn't help wondering that. When he kept his silence for so long was his mind a blank or was he having an involved conversation with himself? A conversation about truth or religion or life? Did he agree with himself? Or were arguments going on in his head? Aida could only imagine. Momentarily she floundered as she sought for another topic for conversation. The weather had been stretched about as far as it would go. Had it been Ignace or Placide, she would have merely talked about herself. Somehow she didn't think that Monsieur Sonnier would be interested. With him she could not get away with a pretense of frivolity. He knew her too well.

  Armand was so smart, so serious, so sober. Of course it was quite true that he could tell a good joke. But he never seemed to feel like laughing when he was with her. He must consider her a silly scatter-brain. Most of the Acadian men liked her silliness. Armand Sonnier obviously did not.

  It was unfortunate that he was not more like his older brother, Jean Baptiste. She remembered how charming he was at the fais-dodo when he helped her with her shoes.

  "How is your brother?" she asked, delighted with herself at coming up with such an agreeable subject. She liked Jean Baptiste, and Armand obviously cared about his brother. Exchanging views on their mutual regard for him would be easier than discussing the weather.

  To her surprise Armand's expression took on a guarded, almost hostile look.

  "He is well," he said. There was a gruffness to his voice that discouraged her.

  Aida was unsure.

  "He's a very good dancer," she said. "He partners me at nearly every fais-dodo. I always feel like I'm simply floating on his arm."

  "Laron is the best dancer on the river," Armand stated flatly.

  "Why yes, I know that he is," Aida admitted. "But perhaps I am partial in my judgment. Your brother is very good, too. I remember watching him dance with Felicite at their wedding. I was so envious. She was so lovely and I was so very young and gauche."

  "But that's all changed now, hasn't it?" Armand said. He was looking at her so sternly that she was confused. His words were, she assumed, meant as a compliment. She was no longer so young and gauche. She was the most beautiful woman on the Vermilion River and everyone knew it. Still, he said it in such a way that made it sound almost as if he were angry at her for growing up and being pretty.

  "Yes, I guess things have changed a bit. I have grown older, after all," she said.

  His eyes narrowed. Her answer obviously did not please him. They stood at the edge of the small herb garden that grew by the side of her house. They were still in plain sight of the others. Aida could feel the curious eyes on her back. But they were completely out of hearing range.

  "Are you and Laron making plans to wed soon?" he asked her.

  Aida's brow furrowed. "Why, why yes, we are," she said, somewhat taken aback. "We discussed it the last time we spoke," she told him.

  "Oh?"

  "We are ... we are going to wed in the spring."

  He hesitated for a long moment, watching her. It was as if he were assessing her, gauging her.

  "Laron is a good man, hardworking and honest. A woman could hardly do better than to have him as husband."

  She glanced away, embarrassed at the intensity of his look.

  "You need not trouble yourself to convince me," she answered. "I decided some time ago that Monsieur Boudreau would suit me perfectly."

  He nodded solemnly. "Yes, you two are a handsome couple."

  Aida felt a moment's irritation. She wanted to explain that although Laron was quite attractive, that was not why she was marrying him. Laron needed her. He needed her father's land and he needed the prosperity that marriage to her would offer. And because he needed her for those things, he might learn to love her for herself. She said none of that.

  "I don't think the spring will be soon enough, Mademoiselle Gaudet," he continued firmly. "I think that you and my friend should marry soon, very soon."

  Chapter 8

  "Where in the devil have you been?"

  Armand Sonnier's angry words echoed painfully through the groggy haze that seemed to envelope Laron's brain. He looked up from his position on the foul-smelling bed tick in the corner of the Hebert barn and squinted.

  "For God's sake, don't shout," he answered.

  Laron rolled out of his sleeping place and onto his knees. His head pounded and felt ready to crack open from the pressure inside. He noted with amazement that his brother-in-law's barn seemed to tilt abruptly and his stomach nearly rebelled at the motion. He reached over for the bottle, knowing it to be both cause and cure for his ailment.

  "What is that?" Armand's question was incredulous.

  Laron took a healthy swig before answering sarcastically. "It is liquor, my friend, strong drink, la boisson. A particularly fine product made from homegrown Acadian
corn."

  Rising to his feet was not as easy as Laron had anticipated and he fell forward. Armand caught him roughly.

  "You're as drunk as a robin eating chinaberries!" he exclaimed.

  "No robin has ever been this drunk," Laron told him.

  It might well be true. When Laron had left Helga's farm he had been stunned, numb, in shock. He'd spied Karl, hurrying home with a stringer full of fish, and the reality of what was happening seeped in. The boy called out to him, showing off his catch. Laron had managed a nod of pride, but had not spoken. He had simply boarded his pirogue and headed down Bayou Tortue, his thoughts in a whirl.

  He would never again share a quiet moment with the boy. He would never again tease Elsa. He would never again hold little Jakob in his arms. And he would never again feel Helga beneath him, breathless and quaking as he pushed her over the edge of pleasure and felt the spasms of her body clutching at his own.

  He'd gone directly from Helga's farm to the Bayou Blonde. The Bayou Blonde was a rough and wicked place where the dregs of Acadian and Creole society consorted with low-life Americaines and escaped slaves, consumed strong drink, and gambled away their livelihood. He didn't know how many days he'd stayed there. He didn't remember how he'd managed to make it home.

  "You always said you hated the taste of alcohol," Armand reminded him.

  "I still do, my friend," Laron agreed. "I still do. I hate the taste, but I love the oblivion."

  "Come on," Armand said, wrapping his arm around his friend's waist.

  "No, I can't move," Laron moaned. "I can't move. I can't walk. I don't think I can live."

  "Well, you are damned well going to have to," Armand insisted.

  Laron was nearly twice the weight and an ax handle's length taller than the man who supported him, but Sonnier managed to drag him out of the barn and down toward the river. They stumbled along together with Armand talking constantly, his words part encouragement, part castigation.

  "Liquor doesn't solve anything," his friend told him. "It merely makes you behave foolishly and causes your family to worry. Keep moving now, you can do it. It's a good thing your father's no longer alive. He'd probably still think to take a strap to you for this."

  Laron concentrated merely on staying upright and keeping his stomach from heaving.

  When they reached the bank Laron knelt expecting to splash his face with cool water. Instead, Armand dunked him, head and shoulders, into the river. Laron came up sputtering and then did lose the contents of his stomach.

  Armand dumped him in the cold water again, this time almost to his waist.

  "Are you trying to drown me!" Laron sputtered, his hair plastered to his head.

  "It's an easier way to die than drinking yourself to death," Armand told him. "Your sister was frantic when I spoke with her. She sent her husband to Bayou Blonde to fetch you. What on earth were you doing there?"

  "I can't seem to remember."

  Laron collapsed on the ground. The cool grass against his back and the rich fragrance of damp earth somehow soothed him. It was the middle of the day, the sun was high, but the chill in the air kept it from warming the wetness of his shirt. His own smell assailed him and it was extremely unpleasant. His life was extremely unpleasant.

  "I'm going up to your sister's house to get some coffee," Armand told him.

  "I can go with you," Laron assured him, attempting to stand although the ground swayed dangerously when he had risen only to his elbows.

  "Don't bother," he answered, pushing Laron back down on the grass. "It's too far for me to drag you. Besides, I don't know who is up there now. And I'm sure your sister wouldn't want her children to see you this way."

  "Oh no," Laron agreed. He was sure his friend was right. His straight-laced Boudreau parents had never allowed liquor in their house and Laron and his brothers had been warned against it on many occasions. He was fairly certain that the Hebert household, his sister's home, was equally intolerant.

  "I'll be right back," Armand said.

  "Fine."

  "Don't roll over and fall in the river."

  Actually that sounded like a pretty good idea to Laron.

  "Just get the coffee," he answered.

  As his friend hurried off, Laron lay still in the grass. He tried closing his eyes, but the spinning grew worse. He gazed up at the gathering clouds in the blue sky above him. It was a beautiful day. The kind of day made for weddings—or maybe funerals.

  He folded his arms across his chest like a corpse and imagined himself laid out on slats. Of course, this time of year, cool as it was, his family would probably still be able to keep him in the house. He'd rather be outside, he decided. If he waited to die in summer he could have that advantage. But was it really worth waiting that long? His life was over already.

  Bayou Blonde had been wilder, dirtier, more pathetic than he'd been led to believe. There was gambling. But he hadn't bothered. He didn't have much money and what he had he'd spent on liquor.

  There had been a woman, a woman with big dark eyes and a front tooth missing. She'd said he was "so pretty" she would let him do it for free. She'd changed her mind after he'd vomited on her skirt.

  Helga! The name repeated in his mind. Helga no, don't send me away.

  He had thought himself so worldly. He had his life, his plans; and he had his German widow. He'd known from the beginning that his illicit liaison with Helga could never last. Then he had so callously, thoughtlessly, become involved. He knew eventually he would have to leave her. He would have to marry. He'd even settled on whom and when. Had he thought that it would be so easy? Had he thought his heart was not involved?

  Somehow he hadn't truly thought that he would have to do without her. Perhaps he secretly imagined that she would still welcome him when another woman shared his name. Perhaps he believed that her love for him would override all other considerations. Perhaps that belief had made it possible to affiance himself to Mademoiselle Gaudet.

  He shook his head at his own idiocy and then moaned with pain. He should have known better. Helga was as sweet and as worldly wicked as a woman could be. But she was also, in her own heart, as duty bound and decorous as his own mother had been.

  His mother? The image came to him of his mother sitting so primly in front of the fire, speaking of her husband as Monsieur Boudreau, never as lover or husband, but more as a gentleman with whom she had a respectful acquaintance. And he remembered his father standing in the pirogue explaining to his two youngest boys about the facts of life, and looking unhappy and uncomfortable. Surely those two shared nothing of the sensual magic that was part and parcel of his relationship with Helga Shotz. His mind rebelled at the thought.

  Still, it could not be overlooked that his parents had managed to produce fifteen children in a marriage of twenty-seven years. Such did not occur by keeping distance from each other.

  Was it possible? Was it possible that his parents had loved as he loved? Was it possible that they might have understood why he did not want to live without Helga at his side?

  "Sit up." The order came from Armand. "Your sister has sent a whole pot of petit noir," he said.

  "Good, good," Laron said, forcing himself up off the ground. "I have made a mistake drinking so much."

  "Well you certainly have the right of that," Armand agreed.

  "A man must have a clear head when he makes momentous decisions."

  Laron's hands trembled so much, Armand had to help him bring the cup to his lips. The coffee was hot and dark and aromatic. It did not have the potency to truly clear his head, but it did have the power to make him believe it had.

  "I love her," he said to his friend after he'd successfully downed the first cup.

  "Your sister?"

  "No, I mean, of course, but . . . but I love Helga."

  Armand's brow furrowed. "The German widow?"

  "I love her, Armand," Laron declared. "And I am going to marry her."

  "My friend, the liquor steals your good sense," Arm
and said. "The woman is already wed."

  "I don't care," Laron answered.

  And he didn't.

  Armand braced himself in his high position out on the limb of a big cypress. He extended his arm to reach as far as possible. The hook on the end of the long pole that he held caught a big clump of greenish-gray Spanish moss.

  Below him, balancing himself with one foot on either edge of the pirogue's sides, Jean-Baptiste reached the lower hanging bits and maneuvered the boat into place.

  With expertise, Armand eased his catch off the end of the pole, causing the moss to fall directly onto the growing pile already stacked in the pirogue.

  "I'd like to know," he hollered down at his brother, "why, after all these years, I am still in the tree and you are still in the boat."

  Jean Baptiste grinned up at him and laughed. "You should not ask me, but Father Denis or Madame Landry," he answered. "Everyone knows the smaller man climbs the tree. Whether it is, as Father Denis would say, 'God's will' or as Madame Landry would believe, 'your destiny,' the fact is, my brother, that you are shorter than I. And unless a gator comes to chew my legs off, you will always be so."

  Armand glanced up and down the river and shook his head. "Where are those gators when you need them?"

  Gathering moss was an important side business for the brothers. Long ago people had discovered that the spindly hanging swags were perfect for pillow fluff and mattresses filling. Mixed with mud the moss created a house plaster called bousillage that was strong, easy to work, and made good insulation. But most often it was gathered in large quantities and floated downriver to Creole and American factories that used it for upholstery stuffing. The demand for this cash crop was greater and more profitable than for their cotton or corn.

  Now that winter was nearly upon them, the cattle and hogs already loosed to take care of themselves and the harvest put by, the Sonnier brothers had time to devote to piling moss.

  "I'm littler than Uncle," Gaston declared from his perch atop the moss. "I should be up in the tree."

  "And so you should," Armand agreed. "Jean Baptiste, hand that farmer up here."