Under the Bayou Moon

by Valerie Fraser Luesse

  “Why don’t you and Heywood get started, and I’ll go shake Remy out of the loft.”

  Raphe and Heywood started loading the boat with Ellie’s picnic basket, blankets, and jugs of tea and lemonade as she climbed the porch stairs into Remy’s loft. She found him with his face washed and his clothes changed, frantically searching for something between the two twin beds in his room.

  “Uh-oh, what have we lost?” she asked him.

  “My new tennis shoes! I can’t find ’em anywhere!”

  “Well, let’s think about this a minute.” Ellie sat down on the bed and patted the spot next to her, where Remy took a seat. “I know you had them on when you left this morning, but I believe you were barefoot when you came back. Hold up your foot and let me have a look.”

  Remy crossed one leg over the other so she could see his sole.

  Ellie frowned and shook her head slowly. “That’s a mighty dirty foot to have spent much time in a shoe. Did you maybe take your sneakers off in the boat?”

  Remy thought for a minute and then smacked his forehead. “I did! I took ’em off in the boat!”

  Ellie went to his basin and poured water onto a washcloth. “Here,” she said as she handed it to him. “Carry that with you to the dock and see if you can’t wipe off at least a layer or two of dirt before you put your new shoes back on, okay?”

  “Okay.” Remy started down the stairs as Ellie picked up the dirty clothes he’d left on the floor. Then she heard him coming back up.

  “Forget something else, honey?”

  Remy paused at the door and shook his head. Then he came inside, put his arms around her waist, and hugged her. Before Ellie could say anything, he ran out of his room, down the stairs, and out to the dock. She could hardly breathe as she watched him out the window.

  Ellie could never explain how or why it happened, but in that fleeting instant she felt it deep down in her soul: She had just become a mother, as surely as if she had given birth.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  BOONE STRAHAN PAUSED OUTSIDE THE DOOR to the oak-paneled study. It was open, as usual. His father had no need for privacy in his own home because he controlled everything and everybody in it. His commanding voice came drifting out.

  “Here’s your money. I don’t want you coming anywhere near me or my office once you clear that land.”

  Another voice, cold and familiar, replied, “You mean when I burn down those cabins.”

  “You’re a real cur dog, Luetrell,” Boone’s father said. “Lucky you’re good at what I need done, or I’d let Lura’s bunch put an end to you—which I will absolutely do if you even think about taking my money without holding up your end. That annual picnic in Bernadette will go on way into the night. Perfect time for you to take care o’ business so I can buy out those Cajuns before they figure out what they’re sittin’ on. Hang the placards on the dance hall once they’re all in there. The prospect o’ that prize money oughta occupy ’em while you get things done, and the fight for it’ll occupy ’em after, once they realize how easily their shanties can be taken away. Do what I told you to do in town. Now get outta my house.”

  Boone heard his father’s leather chair slide on the tapestry rug beneath his desk and knew that he had just stood up—the signal for anybody who knew him well to get out and get out fast. Boone hurried upstairs and watched out the front window as Luetrell crossed a carpet of grass to the parking court, where he climbed into his pickup and drove away.

  That vicious man was on his way to Bernadette—for all Boone knew to destroy Ellie’s house. Few people had ever been as kind to him as she had. Few had taken the time to even get to know him. He was just “Big Roy’s boy.” He owed it to her and the families she worked so hard for to try to save their homes from Luetrell. Then he would have to find a way to save them from his own father.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  FOOTSIE TAYLOR WAS WAITING FOR REMY on the bank when Raphe steered his bass boat to the landing. The boy ran to the water’s edge and caught a rope Heywood tossed to him, then tied the boat to a tupelo gum as Remy climbed over the bow and jumped out.

  “How goes it, Footsie?” Heywood called out.

  “Fine, Mr. Heywood!”

  “Got something for you. Catch!” Heywood reached into his pocket and tossed a brand-new pocketknife to Footsie, who caught it and stared at it wide-eyed.

  “What do we say, Footsie?” Ellie said as she gathered up a couple of quilts. “Your mama would want me to remind you.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Heywood! Thank you very much!”

  “You’re mighty welcome!”

  “Look, Footsie, yours is just like mine!” Remy exclaimed, pulling his knife out of his pocket. “Let’s go down to the creek and carve some sticks. We can be warriors like Achilles!”

  “Who in the Sam Hill is that?” Footsie said.

  They took off before Ellie could remind them it was almost lunchtime. “Now we’ll never see them again,” she said to Raphe as he helped her out of the boat.

  “Sure we will.” He bent down and kissed her. “Soon as they get hungry.”

  “You two are Mushville!” Heywood picked up two jugs filled with sweet tea and lemonade. “Absolute Mushville!”

  “There’s no call for jealousy,” Ellie said with a grin. “Go ahead, Raphe, give Heywood a kiss too.”

  Raphe grabbed Ellie’s picnic basket and his fiddle case. “I’d sooner kiss ol’ Miss Ernie down at the post office.”

  “Ha! I’ll remember that next time I need somebody to help eat my oyster catch,” Heywood said as the three of them fell into step and headed for the dance hall.

  “What possessed you to get Footsie a knife?” Ellie asked him.

  Heywood shrugged. “They play together all the time, and it’s no fun sharing one. Where did Remy learn about the illustrious Greeks?”

  “From a book at Doc’s when he was sick back in the fall,” Ellie said. “I can’t believe he still remembers. How do you know about the illustrious Greeks?”

  “Combat training. Uncle Sam taught us anything and everything to stop a German, from the ankles up.”

  “And yet you have given two boys knives?”

  “They’re good boys,” Heywood said. “And they’re joined at the hip. I figure Footsie doesn’t get a whole lotta presents. I just hope his older brothers don’t take it away from him. I didn’t think about that till now. I had sisters, and even they took my stuff.”

  “Don’t worry,” Ellie assured him. “Footsie leaves all his treasures with Remy for safekeeping.”

  “He does?” Raphe asked her.

  “Mm-hmm,” she said. “By my calculation, we are currently boarding three nickels Footsie found under the porch at Chalmette’s, a quartz rock, an arrowhead, and soon, I’m sure, a pocketknife. For a couple of days there, he had a bullfrog in a shoebox under Remy’s bed, but I persuaded the boys that frogs aren’t happy inside.”

  “They bought that?” Heywood said.

  “Well . . . I also gave them each a dime.”

  “Ah! The truth comes to light!” Heywood grinned. “Child bribery!”

  They followed the flow of basket-laden families laughing and talking as they strolled through town and on to the dance hall. The men had set up two long serving tables made of sawhorses and plywood, which were quickly covered with platters of fried chicken, barbecued ribs, and boudin; cast-iron Dutch ovens overflowing with jambalaya, deer chili, and maque choux; a mountain of boiled crawfish and corn on the cob; potato salad, baked beans, and dirty rice; fried peach and apple hand pies, layer cakes, hand-turned ice cream, and crusty French bread. A huge iron pot was simmering chicken and andouille gumbo over a fire behind the tables. Quilts were spread all over the grounds. The women of Bernadette uncovered their dishes as the men loaded them onto the serving tables.

  Ordinarily, the Creole families along the bayou had their own house dances. Their musicians played at the dance hall alongside Cajuns all the time, but the only time all the dancers came together wa
s at the annual picnic. Ellie had no idea why. But it was typical of small Southern communities. Things went on as they always had, with nobody ever questioning the reason why.

  Over all the chatter and laughter, musicians could be heard tuning up inside the dance hall. Ellie saw Raphe casting glances toward the open doors of the hall as he lifted all of her dishes out of the picnic basket.

  “There!” she said as he finished. “You’re all done. Now take your fiddle and get on in there before you explode.”

  Raphe picked her up and twirled her around. “Save me a dance?”

  “You know I will.”

  He kissed her, grabbed his fiddle case, and headed for the dance hall, stopping at the door to turn and wave to her.

  Ellie waved back and smiled as he disappeared into the hall. She helped the women finish arranging the serving tables and then stepped back a little so she could take in the whole scene. This time last year, she was alone and unhappy, trying to decide whether to accept a job in a tiny Louisiana town she had never heard of and searching for the courage to leave her whole life behind. Now Bernadette was her home—and her life. She was happily married to a man she loved more every day, and they had a little boy to raise together. Not only that, but they had a wonderful community of friends and neighbors. Ellie had an overwhelming sense of belonging—the kind she had wished for so long ago, watching Doc escort Florence to the dance hall that first time.

  She heard a click and looked up to see Heywood holding his camera.

  “Unless I miss my guess, Mrs. Broussard is feeling a tad on the wistful side,” he said.

  Ellie smiled at him. “You don’t miss much, do you?”

  “I try hard not to miss the good stuff.”

  They started making their way to the dance hall, stopping now and then so Heywood could aim his camera and capture a moment: Tante Dodo fanning herself with her bonnet; Doc and Florence holding hands; Minerva Richard bouncing a toddler on her knee, one she had no doubt delivered.

  “Yet another reason I love Bernadette,” Heywood said as he pressed the shutter button. “In this little burg, food and music trump everything, including all the race nonsense. Folks here don’t care if you’re black, white, or purple as long as you can sing, dance, play, or cook. Too bad it’s not that way all over Louisiana.”

  “Too bad it’s not that way everywhere—especially at the school board,” Ellie said. “They’d have a fit if I tried to bring the local colored children into our school.”

  “What they don’t know won’t hurt ’em.” Heywood snapped a picture of Gabby, who was leaning against a tree and staring straight at him.

  “Now that the weather’s warming up, I’ve been finding little tidbits outside the window of the classroom—things like an apple peel or a candy wrapper,” Ellie said. “One morning, I put a tablet and some pencils in a box just outside the window and laid a candy wrapper on top. The box was gone by recess. The next day, I found a little white alligator carving in its place. I’ll bet you anything Freeman Richard’s been sitting outside, trying to learn through the window. Breaks my heart to think about it—a child cruelly deprived of the education he’s so hungry for, grasping for scraps from the table. If you ask me, it’s no less despicable to deny a child knowledge than to deny him food.”

  “My guess is that you, Mrs. Broussard, are already scheming your way around the long arm of the law—and the foolishness of the school board.”

  Ellie smiled. “I might have a few ideas. Let’s forget about all that and go listen to Raphe play.”

  “Absolutely. And while we listen, perhaps you might invite Miss Gabby Toussaint over for a little chitchat?”

  AFTER LUNCH, with the whole town inside the dance hall waltzing to “Plus to Tournes,” Heywood and Gabby slipped down to the creek bank for a little privacy.

  “Now, lest I mislead you, Miss Toussaint, I must confess that I am betrothed to a certain Claudette Sonnier—”

  “Shut up, Heywood,” Gabby said just before she planted a kiss that made him forget all about his alleged betrothal.

  When they came up for air, he looked down at her and said, with none of his usual bluster, “Gabby . . . there’s something you should know—”

  But she silenced him with another kiss. Heywood had his arms around her, holding her close against him, when he heard a hammering sound—muffled by the music coming from the dance hall but still audible.

  “You hear that?” he asked her.

  “Fo’ sure,” she said.

  They followed the sound to the west side of the dance hall, where they saw a man hammering placards to the wall. He was too busy to notice them. Heywood took one look at him and quickly pulled Gabby back, out of sight around the corner.

  “You look like you seen the Rougarou,” Gabby said.

  “Rougarou don’t come close.”

  THIRTY-SIX

  WITH THE MUSICIANS ON A BREAK, all the dancers came out for a late afternoon meal, eager to make another round at the serving tables. But the placards stopped them. Ringing the dance hall, they read them together:

  “They’ll never find it, Raphe,” Ellie whispered as she watched her husband read the placard. He looked ashen. “Let’s go find Heywood.”

  Just then she and Raphe spotted him, huddled with Gabby and Leo near the entrance to the hall. Leo climbed onto one of the picnic tables and stood on top of it, calling out for the crowd to gather around. It took a few minutes over all the chatter, but the families of Bernadette eventually circled the picnic table and grew quiet.

  “Y’all come on over here and listen to what Heywood’s got to say,” Leo said loudly.

  Ellie stood in front of Raphe, his arms wrapped around her waist, as they waited for Heywood to speak. He was climbing onto the picnic table with Leo as Gabby looked on from below.

  “Y’all know I’m generally full o’—well, full of it,” Heywood began. The crowd laughed. “But right now, I’m as serious as I know how to be. Gabby and me, we saw the man hanging those placards. And I know him—from the oil fields. His name’s Gig Luetrell, and he’s about the meanest excuse for a human being I’ve ever met. There truly is nothing he wouldn’t do for a dollar, or for spite, or if he just happens to be bored. I know that placard says there’s a whole lotta money up for grabs—money that’d help whoever wins it do all kinda things for your family. But believe me when I tell you—if that man’s involved, no good’ll come of it. And if he has anything to do with it, you’ll never see a dime o’ that money. Meantime, if the white alligator really does exist . . . why, I can’t imagine killin’ him. That’s all I have to say.”

  A murmur went through the crowd as Leo spoke again. “Hold on, ever’body. The women been cookin’ for days, so let’s go on with the picnic. Men, come to Chalmette’s at nine in the mornin’ an’ we’ll figure out what we gonna do.”

  Heywood jumped off the picnic table. Leo followed him, rubbing his knee as he stepped down. “I’m a-gettin’ too old for this,” he said.

  “CAN I GO EAT WITH FOOTSIE?” Remy had a fried chicken leg in each hand.

  “You sure you won’t run out o’ chicken before you get there?” Ellie said with a grin.

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Well, alright then. Tell Miss Davinia I said to run y’all over here if you start to get on her nerves.”

  “I’ll tell her.” Remy ran to the back side of the dance hall, where Footsie’s family had laid their blankets.

  “Heavens to Betsy, that’s all Davinia Taylor needs is one more kid to look after,” Ellie said.

  Gabby dipped a spoon into a cup of homemade ice cream. “Once you get past four, another one don’t make a bit o’ difference. You an’ Raphe want a big family?”

  “I don’t know if I’d say we want a really big family. But we definitely want more kids.”

  “More kids? You think o’ Remy as your own now, don’t you, cher?”

  “I didn’t at first. I mean, I wanted to—I just didn’t think he’d ever let me. B
ut I feel more hopeful now, Gabby, like we’ve crossed a bridge or something, you know?” Ellie smiled at her and brushed a leaf off her skirt. “So what’s the scuttlebutt on you and Heywood?”

  “Aw, we gettin’ married,” Gabby said. “I hope he figures that out before I have to tell him.”

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  RAPHE AND ELLIE DUCKED OUT the back doors of the dance hall and walked down to the creek. With the musicians on break, Ellie could hear the water flowing over rocks and fallen logs. Raphe held her hand as they followed the bank around a bend to the limestone “dance floor” he had first shown her not so long ago.

  “C’est belle, non?” she asked, mimicking what he had said to her that night.

  “Oui, c’est belle, if belle means ‘beautiful,’” he answered, repeating her response.

  “I think this is the part where you ask me to dance with you to a sad, happy song,” Ellie said. “Too bad the fiddle player’s taking a break.”

  He slipped his arm around her waist and took her hand. “You can’t depend on a fiddle player. We’ll just sing it ourselves.”

  Ellie sang it with him as they waltzed around the giant rock in the babbling creek: “Parlez-moi d’amour . . .”

  They sang and danced through a verse and chorus before Raphe stopped and held Ellie’s face in his hands. “Are you still sure, Juliet?”

  “About what?”

  “About me. About Remy. About living in a cabin with no electricity. About washing clothes on a scrub board.”

  Ellie smiled up at him. “Let me tell you something, mister. The minute Louisiana gets power to the bayou, there will be a washing machine on my porch.”

  “You know what I mean. You have an education. You could’ve found your own way.”

  Ellie laid her hands over his. “No, I couldn’t. I could get a job. I could make a living. But I couldn’t make a life by myself—not one that meant anything. For that I needed you—you and Remy.”

  “No regrets?”