Ghost Town

by Cherie Claire

  Portia huffs and starts spouting off how legends such as these keep society stupid but I see the wheels turning inside my mother’s head. My mom is all scholar, always preferring the Shakespeare tragedies to the comedies because the latter were created, according to her, to humor the masses without brains. But I know her anthropologic mind finds this local tradition fascinating.

  We park near the bayou and head toward Café des Amis, a restaurant located in a former coffin factory next to The Mortuary Bed and Breakfast. Annie Breaux sticks her head out the front door of the B&B and yells my name and waves. I wave back. Annie is one of the people I’ve met writing stories for national publications about my new home in Cajun Country.

  “That place used to be a mortuary and is supposed to be haunted,” I tell my sister and mom, although the ghosts are thankfully people who have died without the assistance of water so I can’t see them.

  “They all say that,” Portia says. “Every hotel and B&B in Louisiana has ghosts now.”

  “Most of them do,” I answer and Portia rolls her eyes. If only she knew.

  We enter the restaurant on the tail end of brunch, with Curley Taylor and Zydeco Trouble rocking down the house on an impromptu stage in the front alcove. There are tables for eating but most people visiting today flood the makeshift dance floor, bopping up and down like a heartbeat, not caring that they run into each other regularly.

  I can’t listen to Cajun or zydeco music without moving — or smiling for that matter — so I immediately begin swaying to the vibrant tunes as we saunter up to the hostess.

  “Viola Valentine, table for three.”

  “Do you want to sit up front and dance or a quieter table in the rear?”

  I look back at my family with hopes that we will enjoy this unique-to-Louisiana wild ride that people from around the world come to see, routinely packing this restaurant every Saturday, but my mom and sister reply in unison, “In the back!”

  We follow the hostess to the back room and mom insists on the table in the corner, as far away from the zydeco as we can get. I’m sad to miss Curley Taylor but equally disappointed that my family, once again, fails to appreciate what I’m offering. The waitress arrives, asking for drinks and appetizers in a sing-song Cajun accent. When we ask for three unsweetened teas — I’m not about to ask for anything with sugar — both my mom and Portia turn serious.

  “What?” I ask, behind my water glass.

  “This silly festival isn’t why you asked us here,” my mother begins.

  I swallow the gulp of water lingering in my mouth. “What do you mean?” I answer as innocently as I can.

  “What do you need, Viola?” Portia asks.

  I need two thousand dollars to meet bills, replace my faulty brakes on the Toyota and buy groceries, but I don’t know how to ask the two biggest critics in my life. Instead, I lie.

  “I’m doing great. My new career is taking off. Reece still won’t let me pay rent. What do you mean, what do I need?”

  My mother gets right to the point. “How much?”

  I place my water glass on to the table and sigh. “I started this business with nothing, you know. Most people who become freelance writers — especially travel writers — have savings in the bank. I was doing really well until this recession hit. Not many people can say that.”

  “Is this why you haven’t divorced TB?” my mother asks.

  My ex-husband who’s legally still my partner married me years ago when I became pregnant at LSU. We barely knew each other, let alone considered it true love, although TB insists he loved me then and loves me still. When my sweet Lillye died of leukemia, my heart died with her, and TB and I lived a lonely, distant existence until Katrina pushed us on to the roof, washed away our jobs, and I found myself in Lafayette with the opportunity to start over. One of the first things I did following the storm was file separation papers. But that was before I really thought things through.

  “We’re staying married for the time being so I can share his health benefits,” I say.

  Portia huffs at this and I’m reminded how much I really hate when my sister does that.

  “It makes great sense,” I say in my defense.

  “What would make great sense,” my sister replies smugly, “is if you moved back in with him and did your ‘freelance’ in New Orleans.”

  Only thing I hate worse than her huffing is when she uses her fingers to mimic quotes. Who started that ridiculous gesture, anyway?

  I grind my teeth. “I’m not moving back in with TB.”

  Portia crosses her arms about her chest. “Well, I’m not giving you money because you’re too stubborn to make the right move.”

  “I don’t need that much.”

  “Which will make moving back home that much easier for you.”

  I can’t move back to New Orleans. Remember all those ghosts who have died by water?

  I gaze over at my mother who’s staring down at her lap.

  “Don’t ask Mom,” Portia says sternly, and just like that, the conversation’s over.

  The waitress returns, we order crawfish cornbread and crab cakes for appetizers and I pick the pecan-crusted catfish although how I will be able to enjoy it knowing my newfound career is to crash and burn in the next two weeks is beyond me. Portia launches into how her two children are driving her crazy, their private school’s depleting her disposable income and the new housekeeper is unreliable, which means she must search for a replacement ASAP, preferably one who speaks English. My poor sister, they will only be able to spend one week in Cabo this year instead of two and Christmas will be tight.

  I glance over at my mother who’s usually full of piss and vinegar, chiming in about her own shortcomings and lack of vacation time since she lost her plum teaching job, but for a change she’s not talking. Since Katrina, I’ve suffered through hours of these conversations, listening to horror stories about disaster repairs and renovations, even though Portia lived far from the levee breaks and only had six inches of water and my mother had a tree damage part of her house. Neither lost their homes, nor had floodwaters to their attics. And I haven’t had a vacation in years.

  As usual I say nothing and nod and express sarcastic outrage over the fact that Portia can’t buy a new BMW until Frederick, her husband, gets that raise, which has been pushed back until next year because his company’s still rebounding from the storm. My mom sends me an evil eye for that one.

  We eat lunch, me barely touching my fish, and then the bill arrives, which Portia grabs.

  “Do you want me to help?” I ask.

  “Yeah,” Portia says, placing the bill in my hand. “You asked us here so you pay.”

  I look down and notice that the bill is thirty dollars more than what’s in my checking account. I bite the inside of my cheek wondering what to do next when Portia grabs the bill. “Just kidding.”

  After planting her gold American Express on the table, Portia heads to the bathroom. My mother places a hand on my arm when she notices I’m about to let my façade slip and cry right there in front of Curley Taylor and the tourists from Australia.

  “Why don’t you come home?”

  I shake my head. How can I convince my mother New Orleans holds too many ghosts, not to mention all those bad memories of losing my precious baby girl, the one person who’s passed I’m not able to see.

  “I can’t,” is all I manage to whisper.

  “Don’t you miss us?”

  There’s pain lingering in her gaze I haven’t seen since dad left. Something is amiss here and the hairs on the back of my neck rise. I briefly think to inquire but that old defensiveness remains.

  “I love it here, Mom. I finally have a chance to do what I’ve always wanted to do. Can’t you all understand that?”

  She squeezes my arm and that sadness lingers. “We miss you.”

  My mother is a tough cookie, one of those professors you both admire and dread, for getting an A in her class means giving up sleep for five months. She’s
been nicknamed the “Bard Bitch,” although my mother secretly loves it, wears the title like a badge.

  Underneath, however, when the mom side emerges, she’s all heart. She was my rock when Lillye died.

  I place my hand over hers. “I miss you, too, Mom, but I need to be here right now.” That lump emerges again because those tears have never left their starting line and are waiting for the gun to go off so they can turn me into an emotional mess. “This is my dream,” I manage to whisper.

  Mom’s about to reply and I pray it’s about loaning me money when Portia arrives and barks for us to leave. We travel through town for the remainder of the day, shopping at antique stores and Portia buying new clothes at two of the swanky boutiques. We pause for coffee and dessert, then head for the bayou’s edge when the sun begins to set. Moonrise is scheduled for seven thirty-six so by the time we reach the bayou park, the place is swarming with people.

  Portia still rebukes the festival, my mother says nothing, and I’m quaking inside about how I will make it through another week when I spot Reece on the far side of the crowd. Portia follows my line of sight — and no doubt wonders why my mouth is hanging open — and mutters, “Who’s that gorgeous man?”

  I don’t answer. I’m too busy watching my sexual fantasy laughing at a woman with silky blond hair tossed back over her shoulders, lips full and pursed like Julia Roberts and telephone poll legs falling gracefully into fashionable high-heel pumps. This woman exudes perfection. Tailored dress. Coiffed hair. A girl and a boy equally adorable and well-dressed at her side. It was a like a mother-of-the-year advertisement.

  “Do you know him?” my mom asks.

  “He’s my landlord,” I manage. My hero in a storm. My hope for love at last.

  At least until he decided to get back with his wife.

  The crowd teeters and I look to the horizon. There’s too much sunlight for us to spot the moon but the mayor begins the countdown on the loudspeaker. Portia huffs, my mother gets a phone call and excuses herself to the car, and I can’t help looking longingly at the man of my dreams, hoping he might glance my way. When the mayor reaches one, noting the moon is rising over the bayou, Reece looks lovingly at his wife so I cast my eyes to the ground. No use confusing fate. Obviously, Reece belongs with his wife, the mother of Dick and Jane.

  As the mayor mouths the final moment, I hear someone call my name. I look up to find a young girl dressed in a simple pair of overalls and flannel shirt watching the event curiously from the bayou’s bank. She’s a stark contrast to Mrs. Louisiana: uneven cut hair that sticks out beneath a ragged cap, dirty shoes with holes in the sides, bruises and mosquito bites on her legs. She senses me watching her and looks my way, eyes squinted as if not expecting anyone to notice her.

  “Can you see me?” she mouths and I’m so startled this may be a ghost standing before me that I say nothing, merely nod.

  “Vi?” comes the voice again and I turn to find my ex-husband, staring at me as the girl had done, only this time with a love-sick gaze.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask.

  TB grins that goofy smile that has always driven me crazy, one that reminds me of our uneven relationship and fills me with guilt.

  “Portia told me about the festival. And guess what? You were the first person I saw tonight.”

  I glance at Portia who’s laughing her ass off.

  Just then my mom arrives, announcing to Portia, “We have to go.”

  It’s rare to see my mother not in control but something has happened and I feel a buzz deep in my soul akin to when a ghost arrives. I glance back at the girl by the bayou’s edge but she has vanished. I look around the crowd but find her nowhere.

  “Let’s go Portia,” my mother says sternly and that chill turns into a full-fledge shiver that rocks me up to my chin.

  Mom kisses me on the cheek, places two twenties in my hand, offers a polite but brief greeting to TB, and the two head off to the parking lot.

  “What on earth is that about?” I whisper to Portia as she walks past.

  Portia pauses, stalling as if she’s unsure of what to reveal. Finally, she whispers, “I’ll explain later.”

  And in that instant, all chills disappear, replaced by a foreboding that stills my heart and fires up my temple. I stand there by the bayou’s edge with enough funds to buy food for the week but still in dire straits, TB is gushing love into my ear like a high school freshman, and the girl appears once more, shaking her head as if she’s heard the entire conversation.

  Chapter Two

  My head’s pounding and TB won’t stop gushing about his love that was meant for me, making me wonder if Portia was right about these legends being fodder for the ignorant. Of course, I feel guilty thinking that about my simple-minded ex-husband which intensifies the pressure building in my skull.

  I can’t help it. Even though the man loves me, has supported me through the toughest experiences in my life, never has a bad word to say about anyone, and practices that rare gift of unconditional love, I can’t get past the emptiness I sense behind those puppy dog eyes.

  Not to mention that deep down I don’t love him.

  I need more intellectual stimulation and less emotional release. When Lillye died, TB fell apart and I retreated. Call it what you will, but we all grieve differently and I saw no purpose in crying on people’s shoulders and explaining to counselors how bad I felt because the most precious being on earth was taken by leukemia at a young age. Seriously, what is there to say?

  Katrina amplified the problem, and then I began to see ghosts who have died by water. My Aunt Mimi believes there are no accidents in life, that those in the beyond are here to serve me as much as I them, including helping me move past my grief. Forget moving on; I’m confident that my newfound abilities will help me to connect to my baby.

  How TB fits into this is beyond me.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask him for the millionth time as we drive back to Lafayette.

  “Portia said you might need me.” He sends me a hopeful look.

  I feel that burning sensation eating up my stomach liner, the one that appeared when the recession started and Happy Traveler magazine cut my assignments in half.

  “Did Portia say something about your mom?”

  I don’t want to think about my mother at this moment, let alone discuss her dismissal of my financial problems. I would imagine TB feels the same since my family routinely called him a disease.

  TB stands for T-Bubba, a combination of Cajun and redneck. In the South, the youngest man in a family might sport the same name as his dad but be differentiated by the word “little.” For instance, John Junior might be called Little John. In French South Louisiana, the tradition translates to Petit John and is shorted to ’tit-John, then just T-John. TB’s father’s name was Thibaut Boudreaux, but folks called him Bubba. Naturally, his son became T-Bubba, and then TB shortened it even further.

  It’s one reason why I don’t want to remain married to my husband. Why anyone would want to be known as TB is beyond me. The man is even proud of it. I tried introducing him as Thibaut (a lovely French name pronounced T-bow) but he would inevitably launch into the history of his nickname and I would stand there watching his audience gaze upon him like he’s a circus attraction.

  “You have to own your uniqueness,” he would later argue in the car on the way home.

  “Only if that uniqueness is worthy of attention,” I countered.

  “Vi,” TB calls out, bringing me back to reality. “What did Portia say about your mom?”

  “We’re here.”

  Thankfully, we arrive at the Saint Streets, a group of avenues in staunch Catholic Lafayette named for a variety of saints. I live on Saint Francis Street, in the heart of it all, embraced by towering live oak trees standing sentinel over the Craftsman cottages and World War II-era homes. Driving down my quiet street with its line of blooming crepe myrtles in the neutral ground and my headache lifts. I love my new town, an oasis amidst cha
os.

  “Can I come in?” TB asks, a question I’ve been dreading since Blue Moon Bayou. But then, I still need two thousand dollars.

  I wince, feeling that guilt pinch my stomach once more. “Sure.”

  Unlike my mother and sister, TB enters my apartment and checks out everything. He loves the Walter Anderson print I picked up in Ocean Springs, Mississippi, and the antique desk with the brass pulls and the cool secret drawer where I deposit the forty dollars my mother has slipped me. TB doesn’t find the kitchen rug with the brazen “See Rock City” advertisement cheesy and relaxes in my papasan chair with a glass of lemonade, a drink he claims is the finest he’s ever tasted. I frown and give him a “yeah right” look and he shrugs.

  I expected Stinky to go flying out the door when we arrived, but instead the tabby hangs around, sniffing out TB, then settles into his lap while TB falls asleep and I head to the kitchen to make dinner.

  “Traitor,” I admonish the feline.

  I have a strong envie for Alesi’s, a Lafayette landmark that still contains a neon sign out front and serves up pizza with a variety of meats, cheeses, and those tiny mushrooms that probably come out of a can but I love them anyway. I can devour one of those pizzas all by myself.

  But I can’t use that forty for pizza tonight, need to save it for cheap cat food and groceries. I pull out the familiar box of mac and cheese and begin boiling water, wondering if tuna and peas might help improve the meal I’ve come to detest.

  As I stand there watching water boil, I think back on the scraggly girl by the bayou’s edge. It’s not unusual for me to spot ghosts, especially near a water source, but conversations with the deceased, known as intellectual hauntings, are rare. I wonder what her story is and if our meeting was planned by some divine source, hoping I’d help this girl move to the next realm. So far, I’ve assisted nearly a dozen people climb the ladder, as my friend Carmine likes to call it.

  When my gourmet meal is ready, I kick TB’s foot and he snorts awake, sending Stinky flying. I hand TB a plate and then open the door with my free hand; the apartment is tiny enough for me to do that. Stinky disappears into the night and I pull out a chair at the table while TB joins me and we indulge in mac and cheese with glasses of milk to thankfully wash it down.