TWELVE
ON SATURDAY MORNING, Ellie had just dried the last of her breakfast dishes when she heard footsteps on the front porch, followed by a knock at the door. She opened it to find Doc standing beside a woman holding a casserole dish covered with tinfoil.
“Well, this is a nice surprise.” Ellie welcomed them both inside.
“I’ve come to introduce you to my bride,” Doc said with a grin.
Doc’s wife was petite and fair, with chin-length, wavy auburn hair streaked with touches of gray, warm brown eyes, and a dimpled smile. “So nice to meet you, Ellie.” Florence handed her a covered dish. “This is for you.”
“Thank you,” Ellie said as she took it. “Doc has told me so much about you. Won’t y’all sit down? It’s your house, after all.” She set the dish on the kitchen work table. “Can I get y’all anything? Some coffee, maybe?”
“No, thank you,” Florence said. “We’ve already had our morning cups.”
“Florence limits my coffee,” Doc said as Ellie joined them at the table. “She says too much of it makes me ornery.”
“Well, we can’t have that, now can we?” Ellie said.
“I wanted to surprise you tonight, but Florence said absolutely not,” Doc explained. “She said you might already have plans, and even if you didn’t, you’d want time to get ready.”
“Ready for what?”
“The fais-do-do.”
“The what?”
“He means the Saturday night dance,” Florence said. “Sometimes I have to remind him that he is not of Cajun descent.”
“Wouldn’t you like being married to a handsome Frenchman?” He gave her a wink and a nudge with his elbow.
“I am married to a handsome Frenchman,” she said.
“If only my people had come here from Nova Scotia instead of Europe,” Doc went on, “I’d be Cajun—and a fine fiddle player, no doubt.”
“Then who would I dance with?” Florence countered.
“Every fella in the dance hall.” Doc turned to Ellie. “Florence is the best dancer in Bernadette.”
His wife rolled her eyes and shook her head.
“It’s true,” Doc insisted. “Better than any twenty-year-old on that dance floor. But don’t take my word for it, Ellie. Come and see for yourself tonight.”
“And where might I do that?”
“At the dance hall—every Saturday night.”
“I remember you told me about it, but I don’t know where it is.”
“Right next to the church—it’s that big metal building that looks like a barn,” Florence said.
“Everybody shows up around six o’clock,” Doc explained, “and the ladies all bring covered dishes. In between dances, we eat the best food you ever put in your mouth. Florence fixed her jambalaya for you to take so you won’t have to worry with cooking.”
“It really is fun,” Florence agreed. “And it’s a good way to get to know the community.”
“By all means, count me in,” Ellie said.
“Wonderful!” Doc clapped his hands together. “Would you like for Florence and me to swing by and pick you up?”
“I’d appreciate that.” Ellie laid the back of her hand against her forehead, feigning a swoon. “Bless my heart, I simply cannot go stag.”
Florence laughed and patted Ellie on the arm. “I don’t think you’ll have to worry about that for long. Frenchmen appreciate women. I doubt you’ll be lacking for company once they realize what a dear you are. Don’t take it personally if the ladies are a little standoffish at first. They’re just used to schoolteachers making their babies cry. They’ve never met one like you.”
“Thank you, Florence. What should I wear?”
“Let’s go pick something out together!” Florence suggested.
“Doc, hold the fort,” Ellie said. “I’m about to turn your wife loose in my closet.”
ALREADY ELLIE COULD HEAR THE MUSIC. Doc had tied up his boat at the town landing and helped Florence and Ellie ashore. Walking with this couple, together for years, made Ellie feel a sudden pang of loneliness. There was something in the way Doc kicked stray limbs and rocks out of his wife’s path, her grip light on his elbow as he carried both covered dishes, that made Ellie long for something she couldn’t name. Not marriage, necessarily, but belonging—not the possessing kind but the accepting kind.
As they approached the dance hall, the music got louder and louder—fiddle, guitar, accordion, washboard, and triangle. The front and back doors were thrown open. Folding chairs and quilts covered the grounds, which were dotted with a few picnic tables. Inside, a Cajun band was playing from a small stage not quite a foot above the dance floor. All down one side of the hall was a line of wooden tables already laden with food. Horse troughs were icing down beer, Coca-Cola, and jugs of tea and lemonade. Down the other side of the hall was a row of what looked like pallets with quilts and pillows.
“Do y’all dance till you fall asleep?” Ellie asked Doc, pointing to the pillows.
“Wouldn’t be a bad idea!” He was tapping his foot to the music. “Those are for the children who are too little to stay awake for the festivities. Their mothers just tuck them in, and everybody watches over them while we dance.”
“I think I’m getting some looks,” Ellie said, watching some of the women set their dishes down and whisper to each other as they cast glances in her direction.
“You’ll be fine!” Doc assured her. “They’re just sizing you up.”
Two of the women waved to Florence, who took both dishes from Doc and walked over to the tables to greet them. The band began playing a Cajun waltz.
“Oh, that’s a good one!” Doc said. “I’m afraid you’ll have to dance with me, Ellie. Florence is busy.”
“I’ll do my best,” she said.
Doc escorted her to the center of the floor, where about ten other couples were waltzing round and round in a circle.
“Ha!” Doc shouted over the music. “You’re a fine dancer, Ellie! A fine one indeed.”
“Thank you, Doc! But if it gets any more complicated than a waltz, Florence will have to coach me.”
“She’ll be glad to!”
“You sure you don’t mind being seen with the schoolteacher?” Ellie caught the sidelong glances of some of the dancers.
“Far as I’m concerned, you’re an answer to prayer, Ellie. And I’ll tell anybody on this dance floor.”
THIRTEEN
“HEY, BROUSSARD! Get down here, you lazy river rat!”
Raphe heard a familiar bell ringing and stepped outside to see Heywood Thornberry standing in his boat, the Whirlygig, which was idling at the small dock down below. It was an old fishing trawler with a tiny cabin and bunk, a boat that afforded Heywood as much time docking for repairs as fishing on the river, but he didn’t seem to mind. Raphe walked down to meet him.
“There’s a dock fee for ugly boats,” he said, catching the rope Heywood tossed up to him. Raphe secured the Whirlygig while Heywood grabbed two large buckets and set them on the dock, then climbed up the ladder.
“Good to see you, my friend,” Heywood said, shaking Raphe’s hand. “Brought you food in one bucket and drink in the other.”
Raphe peered into the buckets, one filled with fresh oysters, the other with bottles on ice.
“Let’s go throw ’em on the fire,” Raphe said, taking the oyster bucket from Heywood, who followed him into the house.
Heywood opened two bottles and handed one to Raphe, who took a drink before dumping the oysters into the sink and making short work of cleaning them. Then he melted some butter from the icebox and sprinkled homemade hot sauce into it, giving it a stir to make sure the color was right. He put the cleaned oysters on a rack and handed Heywood a wooden breadboard loaded with the butter sauce, crusty bread, and a handful of kitchen tools, then picked up the rack and headed out. Heywood got their drinks and utensils settled on a wide stump between two low cypress chairs next to a fire pit by the water as Raphe gathered a f
ew small logs from a woodpile by the porch and got a fire going. When the heat was just right, he set the rack of oysters on top and sat down with his friend.
“You been in New Orleans all this time?” Raphe asked, taking a drink and relaxing as he kept an eye on the fire.
“Not all of it—just a couple o’ weeks. Before that, I had to go to a wedding in St. Francisville. Got some good pictures there too.”
Raphe used a fire poker to adjust one of the logs in the pit. “Is there a wedding in your future, mon ami?”
Heywood shrugged. “Claudette wants a long engagement.”
Raphe kept looking at the fire. “So you’ll wait till you’re maybe thirty, non?”
“Sounds about right,” Heywood said, raising his bottle of beer and taking a long drink.
The oyster shells were popping open. Raphe grabbed a pair of tongs Heywood had brought from the kitchen and lifted the oysters off the fire and onto the breadboard. He slipped a glove over his left hand to protect it from the heat and deftly opened each one with a shucking knife before returning it to the breadboard.
“How in the Sam Hill do you do that so quick?” Heywood asked.
“Practice,” Raphe said. “Been doin’ it since I was Remy’s age.”
They each took an oyster shell, pried the meat out with small, two-pronged forks, and then dipped it in the butter sauce. “Merciful goodness—that’s a taste o’ heaven,” Heywood said as he swallowed the oyster and pulled off a piece of bread to dip in the butter. “Where is Remy, anyway?”
“With Kitty,” Raphe said. “He wanted to go to the dance hall with her family, so he’s spending the night over there.”
“And why are you not at the dance hall on a Saturday night?”
Raphe reached for the bread and tore off a piece. “Because I’m stuck here talking to you.”
Heywood downed a couple of oysters, one right after the other. “I know better. If you were goin’, you’d already be there. What you sittin’ here for, Raphe? You’ve got the night free, and there’s women and music and a ton o’ food just up the way.”
Raphe took a long sip of beer, leaned back to rest his head against the chair, and closed his eyes. “Because sometimes I just wanna be still.”
They could hear music from the dance hall drifting on the early evening air.
“Hey, I met the new schoolteacher in New Orleans,” Heywood said.
Raphe sat up and looked at him. “Ellie?”
“Ah, so you’ve met Miss Fields?”
Raphe shrugged him off. “Small town. Bound to happen.” He couldn’t stifle his curiosity. “What was she doing in New Orleans?”
“Stopped there on her way down here. Said she wanted to see the French Quarter. Remember what a time you and me had up there?”
Raphe smiled at the memory. “I do.”
“You can still go to the French Quarter, Broussard. Remy’ll be fine with Kitty every now and then.”
“I know. But it makes him so sad for me to leave him. I hate to do it to him. Besides, you’d just get me into something again.”
Heywood laughed. “That I would. I got Ellie into something.”
“What kind of something?” Raphe was suddenly serious.
“Now, now—not what you think,” Heywood assured him. He relayed the story about the woman at Tipsy’s and the drink thrown at Ellie.
“That was mean,” Raphe said.
“Embarrassed Ellie to death. I felt bad about it. I really did. And by the way, Miss Fields deserves your immediate attention.”
“And not yours?”
“Sadly, no.” Heywood grew uncharacteristically serious. “Ellie’s special, my friend. But she’s not as restless as she thinks she is. In the end, she wouldn’t be happy with a vagabond like me. She needs an anchor—one that doesn’t weigh her down too much. You would do nicely.”
“Me? What could I give her but a child to raise and precious few comforts?”
“She’s a teacher, remember? Children are her forte. And you, mon ami, could afford more comforts than you allow yourself. You just don’t want to get attached to anything that might get swept away.”
Raphe took a long sip from the bottle in his hand. “She’ll be gone in a year, Heywood.”
“Not if you get off your keister and do something about it. I swear, Raphe, you gotta learn to use your looks. I thought all you Cajun boys were ladies’ men.”
“Who told you that?”
“A Cajun girl, in a sadly memorable moment when she suggested I up my courtin’ game.”
They each had one last oyster before all the shells were empty. Heywood carried the shells to the bank and pitched them in the water, then filled the breadboard with all their utensils and empty bottles. “Raphe, ol’ boy,” he said, “get up from there—we’re goin’ to the dance hall.”
“Heywood, I already told you—”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, you wanna be still and all that nonsense. Well, you can do that when I’m not around. Go grab your fiddle and let’s have some fun.”
FOURTEEN
BY THE TIME RAPHE AND HEYWOOD made it to the dance hall, the whole town was there and the dance floor was packed. The accordion player, Lawyer Richard, immediately spotted Raphe and motioned for him to join the group onstage.
“What’d I tell you?” Heywood said. “You know you love to play—and as long as you’re up there, you won’t have to talk to anybody. Get after it, son!”
Raphe made his way along the edge of the dance hall to the small stage and joined the other players. Heywood spotted Ellie pulling a Coke out of a galvanized tub and made a beeline for her, standing behind her as she opened her drink.
“I see you’re hittin’ the sauce,” he said.
Ellie whirled around. “Heywood!”
He picked her up and twirled her around. “I am delighted to see you again, Miss Ellie Fields!”
“You’re gonna make me spill my Co-Cola all over you! When did you get here?”
“Just now.”
“Is your fiancée here?”
“She is not.”
Ellie put a hand on her hip and demanded, “Heywood Thornberry, are you really engaged, or do you just use that line to pick up women?”
He bowed his head and put his hand to his heart. “I am deeply, deeply wounded that you would think me capable of such deception.”
“Answer my question.”
Heywood held up his right hand. “I, Heywood Thornberry, do solemnly swear on the long and happy life ahead o’ me that I am betrothed to Miss Claudette Sonnier of the New Iberia Sonniers. She thinks it best to put me on a long leash and let me exhaust myself before allowing me the honor of sleeping under her porch.”
“Well, I want to meet Claudette because she must really be something.”
“Oh, she is. She is indeed.” Heywood offered Ellie his arm. “Would you take pity on a poor boy from Du Quoin, Illinois, and honor me with a dance?”
ELLIE HAD DANCED a couple of waltzes and a two-step with Heywood before some of the older men started cutting in. Back home, young people danced with young people, but not in Bernadette. Here, everybody danced with everybody. If all the men and boys were taken, the women and girls danced with each other. And as the individual couples danced together, the whole group moved in unison in a circle around the dance floor. From above, Ellie imagined, they must look like a giant spinning wheel with little wheels turning all over it.
Within an hour or so, she had danced with a man named Leo and several others she remembered from Chalmette’s, as well as a few giggling teenage boys, Doc, Remy, and a group of children who held hands in a circle with her as they revolved around the dance floor together.
When she thought she couldn’t dance another step, Ellie took a seat in a folding chair near the front doors, the unofficial rest area, and looked around. For the first time since she started dancing, she took notice of the musicians onstage. Some were white, some colored; some were not the same as those who were playing when s
he first got there. One of the fiddle players, she was surprised to see, was Raphe. Not only was he playing, but the others appeared to be following his lead. His fingers danced gracefully up and down the neck of the fiddle as he stroked the strings with the bow. Just as he had melded with the bayou on the night he and Remy took her home, now he was one with the fiddle and one with the bow, conjuring music out of thin air.
Ellie turned her attention to Heywood. All the young girls—and some of the grandmas—wanted a spin with him, which he happily obliged. Heywood seemed blissfully unattached, as if he could twirl in and out of your life as easily as he could spin first one woman and then another around the dance floor. Whoever he held in his arms at the moment, always at just the slightest distance—perhaps in deference to Claudette—had his undivided attention and unabashed admiration, but his interest ended with the music as he shifted his attention from one partner to the next, never looking back. Ellie had watched him enough to see that. She wondered if the other women saw it too. Did Claudette Sonnier—or was she the exception?
Ellie didn’t have much time to think about it before more invitations to dance came her way. She made it through more waltzes and two-steps than she could count, finally seeing a chance to catch her breath when she and her partner—a sweet, soft-spoken old gentleman—found themselves near the front doors when the music stopped. Ellie smiled and said, “Merci” as he bowed to her and sat down to rest. Before anyone else could claim a dance, she ducked outside into the cool night air.
Walking all the way around the hall, she weaved through folding chairs and quilts spread on the ground until she made her way to the rear doors, also open to night breezes. The dance hall backed up to a wide creek that forked off the bayou. As the musicians took a break, Ellie could hear the water flowing over rocks and fallen logs.
Unlike all the cabins in the bayou, downtown Bernadette had electricity, and the strings of lights that zigzagged above the dance floor cast a glow outside the open doors. She stepped beyond it, into the darkness closer to the creek, and listened to the flowing water babble and sigh as the night breeze lifted her hair and cooled her face.
Under the Bayou Moon Page 10