I was also learning some things that I’d rather not think about. Martin’s folktales were pretty idealistic. About brave, clever people like Savitri. I wasn’t like her. All I want is to be close to someone, to belong to someone. To Richard. But why would anyone want me? If Yama came through the forest toward me, Richard or no Richard, I’d run. I’d feel guilty about it, but I can’t imagine doing anything else.
The evening finished late. Back home, I parked the car on the night-quiet street and walked softly past Francine’s darkened house. As I reached our place, Richard’s voice startled me, not loud but charged with feeling.
“I’m scared, I’m so scared. I’m trapped. I can’t get out. I want out. Oh, God, let me out!”
I dropped my purse on purpose just outside the door. I thought if he heard me coming, he could get himself together before I had to look at his face. As I came in, he was taking the boy glove puppet off his hand. He looked shocked, and not one bit glad to see me.
He’s done some good work on the problem of expressing emotion. But if that’s how he feels about being a father, I guess we won’t be getting married, will we?
~ 17 ~
February 1975
San Pedro
Lacey
I called Eddie a couple of weeks before Mardi Gras to let him know our schedule in New Orleans.
“You know, I’ve been thinking,” he said, “and I talked it over with my friend Francine. She asked me to invite you to stay at her place instead of going to a hotel.”
“Oh, Eddie, I couldn’t possibly intrude on her. I mean, she doesn’t know us—we’d just be underfoot.”
“It wouldn’t be an intrusion. I’m sure it wouldn’t. Francine has a mother-in-law house in her backyard, so you’d really be on your own. As a matter of fact, it’s where Kathy lived. Francine never rented it to anyone else. She keeps hoping Kathy will come back.”
“Would it be okay if I talk it over with my husband and call you later?”
“Sure. Just let me know. And we’ll get together while you’re here, either way.”
I thought staying with Kathy’s friends was a great idea, but I had no idea how Willis would feel. He’d be glad to save the money, but he might think Gretna was a little too far from downtown. He also might be uncomfortable about staying with people he didn’t know, private house or no private house.
But the main concern was slowly dawning. I did know about southern hospitality, but these people seemed surprisingly eager to take us in, considering they didn’t know us from Adam.
I’d launched this Mama Fix-It campaign believing that Kathy’s problems were likely to be kid ones—misunderstandings I could clear up without much trouble. Even after I’d seen her the day of the Christmas Faire, I’d thought she was probably overreacting to situations that would look manageable to an adult.
But Eddie was no kid. He sounded like he’d been around the block a few times. And his voice had an edge of desperation that made me wonder if I was going to be able to help at all.
What had I gotten myself into?
~ 18 ~
April 1973
New Orleans
Kathy
“Is Francine black?” asked Richard.
Thu, Martin, and Eddie looked up, surprised at the odd question right after Martin’s usual table grace. We were having dinner at the picnic table in our yard, bundled in sweaters and jackets. It was my idea—I didn’t want to wait any longer to invite them over, and Martin’s chair couldn’t get into the house because of the steps. I was serving steaming gumbo, fresh homemade bread, and hot tea to make up for the chilly April dusk.
Eddie raised an eyebrow. “Yes and no,” he said. “She’s a Creole.”
Richard tore a chunk off the braided loaf and passed me the basket. “Is that different?” he asked.
“Depends. There are French Creoles, black Creoles, and Creoles of Color. Goes back a lot of years here. Francine’s what you’d call a Creole of Color. The old gens de couleur libre,” Eddie said.
Richard frowned. “I have no idea what that means,” he said.
“Free people of color,” Thu translated. “Which color are they talking about?” She kept an eye on Dom and Joss as they scampered around, chasing an early lightning bug.
Eddie snorted. “Color always means black, Thu,” he answered. “Pass the bread, would you, Kathy?”
I started the basket toward Eddie. Eager hands reached in all along the way, but there was plenty. I poured tea into mugs and passed them, too.
“So, exactly who is a Creole?” Richard asked.
Eddie laughed. “Seems like it’s anyone who says they are.” He took Martin’s bowl and ladled gumbo into it from the pot.
“She asked if I was one.” Richard looked confused. He held out his bowl as if Eddie could fill it with information along with the soup.
“She does tend to include people,” said Eddie. With all the soup bowls filled, he sat down and tasted from his. “Why don’t you ask her about it?” He took some filé and passed the jar to Thu. She sprinkled it on top of the gumbo, as the rest of us were doing, and then squinted at the label. In the dimming light, she gave up quickly and passed it to Richard.
“I thought she might be offended,” Richard said.
“Francine?” Eddie laughed. “Not her. Francine’s a typical Creole. Proud as Lucifer, every one of them. The only problem with asking about Creoles is that she’ll talk your ear off, half of it in French.” He looked around. “She coming tonight?”
“No, she’s off at her daughter’s. She said to ask you for some tomatoes and okra, when you get a chance,” I told him.
Eddie’s spoon stopped halfway to his mouth. “Tomatoes and okra! Where am I going to get decent tomatoes and okra, middle of April?”
I shrugged. “I think that’s her problem, too.”
“What do you do with okra?” asked Thu. She loved good cooking as much as any New Orleanian, and was starting to experiment with local specialties. I wasn’t sure how she would fit okra into her repertoire, though, and sort of hoped she’d lose interest.
“Roll it in cornmeal and fry it, that’s the best,” offered Eddie. “Otherwise, it tends to come out slimy. You can thicken gumbo with it, too.” He swirled his spoon through the gumbo, checking the ingredients. “Kathy doesn’t have any in this one, though.”
“No,” I said quickly. “I don’t like it. I used filé instead.”
“We use filé too,” said Thu. “Gumbo is like bouillabaisse. I didn’t know it could be thickened with okra.”
She called in French to the boys, who were getting excited chasing the bug. I knew vaguely that France had held Vietnam for a while.
Will she mind if I ask? “Is your family French as well as Vietnamese?” I ventured.
“Oh, no. But the French were in Vietnam for a hundred years or more. My family were artists in Hue and Saigon. We had partly a French education.”
“Do you mind my asking?” She didn’t sound as if she did, but Mom had always said not to ask personal questions.
“Not at all. In fact, I’d rather you did. Why does no one ask? Like Richard, being afraid to ask about Francine. Why is it?” Dom and Joss ran to her, and she tousled their hair and gave them soup and bread.
“You never know if people might have a chip on their shoulder,” I said.
“Chip?” Thu’s English was so fluent, I tended to forget she didn’t know all the idioms.
“Might be sort of sensitive,” I explained. “Or ready to get mad about it for their own reasons.”
Martin looked up from his plate. “Same thing with the wheelchair,” he said. “Parents tell their kids not to stare at people in wheelchairs. So, nobody looks at all. Everyone I see just happens to be looking the other way.” He laughed. “I always wanted to turn heads—guess I forgot to specify which direction.”
“It’s like being a veteran,” Richard said. “No one wants to think about it. I swear, I might as well be a leper.” Suddenly he looked a
t Thu in horror, realizing what he’d admitted.
She was unperturbed. “I thought you’d been a soldier. So have most of the men in my country, and not only this generation, either. Over the years, some of my family have been on one side, some on the other. That part is hard.”
She looked straight at Richard with trouble in her face. “This is our misfortune, all of us. But even Uncle Ho said our quarrel is not with the American people.”
“Uncle Ho?” he asked, hoarsely.
“Ho Chi Minh,” she explained.
“Ho Chi Minh was your uncle?” Eddie exclaimed.
“Not like an uncle here. In Vietnam, we believe we’re all related. So, we say “sister,” “aunt,” “uncle,” depending on the person’s status. It’s polite.” Thu looked around to see whether we understood.
“Actually,” said Eddie, “I feel that way about this neighborhood. Most of us are like family. Back in my mother’s day, it was true most places, but here it’s not gone yet.”
“We’re sort of a motley family,” Martin objected. “An Italian, a black soldier, a gimp Aussie, a Vietnamese, a gens de couleur libre, and Kathy. . . . What are you, Kathy?”
I scraped the last of the gumbo from my bowl. “Worst thing of all. A Yankee.”
“You are?” Martin looked up in surprise. “You have a southern accent.”
“I was born in Illinois. My dad moved us south when he got hired at LSU.”
“I’ll never tell. Provided you give me one million dollars in a plain brown bag.” He put out his hand for the loot.
I laughed. “You can’t blackmail me. I’m a relative. We’re the Motley family.”
“The Motley family,” said Eddie. “I like it! That’s who we are—the Motley family!” He raised his mug in a toast.
“How can we just say we’re a family?” asked Richard.
“Same way a person can just say they’re a Creole, I guess. Who has the right to tell us we’re not?” Eddie countered. We all raised our mugs.
I reached out to touch Dom’s silky hair. We were sort of a mixed bunch. Maybe that’s why, for once, I feel like I belong.
“The baby will be even more mixed,” I said without thinking. Me and my big mouth—Richard will be mad.
“Baby?” asked Martin. He and Thu each picked up a twin. “Congratulations! I thought you were getting a bit stout. But, you know, I didn’t want to say anything. . . .”
“In case I had a chip on my shoulder,” I agreed.
“To the youngest Motley!” Martin said, raising his mug. All the mugs were raised again—except for Richard’s.
“When’s it due?” Martin asked.
“September.”
“What are you going to name it?” asked Thu.
“We haven’t decided.” No “we” about it—Richard won’t discuss the baby at all. I hope they don’t notice how withdrawn he looks all of a sudden.
“You need a name,” said Martin. “Which names are you considering?”
“Maybe one for either a boy or a girl. That way, we’ll have one no matter which it is.”
Martin considered this. “Like Jo or Jamie?” he asked.
“Jamie! We didn’t think of that. I like Jamie.”
I smiled at Martin, and he bowed from his chair. “Do I get to be the godfather?”
“Eddie already has dibs. Do you get two?”
“Only if it’s a boy,” said Martin. “Hey, Eddie—you knew and you didn’t tell? Not fair, buddy.” Martin turned back to me. “You’d better quit hauling the sets and props around like you have been, or neither one of us will be a godfather.”
“Lord, Martin, I’m not made out of glass.” I looked at Richard. How is he taking all this? He looks a million miles away. The conversation dropped, and he came out of his reverie.
“I need to work some more with the shadow puppets,” he mumbled. I wondered if he’d heard us at all. Eddie clinked his knife on his glass.
“Attention, all members of the Motley family! You are invited to attend Easter Vigil service at Our Lady of Lourdes next Saturday night with Francine and me. Please come. It’s a Motley family tradition.”
Thu laughed. “How can it be a tradition when you formed the Motley family ten minutes ago, Eddie?”
“I formed the traditions at the same time.”
“I can’t wait to find out what the other ones are,” she said.
“One is the annual family reunion,” Eddie announced. “This is the first.”
“Richard and I aren’t Catholic,” I said, getting back to his invitation. “I’m Episcopalian and Richard’s a Baptist.”
Eddie turned to Richard. “Do they have Easter Vigil at the Baptist Church?”
“I don’t think so.”
“So, come with us.”
It didn’t seem completely logical, but that wasn’t any reason not to go. I gathered the empty bowls, and wrapped the leftover bread in a napkin. Richard was off in his own thoughts again—probably puppets. The boys had dropped off to sleep. The gumbo was gone, and everyone was starting to shiver. We said good night. The first Motley family reunion was over.
* * *
The neighborhood was busy Saturday night as Richard and I walked to Martin’s house. The circles of light from the porches almost-but-not-quite touched, like flower heads in the sweet clover chains I braided as a little girl. Doors of houses and doors of cars closed softly, and a voice called, “Let’s go, let’s go now.” All the walkers were headed the same way.
Richard and I were awkward, churchgoing-solemn. Richard wore his gray graduation suit, and I had on a secondhand maternity dress. I was at an in-between stage—maternity clothes swamped me, but nothing else was comfortable. Francine had given me a lace circle to cover my head, like the one she was wearing. They made me think of Tante Beatrice’s doilies.
Thu answered Richard’s knock. I’d never seen her wear anything but jeans and a T-shirt before, but here she was, stunning in a silky red ao dai. A black mantilla floated over her hair. Eddie and Francine had already arrived, so we started for Our Lady of Lourdes right away.
Dom was whining because it was Joss’s turn to ride in Martin’s lap, so Richard took him from Thu and carried him piggyback. Dom laughed with glee to be riding so high, and the others laughed too. I was startled and then touched by their casualness. Like we were headed over to a friend’s place.
The church was dark as we approached, but the lawn outside the front door was crowded. We waited quietly. The crowd passed around unlit candles.
A group near the entrance of the church stood around something that looked like a small table. A flame struck, faded, steadied. A fire sprang up in the bowl-like top of the table.
A huge candle was lit, and people began filing through the doors. Altar boys scurried with tapers to spread the light to the congregation’s candles. Waves of light followed the great candle’s progress to the altar. A voice came out of the dim, singing strongly and alone:
“Rejoice, heavenly powers! Sing, choirs of angels!”
The points of flame pushed back the darkness, and I felt goose bumps on my arms. Richard, intent beside me, had the face of an African angel. I couldn’t see the singer from where I sat, but I heard every word, so distinct that he might have been singing especially for me:
“The night will be as clear as day: it will become my light, my joy. The power of this holy night dispels all evil, washes guilt away, restores lost innocence, brings mourners joy; it casts out hatred, brings us peace, and humbles earthly pride. Night truly blessed when heaven is wedded to earth, and man is reconciled with God!”
I gripped the candle until my nails made crescents in the wax. Lost innocence brought back, and peace—was that what Easter was about? Could a soldier ever be innocent again? The tears running down my cheeks were almost as hot as the wax drips that rolled burning over my hand. I didn’t wipe either away.
Readings and prayers and songs followed, and I sat and stood and knelt with the others. When they said, �
��I will take you out of the nations; I will gather you from all the countries and bring you back into your own land,” I looked secretly at Thu. Did she miss her country? Was it gone forever, destroyed by our guns and chemicals? Richard had helped to do that.
I have too—I’ve never protested the war. It’s never felt real to me until now. Martin was right. No one is innocent. That’s why Richard cries in his sleep. That’s why he’s afraid to be a father.
“I will give you a new heart and put a new spirit in you; I will remove from you your heart of stone and give you a heart of flesh.”
A new heart and a new spirit. . . . My baby, my Jamie, she has to grow up in a different world from this one we’ve made. I knelt in silent anguish, thinking of the women whose children hadn’t been able to do that. What can anyone do to change it? The puppets are supposed to be for peace, but what can they do? Savitri, eighteen inches high, stands in front of a tank. It rolls over her without even a bump.
The priest held up the circle of bread. “Behold the Lamb of God who takes away the sins of the world.”
“Lord, I am not worthy to receive you,” the congregation answered. “But only say the word and I shall be healed.”
After Mass, we trailed home, exhausted. Richard put his arm around me as we walked alone though the night.
* * *
April ended with early heat that year. Every time I looked, Francine’s rosebushes had popped out more flowers—they reminded me of a jack-in-the-box. Hummingbirds dipped in and out of the red ones all day, and after the sun went down, lightning bugs made neon processions.
We were learning The Snow Queen with the puppets. Martin had proposed it the week before, as we sat around his living room after a rehearsal.
“You’re the boss,” Richard had said.
Martin shook his head. “Not that kind of boss. I want us to decide together.” He kept the stack of scripts in his lap.
“So, why do it?” Richard asked.
“Because we need a strong Christmas piece, and I think it has a good message.”
It sounded convincing to me. “So, why not do it?” I asked.
Martin opened the top script and riffled the pages. “It’s not a folktale. It’s a literary fairy tale. It doesn’t have the international flavor that we plan to specialize in.”
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