by Lynn Shurr
Laura looked at the only other occupant of the library. The old man snored gently in a comfortable chair in front of a fireplace that once graced the parlor of the rambling frame house before the walls were taken down to make way for book stacks. Now and again, the old gentleman’s hands twitched, rustling the pages of the news magazine open on his lap.
Ruby Senegal broke the silence. “I’ll soon have to wake old Mr. DeVille. When the kids from Ste. Jeanne’s come in, he gets real upset about the noise, so we send him on his way home about two-thirty. His family appreciates that. Well, here come Miss Lilliane.”
A huge black Lincoln stopped by the bookmobile garage set back from the rest of the building. Laura watched through the side windows as a man in janitor’s overalls came from the garage and opened one of the car doors. Instead of assisting an elderly librarian to exit, he withdrew a folded wheelchair, spread its struts and lifted the partially paralyzed Miss Lilliane into the chair. The janitor wheeled the librarian up a ramp and into the bookmobile area. A moment later, the rear of the library came alive with the whir of the wheelchair and a few muffled curses as the chair collided with office furniture. Ruby Senegal left the front desk and headed toward the commotion.
“Well, send her in!” a crotchety voice bellowed. Ruby returned with another reassuring smile on her lips and softly delivered the message. “Miss Lilliane will see you now.”
Laura gathered her belongings and stepped behind the desk to the office area. What had been a dining room was now a glass-walled office with a placard on the door reading Librarian. Beyond the office, the processing area arranged itself comfortably around kitchen counters, a sink, stove, and refrigerator. Two more staff members malingering after their lunch hour cast apprehensive glances at the glass-walled room and rushed to stuff purses into desk drawers and grab the work at hand.
“Berta!” shouted the little lady in the wheelchair. A rotund black woman who had just seized a book for bar coding dropped the volume and waddled to the office. “We’ll need some coffee shortly, thank you. Mrs. Dickinson, I’ll see you now,” she hollered.
Laura hurried into the office and hesitantly took a seat on the edge of a chair matching the scarred wooden desk. Instantly, she realized she had taken what would have been Miss Lilliane’s seat if the older librarian had not been confined to a wheelchair. Too late now to shift to a more anonymous piece of furniture. Miss Lilliane eyed her choice of seating, and then returned to scanning a copy of Laura’s resume in the center of her desk. She began the interrogation without pleasantries. “Let’s see, graduate of Clarion State University, wherever that may be. A year of experience in a university Arts and Humanities Library. Is that all? No administrative experience?”
“That’s all, I’m afraid,” Laura replied as if she confessed to a hideous crime.
“Can you catalog?”
“I had cataloging courses naturally, but I feel I am stronger in the reference and public service areas. As for administrative experience, I was in charge of the student aides in my department, so I do feel I have some knowledge of personnel management.”
“Personnel management! Student aides! Berta, is that coffee ready yet?” Miss Lilliane rapped on the glass of her office.
“Not yet, ma’am. Pretty soon now.” Berta’s hands assembled a large drip coffeemaker as she stared hard at heating water.
The librarian reached into her desk and seized a pack of cigarettes. Before she could insert a smoke between her wrinkled lips, the old woman broke into a fit of coughing. As soon as the coughing ceased, Miss Lilliane lit the cigarette and inhaled.
“Cigarette?” She shoved the pack toward Laura.
“No, thanks.”
“None of you young ones smoke. Well, good for you. My daddy told me it would be my death, and it almost has been and probably will be. Smoking put me here.” The librarian tapped on the metallic arm of the wheelchair. “Five years ago, I fell asleep and before I knew it, my bed caught on fire. Like a goddamned ninny, I panicked and jumped out my bedroom window. Broke my back and would have been dead if it hadn’t been for the bushes. Never smoke.”
She pointed the cigarette held between yellowed fingers at Laura. Laura swallowed the impulse to say “No, ma’am” and let Miss Lilliane resume the interview.
“Well, you can’t catalog. Do you know anything about genealogy? That’s a big interest here in Chapelle.”
“Not too much. I would be willing to take any courses available on the subject. I do have some interest in children’s and young adult services. While in graduate school, I assisted in developing the summer reading program for the local library system. I considered going into children’s services, but academic libraries offered more opportunities.”
“Then why are you here?” Miss Lilliane trapped her deftly.
“There were no openings in my field, and I feel the need for a change. We had planned to settle in Louisiana.” Even to Laura, her reasons sounded feeble.
For a moment, the elder librarian suspended her attack. “Yes, I recall the people at State Library told me you were recently widowed. No children, I hope.”
“No, no children.” She suppressed the urge to tell Miss Lilliane her question was not only illegal, but none of her business.
“Good. You won’t have any child care problems then. Chapelle has very little to offer in the way of nursery schools. Coffee time.” Miss Lilliane stubbed out her cigarette in an overflowing butt-filled ashtray and led the way, barging her wheelchair through the narrow door.
Both employees worked diligently applying Mylar jackets to a stack of new books. The librarian in charge made brief introductions as she maneuvered through the clutter. “Bobbie Meaux,” she nodded at a chubby blonde on her left and “Berta Migues,” to the black woman on her right. As they settled at the table set with demitasse cups, tiny teaspoons and a plate of Mrs. Domengeaux’s unmistakable pralines, Ruby escorted two men into the room. “Two of our trustees—Jules Picard and Armand Duchamp.” Miss Lilliane continued her perfunctory introductions.
The lean and dignified Mr. Duchamp took Laura’s hand between both of his and squeezed lightly. He wore a red carnation in the lapel of his black suit and reminded Laura of someone she could not place. “My condolences on your recent bereavement, Mrs. Dickinson.”
“Mr. Duchamp owns the finest funeral parlor in town,” prompted Miss Lilliane.
Remembering vividly the funeral director, right down to his red carnation, at David’s memorial service, Laura withdrew her hand quickly. As soon as she’d freed her hand, Jules Picard began pumping it with vigor. Short and stout and dressed in a rumpled white suit, Mr. Picard had the style and manner of a Louisiana politician.
“I sell appliances, Laura, J.P.’s New and Used Appliances. If you need a good refrigerator or a microwave oven, see me. I’ll give you a real good deal. Anything you need, you call me. I’m related to half the town, and the other half owes me money.”
While the trustee still laughed at his own joke, Laura seized her chance. “As a matter of fact, the rental car I drove here has a defective air conditioner. That’s why I’m so disheveled. I put the windows down and the mud splashed in—and then there was the muffaletta I had for lunch. It leaked. I know I look awful. Oh well, I was wondering if I could get the AC repaired before returning to New Orleans.”
“No matter, no matter at all. I could see you were a charming young woman right off. Miss Lola always goes a little heavy on the olive salad, doesn’t drain it properly, but don’t say I told you that.” Jules Picard waved his pudgy hands in front of Laura as if he could erase all her stains with a flick of his wrist.
“Old Thibodeaux at the Canal station can get it done for you by morning. He and his station don’t look like much, but he’s a real good mechanic, you see.”
“I do have to be on a plane to Pennsylvania by four tomorrow.”
“No problem. Stay the night here in Chapelle. You’ll have plenty of time to catch your flight.”
�
��Well, I…”
“She can stay the night with me, Jules,” Miss Lilliane intervened.
“Oh, no! I can’t, really. Thank you.” Laura struggled to extricate herself from the invitation.
“Stay with Miss LeBlanc. She has a wonderful antebellum home,” said a third man who approached the table where Lilliane LeBlanc poured the deep black coffee into the flowered demitasse cups.
“This is Dr. Bourgeois. Young Dr. Bourgeois who insists I retire,” introduced the parish librarian.
Young Dr. Bourgeois appeared to be at least forty. He smiled tolerantly at his patient. “You’ve been at this for fifty years, Miss LeBlanc. It’s time to relax and enjoy life.”
“He thinks I’m dying and doesn’t want me to do it in a public place. That would be bad for his practice,” Miss LeBlanc snapped.
“Has she been giving you a hard time, Mrs. Dickinson? She always gives me one,” said the doctor.
“So how do you like our town, Laura?” Jules Picard plunged into the conversation.
Laura scanned her brain for compliments. “Chapelle’s history is fascinating. I’ve been reading the guidebook and had a very interesting conversation with Father Ardoin at the church.”
“Then you’re a Catholic?”
“No.”
“Baptist?”
“No, Lutheran. Most of the families of German descent where I grew up are.”
“Dickinson, that’s English like the writer.”
“You mean the poet, Emily?”
“No, the writer, Charles Dickinson.”
“My maiden name was Schumann,” said Laura, unwilling to debate names any further.
“Like the piano player.” Or like the cellist, she wanted to add but did not.
“That’s right.”
“You do parle vous francais?”
“No, I’m afraid not. I had two years of French in high school, but I don’t really.”
“Oh, hush, Jules, neither do I. You know how the teachers frowned on Cajun kids using their French when you and I were young. My own mother spoke perfect Parisian French, but I refused to learn because I wanted to be like everyone else.”
This defense from the head librarian surprised Laura, but at least the situation had become clear. While Miss Lilliane’s body was ready for retirement, her mind was not. At the moment, the old woman resented her board of trustees more than she resented Laura’s application for her job. The old lady fell into another coughing spasm.
Dr. Bourgeois steadied his patient until the spell passed. “Have you been taking your medicine, Miss LeBlanc?”
“It doesn’t do me any good. Sit down and drink your coffee.” The librarian lit another cigarette.
The group settled around the table, and the interview proceeded more normally with the traditional questions about censorship issues, bookmobile service and previous work experience. Each man downed several servings of the strong black coffee, the tiny cups looking even smaller in their large hands. Laura sipped hers slowly hoping to reach the bottom before someone noticed one demitasse of dark roast coffee was about all that a Yankee could handle. The draining of the coffeepot and the pocketing of the last of the pralines by Jules Picard seemed to signal the end of the interview.
The appliance salesman demanded Laura’s car keys and the location of the rental and pushed Laura toward the office. “You just call that rental place and tell them you can’t make it in tonight because they gave you a defective unit. I’ll get Old Thibodeaux started on this right away. Go on now. Just dial O, and Myrtle Hill over at the exchange will get your number for you.”
He shut the door to the office and rushed back to the table where Armand Duchamp was making a point with regal gestures attached. Jules burst into the discussion with a flurry of motion while Dr. Bourgeois nodded sagely whenever he agreed with the others. Miss LeBlanc, lips taut and posture unbent, listened to them as if she were a wooden manikin.
Laura tried reading their lips through the glass walls but was distracted by the chatter of the operator. “So pleased to meet you, Mrs. Dickinson. I’m Myrtle Hill, and you must be the new librarian. I heard you were coming to town today. Come by the exchange and visit with me before you go, you hear? It’s just down the road from the library. I’ll put your call through to New Orleans, now. We’ll bill it to the library. They won’t mind.”
After many clicks and much more of the voice of Myrtle Hill, the call from Chapelle eventually connected to the greater world ruled by Bell South beyond the cane fields. Laura made her arrangements and noted the board members apparently had made theirs because Miss Lilliane gave a defeated shrug and seemed to shrivel into her wheelchair as if only defiance had held her erect. The old librarian revived, however, as soon as her competition returned to the table.
“Well, they’ve decided to hire you, qualified or not. Do you want the job?”
“I’ll need some time to consider it.”
“You see! She’s not interested.”
“But, I am. I do want the job. I need some time to find a place to live and settle my affairs in Pennsylvania, that’s all.”
“You’re hired,” shouted Jules Picard.
“Definitely,” said the undertaker.
“Congratulations,” contributed Dr. Bourgeois.
“And now that’s settled, I suppose I have to take you home with me, too. Berta, tell the rest of the staff I’m leaving early.”
Preemptively, Miss Lilliane wheeled toward the bookmobile exit. Leaving the trustees shaking hands among themselves, Laura seized her purse and rushed in her wake. Berta’s weary, “Yes, ma’am,” followed the librarian out the door.
Chapter Four
Miss LeBlanc waited impatiently in her black behemoth while Laura purchased a toothbrush and a few necessities to get through the night. As soon as Laura reseated herself, the driver jerked the hand controls and swung into the road as if she owned the right of way. A red pickup truck squealed to an agonizing stop a foot from their bumper. The driver cursed the old lady fluently in French. Miss LeBlanc drove grandly on, reaching the edge of town in a matter of minutes. Doubting casual conversation with her fellow librarian was possible Laura tried to absorb herself in the scenery. Suddenly, Lilliane LeBlanc began talking and taking her eyes off the road more than Laura liked to make her points.
“At least you’re better than most they’ve sent me. Kids just out of college! The last one left in tears. Couldn’t even get through the interview. And they sent me a colored librarian they thought could run the place. Imagine that! Times change, but they don’t change that fast in Chapelle.”
Laura remained silent and watched the parade of homes, some grand, some shabby, wedged between the road and the bayou. Shaggy pecan trees preparing for winter dropped their yellow, disease-spotted leaves on the trailers and camps, cabins and mansions. Cane made a wall along the horizon on Miss Lilliane’s side of the road.
“You, you at least know what it’s like to lose something you care about. It’s not easy to adjust to loss, to a handicap, to old age.”
“It’s not easy to adjust to being alone. Some people never adjust.” Laura turned to look at Miss LeBlanc, but now that woman’s gaze remained fixed straight ahead. Her aged lips moved.
“You’re young. You’ll adjust. And in Chapelle, you’ll never be alone. Everyone knows everyone else’s business and will until Myrtle Hill retires. The police jury here keeps talking about getting a modern phone system, but they won’t do it until Myrtle gives up the exchange, and she’s not much younger than me. Lives with and supports a mother older than the bayou. Those Hills came down here as carpetbaggers, and there is no getting rid of them. Why, they even got the politicians to chase off the Verizon men when they wanted to put up a few communication towers in the parish. Told people they’d get cancer from the invisible rays.” Miss Lilliane snorted.
Laura, relieved the talk had taken a turn away from her, resumed her study of the countryside. The cane land turned to pasture on both sides of
the road. Brahman cattle, stalked by flocks of small white egrets, grazed serenely in the fields where neither this type of cow nor that type of bird was native. She’d arrived at a place that took well to immigrants of all species. Maybe she could adjust.
A grove of live oaks standing the midst of the fields marked a home site, but nothing stood among the trees except four stout brick pillars and the central core of a fireplace. “By the size of the trees, that must have been a very old place.” Laura pointed to the ruins in the grove.
Miss Lilliane nodded. “Bon Chance, my family’s home, built in 1798 by August LeBlanc and destroyed by fire nine years ago. Of course, no one occupied it at the time. When the Chateau was completed in 1835, Bon Chance became the overseer’s house. After my nephew insisted on converting the land from cane to cattle, no one lived there. Wasn’t a mansion, only your typical French colonial cottage. Still, a pity to see it burn, especially since we were trying to give the old place to the parish for a museum. Arson, they said it was arson.”
Beyond the ruins of Bon Chance, wide-girthed live oaks hung over the road at regular intervals forming a leafy corridor to another grove. The black Lincoln followed the line of trees off the main thoroughfare and on to a shell road, the heavy car pulverizing the oyster shucks that pinged up against the vehicle in retaliation.
“My home, Chateau Camille.” The old lady’s voice rose with pride as she pulled into the circular drive. The house, white-columned and deep verandahed, ablaze in the sunlight, was everything an antebellum mansion should be.
“You have a right to be proud,” said Laura.
“Who said I was proud? There are bigger homes, fancier ones right in the area. But this one is mine, that’s all.” The elderly librarian leaned on the horn. When no one rushed from the huge double doors of the house to her side, Miss Lilliane rolled down her window and bellowed, “Pearl! Pearl! Angelle! T-Bob!” and laid on the horn again. No response came from the house.