Queen of the Mardi Gras Ball

by Lynn Shurr

  She served the coffee, strong and dark, in a blue speckled enamel cup that matched the pot and sweetened it with a lump of brown sugar she found in a small crock on the table. Her hands shook as she raised it to her lips, but inhaling the aroma of fresh coffee cleared her brain.

  Footsteps sounded outside the door. Roz tensed and set her coffee down before she spilled it. The apartment door swung open, and there stood Pierre, no dream at all, but stubbled and disheveled and dead on his feet.

  “Merci bon Dieu! Coffee,” were the first words out of his mouth. “Thank you for making it.”

  “I only boiled the water. I really don’t know how to cook.”

  “Black, black, hot, hot, and sweet, sweet as my papa would say. Just the way I like it.” Pierre stirred two lumps of the brown sugar into his brimming cup. “Sorry there’s no milk. I don’t have an icebox up here.”

  “I don’t think I could stomach milk right now.” Roz kept her eyes on her cup.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Hung over.” Shame kept her from looking at him.

  Pierre moved aside a short curtain that covered shelves full of canned goods and a few five-and-dime store glasses and plates. He took down a can, a small red bottle and a tiny, brown sack. Punching open the can with a penknife, he poured tomato juice into a glass, added a dash of hot sauce, a pinch of herbs, and set the concoction down in front of Roz.

  “Drink this. It might help. The local traiteur tells me this will cure a sore head, and he does sell a lot of this stuff. Modern medicine has nothing better, but I’ll prescribe the usual two aspirins to go along with it.”

  “Thank you,” she said in a small, embarrassed voice. Roz took a large gulp from the glass, gasping as the hot sauce penetrated her sinuses. “A little heavy on the red pepper.”

  “It’s a hangover cure, not a breakfast. Drink it all. Then, I’ll see about getting us some food.”

  Roz looked up quickly and saw the humor in his eyes. She glanced away. “I was upset about being snubbed by the Harkriders. I know it was childish, but I wanted to dance and drink and forget about my troubles for a while. I guess I threw myself at you.”

  “In more ways than one.”

  “I should go. Loretta has no idea where I am, and she’s good enough to worry. You look worn out and shouldn’t have to put up with me either.”

  “I had a busy night. After I sewed up one of the girls at the Barn and brought you here, there were two accident victims needing stitches and broken limbs set, a Negro with a stab wound from a bar fight, three children with fireworks injuries—one lost his little finger—and a drunk who fell in the bayou and nearly drowned. Comparatively, you could call the Harkrider party downright dull, but I did take the time to call Loretta this morning and tell her you were safe at the clinic.”

  “What did she say?”

  “Thank you, of course, but I believe she was suspicious of my good deed. What are you going to do next, Rose du Monde?”

  “I don’t feel like the rose of the world, more like the last rose of summer. I wish I knew. I’m a burden and an embarrassment to André and Loretta. I can’t go back to the city yet, according to my parents. I just don’t know. Mama’s friend called me damaged goods.” Roz sank her head into the cup of her hands and closed her eyes.

  Pierre lifted her chin. “Roz, when a bone is broken, it forms a callus, a knot that makes it stronger than before. You have survived. You will heal and be stronger.”

  “You think?” She held out her arms. “Last night I had a sale on damaged goods, but you didn’t take me up on the offer?”

  “No, I didn’t, but I had the urge. You are still very young. I must wonder what Rosamond St. Rochelle will be when she grows up entirely.”

  “A drunk?” She crossed her eyes and made a face.

  “I think not.” He considered her clean-washed face. “Gilbert mentioned once that you wanted to go into nursing.”

  “Yes, I burned to care for the sick when I came home from the Academy. I was surprisingly good at my science classes, and I’m not at all squeamish, but my parents felt I should study art until a suitable husband came along. The funny thing is, I can’t draw or paint worth a damn so I had to take art history as a major.”

  Pierre thought for a moment as Roz choked down more of the hangover remedy. “If you are sincerely interested in medicine, Katherine Emory is starting a class for midwives next week. It’s a three-month course that will end with certification if she has her way, and as a public health nurse coming from one of the most influential families in the area, she usually gets it. The class would give you a step in the right direction. In the fall, you might consider nursing school at SLI and St. John’s Hospital in Lafayette.”

  “Papa would never pay my tuition. I’m supposed to wait here until my divorce goes through, get an annulment from the church, and then go home and find a better husband, one who will take me such as I am.” She plucked at her scarlet dress.

  “Midwives do get paid, though it may be with a bushel of sweet potatoes or a ham. If you were successful at it, a scholarship in nursing might come your way. Nurse Emory has enormous influence she can bring to bear if she likes what you do. I can put in a word for you, too.”

  “I’d like to give it a try.” Smiling brightly, Roz stood up, then sat again abruptly. She rubbed her temples with her fingertips. “I guess that hangover remedy hasn’t kicked in yet.”

  “Let me go find us something to eat.”

  “What time is it? Heck, what day is it?”

  “Nearly noon, January first, year of our Lord, 1927.”

  “Oh God! I’ll bet Loretta’s entire family is dining at her house as we speak. I’ll only make things worse if I don’t go back there right now. Pierre, thank you for taking care of me again. That’s all you did, take care of me?”

  “Nothing else, cher heart. Sorry.”

  “What a pity. You know, Pierre Boniface Landry, you may be eight years older than me, a doctor, and much more mature, but you aren’t my Papa, my uncle, or even a brother.”

  Roz took his face in her hands and laid her lips over his. She swept her tongue along the edge of his mustache until he opened his mouth, and she could taste the sweet brown sugar and the strong Cajun coffee he’d been drinking. He kept his arms by his sides, but he didn’t pull away as he should have if he didn’t desire her. Oh, yes, he had answered her kiss. When she finished with him, Roz plucked her crimson plume from the mouth of the snake lamp, put it on and went to the door.

  “I’m going to show you and everyone else that I’m a grown woman and can take care of myself, Pierre.”

  “Still, if you ever need me, I will come, Roz.”

  “Not necessary,” she said airily and stepped out on the landing. She misjudged its small size, the steepness of the stairs, the steadiness of her legs, and rode to the bottom on her backside. Standing up, she rubbed her fanny. Pierre ran half way down the stairs, fear for her showing on his face, but she waved him away. Roz struck a pose and patted her rear. “Guess I can do the Black and Blue Bottom now. It will be the newest dance craze. I’ll be fine.”

  “Mais, oui. I see that you will be, Rose du Monde.”

  Walking awkwardly, Rosamond found her way out of the clinic and went to face the St. Rochelle music.

  ****

  As usual in this small, country town, the front door of the St. Rochelle home stayed unlocked. Roz attempted to scoot quietly by the dining room where the family assembled for another abundant feast. The youngsters at the children’s table caught sight of her red dress and pointed, but she held a finger to her lips and shook her head.

  Just as she thought she’d gone unobserved by the adults, Cousin André’s voice sounded from the head of the table. “Roz, please join us. We’ve just finished our prayers for a safe and prosperous new year. There’s a seat at the end of the table.”

  Rosamond cringed. Being careful to keep her rumpled dress out of sight, she poked her head into the dining room door
way. “I’m so sorry if you waited for me. I’m not feeling well. I went over to the clinic, and now I think I’ll just lie down in my—in Janelle’s room. Please go ahead without me.”

  “I’ll have Ethel bring you a tray, dear, with some of the lighter foods,” Loretta said with concern.

  “Then, after dinner we will have a nice, private talk, Rosamond,” Cousin André added.

  “I suppose we must. Bon appetit, bonne annee, everyone.”

  Roz hadn’t gotten to the staircase when Janelle’s sharp voice cut in. “Five will get you ten, she got drunk last night and was probably with a man.”

  She heard Loretta gasp, “Such language! I taught you to be better than that.”

  The youngest girl giggled. “You sound exactly like the nuns at the Academy when we use bad words, Mama, but they slap our fingers with the ruler.”

  “I can think of someone who ought to have another part of her anatomy slapped with a ruler,” said Janelle’s stuffy husband.

  “Who wants ham? Please pass your plates to Grandpapa,” Loretta interjected.

  The clatter of dishes drowned out more commentary on the error of Rosamond’s ways. She slinked up the steps and collapsed on Janelle’s childhood bed.

  The rattle of a tray being set on the nightstand woke her. Ethel loomed over the bed. “Mistah André be comin’ up soon as the men finish wit’ ci-gars out on the po’ch. Best you eat some—and me, I’d change out dat red dress, I was you. Like wavin’ a flag in front of a bull.”

  “Thanks for the warning, Ethel. And for all your kindness.”

  “Sounds like you sayin’ good-bye.”

  “I believe that I am.”

  The Cajun hangover remedy seemed to be working. Roz drank down the cup of turkey noodle soup and ate one of the ham biscuits. She was cutting into custard pie when André and Loretta arrived. Loretta sat on one of the ladder-back chairs while André remained standing with his hands behind his back, looking for all the world like Washington about to address the troops.

  “Rosamond, you are welcome to stay in this house as long as you wish, but I do feel I must discuss some rules of behavior. As a young married woman, I expected you would have some sense of decorum, but Loretta keeps reminding me you are only nineteen and have suffered some terrible blows in your short life.”

  “You’ve got that right,” Roz said with bravado.

  “Please, no sass! If you live under my roof, I will expect you to behave as my daughters were raised to behave. That is, no drinking, no swearing, no immodest dress, no staying out all night, no running with young men,” said André as he paced. “No dancing on tables at Broussard’s Barn or anywhere else!”

  “Oh!” said Roz.

  “Yes, Mayor DeVille had the courtesy to call when his son came home complaining that Doctor Landry had carried you off, drunk as a skunk. At least, we knew where you were before Pierre called this morning. You will go to confession, wipe the slate clean, and attend church with the family each and every Sunday.”

  “I have been attending church.”

  “As a baptized and confirmed Catholic, you know that attending a Methodist service doesn’t count.”

  “Cousin André, I am changing my religion, and I want to change my life.” Roz looked him in the eye instead of hanging her head. “I know my papa has been sending you money for my board and my allowance. I’d like you to give that money to me. I intend to get a room in town.”

  “So you can run wild and continue to embarrass the family?”

  “No, so I’ll learn to make my own way and cease embarrassing Loretta who has been nothing but well-meaning. I want to attend a school for midwives. Classes start next week.”

  “Rosamond, you’ve led a very privileged life. Most women would be grateful for a nice home, regular meals they don’t have to cook, clean sheets they don’t have to wash, menfolk who take care of them.”

  “And midwifery is so-so—messy,” Loretta, mother of seven, said for lack of a better word.

  “I promise you, if I don’t succeed at this, I’ll come back and live by your rules.”

  André frowned. “Let me discuss this scheme of yours with Laurence. Then, we shall see.”

  ****

  Roz explained her plan to her father over the telephone. She held the receiver away from her ear as he shouted his objections, then turned it over to André.

  “No, Laurence. We are happy to help, but your daughter is, well, quite a handful. I can’t see any harm in letting her try a new path in life. Many women work nowadays. We’ll be right here if she needs us. She should be able to find lodging on the stipend. Chapelle isn’t New Orleans, of course.” André heaved a large sigh. “Very well, if that’s the way you want it.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He said you may try to live on your own, but I’m not to give you any more money than I pay the domestics.”

  “I see what he’s trying to do, but I won’t turn back.”

  In life, Rosamond St. Rochelle had received more than her fair share—wealth, beauty, education, and opportunities for rich experiences. She knew that very well and suspected she was about to learn life is not very fair at all.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Widow Purdue’s boarding house sat a block from the village square. With a pleasant gingerbread exterior and a fanciful onion-shaped tower on one end where the chemistry teacher at the local high school roomed, the widow’s establishment catered to academics and traveling salesmen. The front porch was broad and full of rockers, but the side porch had been enclosed to make another room for rent. This room tended to be cold and damp in winter, hot and humid in summer. Although the cheapest of Mrs. Purdue’s accommodations, it did come with a change of sheets once a week, use of the bathroom on the second floor, and a hot evening meal. The newest boarder moved into the space on the third day of the New Year.

  White-haired and ample-bosomed, Widow Purdue, who had dressed in black since the demise of her mister nearly thirty years ago, and whose only son had grown up and married away, took Roz’s deposit with reluctant fingertips.

  “No men in the room, Mrs. Boylan, or you’ll be out on your ear. No drinking on the premises. That’s illegal, you know, though one can hardly tell. Smoking is allowed only in the parlor where you may entertain guests until nine p.m. Can’t have my livelihood burn down about my ears. Can’t be as choosy as I’d like about my boarders, either, a poor widow lady like me. I’ll be keeping an eye on you.”

  In other words, the terms of her lease weren’t much different from Cousin André’s rules. Roz nodded and said, “Yes, ma’am.”

  Even though Roz suspected that Cousin André had given her Ethel’s salary rather than that of the maid or laundry woman, she had very little cash left over once she paid the rent in advance. With Loretta’s permission, Ethel put together a crate full of useful if shabby items culled from the kitchen and attic. Roz now owned a rusty can opener, an old bowl and pitcher set with a hairline crack, some chipped dinnerware and dented tin cups, a small cast iron skillet and saucepan, and a table lamp with a Tiffany shade missing one panel thanks to Henri’s throwing a ball in the house.

  Roz purchased a hot plate, a coffeepot, and an extra blanket to ward off what was predicted to be one of the wettest and chilliest years on record. As she regarded the leftover change, she thought she might be starved into submission before the end of March. She shivered from the cold in the room and the memory of Buster.

  Widow Purdue’s place did have some advantages. The boarders were allowed to share the parlor, bang away on the upright piano, and engage in games or conversation until nine each evening. Two young teachers recently out of normal school and near to Roz’s own age shared one of the larger rooms on the second floor. Skinny Faye with her frizzy ginger hair and freckles, and plump Edna, who wore her straight black locks pinned to the back of her head because teachers weren’t permitted to have a bob, proved to be fonts of information on stretching small salaries.

  The widow
, who kept a few chickens and a cow out back, could be persuaded to part with eggs and new milk for pennies. If one got to Pommier’s Bakery first thing in the morning, day old French loaves could be had for cheap, but the competition was fierce with the cooks around town who wanted the bread for their puddings. Roz offered to take on this task in exchange for a loaf since the teachers had to be in the classroom before eight when the bakery opened. Lusting after delicate petite fours and fat sugar cookies, she stood in line among dark domestics and Cajun housewives at least twice a week.

  Faye and Edna showed her how to make pain perdu with eggs, milk, and old bread in her skillet, and shrimp wiggle—a concoction of canned peas and shrimp in a white sauce served over toast, which they had survived on in college—in her saucepan. They were also very adept at mooching free samples of stockings or cosmetics from itinerant salesmen on a wink and a promise they never kept. So skilled were the teachers at bumming cigarettes they nearly tempted Roz back into a habit she could not afford. Because the two teachers paid their rent on time, the widow kept mum about their smoking, which, if discovered, would put the teachers out of a job and lose her two reliable tenants.

  Fortified by her new skills, Roz set out for her first day of midwife training. Putting her best foot forward, she wore the demure plaid dress, white gloves, a peekaboo hat, and clutched her newest leather purse. She inquired at the reception desk at the clinic where the class might be meeting. Though the nurse on duty gave her a peculiar look, she did say, “Meeting room is around back in the old pantry.”

  Roz trod daintily in her shiny pumps across the sodden grass to the rear of the old house and found a plain wooden door. By the sound of an authoritative voice speaking on the other side, she assumed she’d arrived late. Cautiously opening the door and hoping to slip into a rear seat, Roz found herself instead facing three solid benches full of colored women of every shape, size, and shade. They all stared at her with their large brown eyes.