by Lynn Shurr
Laura returned to the uncomfortable party with a piece of news guaranteed to deflect the attention from her marriage. It did. Her staff lingered over their cake and retraced the course of Louie Domengeaux’s health over the past ten years, reminisced about Miss Lola’s miracle baby and praised her pralines before returning to work. By the end of the day, a car pool had been arranged to the wake and a collection taken up for flowers and Masses. On her way out the door, Ruby hugged her boss and assured her that sometimes good news came with bad as she placed the neatly packed cartons of shower gifts in Laura’s arms.
****
Delighted by the small boxes of wedding gifts as if they proved Laura was really her mother now, Angelle dragged the cartons into the kitchen to show Pearl. The housekeeper soon evicted her, however. Though the entire mansion smelled of baking and roasting, Pearl served an unexpectedly light dinner. Only the atmosphere at the table remained heavy. Laura mistook it for Robert’s guilt over forcing their marriage and Tante Lil’s ambient anger.
Unable to capture Pearl’s attention again after dinner, Angelle settled for poring over the gifts in Laura’s room. Who gave this, and who gave that? Angelle admired the potholders and shook out and refolded the towels until Laura began to lose patience with the child.
Laura found herself experimenting unwillingly with parental powers. “It’s nearly eight. You should have your bath and get ready for bed, Angelle.”
“Oh, I can stay up late tonight,” remarked Angelle casually. Then, she clapped a hand over her mouth.
“Who said so?” Laura interrogated.
“Tante Lil and Pearl,” confessed the child.
“Angelle!” Tante Lil’s cracked voice outside the door summoned the girl. “Come help me in my room. At once!”
Reluctantly, the child went.
Laura, alone at last, took a hot bath, slipped into her comfortable flannel nightgown and sought escape in a murder mystery, no romances tonight. Fortunately, the plot was absorbing and frightening as a serial killer stalked a young woman, peering into her windows while the heroine slept in her bed. Something blundering in the shrubbery near the house unnerved her enough to make her take her book out to the parlor. Strangely, at eleven p.m., Tante Lil still sat reading in front of the closed pocket doors shutting off the other side of the room.
Beyond the divider, someone moved furniture, and Pearl chided Angelle for “getting into the food.” Before Laura could ask for an explanation, noise enveloped the Chateau. The air rattled with a little French ditty about a bullfrog who puffed up when he saw his lady love sung as loudly, raucously and salaciously as possible by a chorus of men accompanying it with a banging of spoons on pots and pans. The irreverent choir circled the house once and began a second chorus even louder than the first.
Laura turned to Miss Lilliane for an explanation. The old woman, very pleased with herself, replied, “It’s a local custom, my dear, a cherivari. When two people, widowed or divorced, marry again, the old men like to make it official this way. It says your marriage is accepted and celebrated by them—though how you are going to explain why the bride is dressed so drably and sleeps apart from the groom, I don’t know. We’ll have to let them in soon.”
At that moment, Pearl drew back the partition to expose a table cluttered with trays of tiny meat pies, plates of cold sliced boudin sausage and mounds of crustless chicken salad sandwiches. Bottles of wine and beer poked out of a tin tub filled with ice sitting at one end of the dining room on an old, brown cotton rug. A small wedding cake with attendant of plates of cookies—sugar, chocolate chip, and Mexican wedding dredged in powdered sugar—sat in the center of the array of foods.
Angelle jumped up and down in time to the song now completing its third round and pointed at the cake. “Our surprise! We saved it for tonight.”
The groom appeared almost overdressed for his role as a new husband in pale blue pajamas, deep burgundy robe and leather slippers. Laura ran to her room. Robert pursued her. Standing by the locked door, he pleaded, “Please Laura. It’s an old custom. They wouldn’t do this if they didn’t like the both of us. Come and greet them if only for a moment.”
Laura rooted furiously in the bottom of the armoire, too hurried to answer. There it was, still in the box. She shook out the outrageously frilly peignoir and its matching gown. Discarding her flannels, she slipped on the shower gift intended for another wedding night and another groom and shoved her feet into the matching satin slippers. Passing through Angelle’s and Tante Lil’s vacant rooms, she paused in the bathroom, applied a touch of lipstick, blusher and eye makeup, combed her hair, and then, as an afterthought, mussed it again. Bedroom hair, that’s what she wanted.
As Robert opened the doors of the Chateau to the cherivari prepared to face the crowd of well-wishers alone and bear their jokes, Laura slipped into his bedroom, rumpling the bedding as she went. As the first tin pan bangers surged into the hallway, Laura stood dressed as a newlywed should be, in the doorway of the master’s bedroom. Showing neither lust nor longing, but gratitude, Robert’s eyes met hers over the throng.
“Sorry to interrupt anyt’ing,” quipped old Thibodeaux, eyeing the bed rumpled behind Laura, “But you gonna be married one long time, yeah. Let’s have us a little party to get t’ings started right.”
Jules Picard led the chorus in another round of the bullfrog song and told ribald stories in French that made the men guffaw and Laura blush, even though she had little idea what they said but could judge by the tone of his voice. Even old DeVille, the snoozer from the library, attended. He soon settled on the floor by Miss Lilliane’s wheelchair and dozed off with his head in her lap. She stroked his white hair tenderly as if DeVille were a favorite pet.
An elderly man so fat he used a pair of red suspenders to pull his pants almost to his armpits clasped Laura to his huge belly and hugged. “Tubbs Broussard, pleased to meet you. Don’t get by da library much, but always glad to celebrate a union made at my Barn. Best wishes to you and T-Bob.”
He took a swig from a dripping beer bottle after his toast and finally released Laura from his bear-like grip. He’d copped a feel in the process. A wizened geezer took Tubbs’ place, but offered a politically proficient handshake instead of a hug. She recognized this one.
“Leroy Mouton, your police jury representative. Seen you at the council meetings. Good work with the library. Not that Miss Lilliane wasn’t great at her job, too. Anything you want, you call me, you hear?” He attached a “Vote For Leroy ‘Lamb’ Mouton” button to her peignoir. “I hope I can count on your vote.”
Robert came to her rescue with an offering of red wine. She accepted the glass as he snugged her against his hip with one strong arm. He stayed by her side for the remainder of the party.
At one a.m., Robert and Pearl put the guests, full of beer, boudin and cake, outside. The groom felt obligated to drive the drunkest home. By the time he returned, Laura slept in her unlocked room. He noticed she’d been too exhausted to discard the provocative gown. Vulnerable in sleep and thin white nylon, she tempted him to get in beside her. But, she’d been generous to him this evening, hanging on his arm, laughing and blushing at the jokes, as if this were the most wonderful night of her life, saving him from embarrassment before the community. Vivien would never have done the same. Laura deserved to be left in peace. He kissed his bride lightly, whispered, “I love you,” and locked himself out of her room.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Friday evening brought the wake of Louie Domengeaux. Indicating this sort of affair was best left to women, Robert refused to go. Laura volunteered to drive for her own subversive reasons. Her new husband thanked her for looking out for Tante Lil. His aunt was getting too elderly to drive at night, he said. The old woman glared at her nephew as he packed her, the wheelchair and Pearl into Laura’s small vehicle and waved them down the drive. His outraged aunt provided the only conversation on the way into town.
“He thinks I can’t drive after dark anymore, but d
id he concern himself about that at the Mardi Gras Ball? No! I’m good enough to get Angelle home while he had his little fling. I sat out there in the drive honking the horn until Tony came from heaven knows where to help me inside and find Pearl to get me undressed. I suppose T-Bob knew I wouldn’t get drunk and do something stupid on Mardi Gras eve like some people I could mention.”
Miss Lilliane muttered and coughed along the same lines up to the door of Duchamp’s Funeral Home. Somewhat mollified by the personal attention of Armand Duchamp who erected her wheelchair, she rolled up the ramp where the caskets usually rolled down to the waiting hearse.
Laura followed them through the door of the converted Victorian mansion, down its thickly carpeted, sound-muffling hallway and into the viewing room. She shivered a little at the sight of Louie Domengeaux in his coffin. Not knowing what else to do, she stepped up to the open coffin and gazed on the corpse, such a spare little man in death, hardly making up half of his widow’s bulk. He slept eternally now with his spectacles still set on his nose as if he might wake up at any second and need them handy for reading the sports page. Laura bowed her head for a moment, and then moved to the back of the room to make way for other mourners.
She turned to see Miss Lilliane tap a woman who had been praying intensely by the side of the coffin and take her place, pulling a rope of rosary beads from a pocket and beginning to say them fervently. Even Pearl went to her knees on the padded kneeler placed in front of the coffin and swayed slightly as she prayed. The mourner who had been relieved and whom Laura assumed was close kin to the dead man turned out to be the telephone operator, Myrtle Hill. The operator moved away from the candlelit coffin toward the discreetly dim area of electrical lighting where Laura stood searching for Lola Domengeaux. She noticed the town gossip too late for retreat. Miss Myrtle seized her arm and started right in with the chatter.
“Can you believe I been here for two hours? My knees are just killing me, and I could use some food, couldn’t you? Mama is taking care of the exchange. I should take her a plate.”
“I’m looking for Mrs. Domengeaux.” Laura’s escape plan failed.
“Well, she’s right back here with the refreshments.” Myrtle dragged her along to another room where Lola Domengeaux, entirely clad in black except for a white apron, supervised trays of fried chicken drumettes and poured small cups of black coffee or sweet punch depending on the preference of the mourner. Such a normal scene, so routine, so like the old days at Domengeaux’s store—Laura’s eyes filled with the first real tears of the night. She hugged the large woman and blinked her eyes to control her emotions. As usual, Miss Lola was the one who consoled.
“Don’t cry for Louie, cher. He suffered, now it’s over. My daughter, our Suzette, stayed right by me to da end, and I know my Louie was a good man who had his las’ rites said by Father Ardoin. A few more prayers and he’ll pop straight t’rew to heaven and be waiting for me dere. Now, tell me how you doing, little bride. I knew you and T-Bob was meant to be from dat first day you come in my shop. I seen you checking him out. If you had fed him my gumbo las’ fall, it would have happened sooner, I tell you me.”
“I’d like to speak to you—alone.” Laura rolled her eyes toward Myrtle Hill piling a plate with drumettes and pastel mints.
“Troubles already? Let me give you my gumbo recipe. Dat’ll fix things up. He got to expect you can’t cook Cajun yet.”
“No. It’s about your house. I’d like to buy it.”
“T-Bob wants some rental property? He don’t have enough responsibility with da cattle and dat big house? What he want wit’ my little place?”
“No. It’s me. I need a place to live.”
“No, no, no, cher. Dat’s da worse t’ing you can do if you fightin’ is to move out. You stay put and make him see how wrong he is, den when he good and sorry, you take him back in your bed. My Louie could tell you how good dat does. I already heard you not sleepin’ wit’ him, but dat’s none of Miss Lilliane’s business. I tell her to let you two alone. It will come right, heh?”
Filled with rancor for Miss Lilliane and embarrassment for herself, Laura nodded and pulled away from Lola Domengeaux. She had some coffee but refrained from eating because she persisted in imagining she could smell formaldehyde scenting the room. The others chowing down didn’t appear to notice any unusual odors.
Feeling calmer after listening to Myrtle Hill’s mind numbing chatter for an hour, Laura returned to the wake and expressed her condolences to Suzette Domengeaux Prioux, a stout woman like her mother. Abruptly, she jerked Miss Lilliane’s chair away from the casket. None too gently, she shoved the old woman into the car with Pearl’s startled aid. Before starting the engine, she made an announcement to all passengers. “What goes on between Robert and me is a private family matter, and as long as I am living at Chateau Camille, it will stay that way.”
She raced the engine and swerved onto the road, leaving a spray of gravel in her wake. No mutters came from the backseat on the drive home. In the chill and silent atmosphere, Miss Lilliane went to sleep, only to be jerked awake when Laura braked forcefully in front of the Chateau. Without a glance into the backseat, Laura announced, “I’ll send Robert out to get you.”
“I can handle it,” Pearl intervened.
“Fine!” Laura marched into the mansion and feeling perverse, entered her husband’s room without knocking and slammed his door intentionally so that Miss Lilliane would be able to hear it in the drive. She would give the old hag another kind of rumor to spread. How about bondage for a start? She could leave silk scarves tied to the bedposts as evidence for the old lady to find. Let her tell her friends about that!
Robert was packing. An open suitcase lay on his bed.
“You shouldn’t be the one leaving. This is your house. I’ll go.” Laura made the offer automatically, not sure why she’d come to his room now. The heat of her anger drained into a small, chilly puddle in the pit her stomach.
“It’s funny,” Robert said without a smile. “I’ve been waiting for you to come here, and now you come when I decide to go. Don’t worry about making other arrangements. I won’t be back for two weeks. I’m going to do a little fishing and some thinking out at Ed Montleon’s camp. When I get back, we’ll either start all over again fresh, or we’ll call the whole thing off and get an annulment. I’d give you longer Laura, but calving is starting soon. I breed my cows a little later than some because blue ribbons for size at the fall shows don’t mean as much to me as healthy calves born after the last chance for a cold spell passes. Calving is a wonderful time, Laura. I hope you will be here to see it.”
Without looking at her, he continued to shove balls of heavy socks into the pockets of the suitcase. “Besides, if I stay here another night, I might just knock down that locked door. As it was, I nearly molested a sleeping woman last night. You’d better get to bed. I’ll be gone by five a.m.”
Laura turned to go, then hearing Miss Lilliane’s chair in the hall, she stayed and faced Robert. “It’s just that I don’t want to be pushed by loneliness or drunkenness or convenience. I want to know this marriage is right by my own conscious decision. Do you understand?”
“Yes, I do. But let me tell you, Laura, we are all pushed by something—revenge, lust, loneliness—and we must hope we are being pushed in the right direction. Now go to your own room before I close this suitcase and leave space on this bed for other activities.”
As he snapped the case, she ran away.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Laura heard Robert leave before dawn. Sleeping brokenly, troubled by dreams of open coffins and the flaring flames of hellfire, she’d tossed all night. After his truck rattled down the drive, she slept more soundly, one source of turmoil removed from her mind.
She took breakfast with only Angelle. Miss Lilliane did not feel up to dining at the table, Pearl said. That did not stop the old woman from waylaying Laura as she passed her door on her way to work. Beckoning from her room, she called out, “Co
me in here. Please.”
Laura sighed and went to stand by Tante Lil’s bed.
“You were right, you know. You are family now, no matter how it came about, and by talking behind your back I betrayed the LeBlancs.” The old woman groped in her night table drawer and handed Laura a small key. “Here, read all the diaries. The Leblancs weren’t saints. Most of the skeletons in our closets are real. Caroline LeBlanc saved this house with her mind and her body and maybe lost her soul in the process. When I sit by a casket at a wake, it’s mostly her I pray for. A lot of the men weren’t worth a damn. That’s not to include T-Bob. Don’t listen when they say he slept with Sugar LeDoux. But plenty of the others took after black women, even the high and mighty Charles. Our blood is tainted, but never, never admit that to anyone else. You’re family now. Read the diaries.”
Her shriveled hand remained on Laura’s long after the key was passed. Now she took it away. “Get to work. You’ll be late. I was never late.” The old woman settled down into her pillows, dismissing Laura with a frail wave.
Speechless, Laura drove to work, did her job as thoroughly as Miss Lilliane could have wished and returned that evening to take down a diary, openly for the first time, from the library shelf. She read it while Tante Lilliane and Angelle watched television, careful only that the old woman did not note the dates on the pages. After all, the books were in the same type of binding except for the copy Laura had made, shelved now, probably by Pearl, with the others. The year was 1876.
“I greet this year of our nation’s centennial with joy. We are healing into one nation again. My general does well in his law practice, some thinking that having a Yankee lawyer will prove to be an advantage in the courts, and others who do not know us well, assuming that Alexander fought with the Confederacy and will defend their southern rights more vehemently. We raise a few fine horses and enough food and livestock for our needs. I fear I am growing a trifle stout for food and the pleasures of the bed taste so much better to one who has done without.