Carlton’s condition stabilized. He wasn’t getting better, but the last few days he’d not gotten worse. The letters calmed him and gave him a reason to hold on. What would happen when I read the last letter?
Carlton said Lady S still lived. What if he could see her before he died? I glanced out the window and into my own reflection. I’d allowed fear to control so many of my choices and had missed countless opportunities because I’d done so. So many regrets haunted me. I couldn’t let Carlton die without seeing his precious Lady S one last time, could I?
There were many things I couldn’t let go.
I hadn’t heard from Beau about Wednesday breakfast. Had he decided it was best not to pursue our friendship? I’d still plan to visit Annie Saturday.
I couldn’t accept Mama’s illness. Why? I’d treated many patients with the same diagnosis. Was my deep-rooted anger keeping me from accepting the truth? How different—better would I be had my childhood been different?
One thing was certain—I didn’t want another regret on my conscious. “I’m going to find out who Lady S is.”
The words floated through the empty kitchen and when they came back to me as a whisper, I knew it would happen. I would find her.
Neuf
I navigated my car between hedges of purple azaleas running along Beau’s grandmother’s driveway. Before my shift ended, he’d called to see if I was OK after he’d seen a car like mine overturned in a ditch a few miles from his house. One thing led to another and before I knew it, I’d agreed to have dinner with Beau, his son, and his grandmother.
His grandmother would be the right age. Maybe she’d know who Lady S could be. I’d have to be careful with how I asked. But maybe, just maybe, she’d know. It was worth the effort.
Now that I’d decided to find Lady S, I plowed forward like a bulldozer. If the letters calmed Carlton, then maybe her presence would do much more. And maybe he could leave this earth with a clear conscience. Not that I knew he didn’t—have a clear conscience, that is—but judging from his actions and words, I suspected something deep within him needed to release. And that something had everything to do with Lady S.
When I reached the top of the driveway, I saw Beau’s black Chevy pickup parked next to the garage. Beau, in faded jeans and a green polo shirt, stood waiting at the front door. “Hello, I’m glad you could come.” His smiled widened. “Shrimp boulettes with white beans and rice.”
“Sounds great.” My willpower skills for eating in moderation would have to kick into overdrive tonight. “Thanks for inviting me.”
His grandmother approached. She was dressed in a flowered silk dress, tall and elegant even at eighty. The scent of fried seafood and gardenias accompanied her. “Cheryl, Cheryl Broussard. I didn’t know you came back home. I don’t get around town as much as I used to.” Her slender arms wrapped around my shoulders. She pulled me close, and her red lips kissed the air next to my cheek. “I’m glad you could have suppa with us tonight.” She strolled toward the kitchen. “Food is ready when y’all are.”
Beau leaned into the adjoining living room. “Steven, turn the TV off and get in here.”
I followed Mrs. Mouton into the kitchen and waited by the table. Beau walked in moments later led by a lanky kid with the same chocolate brown eyes and thick, coffee colored hair.
He placed his hands on Steven’s shoulders. “Cheryl, I’d like you to meet my son, Steven. Miss Cheryl and I went to school together. She’s been a friend for a long time.”
The lingering sent of fried shrimp boulettes hung in the air like our past. Steven’s likeness to Beau took me back to our younger years. I extended my hand. “Hello, Steven. It’s very nice to meet you. I’ve known your dad since he was about your age.”
He shook my hand with a firm grip.
“And he looked just like you.”
Steven turned to Beau. “Really? You looked like me?”
“It’s more like you look like I did. C’mon. Let’s get our food. Nana’s ready to eat.”
Steven reached for a plate and handed it to me. “Here ya go, Miss Cheryl. You can tell me more about dad while we eat.”
“Sure thing.”
We served our plates at the stove and met at the dining room table. The white molding on the charcoal walls gave the room a regal look, not unlike its owner. Mrs. Mouton’s silver bun gathered at the nape of her neck showcased her dangling pearl and diamond earrings. She sat at the head of the table, posture upright, and her head level above her shoulders with her sharp green eyes settled on Beau. “How is Annie today?” she asked.
Had she asked the question to remind me Beau was married? Beau remained Beau and didn’t let her rouse him. “I called before I came here. She’s the same. No change.”
I hung my head. Maybe this had not been a good idea. “Are you still involved in the Junior League?” I asked remembering she’d headed up their cookbook committee for many years.
She shook her head. “No. Gave that up about a year ago. Don’t like driving to Lafayette.”
Steven snickered. “Especially, since you backed into the garage door. Remember that, Nana?”
She turned to him and smiled. “I remember.” Then she turned back to me.
I racked my brain in search of other things she’d been involved in when we were in high school, but I couldn’t remember anything. I squirmed under her intense gaze.
If she knew anything, now would be the time to ask. I’d told Beau I searched for information about a couple in the fifties, but I had not said much else. “Mrs. Mouton, I’m trying to find a couple from Bijou Bayou who were seeing each other around 1950.”
The green of her eyes lit up and her pupils dilated. “Really. How interesting.” She leaned forward. “Do you have any names?”
I paused. I hadn’t said anything about one member of the couple being a patient, but I didn’t want Beau to make the connection. “The man would have gone off to war. Korean War.”
Her eyes flashed toward Beau and then back to me. She straightened her shoulders and aligned her spoon next to her bowl. “Hmm.” She furrowed her brow. “The Perlouix family had a couple of boys go off to war, Carlton and Rusty. They were pretty popular back in our younger days for being rabble-rousers. They lived down the street from my childhood home, but we were never close. Then there was Troy Anderson and Billy Comeaux who lived in town. Those were the only veterans from our small town. Billy never came home.” She shrugged her shoulders.
“Did either of them date a girl from town?”
She took a bite of her shrimp boulette and chewed for much longer than necessary. Once she finally swallowed, she patted each side of her red lips, placed her napkin back onto her lap, and then asked, “How’s your grandmother?”
The abrupt change of subject threw me. I scrambled to understand why she would ignore my question. I turned to Beau. Had he noticed the brush off?
He smiled.
“She’s doing well. We anticipate she’ll be able to go home soon.”
“Have you asked her about this couple? Did you know her family used to live close to ours out on Highway 62?”
I hadn’t known my family had lived out in the country. “No, I haven’t asked her. Not yet. And I didn’t know you used to be neighbors.”
“We were best friends growing up.” She sipped her sweet tea. Her gaze met mine head on. “It’s a good idea to wait. She probably doesn’t know any more than I do. Most good people kept their distance from the Perlouix family.” Her forced grin made me regret accepting Beau’s invitation.
“Well.” Beau lowered his fork and crossed his arms on the edge of the table. “Steven is doing great in baseball. They haven’t lost a game yet. Isn’t that right, buddy?”
“Yeah, if we win all our games we get to go to state. Isn’t that cool?” Steven shoved a whole shrimp boulette into his mouth.
Grateful for Beau’s rescue, I nodded and thought of excuses to leave before dessert. The hammering pain growing in my temples should d
o it.
For the next half-hour, Beau and Steven volleyed for control of the conversation with exploits from Steven’s ball games. I suspected the diversion from his grandmother was intentional.
I struggled through dessert, bread pudding with bourbon sauce, and Mrs. Mouton’s fake smiles.
Out in the driveway, Beau opened my car door. “I’m sorry about my grandmother’s behavior. I’m not sure what that was about.”
“It’s OK. Not your fault.” I slid into the driver’s seat.
Steven ran out before Beau could close my car door. “Miss Cheryl, it was nice meeting you. Can you come out to one of my games? I’m playing tomorrow afternoon.”
What could I say? His big brown eyes were looking at me as though his very happiness depended on me attending his ballgame. With Beau’s brothers living out of town and his parents gone, Beau was the only family attending Steven’s games. “How about a rain check. I promised I’d sit with your mom this Saturday.”
“You know my mom?”
“We used to be friends a long time ago.”
“Cool. Maybe you can come out next week.”
“Maybe.” I smiled. “I’d like to see you slam those home runs you keep talking about.”
Beau shuffled on the asphalt driveway. “Cheryl, if you’re busy it’s OK. You don’t have to come out.”
“Dad, she said she wants to see me play.”
“Tell me what time next week, and I’ll be there.” I could do both, this one time.
Steven smiled and his eyes twinkled as he relayed the time and place.
The throbbing pain in my head ramped up its beat, and I knew I needed to get home. “I’ll see you then. Good night.”
“OK. Drive safely.” Beau closed the car door.
As I drove away, he and Steven waved.
On the way home, with my headache in full-attack mode, I tried to rationalize why I’d accepted Steven’s invitation but could only come up with one reason: I liked the kid, and he wanted someone other than his dad to watch him do what he loved and was good at. Saturday after next, when I went to Toucoin’s Park, I’d know for sure whether I’d made a mistake or not.
I recalled Beau’s grandmother’s words and body language. The two did not match. Was she Lady S? I scanned every inch of my hurting brain to remember her first name but couldn’t. I’d only known her as Mrs. Mouton.
Once home and neck-deep in bath bubbles, the tension in my muscles eased. Accepting Beau’s supper invitation proved to be one of my biggest mistakes lately. When would I learn? Although meeting Steven had been the more pleasant part of the evening. But…had my curiosity about Lady S skewed my better judgment? The simple question about Beau’s wife from his grandmother triggered a spasm of guilt that I’m sure manifested into my inferno headache. Maybe I deserved it. Maybe I should mind my own business and quit asking questions. Or had my questions hit a nerve that could reveal the truth about Lady S?
****
I spent Saturday morning cleaning house and playing with my poor neglected pooch. So much had happened in the last few weeks I’d been taking care of his primary needs only. Today I braved the heat and humidity and took him to a small dog park near my house. I sat on one of the park benches around a small pond waiting for Anthony, who’d promised to meet us there.
Mr. Bojangles ran wild after being cooped up for too long.
Anthony approached wearing blue jean shorts and a Festival Acadiens T-shirt. He carried two snow-cones, one in each hand. The gentle wind blew through his sandy-blond hair. So handsome and considerate. Why hadn’t he been snatched up yet? “Hey, Te.”
“Tante Lulu’s snoballs. You remembered!”
“The best snoballs in South Louisiana.” He handed me the dark red one.
“Anisette, my favorite.” I sucked from the straw and was rewarded with sweet syrupy goodness.
He kissed my cheek and then sat on the bench next to me. “Couldn’t pass by her snoball stand without stopping. Especially on a hot day like today.”
“Thank you. These are as good as I remembered.” I turned sideways on the bench. “What’s going on at the Broussard palace?”
He laughed. “You got that right. It’s like Mama is trying to turn Mawmaw into a queen. She’s doing her best to pamper her. So you can imagine what happens when the pampered tries to pamper and vice versa. Not pleasant.” He chuckled.
I laughed with him. “I bet it would rival the best reality shows.”
“Yep. Mawmaw is ready for her own house and keeps bugging Mama to take her home.”
Mr. Bojangles dropped his ragged tennis ball at my feet. I picked it up and threw it toward the woods. “I bet she is. She’s not one to be taken care of. She likes to be the one in charge. Do you think she’s ready?”
“I don’t know. She doesn’t seem to remember things as well as she did before. I’m a little worried about her being alone just yet.” He used the straw-spoon combination to shovel bits of blue bubble-gum flavored ice into his mouth. The edges of his lips sported a shade of electric blue. “Are you going over today? Maybe you can talk some sense into her.”
“Me?” I pointed to my chest. “Yeah, right. Like I could make Clarice Clement do anything she doesn’t want to do.”
“She is pretty stubborn.” Anthony lifted the ball Mr. Bojangles dropped at his feet. He stood and flung it across the park. We both watched in horror as it sailed toward the pond. I held my breath hoping it wouldn’t go in. My crazy dog would jump right in after it. Nothing like a gray and white dog in muddy pond water.
Anthony handed me his snoball and darted toward the pond.
I placed the tips of our snoball between the slants of the bench and raced after him.
His broad shoulders and athletic frame moved like lightning toward my dog. As fast as Anthony beamed forward, he missed by seconds.
The ball made a huge splash followed by a bigger one made by Mr. Bojangles.
Anthony turned back to me as I sailed after them. He shrugged his shoulders, kicked off his shoes, and tromped into the muddy water after my soaked dog.
He lifted my dripping Schnauzer from the pond and onto the bank and even went in after the floating ball that Mr. Bojangles had missed. Anthony threw the ball back toward the bench, and we both laughed as mud and water flew out from the once clean gray fur attached to the overexcited dog.
I grabbed Anthony’s shoes and headed back to the bench. Anthony caught up to me as Mr. Bojangles, covered in muck and mud, met us with the ball firmly planted between his teeth.
“He’s like a robot. Does he ever get tired of fetching?”
“Yes, in about thirty minutes.”
Anthony flung the ball away from the pond and then plopped next to me. Our icy treats slumped over as the hot sun melted them. We gathered what was left and slurped the slushy mix while Mr. Bojangles fetched his favorite toy.
I loved Anthony’s patience and gentle spirit. He was three years older than me and had not yet married. I wondered if he had some of the same hang ups I did. I slid my knee onto the bench and turned toward him. “Anthony, do you ever wonder why we aren’t married yet?”
He snickered or sighed. I couldn’t tell which. “Yeah, I wonder, and then I quickly erase the thought.” His eyes twinkled and tiny lines creased in the corners when he smiled.
“Seriously. Do you?”
He grabbed my hand. “Te. Yeah, I do wonder. I want a wife and kids. The whole thing, but then I think of Mama’s marriage and the pain it caused all of us. I’m not sure I could do it. Besides working seven-and-seven is hard on a marriage. I see those men with families. They’re miserable when they’re offshore. Of course, those are the ones who still care. Some of the men have empty-shell marriages so they’re happy offshore and dread going home. And then there are the ones who are crazy jealous and fear their wives are cheating on them when they’re gone. Sad thing is, some of them are right.”
“You know we had it good when Daddy was alive. I don’t remember too much b
ut enough to know that Mama was happy and Daddy was a good man.”
He nodded. “He was. They were happy together. Mama didn’t act all weird with him.”
“I know we didn’t have a good role model for a happy marriage after Daddy died, but we both know that. So why haven’t we been able to commit?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “I haven’t found the right girl. I know that. The truth is, I’m not going to find her unless I leave here.”
“Well, a lot of good it did me to leave. I didn’t find Mr. Right. And Houston is a big city. What about Angelle? Y’all dated for a while.”
“That was twelve years ago. She wanted a ring. I didn’t want to be married then. So she went off to college. Last I heard, she graduated from med school and was doing her residency at Children’s Hospital in New Orleans. I often wonder if she was “the one” I let get away.” He patted Mr. Bojangles on the head and tossed his ball again.
“Is she married?” I asked.
He shook his head. “I don’t know.”
A smile tugged at the corner of my lips. “We could find out.”
“What do you mean?”
“Duh, the Internet has everything. Especially if she’s a doctor. We could find out real quick.”
The corners of his eyes squinted as he contemplated what I suggested. “It would be nice to know. Not that I’ll go find her or anything.”
I laughed. “Why not go find her? Or at least send an e-mail or call. What would be the harm in that?”
“Cheryl, you don’t know what you’re asking.” He wiped off the perspiration dripping from his temple with the sleeve of his T-shirt.
“What do you mean by that?”
“If I called her, I’d be opening a can of worms I’m not sure I can deal with.”
A panting Mr. Bojangles perched at my feet.
“Let’s go back to my house and see if she’s married. If not, you can think about what to do next. No pressure. ‘K?” The word was one we used as kids when we wanted to reassure each other we were fine.
The Vigil Page 6