The Devil in Canaan Parish

by Jackie Shemwell

  We all joined in wishing Annie a happy birthday. She smiled and nodded and then quietly closed the doors. I thought about her long walk back to the Bottoms. She would not be home before nine o’clock, and she would be back by six in the morning on Monday. Annie Johnson had come to work for the Blanchards not long after her sadistic husband had been run out of town. She acted as cook, maid and nanny to them Monday through Saturday, only taking Sunday off to be at home. Izzy had only been six when his mother started working, and the Blanchard children had spent more time with her than he had in the past five years.

  “I declare, I don’t know what we’d do without Annie,” sighed Peg. “Sal, did you find a new maid?”

  Sally glanced from Peg to me and then back to Peg. I saw Blanchard stiffen.

  “Well, Bram brought someone home with him yesterday,” she mumbled, studying her cards. “A Cajun girl.”

  Peg raised her eyes in surprise. “A Cajun girl? My, my, that’s different. Are you sure about that, Bram? I mean, can you trust her?”

  “She’s given me no reason not to,” I grumbled, feeling a little irritated.

  “Did you get any references?” Peg asked, “I mean who is she?” She was clearly shocked.

  “Her name is Melee Mouton,” I replied, “and she made some mighty fine beans and rice for us today.”

  “No, she’s got no references,” Sally spoke up. “Bram wants to see how things go for a while.”

  Blanchard chuckled. “That’s a new one, eh Palmer?” he sneered. “I try my best not to mess with the affairs of women, and choosing the help is certainly one of them. I guess they don’t give you enough to do at the drug store.” He laughed and took another sip of his drink.

  “Beans and rice!” cried Peg marveling at the novelty, “Sal, be careful of that Cajun food, those spices aren’t good for one’s constitution, if you know what I mean,” she giggled nervously, but stopped when she saw the redness growing in Sally’s cheeks.

  “Well, I suppose it’s none of our business,” she frowned.

  After we’d finished our meal, the four of us took our places at the card table. Sally and Blanchard always played as partners, as did Peg and I. Peg’s bridge play was terrible, and we inevitably lost. She frequently drank too much and was far too distracted trying to chat with Sally to really pay attention. This evening Peg was on her fourth martini by the third auction.

  “Junior,” she slurred, taking a drag of her cigarette, “tell Sal and Bram about Meyer’s!” she tapped Sally on the elbow to get her attention, pleased she had remembered a titillating topic of conversation.

  “Margaret Landry Blanchard,” sighed her husband, shaking his head, “You know I can’t discuss my cases.”

  “Oh come on, honey!” she whined, poking out her lower lip. “Sally wants to know, don’t you, Sal!”

  Sally shifted in her chair, “Warren, you don’t have to tell us if it’s confidential.”

  “Well, I suppose I could,” he smiled. “Long as we keep it in the family, right Palmer?” he slapped me on the back much harder than necessary.

  Blanchard launched into the story of the robbery at Meyer’s jewelry store to the delight of Peg and obvious interest of Sally.

  “Who do you think did it, Warren?” asked Sally, her eyes wide.

  “Don’t have a clue,” he answered, adjusting the cards in his hand. “Whoever it was, they had to be a small person.”

  “How so?” I found myself asking. The mysterious tone in Blanchard’s voice had caught my attention.

  “They broke into a side window, no more than a foot tall and two feet wide. But you know, the strangest part was this window is about seven feet off the ground. It was too high for someone to climb into themselves. They must’ve had a boost to get in.”

  We all sat in silence for a moment, thinking about this scenario.

  “What did they take, Warren?” whispered Sally.

  “A platinum necklace!” Peg chimed in, pleased to be able to add to the conversation.

  Blanchard sighed again. “Yeah, it was a platinum necklace that was in the window display. It had a Saint Anne pendant on it. It was quite valuable, according to Ira. It’ll be a felony if we ever try the thief.”

  I watched Sally as she sat pondering this. I thought I saw a flicker of recognition move across her face.

  By ten o’clock we were all heavy lidded, and Peg was beginning to nod off.

  “I think it’s time we left,” Sally turned toward me. I agreed, only too ready to end the evening, and moved to stand up.

  “Oh, no, no,” pleaded Peg, willing herself awake.

  “You need to get some rest, in your condition,” soothed Sally. She gave Peg a kiss on the cheek.

  The Blanchards walked us out. Peg covered Sally in sloppy hugs and kisses. Junior shook my hand, squeezing for just a moment longer than I liked, his heavy gold class ring crushing my knuckles.

  “You’re keeping Sally happy, right Palmer?” he muttered under his breath, the smile frozen on his face.

  “Yeah, sure,” I stammered, a little taken aback, “I try my best.”

  “Well maybe you’d better try a little harder.” The malice in his voice was unmistakable. I looked into his face and pulled my hand out of his. He winked at me and slapped me on the back. Again I felt the painful thump of his ring.

  I thought about what he had said as I drove us home. Blanchard had made it clear to me on many occasions that he did not find me worthy of Sally. I was an outsider, a gentile in the Old Testament sense of the word. Blanchard did not like to lose. He had an undefeated record as a prosecutor, helped largely by the understanding he shared with Sheriff Boyle. If Blanchard wanted a conviction, Boyle made sure the evidence was there to provide it. It was only my covenant with Sally that protected me, and Blanchard reminded me of that every chance he got.

  Sally stared out her open window into the night. The bullfrogs’ loud croaking accompanied us along the way. The sound was hypnotic and numbing. It filled the night with an unseen menace. As soon as we got home, Sally went straight to bed without a word. I knew that she’d be taking a valium or two. I was too keyed up to go to sleep, and so I went out to the screened-in back porch, sat down in one of the wicker chairs, pulled out a cigarette and lit it up.

  I had just finished smoking and was leaning back in my chair when the kitchen screen door opened. It was Melee. She walked out onto the back porch and stood staring up at the moon. She did not see me, and I guessed that she must have assumed I had gone to bed. Her dark hair was hanging long and loose around her face. She was wearing that old bulky nightshirt again. The moon reflected strangely off her bare arms and legs, as though the light came from inside her. I struggled to regulate my breath that was now coming harder and faster from my chest.

  Melee stretched and yawned, her arms reaching up over her head, lifting the bottom of her nightgown high enough that I could see a hint of her milky thigh. She finally sat down in the old creaky rocking chair near the kitchen door and began to hum softly to herself, the groan of the rocking chair keeping time with her song. Soon she was murmuring words I didn’t recognize. I strained to hear, and realized that she was singing in French. For a moment I was surprised, and then remembered again that this was language she had been taught from infancy. It was not often one heard Cajun French spoken. The Cajuns kept mostly to themselves, retreating from the hostility that the English-speaking world had assailed them with since their ancestors had been chased out of Canada. I didn’t know much of their painful history, except that it had driven them far back into the swampy woods and forgotten backwash of the Mississippi river, too wild and uncivilized for the genteel tastes of the cultured, but a refuge for these pilgrims who wanted nothing more than to live in quiet tranquility. The years of persecution had made them shy in the English-speaking world, reluctant to betray their heavy accents that left them so often open to ridicule. Those who attempted to assimilate were even worse off. Cajun children wh
o attended schools were forbidden to speak French, even to each other, and were punished severely if caught doing so.

  Melee continued to sing softly, the tone of her voice mixing perfectly with the bullfrogs’ croaking, the drone of the crickets, and the steady groan of the old rocking chair. It lulled me into a deep sleep, and I spent the night dreaming of old broken-down cabins, gentle faces peering out from porch swings, singing soft melodies in words I did not understand, and the moon shining like Melee’s glowing skin on bayou water, as deep and green as her eyes.

  Chapter Eight

  All the stories they tell children are not happy. Some are about monsters and ghosts and creatures that live deep in the swamps. I remember another story Marraine told me: the story of the Vieux Diable.

  One day I was crying, and I asked, “Marraine, why doesn’t my family want me?”

  “Because they are jealous of you,” she muttered. She was busy sewing a shirt and rocking herself on the front porch.

  I was shocked. This was news I had not anticipated.

  “Jealous? Why are they jealous?”

  “Because you’re the youngest,” she said, pulling a knot through her thread to end a stitch. She looked over at me and could see from my face that I did not understand.

  “Tite Melee,” she sighed, “have you ever heard the story of Petit Poucet?”

  “No Marraine,” I shook my head. “Who’s Petit Poucet?”

  “Well, now, that’s a story! Come here and listen good, my dear.”

  She put her sewing aside and I climbed up into her lap, prepared to listen.

  “Now, there was a family, and like your family they had many children, and the youngest one, they called Petit Poucet. Petit Poucet was smarter than the others, and he was loved the most by his daddy and momma. Since he was the youngest, they had more time to play with him and love on him than the others, and his brothers and sisters were jealous of him.”

  “But Marraine,” I interrupted, “my momma and papa, they don’t love on me. I never even seen them.”

  “Melee,” Marraine scolded, “you gonna listen to my story or not?”

  I sighed and nodded my head. I was not convinced that this story should apply to me, but Marraine was usually right.

  “Alright then,” said Marraine. “Now, one fine day, the children got together and the oldest one said, ‘We should do something about him. What shall we do?’

  They could not stand their little brother! It seemed he always got the best presents and they thought he was loved more than they were loved. They didn’t like it and decided to do something about it. So, they took the wagon and hooked up the horses and went into the woods. And Petit Poucet, he, he was smart now, like I told you. He guessed what the others were doing. And when he saw them together, he hid himself and spied on them and listened to what they said so he knew when they wanted to go in the wagon that they were going to do something with him. He filled his pockets with some rocks and he sat in the back of the wagon, and every now and then he would drop a rock on the ground. All along the way he dropped rocks.”

  “Why did he do that?” I interrupted again.

  “You’ll see, child, you’ll see,” Marraine chuckled. “So now, those children took that wagon way back into the woods, and then stopped at a place where Petit Poucet had never been. His brothers and sisters pretended to take a walk then, and when they were a little distance away, they all ran and got back in the wagon. They ran so that Petit Poucet couldn’t catch up with them, and they left their little brother all alone in the woods. He searched and searched for the way back. He searched for those rocks, but couldn’t find them. He was lost!”

  I shuddered. Being lost in the woods was something I dreaded. There were too many creatures living out there, and no matter how many times Marraine said I had nothing to worry about, the hair still stood up on the back of my neck whenever I had to go to the outhouse in the middle of the night.

  “So then,” continued Marraine, “Petit Poucet saw a house and he said to himself, ‘It’s almost night time. I’m going to take a chance and go to that house. If I sleep out here in the woods, the bugs will eat me up, and I’ll be scared all by myself.’

  He went to the house and called. The mistress came out. He told her what the trouble was, how his brothers and sisters had brought him way out into the woods and how he was lost and couldn’t find his way home. ‘I’d like to help you,’ that woman said, ‘but, this here is the house of the Vieux Diable, and the Vieux Diable will gobble you up if he finds you here!’

  ‘Well,’ said Petit Poucet, ‘I’m going to take my chances if you don’t mind, that the Vieux Diable won’t eat me.’ He said, ‘Anyway, I’d rather the Vieux Diable eat me than those bugs in the woods and to be alone in the night. I’ll take my chances.’

  ‘Well,’ said the woman, ‘okay, come on in.’ So he went in.

  The woman made supper early that night. She knew that the Vieux Diable would get home later, and she wanted the children to be in bed when he got home so that he wouldn’t notice anything strange.

  When supper was finished, she put the children to bed, and put a little bonnet on each of their heads. But Petit Poucet didn’t have one. When the children fell asleep, he took the bonnet from one of them and put it on his own head.

  Later that night, when the Vieux Diable got home, he sniffed around and said, ‘Ooooeee! I smell fresh meat!’

  ‘Oh!’ said his wife, ‘you’re imagining things.’

  ‘Sniff, sniff! Oh!’ he said, ‘no, I smell fresh meat.’

  The wife said, ‘Come and eat,’ she said, ‘supper’s ready. I made some meat, and that’s what you smell.’

  So he went and ate his supper. After he went to bed, he wasn’t satisfied. He still smelled fresh meat, and so he went and walked next to his children’s beds and touched them. He saw the one who didn’t have a little bonnet on, and he took that child. He thought that his child was the fresh meat he smelled, and so he killed and ate him.”

  At this, I sucked in a little gasp of fear. Marraine saw the fear in my eyes and chuckled a little, “Now child, everything will turn out ok, you’ll see.” I relaxed a little and waited for the rest of the story.

  “When Petit Poucet saw the Vieux Diable eat that child, he was very afraid, as you can imagine. He saw where the Vieux Diable took off his boots and put his money. And so, when the Vieux Diable went back to bed, Petit Poucet stole the Vieux Diable’s boots and his money and ran away. He put on the Vieux Diable’s boots – he was very smart, you see, and he stole those boots so that the Vieux Diable couldn’t chase after him -- and when he put those boots on, there must have been some magic in them, because they made him walk very very fast!

  And so Petit Poucet walked and walked. Day broke, and he found a couple of the rocks he had thrown out of the wagon. ‘Oh!’ he said, ‘Looks like I’m on the right path.’ So he continued and found his house at last. He had finally come home.

  And when he arrived home with the Vieux Diable’s magic boots and all that money, his family was happy to see him, because now he was rich, and they were very poor. The money he brought with him made their lives much easier and so they welcomed him back and were happy with him after that.”

  When she finished the story, Marraine laughed and said, “you see, Tite Melee, I saved you from the Vieux Diable,” and she laughed again. I laughed too, though I didn’t yet understand.

  After that I was always afraid that I would find the Vieux Diable whenever I went into the woods. The sound of the bullfrogs terrified me. They sounded like the deep voice of the Vieux Diable going, “Sniff, sniff, fresh meat! Sniff, sniff, fresh meat!” Sometimes I did see him, a dark figure, watching me. I never saw his face, even in my dreams, but he was always there watching me, and sometimes I would wake up and see him leaning over my bed, ready to snatch me up and eat me. When I left the safety of my Marraine and my Grandmother’s homes and had to return to the little shack in the swamp, I realized that
the Vieux Diable was not a monster in the woods. It was my father.

  I found that in my father’s house, my thoughts and feelings weren’t to be shared without receiving a slap across the face or a kick in the backside, and so I learned quickly to keep them to myself. My five brothers, all wild and rough and dirty, made fun of my pretty dresses and me. I knew nothing about hunting or fishing and so to them I was worthless. I was the only girl in a house of men.

  “Tite Melee,” said my father soon after I had arrived, “you have to work like you’re a woman now. You are the woman of the house.”

  And so, I worked, every day. I cooked, cleaned, and chopped wood for the fire. I worked in the garden. I washed our clothes. None of that bothered me. It was the work I had to do at night that I hated.

  When I was twelve years old, my father took me into his bed for the first time. My brothers were sleeping above us in the garconniere, as usual. My screams did not awaken them. My father put his hand over my mouth. After that, it was every night. When he was finished, I would go back to my little cot and dream again that I was drowning.

  Life continued like that for five more years until a preacher who was traveling in the bayous came to the little village near our house. He had a daughter, Mathilde, not very pretty, but sweet. She was twenty years old, and we became friends. She would come to my house often, and help me with my work, always chatting and laughing.

  “Tite Melee,” she told me, “you’re so beautiful!” and she kissed me on the cheek.

  One day she came to my house with bruises all over her body. She told me her father beat her and that he did it all the time. After that, Mathilde moved in with us. She slept with me in my little bed, and my father no longer took me into his bed.

  Three months later, we were celebrating my eighteenth birthday together. My father and my brothers were out fishing, and Mathilde brought some wine home for us to drink. We started drinking in the morning and kept drinking until late at night, playing rock and roll records and dancing around the house in our socks. By the time my father got home, we were drunk. He didn’t yell like I expected, instead he poured himself some wine and began drinking with us. He stayed up, laughing and dancing with Mathilde until long after I had crawled off to my cot to sleep. The next morning, I woke up and found her in my father’s bed. It was the best present I had ever received.