Crimson Bayou

by C. L. Bevill

  Mignon was alarmed. “Can I—”

  Thereze quickly interrupted her. “No, dear. You can’t. Ain’t no one can but God. God and maybe some democrats.” She laughed at her own joke. Then Thereze sighed and repeated Mignon’s question thoughtfully. “Why do we live out here?”

  Mignon didn’t say anything. She looked into her coffee and shook her head when Thereze pushed both a jar of sugar and a bottle of creamer at her. With a shrug, Thereze added sugar to hers and stirred it fiercely. “Why?” she repeated sympathetically. “I guess you didn’t know what you were before. Before Robert showed up on your doorstep, that is.”

  “I didn’t know,” Mignon said softly, “but it wouldn’t have mattered to me.”

  Thereze’s expression was considering. “No, I don’t reckon it would to you. You be a strong woman.” Her hand reached out and briefly touched a curl of Mignon’s red hair, letting it spring back into place. “With that beautiful hair. Good hair, that. What you did with the St. Michels and all, well, shows your strength of character.”

  There was a quality in Thereze’s eyes that Mignon found fascinating. Although the woman spoke with that lyrical Louisiana drawl and her speech deteriorated into the idioms she had used all her life, she was far from stupid. On the contrary, like many of the people Mignon had encountered in the South, there was innate intelligence, spirit, and vigor.

  “I just wanted to find out what happened to her,” Mignon said quietly.

  Thereze nodded. “I think we all knew in our hearts. Don’t no one run off and disappear lickety-split like that. Even with a rich man and all. All the Creoles know that. A Frenchman might take a Creole gal for a mistress, but he ain’t wont to marry her. No, he keeps the respectable woman for his wife.”

  Mignon didn’t correct the misinterpretation. She knew that Luc St. Michel had truly intended to take Garlande away and divorce his wife in her favor, but the knowledge wouldn’t impact Thereze one way or the other.

  “Like my namesake done,” Thereze said, “Marie Thérèse Coincoin herself.”

  “Robert said something about her.”

  “Oh,” Thereze sighed out the word. “I know we probably ain’t related. But all the Creoles in the area would like to think they was.”

  “Who was she?”

  “Actually, she be the most important woman, not really a Creole I reckon, but the one who helped us most. And that question you had, the answer be connected to her, too.” Thereze paused to take a sip of her coffee. From outside, the noise of the band had stopped and then suddenly resumed with a rousing version of “Oh, Suzannah.” “Coincoin was a slave back in the days when the parish weren’t a parish. Back when Spain owned the land and courageous men came to do what they needed to do to become rich off the land, off what they be finding here. But France took over from Spain, and Coincoin were still just a slave. A gal descended from those from deepest Africa, she worked in the household of the French commander of the Natchitoches post. His name was St. Denis.” She said the name all in one word, Sindenee.

  Mignon could remember the names from her reading but little else.

  “Well, some folks say that Coincoin saved the Madame St. Denis from an awful sickness using hoodoo witchcraft, and she was freed in appreciation.” Thereze’s face was rueful. “But the truth be a little more simple. A little more human-like, if you get my meaning.” She paused, and Mignon gazed at her with rapt attention. “Coincoin was a beautiful young thing, and she weren’t stupid. She caught the eye of a powerful Frenchman and he took her to his bed. She bore him several children. I reckon she must had some hold on his heart because he kept her in his bed for nigh on two decades. Eventually she got her freedom, and she got a land grant of some of the richest, most fertile land around. Don’t know exactly how Coincoin worked that one. I think she must have been one right clever, right beautiful gal. She and her children built themselves an empire right on the edge of the Cane River. She grew indigo, which was mighty valuable then. She had her kinfolk hunt for bears and sold their lard. She was smart, no question ‘bout that. Ifin she were around today, I don’t doubt she’d be a congresswoman, her.”

  Mignon continued to drink the coffee and said nothing. Anyone who had been a slave and progressed to a land owner must have had more than inherent acumen and common sense. Marie Thérèse Coincoin must have been a phenomenal woman.

  “Her children grew wealthy, and they married and made more little children, but they also had relationships with the French and the Spanish. Those what descended from Coincoin created a plantation. Yucca Plantation it was known as then. Now it’s called Melrose. A few decades back, some folks done brought it back to its original glory, and it’s a museum now. But the Creole population spread out in the area. French and African blood mixed together. Spanish blood, too. Some Indian, as well. And then when the United States bought Louisiana, there was a gradual change. A decline of acceptance. The Creoles saw the lack of it. They pulled back into the bayous, they kept to themselves. They knew they weren’t as equal as that piece of paper in Washington, D.C. said they was.” Thereze’s face was calmly compliant of the facts she was presenting. She studied Mignon tranquilly and went on, “We not exactly white. We not exactly black. We neither. And both. We learned to depend on ourselves.”

  “But it’s changing, isn’t it?” Mignon said.

  “Oh yes,” Thereze said with a sigh that sounded like a wheeze. She tugged on a sweater that had been hanging on the back of her chair. “Changing. Family pass for white folks. They leave. Don’t want to live in ‘the swamp.’ They be wanting a place with running water. Or they want something more. Like Robert. I know he be wanting to go to college. He got several classes already. You know they offer them college classes, right on board that big old ship he be sailing out on? Well, I think he wants a house what ain’t on stilts and a gal who will give him children that no one will ask questions about.”

  “Questions?” Mignon repeated.

  “Questions about the color of their skin,” Thereze finally said. “I know folks look at me and say, ‘Now what she be?’ Italian? Hispanic? Maybe something else? I had one fella ask me if I were from Samoa.” She guffawed, and it sounded exactly like her son’s laugh. “Robert say people in the navy, they be accepting of each other. Whites work with blacks. Blacks with whites. No problem. And while they ain’t got a problem with him, they say to him, ‘Now what be you?’ They don’t know ‘xactly what do with that boy. He ain’t anything they can put a label on. Makes them all puzzled-like.”

  Mignon thought about it. “But they got over it, right? He sounds like he likes being in the navy.”

  “Yes, they got over it, most of them. I think a few give him some tongue-lashing, but oh, Robert, he gives back as good as he gets. And ifin they don’t, he be bashing a few heads together.” Thereze’s eyes were proud. They flickered over to the bookshelf, and Mignon’s followed to see a framed photograph of Robert in his uniform. He was a handsome young man who smiled brilliantly out at the photographer. “Well, he be a good boy, but he ain’t right lately.”

  Mignon’s eyes went back to Thereze. She continued to study the photograph. And then she said, “Not since that girl he liked so much up and died.” Her brown eyes switched to Mignon’s. “But then you know about that, don’t you? Since you was the one who found her.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Friday, March 14th – Saturday, March 15th

  I had a little puppy. His name was Tiny Tim.

  I put him in the bathtub, to see if he could swim.

  He drank all the water, he ate a bar of soap.

  The next thing you know he had a bubble in his throat.

  In came the doctor, in came the nurse.

  In came the lady with the alligator purse.

  Out went the doctor, out went the nurse.

  Out went the lady with the alligator purse.

  - Children’s jump rope rhyme

  Thereze Dubeaux tired easily, Mignon discovered. After an hour of chatti
ng about various family members and general history, she gently shooed Mignon out of her tiny house. On the steep flight of steps, Thereze admonished Mignon to enjoy herself and make sure she met everyone she could.

  But Mignon wandered out into the night with a troubled heart. Robert had said something about a special young woman he had his eye on. Thereze had unthinkingly revealed that it had been, in fact, Dara Honore. Robert had gone to Dara’s funeral in his crisp uniform, the expression on his face had been what Mignon had been used to seeing, that of genial good humor tinged by sorrow. But what did she know about how Robert exhibited grief?

  And that train of thought brought her to another disturbing scenario, one that indicated devious planning and foresight that gave Mignon a shudder at the thought that it might be true. If Robert were involved somehow in Dara’s death, then he had deliberately gone to Mignon’s home, knowing of her connection with John Henry. He couldn’t have known that she would have been the one to find Dara’s body, but he would know that she had an inside line to what was occurring in the sheriff’s department investigation and that he could pump her for information that would benefit him.

  The band was playing a volatile version of “‘Jolie Blonde,’” and Mignon turned toward the musicians with a heaviness weighing at her thoughts like a lead anchor. Robert had been on leave from the military when Dara had been murdered. He probably knew exactly where Dara was located. He knew the bayous very well; he had bragged about knowing where to take Mignon. She could even think of a viable reason why he might have done such a thing. Dara had been involved with another man, Tomas Clovis. Had Dara gone out after arguing with Sister Helena to meet Tomas or to meet Robert?

  Several men passed by Mignon as she stood in the shadows of one of the houses. “Come on, little miss thing!” called one. “We got sets of arms what needs filling!” They went on to where a group of men and women were dancing exuberantly in front of the band. Mignon looked around for John Henry, but she couldn’t see his tall form. For a single moment, she thought she saw Sister Helena’s trim form hurrying through a distant crowd of people, vanishing into the night, the wimple as black as her surroundings. Mignon asked herself if she had truly seen the sister or had it been her imagination?

  Suddenly, Mignon felt very much alone. She’d wanted answers for uncomfortable questions, and she’d gotten them, but they weren’t the ones she’d been expecting.

  These are people, she thought. Good people. They care about their families. They want what is best for them. And they are also very much human.

  Because Robert had some attachment or connection to Dara didn’t necessarily mean that he’d murdered her. She caught a glimpse of him then. Robert had his arm around a slim young woman and was laughing down into her face. Grieving for a young woman he’d had an eye on?

  “Robert hides behind his laughter,” said a frail voice, and Mignon turned with a little start.

  There was an elderly woman standing nearby. Her hair was pure white, thinning with time, and mostly covered with a red scarf that was tied in a square knot at the base of her skull. Her eyes were deep and dark in the skipping shadows caused by the bonfires and barbeque pits. Standing only four foot eleven inches, the woman had a bent shape that denoted osteoporosis of the spine. She held a carved cane in one hand, using it to balance herself.

  Mignon speculated if her newfound-distant relatives were mind readers.

  The woman barked a laugh out. “Not hardly, dear. Your face is like an open book right now. And well, your hair, your hair is like the fires in the pits. No question about whose daughter you are. Garlande Dubeaux would have been proud of you. My name is Leelah Prudhomme. And you are, of course, Mignon Thibeaux.”

  Leelah laughed at Mignon’s vacant expression. “We don’t all talk like backwoods savages, Mignon. I have two college degrees. One in history, the other one in education. I taught middle school for more years than you’ve been alive.”

  •

  “Why did you say what you said about Robert?” Mignon asked Leelah. Leelah had taken Mignon’s arm as if she were her own grandchild and led her toward where tables had been set up near the fires. Men and women both called respectfully to Leelah, calling her Grand-maman, Grannywoman, and Mam-maw.

  Leelah sat herself down in a lawn chair with arms and propped her elaborately carved cane at her side. Mignon could see a tangle of alligators and snakes that slithered and crawled down the dark wood in smooth shapes that must have taken months for some pair of talented hands to complete. But instead of admiration for what was an intricate piece of artwork, Mignon felt a shudder of distaste. The alligator’s eyes seemed to glitter in the firelight, and the snake’s fangs glistened with anticipation.

  “Why do you think?” Leelah asked after she had made herself comfortable, referring to her own comment about Robert.

  “Because I was looking at Robert,” Mignon answered honestly. “Because you probably knew that Thereze would let the information slip out.”

  Leelah’s face was a consortium of lines and wrinkles. The character in her face suggested that she was very old. Mignon hadn’t realized just how old before because the elderly woman had been standing in a bank of shadows. However, like many of the faces of the Creoles Mignon had met, it was a stark and beautiful façade even in the sunset of life. A shrewd smile curled Leelah’s lips. “Yes, I thought Thereze would let the proverbial cat out of the bag. That one, well, she’s been ill.”

  “Cancer,” Mignon said. It wasn’t a question.

  “Cancer,” Leelah agreed. “She’s undergoing chemotherapy treatment now. Fortunately, her insurance from her last employer covers it. That and disability. I believe Robert is working on making her his dependent so that the military might cover some of the costs.”

  “That’s why he’s home on leave,” Mignon said sadly. “Spending as much time with her as possible.” Not to murder Dara? Just a coincidence? A sad, unfortunate, damnable coincidence. If Robert were innocent, then he must be in wretched pain from the death of Dara and the inevitability of his mother’s disease.

  “Sit down, Mignon,” Leelah instructed and pointed to the chair at her right side.

  Mignon’s eyebrows lifted inquisitively, but she did as she was instructed. She took a moment to consider the crowd of people around them who seemed to be studiously ignoring them. It was as if the crown ruler had commanded a private audience with a new swain, and all were harkening to the queen’s dominion. It brought more questions to Mignon’s mind. Was Leelah Prudhomme some sort of matriarch? And was Mignon being judged by her?

  “I was born during the Great Depression,” Leelah said quietly. “I don’t remember it, but I do remember that it didn’t seem to affect those in the bayous much. We were always poor. We hunted the bayous for our meat, and we made do as we had always done. My father was a Creole named Celestin Villemont, a self-educated man who dreamed that his children would go to college. And I did attend. I went North and I passed. Do you know what that means?”

  Mignon said solemnly, “It means that people thought you were white.”

  Leelah’s face was serene as she related what was common history to her. “My great-grandmother was a slave in 1863 when Mr. Lincoln proclaimed to all and sundry that slavery shall be no more. She had already fled to the bayous to live off her wits, when some of the Creoles who lived here took pity on her. The Union soldiers would not follow into the bayous because of the pitfalls that awaited them. Many had not returned once they ventured inside the confines of what was known as ‘our home.’ My grandmother was what they called a Griffe, ¾ Negro and ¼ white. They don’t use those classifications now, else they might call me a quadroon or octoroon, depending on how much black blood they judged me to possess. As recently as ten years ago, I’ve heard a white man say that an individual is black if so much as a single drop of black blood runs in their veins.”

  “I’ve heard that one before,” Mignon admitted slowly. Although in the day and age of a U.S. President who was half Afr
ican, it seemed outrageously outdated.

  “Which makes you black as well, if you subscribe to that frame of reference,” Leelah paused and then went on. “Well, when I went to a special college for girls in the North, it did matter. My father was a Creole and equal parts of everything and equal parts of nothing all mixed together. In that day, young black women, or even those who were Creole, did not go to schools of higher learning. Not unless one was rich or connected. Perhaps not even then.”

  “I can’t imagine what that must have been like,” Mignon admitted. “It seems like it was an eternity in thinking apart from now.”

  “Yes, I like that. An eternity in thinking,” Leelah said with a smile bending her wrinkled visage. “It was, and they never realized that I was not who I portrayed myself to be. I didn’t visit my family for four years. I didn’t even receive a letter from them. I worked through a scholarship program, and I borrowed enough money to see me through. My family knew what I was about. And they knew that they wouldn’t hear from me unless it was an emergency.” Her smile faded, and her voice became deadly serious. “But I did what I had to do to ensure that I was educated, to ensure that we survived.”

  “I understand that,” Mignon said earnestly.

  “Yes, I think you do,” Leelah approved. “But I’m not sure if you understand how it is here, in this place, today. Even today.”

  Mignon took a moment to look around her. The band had paused for refreshments. People were still cooking and some had begun to serve food. Robert was talking with another young woman, appearing as though he was quite happy. John Henry was nowhere in sight, and for a second Mignon was mildly alarmed, but she forced the thought away. He was probably telling Fred how to properly build a still so they wouldn’t get lead poisoning or something else that would amaze Mignon, if she were to witness it. “I understand that it’s still hard. That you have to be cautious. That I’m relatively unknown. That you don’t know me, and you’re not sure if you should embrace me in the family bosom.”