The songs lightened our step for a while as we continued to make our way around the fairgrounds, the moon rising on this hot sticky night. Eventually weariness once again overcame us. When Tess and I finally reached the face painting booth, I told her that it would be our last stop and then we could leave. I was exhausted and frustrated, so while Tess got in line to get a butterfly on her cheek, I sat at a picnic table nearby and just let my eyes scan the crowd, wishing I had some way to look into everyone’s mind and find that one person who might give me the answers I was looking for.
It wasn’t a regular habit, but I was very near praying for help when my eyes landed on a booth just ten feet away. It was a nice display, professionally designed, with an elaborate header advertising the Louisiana Museum of Art and Culture. Two women were manning the booth, both of them in their forties and, judging by their elegant clothes and jewelry, obviously moneyed. Keeping one eye on Tess, I went to the counter where they were giving away free literature and struck up a conversation, asking if their museum had any information about Cajun myths.
They were both very nice, saying that yes, there were indeed several resources at the museum that I might find helpful. Unfortunately, it wouldn’t be open on Sunday, but I could come and take a look first thing Monday. I asked how I would get to the museum driving from Serein Highway in Oak Knoll.
“Is that where you live?” one of them asked, her head snapping up.
“Um, well, my family home is there.”
“Get out of town,” she cried with a smile. “That makes us neighbors.”
It didn’t take long to figure out that not only were we neighbors, but her house was next door to Twin Oaks. Once that connection was made, I received the distinct impression that I had just earned a best friend for life—whether I wanted one or not.
“Honey, you gotta take over here,” she said to her coworker. “This lady and I are going to the food court to have ourselves a cup of coffee and a long chat.”
“Actually,” I said, “my daughter’s in line to get her face painted.”
I pointed out Tess, and the lady gave her a wave and squealed at “such a lovely, lovely child.”
“I’m not surprised she’s such a beauty,” she added with sheer Southern flattery as she extricated herself from the booth. “Her mama’s pretty enough to be a model.”
The woman suggested we sit at the picnic table instead, and she brought along two bottles of waters from her booth. As we got comfortable, she introduced herself as Olivia West Kroft.
“You can call me Livvy,” she added.
“I’m Miranda. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Conversation flowed easily, though I was disappointed to learn that Livvy hadn’t known my family. She was from Vicksburg, Mississippi, and had only lived on Serein for two years. She called her husband Big Daddy and said that he had swept her off her feet and brought her down here to live at his estate, “Little Tara.” She now had two stepdaughters, Melanie and Scarlett, which right there kind of told me everything I needed to know about life with Big Daddy.
As she talked I realized that in a way this woman was a caricature of a wealthy Southerner, from the immoveable, perfectly frosted hair to the tiny magnolia blossoms that had been hand painted onto the tips of each of her fingernails. Still, there was something likeable about her. From her precisely tailored appearance, I would have expected her to be uptight, but instead she was relaxed and gossipy and dangerously funny.
As Tess finally reached the front of the line and her face painting began, I steered my conversation with Livvy to where I wanted it to go by saying that I was hoping to do some genealogy research while I was in town, particularly on the Cajun line that had come down through my grandmother.
“The whole reason we came to this festival tonight was to meet some real Cajuns,” I said, “but there don’t seem to be very many around.”
“No, I guess not,” she replied. “Cajun country is at least two parishes west of here—and a few more than that to get to the heart of it.”
“I thought Cajuns were everywhere in Louisiana.”
“Well, sort of, but you’d have to look at a map to understand. There are about nine parishes that are densely Cajun. Once you get outside of those, they’re more scattered. We have a few Cajun scholars who do research at the library, but that’s about it.”
“That’s a shame,” I said, my heart sinking. My bright idea for getting some Cajuns to tell me the myth of the angelus was going to be more trouble than I thought. “I tried talking to the guys in the band, but they weren’t very friendly.”
“Cajuns never are.”
I looked at her wide eyed over the bottle as I took a sip of water.
“I mean, you’ll never meet a more decent, hardworking group of people,” she added, seeing the surprise in my face, “but they don’t let outsiders in easily. It’s a whole mentality, you understand. The way it has been explained to me, Cajuns usually judge folks by their character, not by appearances or social graces or wealth or prestige. Once they see your character, once they understand you’re a good person, then you’re in. When that happens, you’ll find them to be very warm and welcoming. It’s just not an instant process.”
“Even if they know I’m part Cajun myself?”
She shrugged.
“It’s less about the blood pumping through your heart, hon, than it is about how that heart leads you to conduct yourself toward others.”
“I see,” I said softly, understanding now why I had been rejected by the band; it was nothing personal, just a cultural thing.
Still, this news made my search even more difficult, considering that I needed to get into a Cajun “inner circle” as soon as possible, to find out about the myth. I said as much to Livvy, and she suggested that I go the friend-of-a-friend route.
“We’ve got a couple of Cajun families in our church,” she said. “I’d be happy to introduce you. They’d probably be glad to help you with your genealogical research.”
“That would be great,” I told her, watching from the corner of my eye as Tess wiggled impatiently, getting the last finishing touches on her facial art.
“In fact,” Livvy added, “we could probably get them to do lunch tomorrow. Where are you going to church?”
Not are you going to church but where are you going to church. So Southern. Stifling a smile, I hedged a bit, saying I wasn’t sure yet.
“Oh, honey, then why don’t you come with us to ours? I’ll round up a group afterward, and we can all go out to eat at the Firelighter. You can pick their brains to your heart’s content.”
“Do you think your Cajun friends will come along?”
“Are you kidding?” she laughed. “No self-respecting Cajun would ever turn down a good meal and good company. They’ll be there, for sure.”
Sitting through a boring church service seemed a small price to pay for the right conversation. I agreed to go but declined on her offer for a ride and wrote down the directions instead.
Tess came running up to us just as I finished, a bright blue-and-purple butterfly shining from her cheek. I introduced Tess to Livvy, who seemed utterly captivated by my adorable child. Excited by the face painting, Tess forgot to be cranky for a few minutes, so I decided to seize the opportunity and get out of there before she ruined a good first impression.
I reached out to shake Livvy’s hand as we parted, but she merely pushed my hand aside and swept me into a hug instead.
“Oh, Miranda, I’m just so tickled to meet you. You have no idea,” she said in her charming Southern drawl. I wasn’t sure whether she really meant it, but her words certainly sounded sincere.
Our visit made a nice end to a rotten evening, so much so that by the time Tess and I joined the stream of people moving toward the parking lot, I realized I was smiling. There was something to be said for a warm welcome from a stranger—especially when that stranger quickly became a friend.
The smile faded from my lips as I remembered other
strangers who had recently come into my life: the man who had invaded my home and my work, the thugs who had mugged me in the alley. Looking nervously around, I pulled Tess close and began to move faster.
When we were almost to the car, I felt a hand at my elbow, but when I spun around, ready to strike, I realized that it was the accordion player from the Cajun band. He was leaning close as if to whisper something in my ear.
“That symbol you been showing around?” he said in a low, raspy voice. “All them questions you got? I wouldn’t do that no more if I was you. It ain’t safe.”
“But I need answers,” I said in return.
“Let the wicked fall into their own nets,” he said cryptically. Then, just as quickly as he had appeared behind me, he disappeared again into the crowd. Feeling chilled despite the warm night air, I gripped Tess’s hand tightly in mine and jogged the last few steps to the car. My heart didn’t stop racing until we were buckled in and on the road.
Let the wicked fall into their own nets?
What did that mean? Was that man a friend, trying to help me? Or an enemy, attempting to throw me off course?
I didn’t know, but all the way back to Oak Knoll I kept a diligent eye on the road behind us, my white knuckles gripped around the steering wheel like a vise. In the backseat, Tess was awake but too tired to talk, the butterfly resting motionless on her cheek.
FIFTEEN
…at times a feeling of sadness
Passed o’er her soul, as the sailing shade of clouds in the moonlight
Flitted across the floor and darkened the room for a moment.
And as she gazed from the window she saw serenely the moon pass,
Forth from the folds of a cloud, and one star follow her footsteps.
After making a number of detours to make sure we weren’t being followed, I turned finally from the empty road onto the long driveway of Twin Oaks. It was nearly ten p.m. and I felt terrible about showing up here so late, especially after such a difficult day. I dialed the cell phone number Lisa had given me, and though it sounded as though I had roused her from sleep, she said she’d be at the door waiting.
True to her word, Lisa was there tying the belt on her robe. She ushered us inside, locked the door behind us, and showed us to the bedroom that was to be ours while we were here. It was down a hall to the left of the kitchen, next to Deena’s room, and through the walls I could hear the vague rumble of the older woman’s snores. Our suitcases were already there, waiting on the floor between twin beds. The room itself was so cramped and small that there was barely enough space to move around, but it would do, at least for tonight.
“Hey, it’s not so hot in here,” I whispered suddenly, realizing that cold air was pouring down from a vent on the ceiling.
“Charles put his foot down and made Deena turn on the central air ’cause you’re here,” Lisa whispered in return, rolling her eyes. “They had a big fight about it until he promised her that he would prorate the gas bill so she wouldn’t have to pay for it.”
Lisa led us next back up the hall and past the kitchen, to point out the bathroom we should use. She offered to make us a late night snack, but I declined and thanked her for her help.
“See you in the morning, then,” she said, and with that she padded off toward her bedroom in the opposite direction.
Leading the exhausted Tess back to our tiny bedroom, I unpacked our nightgowns and toothbrushes and helped her get ready for bed as quickly as possible. After I had tucked her in, I dimmed the lights and headed quietly down the hall to the bathroom where I took a long, hot shower. Tess also needed a bath, but she could take one in the morning.
The pounding water felt wonderful on the back of my neck and head, working out the kinks of this difficult day, smoothing out the aching roots of hair that had been twisted up since morning.
Despite the urge to linger in the hot steam, I finally finished my shower, toweled off, and put on my nightgown. When I got back to our bedroom, I was surprised to see that Tess was still awake, so overwhelmed by her own exhaustion that she couldn’t go to sleep. Afraid her whining might wake up Deena, I spoke to her in soothing tones as I unwrapped the towel from my head and rubbed it around on my hair, careful not to reveal the bald patch in the back. Finished, I hung the towel on a nearby chair and quickly ran a comb through my hair.
“Do you remember how we put you to bed when you were just a baby?” I whispered to Tess, knowing that at the tender age of five she already loved stories about her own youth.
“How?” she asked, a tiny pout tugging at her bottom lip.
“Come here. I’ll show you.”
With a grunt, I reached down, scooped her up, and put her on my hip. I carried her over to the window, explaining softly that when she was little we used to go all over the apartment and tell different things good night. Here in our tiny room, I reached up and parted the curtains, revealing the moon-splashed lawn outside.
“Good night, moon,” I said in a singsongy voice. “See you in the morning.”
“See you in the morning,” my child echoed.
I let the curtain fall closed and walked several steps to the door.
“Good night, doorknob,” I whispered. “See you in the morning.”
“See you in the morning,” Tess added.
I glanced down to see that her eyelids were drooping.
Together, we went around the small room and said good night to the mirror and the lamp and suitcases, slowly calming her toward sleep. By the time we had worked our way back to the bed, her little head was resting against my shoulder. There in the darkness, I just stood there and rocked back and forth for a moment, thinking that sometimes I loved my child so much it hurt inside, like a knife pressing into my ribs.
Leaning awkwardly, I pulled back the covers and laid Tess on the bed. She climbed down and snuggled in as I tucked the sheets around her. I sat on the bed beside her, smoothing the hair from her forehead as she closed her eyes.
“Mommy?” she whispered.
“Yes, baby?”
“Is there a dragon behind the wall?”
I stifled a laugh.
“No, that’s just somebody snoring.”
“Okay.”
Tess didn’t speak again, and soon I realized that she was asleep, her breathing even and soft. I sat there for a long time, just watching her little chest rise and fall with each breath.
My baby’s cheeks were rosy, her lips almost puckered, and there in the soft glow of the lamp she looked like a tiny china doll. There was so much of blond-haired, blue-eyed Nathan in Tess’s features that sometimes I forgot to look for myself in there too. Here in the region of my birth, I couldn’t help but wonder not just how much of me was in my child, but how much of my mother, my grandmother? If Tess did have the slope of their chin or a similar wave in her hair, how would I even know? I wouldn’t, for I couldn’t recall either woman and had never seen any pictures. AJ always said it was better not to look back.
Tess let out a heavy sigh, and I again reached up and gently touched her hair, twining one soft little curl around my finger. I was filled with a surge of love, deep and strong, the kind of love that filled me up and made me more than whole.
Then, in a flash, my mind filled with the image of Willy Pedreaux, dead in his bed, a scrawny lump under white sheets.
With a gasp, I released Tess’ curl and pulled back my hand, throat-clinching fear engulfing the love I had felt just the moment before.
I closed my eyes, a surge of dread rising up from deep inside. It wasn’t the pulse-pounding, shaking-sweating panic I’d felt on the airplane, but a different sensation entirely, an old, familiar, and disturbing ripple of fear that ran from heart to stomach and back again. I became nauseous with the resurgence of my most deep and secret shame: The truth was that I had spent much of Tess’s lifetime preparing myself for the impending inevitability of her death.
Since the day I first learned I was pregnant five years before, I had been plagued with the hor
rible, persistent conviction that one day my child was going die, maybe even before she was born. I couldn’t explain it—I had never told anyone about it—but even after an easy delivery and healthy birth, the fear persisted. Those first few months, I would stand beside her crib for hours, terrified that at any moment she might stop breathing. When she survived infancy and became a toddler, I just knew she would toddle off a ledge one day or fall down a flight of stairs.
By the time she started preschool, I was convinced that the school would be bombed or that a kidnapper or murderer would steal her away when the teacher wasn’t looking. Of course, I got through the days by reminding myself that I was being overprotective and irrational, that nothing bad had happened to her thus far, which was good proof that probably nothing ever would. Still, logic was weak compared to the strength of my conviction. I suspected that losing my mother at a young age had gone a long way in creating this fear in me. Despite plenty of evidence to the contrary, the knowledge that Tess could die at any time never completely left my mind.
Even now, as I sat here in this tender moment, rather than relish the precious treasure I had been given, all I could think of was death, of an old man whose lungs filled with a fluid that could not be expelled, whose yellow eyes solidified into twin marbles of nothingness as I stood nearby and watched.
Swallowing hard, I moved to my own bed and got between the sheets, my hand shaking so badly when I went to turn off the light that I knocked something on the floor. Glancing down, I saw that it was a book, a black leather-bound Bible. I leaned down and picked it up, put it in a drawer, and then turned off the lamp. In the dark, I listened to Deena’s snores and the whisper of the air conditioner and the creaks and moans of the old house, and I thought about death and life and my little girl.
Whispers of the Bayou Page 13