Best as he could tell, he’d figured it went like this: He wanted to go—soon—and yet the Lord was telling him he ought to take his time in leaving. He feared God might even be telling him he ought not go at all. Worse, he felt the strongest urge to have a talk with Clothilde Trahan about her need to leave Latagnier.
Of course, a logical man would know that none of these things made sense. He’d head for Canada soon, and Cleo, well, she’d be in New Orleans before fall. That’s just the way life worked.
Still, he had the nagging feeling the Lord was pushing him in one direction while he stubbornly continued to try to go in another.
Knowing what he wanted to do and what he ought to do were two different things, so Theo elected to do nothing but mope all week. Well, mope and take out his frustrations on several pounds of nails and a good portion of the schoolhouse.
At this rate, he’d be finished with the work out there and ready to hit the road again come the end of April. Maybe sooner.
Rather than let that thought ruin a beautiful Palm Sunday morning, Theo focused on catching up to the rest of the parishioners.
“Jesus knows our every weakness. Take it to the Lord in prayer.”
He finished the singing with the rest of the faithful, then sat down between his papa and Alphonse to listen to the preaching. Expecting a message on Jesus’ ride on the donkey or some other Palm Sunday topic, he was surprised to hear the Reverend Broussard begin to tell the tale of an itinerant carpenter who made his living working for the less fortunate in Canada.
As the story of songwriter Joseph Scriven unfolded, Theo listened with particular attention. Seemed as though this fellow spent his days doing odd carpentering jobs and taking little or no payment in return. When his mother fell ill back home in Ireland, Scriven wrote her the poem that eventually became the song the congregation had sung that very morning.
“Think on that, ladies and gentlemen,” Rev. Broussard said. “Just as the Lord used a lowly animal to carry His Son on the day we now call Palm Sunday, so He also used a regular man to carry a message that lasts.” He paused to lean over the edge of the pulpit and point out into the crowd. “How many of you regular men and women are being called today to do something, and you don’t know why? Maybe you don’t even want to do it, eh?”
A few murmurs circulated through the room. Beside him, Theo’s papa nodded while Theo squirmed.
“Do you think that donkey knew he was carrying the King of glory? Did he know why he was supposed to plod through the city gates with that man on his back, and on his day off at that? And what about that Canadian carpenter? Do you think he knew that a poem he wrote to his ailing mama back home in Ireland was going to be sung in our little church in Latagnier today?”
Again the crowd answered softly or nodded in quiet agreement. Theo saw his mama jab his papa, then watched them share a smile.
“So the next time you think you know what God wants you to do, do it, even if it doesn’t make any sense to you. That carpenter, he fixed things for widows and the poor. He wasn’t a fancy poet. That donkey, it probably didn’t have much claim to glory, either, being as though that particular species of the animal kingdom is not exactly exalted.”
Rev. Broussard paused to shake his head. “Brothers and sisters, it all comes down to obedience. Promise yourself that in light of the nature of this upcoming Holy Week, you will settle yourself into a pattern of obedience. Now stand with me while we sing the last verse of that song one more time.”
The next time Theo sang about taking his worries to the Lord in prayer, he barely got the words out for the lump in his throat. Knowing he wouldn’t like what the Lord was telling him, somewhere midweek he’d stopped going to Him in prayer altogether.
He’d have to remedy that today. This time, he’d listen if the Lord spoke. And as much as it put grit in his craw, he’d obey.
He’d obey even if it killed him.
Funny how he felt he had more in common with the lowly donkey than with the poet-carpenter. While the carpenter knew what he was doing when he wrote that poem, that poor donkey just put one hoof in front of the other and walked all the way to Jerusalem.
Later that afternoon, while the house lay still, Theo slipped away to go back to his thinking spot—the log beside the bayou. There he met the Savior and had a good talk.
It was a one-sided conversation, to be sure, but near the end, when he’d spoken his piece and knelt waiting for a response, Theo felt the Lord’s presence.
He hadn’t said a word, audible or otherwise, and yet Theo knew He was there. “Sometimes just knowing You’re there is enough,” he whispered.
Returning home, he felt a renewed spring in his step. While he might have to do something he didn’t want to do this week, he at least hadn’t been asked to do it yet.
He did have something else in mind, however, something he’d like to do if the Lord and the Reverend Broussard didn’t disagree.
❧
Easter Sunday loomed large on Cleo’s calendar, circled in red and noted with a star. Now the big day stood just one day away, and she had things to do. Important things.
Over the past week, she’d learned to press past the worries of when the Lord would act and how He would act and to just be patient and know He would act. Of course, this didn’t make the waiting any easier, so she’d thrown herself into a flurry of activities.
She’d cooked and washed and starched and ironed. Cleo had even volunteered to go and participate with the quilting circle.
Listening to the married ladies cackle and go on about their husbands and children turned out to be fun. Hearing the love in their voices gave Cleo hope that she would one day have what these women already possessed.
Such was her enthusiasm for keeping busy that today she’d volunteered to clean the entire sanctuary in anticipation for tomorrow’s Easter services. She collected her supplies and reached for the bucket’s metal handle. Making the church sparkle and shine would be her small contribution to the Lord’s Day, and she eagerly anticipated being alone with Jesus in His house as she worked.
Tomorrow would dawn early, with sunrise services being held in the churchyard beside the bayou, then preaching at half past ten in the sanctuary. The entire congregation would break bread together afterward with a spectacular Easter Sunday dinner on the grounds.
Cleo smiled. Easter Sunday had been the same ever since she could remember. Only the pastor’s name had changed over the years, and even then there had been only two other preachers besides the Reverend Broussard to grace the pulpit.
There was something to be said for permanence and stability. Some might look at the long and uninterrupted cycle of life in the bayou country and call it boring or backward. Theo Breaux struck her as one of those folks.
Others praised the predictable daily routine as good and comfortable. Cleo wondered if she might better fit in the second category.
Perhaps when she was older, she would know for sure.
Older like Theo Breaux.
She shook off thoughts of the carpenter. Ever since she had her talk with the reverend, she’d placed Theo in a carefully guarded spot in her heart and left him there—at least most days.
But on random occasions, the carpenter managed to sneak out of his confinement and dance across her mind. Well, not actually dance. When thoughts of him arrived, it was more like the infantry storming through.
Nevertheless, the idea of Theo Breaux dancing did produce a chuckle. She allowed herself that single silly thought, then tucked it away with the others and headed for the church.
Funny how she’d listened to the pastor’s sermon and immediately thought of herself. Now, as she passed very near to the place where the carpenter had kissed her, she thought about how Rev. Broussard’s words might apply to Theo Breaux.
Here was a man who couldn’t read but who had been called on to rebuild a schoolhouse so that others could learn. She knew enough of Theo’s history to know he’d left home young and stayed gone until
recently, when his papa broke a leg. How difficult it must be for a wandering soul to be confined.
She sighed. “Just another reason why he and I were not meant to be.”
Pausing in the middle of the path, she let her feet turn her toward the bayou and the log where she had sat with Theo Breaux. To her surprise, the giant fallen tree trunk was gone.
Twenty-one
Cleo looked around to be sure she stood in the correct place. All the landmarks were there: The pine and the sweet gum trees and the honeysuckle vine were all where she remembered them to be.
As she drew nearer, she found a deep indentation in the soft, dark earth where the tree trunk had once landed. This had to be the spot, yet the tree was gone.
Pondering the conundrum all the way to the church, she set her cleaning supplies just outside the door and reached for the massive iron handle. As her fingers wrapped around the cool metal, she heard a strange scratching sound.
Cleo released her grip and followed the sound to the back of the church, where a pile of rope and a hammer sat beside a bag of nails. The scratching sound continued. It seemed to be coming from near the bayou. Pressing through the thicket, she found the source of the noise.
Theo Breaux stood hunched over a large piece of wood while another man held the lumber still. Theo’s broad shoulders rolled as he worked a saw across the end of the timber. The other man, whom she recognized as Theo’s brother Alphonse, looked up to see her approach but merely nodded and returned his attention to his task.
His back to her, Theo continued to work on chopping off the rough ends of the timber. As Cleo drew near, she realized what the men were doing. Her gasp of surprise seemed to echo louder than the scrape of the saw, although neither man gave notice they’d heard.
The log where just last week she’d sat with Theo now lay in the clearing in two pieces, one significantly shorter than the other. If she used her imagination, she could see the two planks nailed together to form a cross.
Abruptly the noise ceased, and Theo dropped the saw atop the pile of sawdust. Alphonse grinned and nudged his brother, then pointed toward Cleo.
Theo straightened and turned slowly. His face wore no expression, but his brother’s did.
Alphonse’s grin split his face, and he looked to be having a hard time keeping from breaking into laughter. “Bonjour, Mademoiselle Trahan,” he called. “Comment ça va? And your family?”
“Ça va bien, merci,” she responded. “Thank you for asking.”
Cleo turned her attention to Theo but found no words of greeting forthcoming. He obviously had the same trouble, for he merely nodded, then went back to his work.
Alphonse said something to his brother and bounded toward her. “So what brings you out to the church today?”
“Cleaning the sanctuary.”
She looked past him to where Theo now rubbed a metal file against the edge of the freshly cut wood. The dark fabric of his shirt bunched and stretched as he worked his powerful arms to move the tool across the rough timber.
Remembering the feel of those arms around her, heat flooded Cleo’s cheeks. Perhaps the fact that this man was the roaming kind was a blessing. He might never completely leave her mind, but at least she wouldn’t have his presence to distract her.
Not that she minded the distraction.
“Fine day, isn’t it?”
“What?” She forced her attention back to Alphonse Breaux. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”
Theo’s brother gave her a good-natured grin, then shook his head. A sprinkling of wood shavings fell from his dark hair. From a distance, the two men could practically be mistaken for twins. Up close, however, the younger Breaux had none of his older brother’s careworn demeanor.
Where Theo’s eyes had creases at the corner, Alphonse’s were wide and unmarred by time and worry. His forehead held no lines, and his square jaw bore none of the perpetual stubble like his brother’s.
In a word, Alphonse Breaux was the very definition of handsome. All the girls at church thought so, and he never lacked for female companionship.
Funny, but Cleo preferred to cast her gaze on the less-perfect Theo instead.
“I was commenting on the weather. Making small talk. Never mind.”
“That’s nice.” Her gaze swept across the landscape, from the two timbers, to Theo, and finally rested on Alphonse. “What are you doing?”
He shrugged. “Can’t tell you. Actually I don’t think you’re supposed to be out here. Theo wanted this to be a surprise.”
“Oh.” She cast a quick glance at Theo, who seemed to be hard at work. “Well, I promise not to tell what I’ve seen. Not that I know what I’m looking at.”
“That’s good. I’m sure Theo will appreciate that.” Alphonse swiped at his forehead, then studied the back of his hand. “You know, Mademoiselle Trahan, I’m puzzled by something. Maybe you can help me with it.”
Theo glanced over his shoulder, then returned to his work as if he hadn’t noticed she still stood nearby. Well, two could play at this game.
“What are you confused about, Alphonse?”
“Here’s how I see it. I hear tell you’re going to teach at the schoolhouse until fall and then you’re heading for school out in New Orleans. Is that right?”
A brisk wind blew past, and she brushed a strand of hair from her eyes. “Yes, that’s right.”
“And Theo over there, he’s chomping at the bit to get the schoolhouse finished so he can get himself up to Canada to see the first snowfall.”
“That’s what I hear.”
Alphonse nodded and seemed to be considering his thoughts carefully. His brow creased, and he shook his head. “So if you want to head off to school and Theo wants to head off to Canada, and you are both getting what you want, what’s the problem?”
Cleo shrugged. “I don’t guess there is a problem.”
Again, Theo’s brother nodded. “I see. Well, that’s funny, because I don’t remember when I’ve ever seen my brother look more miserable, and truth be told, you’re not exactly smiling real big today, either.”
To prove him wrong, she forced a grin. It only lasted a moment.
“You and my brother, I think you have something special. Sa fini pas. The thing that never ends.”
Sa fini pas. Interesting. But then, hadn’t she just had the same thought, that he might be leaving, but he’d never completely be gone?
“Forgive me, Mademoiselle Trahan, but I think you and Theo are both stubborn as mules. Neither one of you wants to admit that you’ve made the wrong plans.”
How could someone so handsome say something so rude and get away with it? Because it was true.
“Alphonse! Vien ici. Quit your flirting and get back over here. There’s work to be done.”
Alphonse waved to his brother and turned to trot away. “I’m doing your job over here, and now you want me to do it over there, too?” He glanced back at Cleo and winked. “He’s going to get me for that as soon as you leave. When you see me bruised and bandaged, remember I did it for you, Mademoiselle Trahan.”
“Enough, Alphonse,” Theo called. “I’m sure the lady’s got better things to do than to listen to you talk nonsense.”
“Yes, well, I’ll just get back to work myself then,” she said, but neither brother responded. They were too busy circling one another like tomcats.
❧
All afternoon, Cleo listened to mysterious clangs and bangs and other assorted sounds coming from the vicinity of the Breaux brothers’ work area.
At one point, Alphonse left for a spell, then returned with shovels—two of them. He winked at her when he spied her peeking out the window. She backed up quickly and pretended to busy herself with dusting, just in case he decided to come inside to say hello.
He didn’t, however, and neither did Theo.
Upon finishing the dusting, Cleo decided it was time to take a short rest—just a few minutes of repose before she tackled the job of polishing the candlesticks.
Getting close to the bayou was the hard part, for she had to go all the way around the church and the cemetery to avoid walking through the clearing. By the time she reached her destination, her ankles had tangled with enough thorns to mark her permanently.
Once she found her way into the thicket, she had to shift positions until she could make out the work site. To do this, she had to lie flat and crawl beneath a tangle of honeysuckle vines, not a feat she could manage easily but one she thought she could accomplish all the same.
Her apron got caught several times, and more than once she had to stop and remove clods of dirt and leaves from the pockets. Finally she untied it and tossed it aside, giving thanks that she’d taken on the job of the Trahan family laundry several years ago.
Eventually she managed to make her way across the distance to find a spot where she could sit comfortably. From her vantage point, she could make out a mass of wood and one man working on it. Both Theo and Alphonse wore dark shirts and trousers, so it was impossible to tell who did the work.
It was also impossible to tell what sort of work was being done, so she inched forward and peered through the vines. Noting a natural clearing a few feet ahead, she decided to try and make her way toward it.
As she leaned forward, she found she could not move her right ankle. From her prone position, she couldn’t tell what had happened, but it felt for all the world as if something held her in its grasp. With the thickness of the vines obscuring her view, she couldn’t see a thing.
The harder she pulled, the more she seemed to be stuck. Finally, she realized she had to turn around and go back the way she came. This would be the only way to free herself.
Rolling over, she sat up and began to pull the vines apart with her hands. As the dark green leaves fell away, she saw the reason for her troubles.
Theo Breaux sat on the other side of the honeysuckle vine, her apron in one hand and her foot firmly in the other.
Bayou Beginnings Page 13