Mardi Gras Madness

by Lynn Shurr

  A National Guard unit came next bearing the flag, followed by two cheerleaders holding a banner telling everyone in ignorance this was the Mardi Gras Parade. The Chapelle High School band, the Swinging Saints, came after them, heavy on the drums and tubas. Black musicians stepped high and fancy in their worn maroon and gold uniforms. The sun refracted crazily off their dented instruments.

  A group of merry Shriners, red-fezzed and red-faced, rode tiny motorcycles in small circles to please the children and keep the way clear for the small pages bearing Queen Marie Antoinette’s banner. The queen’s float rose, a mountain of white capped by a gilded throne, over the throngs. The queen’s cape laid spread down the mountain, its intricate pattern of gold fleur-de-lis and seed pearls on display. Tiny purple-clad trainbearers sat on either side of the heavy cloth. The costumed girls waved daintily, as their mothers had shown them, from their nests of finery, while the small boys kept their plume-capped heads down and their tight-covered legs tucked beneath them in mortal fear of being seen and recognized by their peers in jeans and T-shirts along the way.

  The magnificent queen’s gown was a hand-me-down, altered from year to year to fit the reigning queen because of its great expense. Laura had to admit Denise Deville filled the dress as if it were made for her alone. The low, square-cut bodice encrusted with golden beads showed just enough of the queen’s small white breasts to be tantalizing. Though Denise had the dark brown eyes of the French, she had somehow achieved honey-colored hair that frothed around her shoulders like the meringue topping on a delectable slice of lemon pie. Her crown of rhinestones nestled lightly in the golden fluff without displacing a hair. Envy seized Laura whose ordinary dark brown strands snarled in the mild February breeze. She had never been a beauty, never been a queen, and was beginning to feel as if she had never been as young as Denise DeVille.

  Queen Marie Antoinette waved regally and smiled artificially down upon her subjects. Now and again, her wave grew more vigorous and her smile more genuine as she sighted friends in the mob. Laura fancied for a moment when their eyes met the queen ceased to smile and wave altogether, but the float moved on, and she would never be sure.

  After the formality of the queen’s float passed, the real business of Mardi Gras began. The krewe floats came interspersed between the more formal ones holding the courts of Spring, Summer, Autumn and Winter. The krewe members using the summer theme strutted on an artificial beach. They’d chosen as their attire Victorian swimming gear in gaudy stripes topped by clown masks and red wigs. The clowns slung sand pails full of cheap plastic beads and Mardi Gras doubloons out at the crowd. Adults reached and grabbed, plucking necklaces and fake coins from the air. Urchins scrambled in the gutters, tussling over fallen treasure. Now and again, a foot stomped heavily on a rolling coin, or occasionally on a rival hand. One clown wearing a frilly woman’s swimsuit stuffed with huge balloon breasts targeted Laura for a rain of bright purple, green and yellow beads. Though buffeted by the crowd, she seized her share and waved an armful at the obscenely funny krewe member she recognized as Jules Picard. She would save her bounty for Angelle who, riding on the float with the winter court, would be unable to gather her own lucre.

  The winter krewe rode dressed as Pierrots with white-faced masks and conical caps. They cavorted in confetti snowdrifts and threw Styrofoam snowballs as well as the usual necklaces and doubloons. One Pierrot, his broad shoulders filling out the baggy costume, launched a fake snowball directly at Laura. The Styrofoam bounced harmlessly off her forehead and into her hands. A nearby child, beringed by a collar of necklaces worthy of a Ubangi, whined because he had not gotten a snowball, too.

  The Court of Winter float approached. Angelle rode near the front, her thin arms covered with silver gloves to the elbow where they met the puffed sleeves of her white and silver gown. One arm waved eagerly in Laura’s direction. She returned the wave with the hand clutching the snowball, a little gift from Robert, thrown as an icy symbol of frustration or, maybe, simply with the wry humor she loved in him. There were getting to be too many eithers, ors, and ifs in her life, entirely too many.

  The appearance of the king’s float signaled an end to the parade. Dr. Bourgeois, supposedly disguised by a black beard and wearing a cape of red velvet and gold embroidery every bit as elaborate as the queen’s train, winked one eye at his librarian and tilted his scepter imperially in her direction. She returned the recognition with a mock curtsy.

  “Gee, lady, do you know that dude?” said the same small boy who coveted her snowball.

  “Yes, and a few clowns, too,” replied Laura, suddenly feeling good about being part of Chapelle on Mardi Gras day. She tossed her snowball into the air and let the little boy catch it, then moved through the dispersing crowd to her car.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The afternoon between the Mardi Gras parade and the ball was a void of quiet between two frenetic events. Angelle and Tante Lil napped. Robert, ever conscientious, or just plain wishing to escape from the hoopla, went to check on the cattle. Pearl and Laura rested in their rooms. Restless in their rooms would have been a better description. Laura went to pass the time with Pearl but saw through a crack in the door that the housekeeper was struggling to apply false eyelashes with fingertips long out of practice. Laura retreated.

  She found herself on the stairs to the second floor of Chateau Camille and continued up them. Idly, she investigated the old judge’s vacant bedroom next to the library. She found the narrow door blending in with the paneling, hidden and too inconvenient to have been used by servants carrying trays or bringing basins of water in olden days. In addition to the secret stairs, the rest of the closet held cleaning supplies, old sheets to be torn for dust cloths, cans of wax and a vacuum cleaner. Laura had the urge to don a sheet, creep down the hidden stairs and give Pearl a fright, a cruel idea since Pearl labored over her makeup. Laura abandoned the prank and wandered to the library.

  The hours until the ball passed too slowly, and the temptation grew too great. She seized another diary out of sequence and, curled in the old wicker chair, pried again into Caroline LeBlanc’s life during the year, 1870. Here and there, the diarist had inserted yellowed letters among the pages—more “letters of regard” from the general or word at last from the errant Adrien? Laura carefully unfolded one fragile missive.

  My dearest Caroline,

  I fear my good wife Lucretia is in the last stages of her consumptive illness. Soon I will be a widower with a motherless daughter on the verge of young womanhood and in need of gentle guidance. Can you not pursue the whereabouts of your husband? He has been silent for so many years that unbeknownst, you may have entered the estate of being widowed that will soon be thrust upon me. It is my deepest desire that we should merge our families if such is the case. My fortune would be at your disposal for the education of your son and the restoration of your lovely home, which I would not ask you to leave. Chateau Camille holds many dear memories for me.

  I remain your ardent admirer,

  Alexander Moore

  Judging by the following entries, Caroline had pursued Adrien’s fate, sending letters with friends going abroad and inquiries to officials in France. She found his reputation everywhere, but his whereabouts remained unknown. Evidently, he had returned to the pursuits of his youth: riding and gambling with a fast set, painting the wives, daughters, and mistresses of his friends, spending months in their homes to do so, and living well. The final word came to Caroline from an unexpected source, a surprise even to her, as the year ended. Another letter, thinner and browner than the others with one side written in French, the other in English, and addressed in a feminine hand, lay between the pages. Laura struggled to read the faded ink of the translation.

  My Dear Madame LeBlanc,

  It is my sad duty to tell you of your husband’s death. I have nursed him through an illness of many months. To be truthful, I have seen to all his needs these past five years. In seeing to these needs, he has given me two lovely daughters
whom he named Aurelie, a family name, I believe, and Caroline after your own dear self.

  I regret that to support my two small children, I have had to sell his remaining paintings and paints. Once I posed as an artist’s model, but you, also a woman, must be aware of the ravages of time and childbirth.

  One picture I have put aside for you because I am sure it holds great sentimental value. It is of yourself and your three children, the youngest so like my own Caroline, who is not so well dressed or fed. Adrien gazed at it often during his last days and only then did he smile. He begged you to see that here he could be simply Adrien LeBlanc, artist, while in your country he was only part of a family legend and no more.

  You do understand, I am sure, and in your understanding will send me a generous bank draft for the portrait and its shipment. I have relied on a friend to put these words into English so that you cannot mistake my meaning.

  With deepest Sincerity,

  Martine LeBeau

  Laura sought the diary entry for the day of the extraordinary letter’s arrival and found the tone jubilant.

  I have laughed and cried over the letter from Martine LeBeau. She shall have her generous bank draft signed by my good general, these six months an eager widower. Oh Adrien, we were a pair! The way you ended your life has in some ways lifted the guilt of how I have lived mine. I wish you well in whatever netherworld you reside. Catherine says I am godless and vows to go to a nunnery before she will accept a Yankee for a father. I believe I shall grant her wish. In the convent, she may pray for both our souls. Adieu, my husband!

  And so ended romantic Adrien LeBlanc. Laura suddenly lost interest in the remaining diaries filling out the top shelf. She could guess their contents. Caroline married her general, a staid, stable, and wealthy man. Robert had offered Laura the silver and garnet ring sealing their engagement. Certainly, they lived happily and unexcitingly ever after.

  Caroline LeBlanc survived to an attenuated old age, seeing the turn of the century arrive with ease, but not living to learn the outcome of the Great War. That Laura knew, having seen her birth and death dates in the many local history books she plowed through to learn about Chapelle. How much longer those years would have seemed if Caroline had lived them alone. Once again, Laura maneuvered herself to the edge of a decision, but she stepped away from the brink and went to dress for the Mardi Gras ball.

  ****

  There, ready or almost ready. Laura peered at herself in the long glass on the open armoire door. She wore a silver gown, not made of glittering lamé or stiff taffeta, but a lightweight silk, rich and soft. In keeping with the Victorian theme, the skirt was full, filled out by gathers and an underskirt rather than by a cumbersome hoop. The waist fit snugly, the bodice tight and strapless like an old-fashioned corset, very Vera Wang goes nineteenth century. With her dark hair upswept, a vast amount of bare flesh lay exposed between Laura’s chin and cleavage. Pearl, as a good seamstress, knew how to pick out a person’s best points. None of the thin chains and small pendants Laura had acquired since the fire filled the gap very well.

  She raised her skirts to inspect the silver evening slippers with low heels for dancing and rosettes on each toe, an extravagant purchase considering she would probably wear them only once. The shoes complemented the gown perfectly, but she still had the problem of the neckline. Grasping her few bits of good jewelry in one hand and holding her full skirts up awkwardly with the other, Laura went to consult Pearl.

  From down the hall came a muffled oath as Robert nicked himself shaving in a rush in the small bathroom. Graciously, he’d allowed the women to monopolize the facilities all afternoon and into the early evening, and now he hurried to fasten studs with clumsy fingers while Angelle urged him to move faster. The child would slip into her elaborate gown in the dressing room at the ball. At the moment, only her professionally styled hair and a touch of lipstick allowed by Tante Lil indicated she was going to participate in Chapelle’s big event.

  Miss Lilliane, her wheelchair turned away from Laura, waited impatiently in the hall. Pearl, who needed time for her own dressing, had attended to her earlier. The old woman wore a long, pale blue gown that glittered when her chest rose and fell in a coughing spasm. The cloth swagged across her sagging breasts and hung down like the dewlaps of her ancient neck. She’d chosen crystal drop earrings and a long rope of the same beads knotted in the middle to accent her outfit. Her hairdresser had permmed her gray hair into tight and springy smoky blue corkscrews for the special occasion. To complete the ensemble, Miss Lilliane selected a pair of silver shoes consisting of many thin straps holding high spiked heels to her feet. She sat there, the epitome of outdated elegance. For a moment, Laura pitied the old lady with her outrageous shoes going off to a ball in a wheelchair, but then caught herself, remembering that Miss Lilliane accepted pity from no one.

  Laura moved into the kitchen, her wide skirts seeming to catch on every knob and chair. She passed the tray of ham biscuits and fruit salad Pearl put out to feed them while they dressed, but the food had barely been touched in all the excitement. Laura certainly couldn’t bring herself to eat with her nerves jangling. The door of Pearl’s room stood wide open now, and the housekeeper posed transformed before her mirror.

  A turban of the same tangerine material as her gown hid the wiry gray strands of her hair. A jewel of unlikely size and color lay centered in the cloth. The folds of her matching gown draped gracefully on the long lean frame of the maid. With the shoulders of the dress slightly padded, the ball gown had a slinky Forties look that suited Pearl well. Her yellow complexion, smoothed and highlighted by makeup, took on a golden glow, and her dark eyes, disguised with fake lashes and a sparkling shadow on the lids, became exotic. She seemed taller, and Laura realized she wore high-heeled shoes as steep as Miss Lilliane’s pair. Anyone entering the servant’s room at this minute would know for certain that Pearl was the dancer just off center in the front row of a line of chorus girls pictured on the wall behind her.

  “You look perfect!” Laura exclaimed.

  “Well, you don’t. You need more color on those cheeks, a brighter lipstick, and this.” Pearl, still assessing her critically, shoved a worn red velvet jewelry case at Laura. She sprang the latch to reveal a necklace of heavy silver. One large red stone pendant hung in the center and at intervals, smaller graduated garnets glowed in the sterling setting. “Let me put it on you.”

  “Oh, no! That’s too valuable.” Laura backed away from the necklace far too similar to a ring she had almost accepted.

  “Just a piece of costume jewelry from the old days really. Like this,” Pearl said tapping the immense glass topaz in her turban.

  Laura doubted that as she felt the weight of the necklace, unlike any modern costume jewelry, settle around her throat.

  “And these are from Mr. Bob. With that neckline, you’ll have to wear them at your waist.” Pearl presented Laura with a florist’s box.

  “Not that you are anything special, mind. He sent me and Miss Lilliane orchids.” Pearl opened her own box and looked again into the mirror to affix two small, yellow orchids to the shoulder of her dress.

  “Wonder what he sent Denise DeVille?” Turning to see if her remark had scored, she caught Laura with tears gathering in her eyes as she stared into the corsage box holding two blood red camellias.

  “Here now, you’ll ruin your makeup and go to the ball looking like a raccoon.” Pearl took the box of flowers and fastened the camellias at Laura’s waist, then briskly turned her toward her own room.

  “Look, I have to go now, honey. Remember, more blusher and brighter lipstick.” Pearl seized an evening bag and a light wrap and left by the kitchen door where Tony waited in a rented tux and the truck Robert had loaned him for the evening.

  The front door slammed, too, as Angelle hurried her father and great-aunt into the black Lincoln, reminding them shrilly that members of the pageant had to be there early to dress.

  Laura was alone in her room, alone in the hous
e, all alone. She studied herself again in the mirror. The necklace filled the white expanse between her throat and breasts magnificently. The red camellias nestled intimately against her waist. Again, she felt the urge to cry, fought down the tears, made the changes in makeup Pearl had urged and calmly sat on the bed reading a book until departure time with her silver skirt outspread to avoid wrinkles.

  At the appointed time, she got into her own car and took herself to the ball like some neglected Cinderella. Not being part of the pageant, she’d been reluctant to invite herself to go with Robert and Angelle and wished desperately he would have asked her if she wanted to ride with them. Never would she interfere with Pearl’s one night of glory by cramming into the truck with her and Tony.

  As she passed along the dark country roads toward the town’s recreation center where they held the ball, she suddenly yearned for David who had been pushed from her thoughts these last few weeks. She imagined him with her now, laughing and joking, treating her with the exaggerated courtesy their costumes and the occasion demanded, then dancing and dancing, slightly high on champagne and each other. They would stop on the way home in their formal attire at some absurd place like an all-night diner, and then home to bed, to bed with each other. This fantasy grew so real Laura reached across the seat to touch the space where David should have been, but the lights and traffic surrounding the recreation center lay just ahead. She withdrew her hand, and whispering good-bye to her husband, went to present her single ticket at the door.