by Lynn Shurr
Inside, a colored man, old, judging by the ring of white hair encircling a shining bald pate the color of polished pecan wood, but without a wrinkle on his face, sat behind a tall brass register and read the Times-Picayune. The front page news was all about the flood.
“Glad we got these holy hills protecting us,” the proprietor said to his customer.
Burke slapped the ten-dollar bill on to the counter. “Fill her up, Sambo.”
“The name is Plato, and my grandson does the filling. Leon, get out here. We got a customer.”
A teenaged boy, skinny and closer to white than his granddaddy, slouched from the back room and sent Burke a resentful stare as he headed out into the rain to crank up the gas for the Mercedes.
“Mud, miracles, and uppity niggers in a nowhere town. Shit, I could use a drink.”
A sly look passed over Plato’s smooth face. “Would you be wanting buttermilk, a pop, or something stronger? Plato Grocery has it all.”
“I might be interested in the something stronger.” Burke studied a po-boy menu written on a slate hanging from the wall. “Catfish po-boys any good?”
“Fresh caught and fried to order. Come fully dressed on a French loaf.”
“That and whatever you got under the counter.”
Plato had a loaded shotgun under the counter. Sometimes, white people passing through thought they could take advantage of an old colored man. Right beside the weapon sat sealed Mason jars of clear, potent liquid that burned the throat and warmed the belly. Plato set one jar on the counter.
“Might want to keep that under your coat in case any teetotalers from the Baptist Church drop by,” he suggested. “Leon, put together a catfish po-boy for our customer,” Plato ordered as the boy returned from the pump.
Ignoring the warning, Buster twisted the seal off the jar and took a few sips. From the back room, the sound and smell of seasoned, floured catfish hitting hot grease filled the air. In minutes, the sandwich came out still smoking, the tomato, lettuce, onion rings, and dressing spilling over the sides of the loaf of bread on to a thick china plate that also held a split dill pickle. Burke took the lunch to a table that seemed clean enough and hunched over his meal. He washed the bread and fish down with gulps of liquor from the jar. When he finished, he went to the counter to get his change. Plato handed over five ones.
“You trying to cheat me, nigger?”
“The po-boy is fifty cents. The gas come to two-fifty. The drink, it come dear.”
“Then I got enough for two more. Pass them over and keep the change.”
Buster snatched his jars never knowing how close old Plato’s hand hovered to the shotgun. A big white man like that could be big trouble. Plato exhaled deeply when the customer left and went back to reading his paper.
Burke drove to the Academy and parked under one of its famous oak trees. He sipped and simmmered and watched the water drip from the leaves as he waited for Artie.
****
Inside the reception room, Artemus Delamare dined on dainty watercress sandwiches and delicate madeleines under the watchful eyes of a nun who never removed her hands from the wide sleeves of her habit. When Roxie greeted him with a squeal, a huge hug, and a kiss right on the lips, the visitor had been placed under instant surveillance by Sr. Gertrude, who said in her thick German accent, “Roxanne, we do not greet our guests in such a manner, not even the close cousins. You do not haf so close a resemblance to Mr. Delamare.”
“Oh,” said Artie, covering for Roxie’s lie, “these old New Orleans families are all inter-related. Cousin Roxanne comes from the pretty side.”
Roxie blushed and stared at her sturdy Oxford shoes. Her homely, waistless plaid jumper hung just above mid-calf, and the white blouse beneath it had popped a few buttons when she flung herself on Artie. He couldn’t see she had real breasts now, but maybe he felt them. She’d wanted to wear something nicer, but a spring growth spurt had made her Sunday skirts too short and her bodices too tight, according to Sr. Gertrude who sent her back to her room to change.
While she liked being taller and more shapely, Roxie lived in fear of growing bigger than Artie. She may have gotten her mother’s dark hair and eyes, but definitely had her father’s long legs. Why couldn’t she be petite like Roz? Guilt made her squirm on the horsehair sofa left over from the last century.
“May I get you more tea, Cousin Artie?” she asked very properly.
Artie glanced at the china cup hand-painted with yellow roses that held both cream and a lemon slice curdled together in an unappetizing manner. “Sure, kiddo, but just lemon and sugar this time, okay?”
With Roxie gone, he made friendly with Sr. Gertrude. “Nice cup. Did you nuns paint them?”
“The students, they are encouraged to learn useful arts such as china painting. We don’t believe in idle hands. Our sisters do very goot needlework. We haf for sale on the large table.” Delivered without a smile, this was more of a command to buy than an invitation to browse.
“You know, Sr. Gertrude, my mother would love a set of these teacups. How many would a twenty buy?’ Artie pulled a bill from his money clip.
“Vier. Four.”
“Expensive.”
“Hand-painted, Mr. Delamare. Each cent goes to goot works.”
“Then, give me six.” He peeled off another twenty. “And keep ten for charity, but could you wrap them really well? I have a long, bumpy ride back to New Orleans.”
Artie watched Sr. Gertrude stride away with his twenties while Roxie bounced toward him, spilling tea into the saucer in her exuberance. He noticed some bounce beneath her hideous jumper, too, and she’d let her boyish crop grow out into soft curls that had a jiggle all their own. She’d gotten so tall in the last six months she didn’t need to stand on her toes to kiss him. How old was Roxanne now? Fourteen? Maybe, he really was a pervert.
Roxie set the teacup down with a clatter that drew the attention of several nuns and a senior student playing the Moonlight Sonata on a baby grand donated by a grateful alumnus who had married well—as did all their girls.
“More sandwiches, Artie?” she asked, eager to serve him.
“No, thank you. Open your present. I emptied every music store in the city.”
Roxie tore off the brown paper and string. “Sheet music! All the latest songs.”
She fanned them out across the table. The covers showed flappers smoking cigarettes in long holders, a movie starlet in a long gown leading wolfhounds on a leash, and nearly naked Ziegfeld girls wearing more feathers in their headdresses than clothes on their bodies. Expressing her joy was another reason to hug Artie tightly. He picked up one of the booklets, placed it on his lap, and pretended to study the music. Across the room, he could see Sr. Gertrude blocking the view of the tea table with her broad shoulders as she picked up six of the teacups and went in search of a box.
“Let me ask Margie if I may use the piano. We can sing together like we used to when I was a kid.” Roxie rushed across the room.
Oh God, she had hips now, too, small but nicely rounded and pressed against a uniform a little tight on her. Artie covered his eyes with his hands. In a place like Rainbow with its reputation for holy interventions, he might be struck blind.
Roxie sat on the piano bench, long enough for two, and beckoned him from afar. Artie sucked in several deep breaths, took his hat off the arm of the sofa, placed it over his crotch, put on a smile, and joined her at the instrument.
“Here, I’ll play. Sing this one for me, Artie.”
“Ah, kiddo. That’s not my style.”
“Please, please, please!”
Before he knew it, the ham in his nature had him belting out All of Me—why not take all of me—hat over his heart, then arms spread wide as he went for the big finish. The young Catholic girls, who looked like they wanted to swoon, applauded along with their terribly polite parents. He handed Roxie the sheets for Ain’t She Sweet. He added dance steps. The young nun left in charge while Sr. Gertrude wrapped the tea
cups looked distressed. Her hands had come out of her sleeves and clenched together in her lap. Perhaps she was praying. Artie went into his encore. A cardboard box crashed on to the top of the piano with a sound like china breaking.
“Ach so, now we know how this jass music comes here. We find it in the girls’ rooms. It is verboten. You must go, Mr. Delamare, and take it mit you.”
Roxie’s pink lips quivered as if she were about to cry. Artie gathered up the music. “Sorry, sorry, my fault. Don’t blame the girl.”
“Please, Sr. Gertrude. Don’t send him away. I never get to see Artie, I mean Cousin Artie.”
“And no wonder. No, he must go.”
“May I walk him to the gate? I’ll only be gone five minutes, I swear on the head of the little baby Jesus.”
“We do not swear, Roxanne. Five minutes you can haf to say good-bye. No more.”
Artie put on his hat and bundled the sheet music, his trench coat, and a box of broken teacups under his arms. Roxie held the door for him. Sadly, they trudged down the gravel walk together. The eyes of Sr. Gertrude bore into their backs from the front steps.
“I’m sorry, Artie. I know the music and the cups cost you a lot of money.”
“Forget it, kiddo. Since I passed the bar, all I have to do is sit in Burke’s old office and pretend to care about the law for a nice fat slice of the pie.”
“You passed! Roz said you never would. I’d like to tell her that to her face.” The girl frowned. “She wrote to me at Christmas from Cousin Loretta’s house, but I didn’t answer back. I blamed her for my being sent here. I thought I’d never see you again, but you wrote and called and now here you are.”
“I’d never forget my best buddy.” Artie cuffed her gently on the arm. “Can’t let them make a nun of you.”
“Oh, Sr. Gertrude says I have even less of a vocation than my sister, so I don’t think that will happen. I worry about Roz though. My parents won’t tell me anything about her except that she’s well, but I had a letter just the other day from Cousin Loretta’s youngest daughter. She promised she’d write as soon as she got home. She says Roz doesn’t live with them anymore.”
They had come to the gate. Taking a quick look over her shoulder and seeing Sr. Gertrude had been distracted by a pair of parents taking leave, she slipped outside the grounds.
“I’ll just walk you to your car. Is that it under the oak tree? It looks exactly like Buster’s Mercedes.”
“Well, I—”
Roxie leaned up against the muddy side of the machine and assumed the languid sexy stance she’d seen on some of sheet music covers. “As I was saying, my second-cousin wrote from Chapelle that Roz is staying at Purdue’s Boarding House and working for a living. My parents have cut her off entirely because they don’t approve. Isn’t that dreadful?”
“Hmmm, dreadful. Would you move over Roxie, so I can put this stuff inside?”
Suddenly, she became a little girl again, sulking because he wasn’t paying enough attention to her. “I guess you are in a big hurry to leave. Maybe you have a hot date back in the city.”
“Hot date? Me? No. Oh, well, let’s see what’s left of the teacups. No reason to carry shards all the way to New Orleans.”
Each cup rested in a newspaper nest, but despite that, all but two had cracks running up their sides from Sr. Gertrude’s harsh handling. Artie lifted out the intact pair.
“Look, Roxie.” He held a cup in each hand with his pinkie raised and did a shuffle step in the oak duff. “Tea for two, and two for tea. You for me, and me for you—alone!”
He coaxed a smile from her with his dance. Bowing, he presented her with a teacup. “A souvenir of my visit, princess. The other I shall cherish all my days in remembrance of you.”
Artie kissed the back of Roxie’s free hand. She would have stepped into his arms hoping for more, but a voice thick with sarcasm and bootleg liquor interrupted. Burke Boylan stepped out from behind the bole of the oak and zipped up his pants as he spoke.
“Maybe if I’d acted like a fool instead of a real man, your sister wouldn’t be hiding out in Chapelle. Purdue’s Boarding House, you said. Come on, Artie. Let’s pay my precious Rosie a visit.”
“Buster, I’m the one who paid for this trip. I say we head for New Orleans.”
“Get in the Mercedes, Artie.” Burke Boylan picked up the smaller man, heaved him into the front seat and smashed him down on the broken china.
“Jesus, Buster. I have glass in my ass.”
“Don’t make me shove it down your throat. Shut the door.”
The last sight Artemus Delamare had of Roxanne St. Rochelle for many years to come was that of a very young woman, her dark brown eyes wide with fright, slipping a delicate china teacup painted with yellow roses into the bodice of her jumper. Over the roar of the Mercedes engine as it pulled them toward Chapelle, he could hear the bass voice of Sr. Gertrude calling, “You haf left the grounds, you naughty girl. You must do penance. Ach, St. Rochelle girls, too much trouble.”
Roxanne ran through the gates and past the glowering Sr. Gertrude. She crossed the lawn and plowed through the marigolds and cannas planted at the feet of the statue of the Virgin Mary. She fell to her knees and pressed her forehead against the cold plaster base.
“Holy Mother, hear my prayer. Keep my sister, Rosamond, safe from Burke Boylan, now and forever more. I’ll be good. I’ll do what I should. I won’t write Artie or try to see him again. I swear.”
“Und that will be a pleasant change for us all, nicht? Tomorrow, you replant the flowers when the rest are riding. Go change. You are schmutzig mit mud.”
Chapter Forty
Burke pushed through the town of Lafayette with one hand on the Mercedes’ horn. He terrified mules taking wagonloads of Negro evacuees to the camp at the fairgrounds. He recklessly passed military trucks full of troops as he whizzed past the red brick buildings of Southwestern Louisiana Institute. When the road dipped into a swampy area just outside the tiny village of Cade, Burke forced the vehicle through a foot of standing water. He and Artie arrived in Chapelle before dark. Burke pounded on the door of Purdue’s Boarding House.
A stout woman dressed in black opened the door. “Sorry, we’re full up with relief workers. I should have put up the No Vacancy sign.”
“We don’t want a room. We’re here to visit Rosamond Boylan. Isn’t that so, Artie? Tell her she has guests from New Orleans.”
“Oh my! In all the time Roz has lived here, no guests have ever come from New Orleans to visit. She’ll be so sorry to have missed you, but she’s working at the Red Cross camp above Spanish Lake. You passed it on your way here, most likely. Go back toward Cade and turn on Lady of the Lake Road. It will take you right there.”
The small, nervous man who had taken off his hat in the landlady’s presence said, “Is there any way you could call ahead and tell her Buster and Artie are coming?”
“Shut up, Artie,” the muscular young man, whose breath reeked of alcohol, growled.
“I do have a telephone, and I’m sure they must have strung wires to the camp, but I don’t know the number. If you’d like, come in and try asking the operator.”
“No, I want to get there as soon possible. Come on, Artie.”
The big bruiser shoved his friend away from the door. The smaller man looked back over his shoulder and mouthed, “Call her!”
“Young man, young man, do you know your britches are torn? I think I see some blood, too. If you would just take a moment, I could—”
“He’s fine, old lady. Don’t bother calling Rosie. We want our visit to be a big surprise.”
Widow Purdue watched the men leave in their fancy car. People had been asked not to call the camp unless an emergency occurred, and this was only a social visit, though an odd one, to be sure. Rosamond certainly possessed many strange friends: Negroes and swamp Cajuns, and now rough young men from the city, gangsters, perhaps. And here she was with no one to tell.
****
Th
e white Mercedes stopped at the gates of Camp Roy as an early gray dusk descended. The guardsmen crossed their rifles and explained that the camp kept an 8:00 p.m. curfew and no one without proper identification would be admitted.
“My wife is in there, Rosamond Boylan. You know her?” Burke demanded.
“Sure, she’s the camp midwife. Dr. Landry rescued her from a flooded house a few days ago. She doesn’t wear a ring, so we all thought she was widowed or on her own. Not that anyone else has a chance with the doc around. You sure you’re her husband? Anyhow, we can’t let you in. Try back in the morning.”
Burke’s alcohol-flushed face went a shade redder. He put the powerful engine into gear and stomped on the gas. The gates parted before his chrome grill like a levee breaking. The guardsmen jumped to either side and watched the car climb the hill. They were impressed.
“Wish I had me an auto like that.”
“Better wish you had wings and could fly away from the ass-chewing General Emory is going to give us. Call headquarters.”
Burke reached the summit and spun to a stop by the mess tent. He grabbed the shirt of a man exiting with a cup of hot coffee. “Rosamond Boylan. They said she’s the midwife. Where’s her tent?”
“Man, I t’ink you need dis coffee more dan me. Babies, dey don’t come dat fast.”
Burke bunched his thick fingers into a large fist and cocked back his arm. “Where is she?”
“Da nurses’ tent down dere if she ain’t out bringing a baby.” The chosen informant pointed the way. Burke dropped the smaller man, sloshing coffee over both of them, and charged away. Artie Delamare limped after him.
“Buster, the guards are coming. We need to leave here right now.”
“Shut your trap, Artie. I’m taking my wife out of here.”
Buster reached the designated tent and tore down the midwife’s sign. “Now she’s out of business.”
He pitched the sign and walked into the tent to be met with the squeals and shrieks of nurses in various stages of undress. None of them were Roz.