Copyright
ISBN 1-59310-633-5
Copyright © 2005 by Kathleen Miller Y’Barbo. All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the permission of Truly Yours, an imprint of Barbour Publishing, Inc., PO Box 719, Uhrichsville, Ohio 44683.
All scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.
All of the characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events is purely coincidental.
Our mission is to publish and distribute inspirational products offering exceptional value and biblical encouragement to the masses.
Author’s Note
Wherever possible, I have inserted a bit of the native language of the Louisiana Acadians. A spoken language rather than a written one, Cajun French—as the language is known—is a blend of proper French, African influences, Indian words, and local dialect. The language has been passed down by word of mouth over generations and thus can vary slightly from one community to the next among the bayou people. A dictionary of common Cajun French phrases has been provided at the end of this novel. Any mistake is mine alone.
Guide to Conversational Cajun French
Allons – Let’s go
Arête – Stop
Bonjour – Good morning
Bonsoir – Good evening
Ça va bien, merci – I am fine, thank you
C’est moi – It’s me
C’est tout – That’s all
Cher – Dear or darling
Comment ça va? – How’s it going?
Dieu te beni – God bless you
Je t’aime – I love you
Le bon Dieu – The good Lord
Madame – A married woman
Mademoiselle – An unmarried woman or girl
Merci – Thank you
Merci beaucoup – Thank you very much
Mes ami(s) – My friend(s)
Monsieur – A man
Pas du tout – Not at all
Quoi y’a – What’s wrong?
Sa fini pas – It never ends
Sa te regard pas – It doesn’t concern you
Vien ici – Come here
One
Latagnier, Louisiana—March 1904
Most days, the effort not to eavesdrop proved too much for Clothilde Trahan, especially when the pastor came to call. It was a sin, and she knew it, but the Lord had made her curious. Knowing the difference between inquisitive and nosey, however, was an ongoing project.
Then there was the problem of speaking her mind when good sense and proper raising told her she ought not. It did keep her busy, this effort to keep her ears and her mouth from causing her grief.
Just about the only time she stayed out of trouble was when she had her nose in one of Uncle Joe’s or Tante Flo’s books. Fortunately, her adopted parents—the childless sister and brother-in-law to her late mother—valued a good book over almost anything except the Good Book. Quick to catch on, Cleo soon found books became the friends she would otherwise not have in this isolated area of the Bayou Nouvelle.
Funny thing. This time books just might be the cause of the problem.
“I declare, mon ami, it’s a crying shame,” she heard the reverend say. “There ought to be something we can do about it.”
Cleo leaned closer to the parlor doors, keeping the dust rag moving along the cypress wainscoting in case Tante Flo might quietly wander down from her afternoon nap. For her uncle to close the parlor doors on a Tuesday afternoon meant something big was afoot. It also meant he didn’t want her listening.
But to what?
“I agree with you, Joe. I can’t tell you how many letters I’ve written, and nothing seems to come of it. The powers that be up in New Orleans, well, they got bigger fish to fry.”
The reverend used his Sunday voice, the loud, insistent one that called for action rather than the softer thank-you-for-the-dinner-invitation version she generally heard outside the churchyard. Another reason for concern.
“Even if we could manage a way around the how of it, we’d still have to find a place to hold the classes. And then there’s the problem of the teacher. Have you had any luck?”
“I sent a few letters,” Uncle Joe said, “but so far there’s been no one willing to quit a sure job teaching to come take a chance on a town with no schoolhouse and no money to pay a teacher.”
Cleo let the rag hang limp in her hand. Realization dawned. The school. They were talking about it again.
For all the folks who called Latagnier home, there was much to recommend the little place. Good food and good friends, that’s what bayou folks made. But for all the common sense the people of her adopted home held, few had the book learning to go along with it.
To be sure, Uncle Joe had been educated over in New Orleans, but he was one of the rare few. He’d met and married Tante Flo there and taken her from the schoolroom where she presided to the home where they still lived today.
No doubt in the beginning Tante had expected she would fill the rooms of this place with babies to make up for the children she’d turned over to another teacher at the end of the term. Instead, the cradles were never filled. Not once. At least not until Cleo came to live with them at the age of three.
But that was a story unto itself, fifteen years in the past and not worthy of consideration when an event such as the one going on behind the parlor doors was occurring.
Through the tiny crack in the sliding doors, Cleo could barely make out the shape of the pastor sitting beside the fireplace in the stiff, horsehair chair. Gesturing while leaning forward, he reminded Cleo of the funny little praying mantis she had caught on the screen just yesterday.
Although she could not see him, she knew Uncle Joe would be across from him, probably perching his wiry self on the edge of the rosewood divan. Between them would be the remains of a plate of cookies alongside two of Tante Flo’s teacups, a wedding gift from the New Orleans side of the family and brought out only on special occasions: Christmas, anniversaries, birthdays, and visits from Pastor Broussard. With Uncle Joe being an elder, the pastor’s visits were the most common.
Cleo let the pretense and the rag drop. “Of course. The teacups.” She smiled and bustled toward the summer kitchen to put water on to boil. Where were her manners?
An eternity later, the big pot had boiled, and she wrapped a thick towel around its handle and headed for the parlor. “More tea,” she said as she pushed the doors aside and barged in. Avoiding Uncle Joe’s gaze, she centered her efforts on acting the hostess Tante Flo had trained her to be. “Bonjour, Pastor Broussard. Sugar?” she asked as she set the tray aside and poured steaming water into the pot.
“Bonjour, Mademoiselle Trahan.”
“Clothilde,” Uncle Joe said.
One word. Many meanings. None good. She braved a look. Did she detect a smile?
“I wondered when you’d find a way in here. I’m sure the wall outside the door shines like a new penny.”
Cleo felt the color rise in her cheeks. “Why, Uncle Joe, whatever are you talking about? I’m just doing my chores like Tante Flo asked.”
“The Lord loves a busy body,” the reverend said. “And that’s two words, not one.”
“Yes, sir,” she said softly.
Uncle Joe settled back on the divan and grinned. “Remind me to tell Flo there’s more to dusting the hallway than just that little section beside the parlor door she told you to concentrate on.” He winked at Cleo. “Now along with you, cher. The reverend and I have business to conduct.”
“Oui,” she
said under her breath, all the while wishing she had the gall to plop down on the divan beside her uncle and tell them exactly how they could solve the problem of finding a place for the local schoolhouse.
She took her time collecting the items to take back to the kitchen. Just when she thought the men would never resume their conversation, the pastor set down his teacup. “I declare, Joe, we’re in the business of saving souls, but we ought to do something for them while they’re waiting for Glory, don’t you think?”
Cleo gathered up the tray and pretended to study the door. She walked as slowly as she could, but still she traversed the distance far too quickly.
“I agree,” Uncle Joe said. “But even if we could find a place to hold classes until we raise the money for a decent schoolhouse, who in the world would we get to teach the children?”
The old building in the corner of the property, she longed to say. Fix it and fill it with children, and I’ll teach them. Instead, she clamped down on her tongue, tucked the tray under her arm, and shoved open the parlor door.
“Clothilde Trahan, vien ici. Where have you got off to?” Tante Flo’s voice coiled through the room and made Cleo cringe. Her aunt would have her hide for sure if she found her bothering the menfolk.
“Coming.” Cleo failed to reach the hallway before Tante Flo barged through, nearly upsetting the pan of hot water. Tiny in stature but with a smile that radiated larger-than-life love, Cleo’s aunt now wore just the opposite—an uncharacteristic frown. “What have you been up to, child?”
“Flo, come on in here and say hello to Pastor,” Uncle Joe called. Tante Flo turned to offer Uncle Joe and the reverend a greeting, then cast a glance back at Cleo. Her smile had nearly returned. Nearly, but not quite. “You get along with yourself now and leave the men be.”
Cleo looked past her aunt to the men who watched the exchange with amused faces. “Pleasure to see you again, sir,” she said to the pastor.
“Flo, you were a teacher once,” Cleo heard the reverend say as she stepped into the hall. “Joe and I were just discussing the problem we’re having finding someone to take on the teaching of the children once we get ourselves a building.”
Carefully setting the pan of water on the sideboard, Cleo tiptoed back to the hallway. She’d been giving the problem of the local school much thought on her morning walks to the bayou, and just last week she’d come upon what she thought might be the perfect solution. If only she could find a way of telling Uncle Joe besides just barging in and stating her case.
“Oh, I just couldn’t.” Cleo leaned out of her hiding place to see Tante Flo sitting next to Uncle Joe on the divan. “It’s just not done, Joe. Pas du tout,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m a married woman, and I haven’t seen the inside of a schoolhouse in nigh on twenty years. I can’t teach those children. Besides, we don’t even have money for a place yet.”
“Oh, we’ve got a little bit saved. Enough to get things started,” the pastor said. “The rest’ll come. I just know it will.”
Uncle Joe clutched his wife’s hand. “The reverend and I are believing the Lord for both a teacher and a place to teach. The need is so great, what with all these young ’uns coming up. I just know He will bring someone forward who has the answers.”
“I have the answers.” Cleo pressed her fingers to her mouth and felt the heat rise in her cheeks. Had she actually spoken the words aloud?
“Clothilde Trahan,” Tante Flo said. “Are you eavesdropping again?”
Cleo stood stock-still. What to say?
“Vien ici, young lady.”
Come here? Uh oh. Uncle Joe’s firm voice. Cleo tried to convince her feet to either flee or obey but found them as stuck as if she were up to her knees in bayou mud.
Her gaze first met Tante Flo’s, then locked with her uncle’s. Neither looked pleased.
“I’m sorry,” she mumbled. “I’ll just go on back to the kitchen.”
“Come here, child,” the reverend said. She shifted her attention to him. At least he wore a smile. “I would like to hear what Clothilde has to say. What plan have you brought us? Will you be telling us how to build our schoolhouse or where to find a teacher?”
Rather than attempt to move, Cleo lowered her eyes and studied the roses on the carpet. “Actually, sir, I may have the solution to both.”
She watched their faces as she let the long pent-up words spill forth. When she’d finished detailing all the fine attributes of the run-down cottage at the edge of her uncle’s property, she said a little prayer and plunged forward with the finest idea of all.
“And I will be the teacher.”
Cleo clamped her mouth shut, then paused to offer a weak smile. The silence in the room roared louder than last summer’s Fourth of July tornado. Did they sit in stunned silence at the audacity of the plan, or had her idea been such a good one that they needed a moment to wrap their minds around it?
The pastor leaned forward to rest bony elbows on bonier knees. Neither Tante Flo nor Uncle Joe moved a muscle.
Outside the parlor window, a crow cackled, then swooped toward Tante Flo’s vegetable garden. The bird had become the first to laugh at her plan but obviously would not be the last.
“You know, Joe,” the reverend said, “Clothilde just might have something there.”
Cleo let out the breath she’d been holding. She shifted her gaze to her aunt and uncle.
“You think so, Reverend?” Uncle Joe cast a sideways glance at Tante Flo. “We always said we’d fix that old place up or let it be torn down, one or the other, but I never got to it.”
Tante Flo nodded. “Nothing but a home for mice and the occasional cottonmouth. Do you think it’s worth fixing, Joe? I mean, we don’t want the children in a building that’s going to fall down around their precious heads.”
“The old place is as sound as it gets. My granddaddy’s daddy built it to last. Not even old General Sherman could tear it down. It wouldn’t take half the money we’ve set aside to turn it into a proper schoolhouse.” Uncle Joe hit his knees with his fists. “You know, Pastor, I think my girl just might have something here.”
He rested his head in his hands as if in prayer, then lifted his gaze to smile at Uncle Joe. “I do believe she might.”
A moment later, the men were embroiled in animated conversation, each topping the other on the improvements that could be made to the modest cottage, until Uncle Joe shook his head. “You know, the only thing is, the men of the church, we’re farmers and trappers. We’ve got the know-how to make this place shine, but we just don’t have the time. It’ll take an eternity to get all of this work done unless we hire the biggest part of it out.”
“You’re right, Joe,” the reverend said. “And I believe I just might have the man for the job.”
Two
Theophile Breaux leaned back against the porch rail and studied the moss-covered trees dotting the horizon. A chill wind blew across the porch and settled in his soul. All the while, birds chirped a rhythm old as the water flowing silently past the eastern edge of the Breaux property. Somewhere beyond the cypress and pines and the Bayou Nouvelle lay that big old world Theo loved so much.
Ever since he could remember, he’d been on a path leading out of town. He’d been knee high to a grasshopper when he first saw how hard his papa worked and how little he got for the hides he took to town. Way back then, Theo had made a promise to himself and the Lord.
Well, actually it was more of a deal.
If Theo obeyed his mama and papa and did all the things the Good Book said, the Lord would give him a life free from toil and trials. So far, so good. He’d all but made good his escape, having been gone from the old home place the better part of three years before Papa slipped and fell on a patch of late-season ice.
Mama’d tracked Theo down through the big network of family spread across Louisiana and Texas. A telegram arrived on the doorstep of his rooming house in Houston just about the time Theo was thinking of saying good-bye to his Texas kin
and heading north to Oklahoma or maybe up to Canada.
He smiled. Perhaps someday his travels would lead him to Grand Pre in Nova Scotia, where his kin, the original Acadians, once called home.
Now wouldn’t that be something? This old Cajun sitting pretty in the place where his great-great-great-granddaddy wasn’t welcome.
His smile deepened and turned to a chuckle. Funny how he thought of himself as old. While he was the eldest of the bunch, he still had a few years to go before he would see thirty.
Off in the distance, the younger children played a game of some sort, and across the way, his sisters washed clothes in the bayou’s rolling waters. Bessie beat one of Mama’s white aprons on a rock, while Addie worked a pair of Papa’s trousers across the rub board. Somewhere along the bayou, Alphonse and Pete checked the traps, and in the house, Lucy and Kate helped Mama strip the beds. In the summer kitchen, Alouise and Jeannine would be starting the gumbo that would simmer until suppertime.
Closing his eyes, he could see it all. The faces of his brothers and sisters eventually replaced by their children and their children’s children, just as it had been in the centuries since government orders sent the Acadians spilling down the Mississippi into south Louisiana. Nothing had changed in the bayou, and it never would.
Sa fini pas. It never ends.
“By your age I’d been married to your mama for a coon’s age and was raising a houseful of young ’uns,” Papa had told him over coffee just this morning. “Your time’s a-comin’, son.The Lord’s about to let you meet your match.”
“Must be your broke bone you feel it in,” he’d joked. But standing here with the sounds of the bayou swirling around him, the joke fell flat. If he didn’t get out of here soon, he just might fall into the same trap that bound Papa to the muddy land. Then what?
Theo turned up the collar of his heavy shirt and shifted from the shadows into the warmth of the sunshine. Foolishness, this idea he might get hung up here indefinitely. He and the Lord had a deal. The road had detoured for just a bit, but he’d soon be back on it. Daddy’s broken leg was healing nicely, and Mama said he’d be back to trapping in no time.
Bayou Beginnings Page 1