Cajun Crazy

by Sandra Hill

  She’d barely edged out of the doorway, making room for her mother, who was braced on her walker, when Scarlett scooted out. Wearing a purple floral housecoat and fuzzy duck slippers, she had big foam rollers on her head that would probably touch the ceiling (her mother was tall, too). Those big rollers were a necessity for the huge, teased hairdo her mother had sported since forever, following the Southern tradition, “the higher the hair, the closer to God.” Of course that tradition of Southern women with big bouffant long hair went out about 1970, but that was her mother—stuck in the ’70s. And, actually, her mother’s go-to hairstyle was a back-combed French twist up-do, which had been the rage back then and was still suitable for her waitress job, which would otherwise require a hair net.

  Her mother edged sideways through the door, past Simone, leaving the walker behind in the hallway.

  Simone had to give her mother credit. After two months of rehab, the feisty lady had made great progress, aided no doubt by the thirty pounds she’d lost and daily exercises at the Houma medical fitness center. She really didn’t need the walker anymore, and, although she had another thirty pounds to lose, she was in better shape than she’d been for ages.

  Simone poured herself a mug of coffee from the blue-speckled, enamelware coffeepot on the stove. No modern K-Cup contraption for her mother. In fact, her mother made the best Creole coffee in the world. The secret being a dash of blackstrap molasses, even when serving café noir.

  Her mother came back, walking this time without the aid of the walker. She’d removed the rollers, but hadn’t combed out her hair, which was dark brown, almost black, and as clear of gray strands as Simone’s, thanks to her old friend Lady Clairol. But, no, Simone seemed to recall her mother patronized Charmaine LeDeux’s hair salon these days. Sometimes Simone forgot that her mother was only fifty, which was seeming younger to her by the day now that she was pushing thirty. In fact, she had a few of the gray monsters herself.

  Her mother had gotten pregnant with her by that horndog Valcour LeDeux when she was only nineteen and naïve, not knowing he was already married. Ernest Daigle had married her mother soon after Simone’s first birthday, not soon enough to save Simone being given the surname of the “bastard.” That’s the way Ernie always referred to Valcour, never using his name. It was: “The bastard won another lawsuit.” Or, “Cypress Oil just hit another well, so more moola for the bastard.” Or, “I heard the bastard knocked up another young lady.” Or, “Rumor is the bastard has kids in Alaska. Talk about!” Ernie never made Simone feel like anything other than his little girl, though. A true father to her he’d always been.

  Pouring a cup of coffee for herself, her mother eased down onto the opposite built-in mini bench of the tiny alcove kitchen table, which was just the right size for a trailer and sufficient for the two of them as Simone had been growing up. The trailer had been purchased twenty years ago when Ernie had been killed in an oil rig explosion out on the Gulf. (Not the same company that Valcour was associated with. That would be too much of a coincidence.)

  Little had her mother known back then that a good lawyer could have gotten her a major settlement. A good lawyer probably could have gotten her a bundle in a paternity settlement from Valcour LeDeux, as well. Instead, Adelaide had accepted $75,000, which allowed her to buy the used trailer and the lot in the Pearly Gates trailer park, put some toward Simone’s college education, and set a little aside for a “rainy day.” Meanwhile, her mother had continued to work even longer hours as a waitress to support them both. She’d still waitressed until this recent knee surgery.

  And that had been part of the problem between mother and daughter for many contentious years. Later—much later—Simone had realized how much her mother sacrificed for her. But back then, Simone had only known that her mother wasn’t around much, and when she was she was often grouchy and undemonstrative. In fact, she’d probably been tired and grief-stricken. But to teenage Simone, she’d only seen that she was left alone at a time when she’d been missing her father and craving attention. No surprise she’d looked for love in all the wrong places. And still did, dammit.

  “That Jack Landry fellow called again this mornin’ while you were in the shower and left a message on your phone. I saw the caller ID,” her mother said right off, motioning with her head toward Simone’s iPhone sitting on the counter. “Lordy, Lordy, the boy doesn’t give up, does he? He’s chasin’ your tail like a dog with the hornies.”

  The “boy,” who was close to forty, did, indeed, have a bad case of the “hornies,” or at least regrets for his one fall from grace. Yeah, right, like she believed that the time she’d caught him with his tongue down his assistant’s throat and his hands cupping her cute little nineteen-year-old butt was the only time he’d strayed! And to think she’d actually been considering marriage! Again! When would she learn?

  “Maybe you should change your number,” her mother suggested.

  “I’d rather not do that. He’s just a nuisance, nothing threatening. I’ll delete his calls without listening to them.”

  “You aren’t thinkin’ about goin’ back ta Chee-cah-go, are you?”

  “No. I already told you that I quit my job.” She was sick of the drug detail, anyhow. “And I gave up the lease on my apartment. Everything I wanted to keep is in storage.”

  “You could have brought it here.”

  Simone looked meaningfully around the small trailer. “It’s okay where it is until I decide what I want to do next . . . and where.”

  “Oh, Simone, cain’t you stay here?”

  “We’ll see. I should know more today when Helene and I meet for lunch.” Helene Dubois had been her best friend since childhood and was a lawyer. They were thinking about combining their respective talents—her police investigative skills, honed over eight years, and Helene’s ability to file court documents—into a business.

  “I’m gonna say a prayer that everything works out.”

  Simone smiled. Her mother was always going to “say a prayer” for one thing or another. That the roof would hold out. That the tips would be higher next week at work. That Simone wouldn’t get another divorce (which was against her Catholic faith). That Cletus Bergeron would suffer an early demise while serving his latest incarceration at Angola for yet another felony.

  In her mother’s mind, Simone was still married to Cletus, whom she’d eloped with when she was seventeen and divorced a year later when he’d been arrested for armed robbery. How her mother justified wishing a person dead was beyond Simone’s understanding of religion, but just last night she’d said, “I hear Cletus got a stud over at the prison and it’s rotting off his privates. Maybe God is pullin’ him ta the other side. Wouldn’t that be . . . convenient? You’d finally be free.”

  “I’m already free. I was free when I divorced him. I was free when I divorced Jeb Cormier, that Cajun guitar player with the coke habit. And I was free when I annulled my one-week marriage to Julien Gaudet, when I got a looksee at what was on his personal computer. Talk about perversions!”

  Her mother would be shocked to know what men—grown men—looked at on the Internet . . . to know that THAT was online. If anyone knew human nature, it should be a diner waitress. How her mother managed to stay so naïve after twenty-five years of “What can I get for you, sugah?” was beyond Simone’s understanding. But then, Simone had been jaded by eight years of police work.

  “Those other two marriages didn’t count,” her mother insisted.

  It was an old argument and not worth pursuing. “Back to Cletus, how can a stud rot off his privates?”

  “Not a stud. A std.”

  Simone blinked several times. “A sexually transmitted disease?”

  “That’s what I said. His mama told Charmaine LeDeux over at her beauty parlor that—”

  “Enough!” Simone said, putting up a halting hand. “I don’t want to know anything about Cletus.”

  “I was hopin’ you might wanna go up to Angola and visit him. As long as you�
�re stuck with him, maybe you kin kindle the fire again.”

  Simone’s jaw dropped with amazement. “Are you kidding me? How can you go from wishing a person dead to hooking him up with your daughter again? And him with an STD, besides.”

  “They prob’ly cured him already with a couple shots of antibiotics.” She waved a hand airily. “Let’s be honest, Simone, you haven’t had much luck in the love department, bless your heart. Maybe you should start from the beginning again. I’d like ta have grandbabies before the Final Judgement.”

  “And you expect me to manage that in a conjugal visit?”

  “Well . . .”

  “I’m going to pretend you never made that suggestion.”

  “I was just kiddin’ about you and Cletus,” her mother said, although Simone wasn’t so sure about that, “but I was thinkin’ that if you met with him, maybe you two could go to a priest and get an annulment, jist like you did from that other husband. The Church still doesn’t recognize divorce, y’know.”

  “The Church doesn’t grant annulments when a marriage has been consummated, either, Mom. Unless you go through a lot of red tape, providing grounds.”

  She let her mother mull that one over for a moment. But she didn’t give up easily. “Anyways, back ta your meetin’ this morning with the lawyer . . .”

  “Not ‘the lawyer.’ Helene. You’ve known her as long as I have.”

  “Right. Her daddy and Ernie were on the rigs t’gether.” She gave Simone a pointed look for diverting her. “When you’re meetin’ with Helene, you might mention that I already got some customers fer your new business.”

  “What? Mo-om! We haven’t even decided for sure that there will be a business.”

  Her mother shrugged. “Anyways, as I mentioned, I was at the Curl Up & Dye, your half sister Charmaine’s shop in Houma, yesterday havin’ my roots done . . .”

  She didn’t recall her mother mentioning being in the beauty salon. “So that’s where you went after rehab. I thought you were gone a long time.”

  Her mother ignored her comment. “While I was there, I happened ta mention your new Cheaters agency, and everyone in the shop got excited. Two ladies wanted your business card. Do you have business cards yet? Bet I could drum up business fer you all over the place. At the restaurant. The supermarket. Church.”

  “No, no, no,” Simone said. “There is so much wrong with what you just said.”

  “Like what?”

  “First, I wouldn’t classify the agency we’re considering as a Cheaters model.”

  “Why not? You’re gonna investigate cheatin’ spouses, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, but more than that. We’re also going to offer divorce processing, with Helene’s background. And we’ll work for parents who suspect their children of using drugs or engaging in illegal activities. Maybe elder abuse. A whole range of services.”

  “Yeah, but cheaters will be yer main business, won’t it?”

  “Maybe.”

  “I still say Bagged and Tagged would a good name fer yer business.”

  “No way! We’re leaning toward Legal Belles, if we do decide to open this agency, which is not certain.”

  “We took a poll in Charmaine’s shop. Do ya wanna know the name they all voted for?”

  Not really. “I’m afraid to ask.”

  “Busted!”

  Simone would be busted, as in burst with frustration like a big balloon, if she stayed with her mother much longer.

  “Personally, I’m leanin’ toward The Honey Pot.”

  “No!”

  “Bet I could be one of your undercover agents. Specially since I jist ordered some Spanx from the Internet. Bet I’ll look like that Kim Kardashian when I’m all squeezed in the right places. Big butts are ‘in’ now, you know. Bet there are some older cheatin’ men who’d go fer me.”

  Simone put her face on the table. Maybe she should go back to Chicago, after all.

  Chapter Two

  The things you learn in yoga class! . . .

  It was Friday night, and Adam had finally gotten away from the house and was driving his Lexus up toward Thibodaux. He would have taken his bike, but it was supposed to rain later this evening. His dad would be doing babysitting duty until the wee hours. Time for some adult entertainment!

  Between his busy work schedule and activities with his daughter, he didn’t have much spare time, though he did play racquetball on occasion, and he’d inherited his dad’s talent for poker, which he played once a month with some fellow lawyers. Adam had long outgrown clubbing; in fact, the only clubbing he’d ever indulged in had been more like bar hopping to meet chicks in college. And, although he loved his Harley, he wasn’t into the biker scene.

  What Adam really liked was women. Cut to the bone, pun intended, he liked sex. And he was never one to deprive himself, not even when he’d been married. And, no, he hadn’t been one of those losers who complained that his wife didn’t understand him and therefore sought comfort elsewhere, blah, blah, blah. Believe it or not, Hannah had been the one responsible for that state of marital affairs, another pun intended. She’d been the horndog in their marriage. Horndog Hannah! He’d even called her that one time, and she’d just laughed. Later, she just became Hardhearted Hannah when it came to their daughter. Maisie’s well-being was the only reason he’d stayed.

  Soon after they had married, Hannah, a psychologist who specialized in partner counseling (That should have been a clue.), informed him that she would be having sex with multiple partners and she expected he would do likewise. Why she hadn’t told him before the vows, or why he hadn’t suspected, was beyond him. She claimed he was just old-fashioned.

  Now, some men might have been doing the Happy Dance, but he’d always been a monogamy kind of guy. Or at least serial monogamy, as in one relationship at a time. And he’d fancied himself in love. Foolish boy!

  “Oh, Adam!” she’d said when he’d naively voiced that sentiment. “Everyone does it. As long as no one gets hurt!”

  “Bullshiiit!” he’d replied.

  So he’d stayed (in a separate bedroom), and there had been lots of women; no sense building a relationship when he was already married. In fact, he’d gained a reputation as a wild and crazy guy, despite his best attempts at discretion. A player. Nowhere near as bad as Hannah, but then, he’d stopped counting after their first anniversary.

  And then Hannah died. But the marriage, dysfunctional as it had been, was worth it for Maisie’s sake. He’d adored the squirt from the moment she’d come squalling from Hannah’s overused love channel. That was mean! Shame, Adam, shame! And he had to give Hannah credit; she’d been a good mother . . . most of the time.

  Now he was off to a date with Sonia Easterly, a yoga instructor from Baton Rouge. He’d been hooking up with the redhead for the past five months (a record for him), ever since they’d met at a party. Sonia was teaching him things about sex and yoga that boggled the mind. Who knew there were things he didn’t know about the dirty deed at his jaded age?

  It was almost ten p.m. by the time he got to Sonia’s townhouse, which was making this feel more like a booty call than a date, which was not his intention. He would have taken her out to dinner first, if he’d been able to leave the house earlier, and then they would have enjoyed the booty call. Bad, Adam, bad! Was that what they meant by “putting lipstick on a pig?” That no matter how you painted it (with dinner, flowers, a movie, whatever), it was still a booty call.

  He shrugged. He didn’t think Sonia was offended. He would ask her. Later. After he took care of her booty. Or was that his booty? Or both?

  By midnight, he lay naked and depleted on her futon after a Frog aka Garland Pose sexcapade (Garland was a fancy name for a wide, low squat, if you asked him. Like a . . . frog.), followed by a wide-legged forward-from-the-waist bend with her hands locked on her ankles (no fancy name for this, unless you considered Downward Facing Dog as anything but down and dirty). After he regained his breath, he was going to try a Camel (these
yoga folks had a thing about animals) which was pretty much a kneeling back bend. Whoa boy! He couldn’t wait.

  “You still need to work on drawing your energy inside, instead of letting it all out in a rush,” Sonia told him, snuggling up with her red hair spread out over his chest and one knee over his thighs.

  “By energy, you mean ejaculation?”

  “Exactly. It’s more satisfying if you stop yourself from climaxing, and focus all that physical force into a spiritual buoyancy that will ripple through your body, and settle under your skin like a peaceful vibrancy.”

  “If you say so.”

  She slapped him playfully on the chest, knowing he wasn’t convinced. Slipping off the bed, she said, “Let me get us a smoothie, then we’ll see what else you can handle.” She tossed her mane of red hair over her shoulder and wiggled her hips as she sashayed out of the room, aware of his scrutiny.

  She had a great body, an athlete’s body. Of medium height, but willowy thin, with muscle definition in her arms and legs. And her butt wasn’t too bad, either.

  He leaned back against a stack of pillows, his arms folded behind his neck. It was amazing how sex could relax the body. He’d been tired and stressed when he got here. Not anymore.

  When she came back, she was carrying a glass of green slime that he declined, graciously. He was ready to engage in another bout of sex, but she wanted to talk. “I’m getting out of Dodge. Moving on, and about time,” she told him. Turns out that she would be moving to California where she and her sister were going to open their own yoga studio in Malibu.

  “Seems a little sudden.”

  “Not really. Cindy and I have been talking about it for years, and the place where she works is up for sale at a decent price.”

  He was already thinking, No more yoga sex. Damn!

  “Don’t look so heartbroken,” she said with a laugh.

  “What? I will miss you.”

  “You’ll miss the sex.”