Epilogue
Once, when I was young boy, my reward for learning my lessons well was being allowed to accompany my father into New Orleans when he had business to attend to. I had my own pony, a black and white creature that I called ‘Chou’, which literally means cabbage, but can also mean darling. I must have been eight or so, and I had a smart little dark green coat and city business breeches and, to my eight year old self’s endless delight, my own pair of black leather riding boots. Father would go about his business, myself in tow, obediently quiet, until the end of the business conversation was reached. Then they would always remark upon how sharp young master looked, and my father would urge me to repeat some part of my lessons, be it a verse from The Aeneid or a list of the Byzantium Emperors. They would compliment my father on having such a smart son and I felt like the cock of walk.
It left a powerful impression on me and is still one of the nicest memories I have from my childhood (I don’t mean to say that I had a bad childhood, in fact I dare say I had an excellent one, what with being the pampered son of a wealthy plantation owner and all). I was wondering how many, if any, memories the students would have of today, today being June 21st, 2012, and the last day of school in Boston. I usually would not be pondering such things, but I was literally face to face with every single sixth grader who would be advancing to middle school today.
Oh, don’t bother wringing your hands in fear. Neither of us would ever go after a child, that’s just awful. I suppose you are wondering why I was at an elementary school for the better part of today. Well, ask yourself this- what (or whom rather) drags me into things I normally would not do?
A bit of an explanation is in order. For the past few years Ma Bichette has been stalking (that’s really the only word for it) her descendants online via Facebook. Stalking them in the most positive sense of the word, however, because every so often she calls me upstairs to her computer to have a look at an album full of people she’s never met but whom she cares about dearly. Under multiple false identities she watches all their shared videos and likes all the pages they like and even repeats to me the painfully insipid axioms they post as images. That’s why she moved to Boston in the first place, to be physically closer to them and to understand their sphere of existence better. I want to tell her that this will only end in heartache, as they shall wither and die, yet I cannot bring myself to do so. She more or less radiates happiness and just being around her is so much more pleasant than it has been in the past. Almost like it was before we died. I cannot bring myself to kick that from under us.
So, long story short, she follows the elementary school that Kelly, daughter of Denise, the younger girl from the film, goes to. A few months ago they made a series of hopeful requests for support and donations from the community for their upcoming ‘funday’ for all the graduating sixth graders. Ma Bichette nearly tripped over herself to offer the services of her bakery, Petite More, to donate cupcakes. The school was so delighted to have such an enthusiastic business owner who was willing to donate her time and goods, that they didn’t find anything suspicious about her demands. Ma Bichette somehow knew what a ‘funday’ was, or at least that it involved games, so she stipulated that each child be awarded a little token or ticket or some such trifle to be exchanged for a fancy little cake. The tokens would be rationed out, one at a time, so that “I don’t get mobbed.”
They agreed to it without hesitation. I knew nothing of any of this, however, until just a few days ago when Ma Bichette asked me if I had any plans. I was planning on changing the oil in my car, but that could wait. There was an almost electric corona of anticipation clinging to her; she was going to see one of her descendants, in the flesh, at so long last. She said she needed help setting up, but I can divine her true intentions. She wanted me to see them too, to share with me her joy.
There was not too much to set up, just a table and some boxes of cupcakes and a plastic banner that she set up. We were in view of a field were dozens of overly excited children ran around after a colossal ball, trying to get it past the goal line of the opposing team. I felt like I was at the zoo. They pushed and yelled and darted around like entertaining animals. I had nothing to do with distributing the cupcakes and since apparently you’ll get shot on sight for smoking on school property, I had nothing to do but watch them run about like little maniacs.
“That’s her! That’s Kelly!” Ma Bichette whispered to me excitedly after giving a little boy in a Patriot’s jersey a cupcake in Patriot’s colors. “Pushing the ball, now, in the puffy pink skirt!”
I squinted towards the field. “Are you sure?”
“Yes!” she gasped with delight. “Look at her! She’s so good at pushing the ball!”
“She’s a genius,” I agreed dryly. I took the ticket that an eager girl with short black hair and braces was waving at Ma Bichette, and then gave her a cake. We were speaking in French, of course, so the girl stared at us in wonder for a moment before scuttling off to play with her friends.
“Why won’t she come here?” Ma Bichette fretted for a few moments. I was not clear on how the children got their tickets, just that they did, so I shrugged.
“I’m sure she’ll come, ma bichette. What child could resist sweets, hm?”
She nodded her head slowly. Her gaze was fixed with laser like precession on Kelly, leaving me to pass out cupcakes. I was bored and made an effort to match the cupcakes to the children with some sort of appropriate criteria. They were polite, for the most part, and I felt sort of like when you feed a carrot to a horse. It is a good feeling, because that horse would not have been able to get the carrot itself with those big ungainly hooves it has. The horse appreciates it and you can see it expressed in its big, soft eyes.
I ended up manning the booth for the most part after Ma Bichette spotted Kelly, which, come to think of it, is probably part of the reason why she wanted me there. Kelly’s team or group or what have you stopped playing on the field and then scuttled off to the gymnasium. Ma Bichette was clearly unsettled, but I had figured out by this point that they got their tickets in the gymnasium, and told her as such.
“I’m actually going to talk to her,” Ma Bichette said. To my surprise she sounded nervous. “I don’t know if I can do this.”
I squeezed her hand and smiled at her (she had introduced me as her husband that morning to the frazzled looking coordinator. Forbidden love was exciting at times, but it’s also so nice that you can be in an interracial relationship now and people don’t even bat an eye). “You’ve done just fine with the other ones, just be normal, all right?”
Ma Bichette shook her head. “She isn’t normal, she’s special.” She reached under the table and opened a Tupperware container. Inside was a cupcake that Ma Bichette had festooned with multicolored icing and candied flowers and sparkly sugar crystals and all manner of girly things to the extent that it looked like what a unicorn might cough up if it was a heavy smoker.
“That’s…something else,” I commented.
“I went in early to make it,” she said and bit her lip. “Do you think Kelly will like it?”
“Would you have liked it at her age?”
Ma Bichette smiled, so purely and innocently, that I could see the innocent and pure child in her still. “Yes, I would have never forgotten it.”
I glanced up and caught sight of Kelly walking briskly towards up. “Now, here she comes,” I warned Ma Bichette. “You’ll do fine.”
Kelly read the banner and paused thoughtfully. “That’s a joke, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Ma Bichette squeaked. “Aren’t you clever?”
“I read a book where a girl ate petit fours. She was from colonial times. Do you have those?”
Ma Bichette shook her head. “No, I’m very sorry, I haven’t. I could make them though, sometime, if you come by my shop.”
I had no doubt that she would do so. There is a fine line between friendly and creepy, however, and I eyed Ma Bichette warily, lest she stray into th
e later category. But she smiled and changed tact.
“So, you’re going to high school, right?” Ma Bichette asked.
Kelly was flattered by all the attention this apparent stranger was paying her. “No, middle school.”
“What…” Ma Bichette paused, and I could sense in her an urgency to jam a thousand questions into one short exchange. “What is your favorite class?”
“Reading. I took a test and they said that I read at the ninth grade level. I did a book report on ‘To Kill A Mockingbird’ and the teacher gave me one-hundred and ten percent,” Kelly said proudly.
She seemed a bit like a know-it-all, but, I sort of am to some extent as well, so I haven’t got any room to talk.
“I never read that,” Ma Bichette said. “Is it good?”
Kelly shrugged. “I guess. I liked ‘The Hunger Games’ more, but Mom said I couldn’t do a book report on that.”
“Well, I’ve got an hundred and ten percent sort of cupcake,” Ma Bichette said as reached under the table and pulled out the extra-special cupcake.
Kelly’s eyes widened. “Really? I can have that?”
“I think such a clever girl who got a pun that most adults don’t get deserves something special,” Ma Bichette said and placed it in Kelly’s eager little hands.
“Thank you!” Kelly said and scuttled off to show her fancy treat to her peers.
Ma Bichette stared after her as she ran off. She said nothing.
“Are you okay?”
She nodded. “I want to get closer to them,” she said softly as Kelly approached another group of girls on the other side of the field. “I have to.”
I noticed a boy approaching and meted out his cupcake before answering her. “Are you sure? What are you going to tell them? Ma bichette, you will have to abandon them at some point again. You must realize that. Are you ready to do that?”
She didn’t answer me.
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My Wholly Heartbreaking Heretic Page 10