by Linda Kepner
Bishou chuckled. “A good night’s sleep. Then I’ll deal with this in the morning.”
“Goodnight.” Marie pulled the door shut.
Bishou closed her eyes and thought of Louis Dessant lying on this couch. That was her only association with this tired piece of furniture. The next grad student could have it, and gladly. The papers, the books — those could go in storage somewhere in New England. Not all the books, even; just the good ones. And her clippings, including the Gazette article that had caused so much trouble. Those were keepers.
Bishou closed her eyes, and drifted off to a peaceful sleep — still dressed in her school clothes.
Chapter 12
Bishou knelt on the garden soil and carefully troweled a trench, pulling out some tiny weeds along the way. The day was sunny and bright. She could feel the heat on her bare shoulders. Firmly she planted a tiny onion every three or four inches, and covered it again. There had been a frost in May this year, late even for New England. But now, in June, it was finally safe enough to set out the flats of onions.
Hands rested on her shoulders — oily hands, above the line of the tube top she wore.
“You’ll burn if I don’t rub this in,” said her brother, suiting action to words.
Bat looked like Bishou in the face, enough for them to be dubbed “the twins,” and they had the same general body type. But his arms, bare below the T-shirt sleeves, displayed bulging muscles. His dark hair, now grown out, was a scissors cut.
“Thanks. Just because I’ve been in Virginia doesn’t mean I’m used to the sun.”
Bat nodded. “Just the heat.” He recapped his bottle of suntan lotion. “Feels like you’ve lost some muscle tone.”
“I did. I’ve been a desk jockey for over a year.”
“Put on a little weight, too? Your chest looks bigger.”
“If it is, you shouldn’t be looking anyway.”
He nodded again, unperturbed. “C’mon, I’ve got beer.”
She rose and dusted off the knees of her pants. “Best words I’ve heard all day.”
Bat and Bishou went back into the little house, into the kitchen. He took two bottles of beer from the fridge, opened them, and motioned toward the screened-in porch. Maman sat out there, in her wheelchair, staring out through the screen. Brother and sister kissed her and took seats at the other end of the porch.
Bat propped his legs up on another chair and observed, “Still waiting.”
“Not worried.” Bishou sipped the good, cold beer. “I did a good presentation. If they didn’t like it, that’s their pigeon. I can do it again, if I have to.”
Bat, still unperturbed, nodded and took a drink from his bottle. Maman, however, wheeled over to scold her daughter.
“You speak as though this weren’t the most critical period of your life, Bishou!”
“It isn’t, Maman.” She smiled into her mother’s eyes. “At least, that is what I am telling myself, until the letter comes in the mail. Then, we’ll see.”
Maman leaned forward, placed her hands on either side of her daughter’s head, and kissed her forehead. Then she wheeled back to her previous place at the other end of the porch to stare out at the woods and grasses.
Bat shook his head, ever so slightly. The way the children had discussed everything for years. Wasn’t critical. Didn’t matter. Not the end of the world, no matter what the parents thought. She nodded, just as slightly.
Bat murmured, “What about Louis?”
She murmured back, “Well, what about him?”
“What you said in your letter.”
“One hurdle at a time.” She took a sip of the ice-cold beer.
“Gonna look him up?” Bat cocked his head at her.
She frowned, exhaled, did not reply.
“Yeah,” said Bat. “You’re gone on him.”
“Labor intensive.”
“And this isn’t?”
“And unfair to you. You matter, Brother.”
They leaned forward, slapped palms, sat back.
“Don’t blow it for my sake,” said Bat.
She shook her head. “We had a deal.”
“I know. Deals can change.” Bat shook a cigarette out of a pack and lit it.
Bishou watched him carefully. “You have a setback?” She watched his eyes as he looked up from his cigarette, and realized for the first time that something was wrong.
“Yes.”
“Wanna go for a walk?”
“Can’t talk about it yet,” he said.
“Good God, Bat.” Bishou stared at her brother — the big, muscled, hard-headed Sergeant Major — as if she were seeing him for the first time. He was hurting inside. She stood. “We’ll go for a walk anyway.”
“I’m not talking.”
“Then we’ll walk along and say nothing,” Bishou said firmly.
Slowly, he stood. His expression never changed, but his body language said he didn’t want to do this. They carried their beers with them, told Maman they were going for a walk, and opened the screen door.
They walked along the edge of the backyard, then out of sight through the trees beyond. They headed toward the road, which was quiet on a weekday. They crossed the road, climbed over some guardrails, and went down to a creek bed. The creek was nearly dried up this time of year; there was plenty of space to walk along beside it. They walked upstream for a while, still without speaking.
A bird burst suddenly from a bush, chirping madly. Bat jumped, alert, and watched it flee. His old reflexes are still there, she thought. It could have been a sniper.
“I think that’s a friendly bird,” Bishou said, and Bat grinned.
“Depends on what it drops on us.”
She grinned back. “I suppose so.”
Bishou did not press him to talk. He would, with time. They moved on.
Much farther upstream he finally sat on a boulder to finish his beer. She sat nearby and did the same.
“So what about this Louis?” Bat asked. “Was he hot?”
She would have told anyone else to mind his own business. “Yeah. Sex in a white package, they called him. The only one who wasn’t aware of it was him.”
“How come white?”
“Tropical business suit.”
“Oh, yeah.” Bat tipped up his beer to finish it. “Nice boy?”
“Absolutely.”
“Hot for you?”
“No. But some of the other guys were jealous as hell of him anyway, and tried to cut in.”
Bat grinned. “Any trouble?”
“Nothing I couldn’t handle, thank God.” This time, Bat laughed. It occurred to her that she hadn’t seen him really laugh lately, and thought: Neither did Louis. “Bat, who died?”
The laugh vanished. “Oh, goddamn it.”
“No, you didn’t give it away. I made an educated guess.”
“A chopper pilot.”
“Friend?”
He nodded. “Amy MacStay.”
“AMY MacStay?”
Bat brought his knee up, bunched his fist hard, and placed his mouth against it. He’s trying not to cry, she realized.
“Oh, goddamn it.” Bishou hitched herself up off her rock and put her arms around her brother. She felt him shake, trying to hold in the pain. “No, that’s what sisters are for. Let it out.”
Bat started to sob, small sobs, still under control. But his face showed agony; eyes clenched tight shut, tears nonetheless. She held him and stroked him.
“That’s the problem with you macho men. You don’t have practice dealing with meltdowns, especially your own,” Bishou murmured.
He sobbed, “Her hitch was almost over.”
She understood. They’d been talking marriage. “You always said it’s the last three months that get you.”
“Yeah. Yeah. And I’ve held my breath every goddamned mail delivery, worse than you with EVU. Fear that the letter would be there — from her sister, somebody. And it came.”
“Any chance she’s a POW or somet
hing?”
He shook his head. “They got the body. I went to the funeral. Maine.” He pulled a filthy handkerchief from his pocket, wiped his eyes, blew his nose, and recovered himself. “Maybe that’s why I don’t like to see you waiting and waiting, Bishou. Finding excuses for not taking the leap. Saying, just a little longer. It might not be there.”
“Louis Dessant jumped in, and look where it got him.”
“There’s a middle road. You know it. But what I meant …” Bat stopped, wiped his eyes, blew his nose again, and began to sound more like himself. “What I meant was, that was my plan, Bishou, marry Amy, move back here near the family, maybe even start a family of my own. And that plan’s gone.” He snapped his fingers. “You want to run away for a while, you want to travel, I’ll cover you. Because I’m sure as hell not going to be doing anything else.”
She hugged him closer. “You sound so bitter.”
“Why the fuck shouldn’t I be? You know and I know it’ll change with time. We’ve both been through this crap before.” Bat put his arms around her. “You’re a woman, and, Little Sister, you are hot. I may be your brother, but that doesn’t mean I have to be stupid about things like that. You want that man, get him. You want that job, get it. Do it.”
She pressed his head against her chest. “I want that sheepskin first. Then we’ll see what happens. We’re just going to mark time for a little while, okay, Brother?”
She felt him nod. “Sounds fair. Family time, what we can get.”
“Absolutely. Then I’ve got to check my finances, too.”
“Sell the car.”
“I will. But I only have a little cash reserved. I’ve got to check my assets.”
“Got a job as a manager for New England Transit. I’m fixed. I can lend you some.”
“Good. I might need it. Don’t know what I’m going to do yet, but I’ll do something, I promise.”
• • •
A few days later the telephone rang. Bat answered it. “Howard residence.” He listened, and then said, “Yeah, Bat, Jean-Baptiste, that’s me.” A smile started to appear on his lips. Then he said, “Yes, sir,” and pressed the phone receiver against his shoulder. In his best Sergeant Major’s voice, he boomed, “Dr. Roth on the phone wants to speak to Dr. Howard! Front and center, Doctor!”
Bishou took the phone receiver from him as her two younger brothers galloped down the stairs. Her father appeared from a corner, looking delighted. Maman wheeled herself in from the porch, looking happy.
“Dr. Roth? Is that you?”
Roth was laughing. “I told the Sergeant Major to make it loud and clear. You’ll get your letter in a few days, but I thought I would phone. Will you be able to make it back here the first Saturday in August, for the Conferral of Advanced Degrees?”
“You bet I can,” Bishou replied. “I’ve got to dig up a gown, don’t I?”
“I’ve got it here,” Dr. Roth replied. “Your doctoral gown has already been paid for — by a tobacco subsidy.”
“Oh, I will be damned,” said Bishou. “Not Gray Jackson.”
“No, Louis Dessant.”
“Louis Dessant?”
“He left the money with President Lanthier before he went back to Réunion Island. The president delegated that little chore of purchasing it to me. Of course, I had no problem, because I knew where I got mine. Come and look us up when you get here. We’ve got your costume.”
“Are you serious?”
“Just come. Third-ever woman doctorate, the place is alight. Expect to be the highlight of the season, Bishou.”
“You and me both, Dr. Roth. I’ll be there. See you the day before, probably.”
“All right. You know the way. We’ll see you then.”
She hung up, stunned. Her father hugged her. Her mother bade her bend down for a kiss. Bat wrapped his arms around her and asked, “What was that about a gown?”
“Doctoral gown. Mine’s already been paid for,” she said slowly.
“By the university?” Bat asked.
“No. By the tobacco people. By … Louis Dessant.”
“As in Dessant Cigarettes?” her father asked in surprise.
“Oui, as in Dessant Cigarettes,” Bishou replied slowly.
Smiling down at her in his arms, Bat told her, “You may have to go thank him.”
“Oui, I think I do,” Bishou answered.
Chapter 13
Bishou was wearing her “academic uniform” of white blouse, dark below-the-knee skirt, stockings, and sensible high heels when the ferry Mauritius Pride docked at the Port of Saint-Denis. She had been through customs at Orly, and these were overseas French departments, so “Douanes” was not an issue. She had never understood how anyone could love the scent of the ocean. To her, it always stunk of diesel fuel and dead fish. Then she smiled and chided herself. Don’t run it down, it’s Louis and Etien’s island.
Disembarking was bedlam, as bad as a Greyhound bus station in Washington D.C. It was noisy and bright. Passengers got on and off the ferry, cargo was being loaded and unloaded, and plenty of onlookers of all races and nationalities — Africa, India, China, France — gathered around. This must be the excitement of the day, she thought.
It all had a very African tone, which she rather liked. It had been that way in Mauritius, too, although the actual twelve-hour ferry ride had been quite peaceful and mellow. One could get a drink at the bar or play cards and chew the fat in a card room. She thought she had spotted a few constant travelers — men and women who worked the ferries, not as paid employees. She could guess how Carola Alese got her start, and the low railings showed easily how she was able to replace an excited mail-order bride on her way to meet her millionaire. Bishou was careful not to talk with strangers about where she was going, and she stayed away from the railings. It was only good sense.
The sky was a beautiful blue. The sun was warm and bright. Even if I don’t get anything out of this trip but a strengthened friendship and a nice job refusal, Bishou mused, I’m glad I did it.
Bishou had asked around the ferry, and had learned that the most visible hotel from the dock, the Harbor Hotel, ought to be avoided. The purser had given her a card for La Pension Étoile — Star Hotel — a couple of blocks from the dock, along with road directions to it. Without asking, the purser had also told her the story of Louis Dessant, and the criminal who had ruined him.
“But he has been fortunate,” the purser said, “if you can call a man who’s done time and rehabilitated himself fortunate. He still has friends, a business, and a place where people think well of him. Ah, well,” he added, in typical French fashion, “toujours l’amour. I don’t think too many men will hold that against him.”
“And the women?” she had asked with a smile.
“The women? Mademoiselle Bourjois — the sister of the true bride — rides this route at least twice a year, on the anniversary of her sister Celie’s death, to warn other young women of the evils of this place. She is so very Paris, the old, mean Paris. Vous savez?”
Bishou nodded; she did know.
“But other women, they take autobus rides near the factory, just on the hope of seeing the poor, desolated man. Par Dieu m’en faire — pardon, Mademoiselle!” he said, as she started to laugh at the French obscenity. “I forget, your brother is a soldier, you’ve probably heard worse.”
She thought of Bat now, recommending a backpack over a heavy suitcase, and insisting she get back into shape before this trip. Bishou stumped firmly up the cobbled streets, blessing him for his foresight. In the distance, she saw a blue star on a sign and guessed that was La Pension Étoile ahead.
It was. She stepped inside a cool, white lobby, where two genteel middle-aged ladies stood at the desk, signing in some other new arrivals. She waited until the current (and apparently well-known) customers were taken care of, and then stepped up to the counter.
“Bonjour, Mesdames,” she said to them in French, passing the card across the counter. “Monsieur Martin of the
Mauritius Pride recommended you highly.”
“Ah, bonjour, Mademoiselle?” There was a question in the tone.
Bishou smiled her acknowledgment. “Oui, Mademoiselle Howard. I am étrangère here, a visitor.”
“Ah. Welcome. And what brings you to our lovely island?” asked one lady.
“I wanted to see it, because I have heard so much about it. I am also applying for work, at the university, while I am here.”
“Oh, how exciting!” the other lady said. “Are you a secretary?”
“No, a teacher.”
“Oh, Mademoiselle. I do not wish to disappoint you — our university is just starting, so I could be mistaken — but all those teachers will be college professors, you know, not schoolteachers.”
Bishou gave them her gentlest smile. “Actually, I am a college professor, too. Docteur Bishou Howard, professeur de littérature, Université de Virginia de l’Est, des États-Unis.” It was the first time she could remember introducing herself that way, especially in French.
“Oh, goodness!” the ladies exclaimed, or words to that effect. “A woman! And an American! Here!”
“Don’t say anything, though. It could be bad luck. You know how job applications are.”
They probably didn’t, but they nodded sagely. Then it occurred to them they hadn’t even filled in a hotel form for her yet, and got to work. She paid for three days, cash.
Their porter, an elderly Creole, insisted on taking the backpack for her. Upstairs, she tipped, half what she would pay in Paris but double the rate here; he smiled broadly and touched his hat. Stowing her backpack in the room’s wardrobe, she stopped him to ask a question. French was the school language, so even the oldest Creoles spoke it, although badly. “Where do I go to catch the bus?”
“Don’t Mam’selle want nice taxi?”
“No, mon ami. Mam’selle wants to see green trees and smiling faces, and go slow.”
The smile got broader. “You go down to Missy’s bodega, take a left out here and two blocks down. Corner store — you know?”