by Pamela Morsi
He wished that day would hurry up and arrive. Armand made his way back toward the food tables and cook fires at the far side of the house. The whine of Ony Guidry's fiddle resonated and the voices chatting and visiting were raised loudly above the sound. All around the area of the house, under each tree or open space, gatherings of friends and neighbors flourished.
A circle of farmers was standing together swapping stories amid laughter and guffaws. They could tell jokes from sunset to sunrise with hardly a break for a cup of coffee. Many of the jokes were about Creoles, the other French-speaking people of Louisiana, who were generally disliked and distrusted. Creole ancestors had been nobles or those aspiring to nobility in the West Indies. Acadians were descendants of yeoman farmers, pioneers who sought freedom and egalitarianism. The two groups did not mix well.
Occasionally jokes were told about Frenchmen, who were thought to be much like Creoles. But most often the subject of Acadian humor was the Acadians themselves.
Oscar Benoit called out Armand's name and waved him over to a small group standing near an overgrowth of lilas. The man was already laughing as he slapped Armand on the back.
"Tell them that new joke that's going around," he said. "You always tell these things better than I can."
"Which joke?" Armand asked, refusing an offer of tobacco.
"You know," Benoit insisted. "The one about the farmer who called his wife by the mule's name."
Armand shook his head. "I don't know it."
"Oh but you must, you always know them."
Armand shook his head once more.
"Oh well, I must tell it myself."
He motioned for the men to gather around him as he began. Armand listened eagerly along with the rest.
"The Madame was to throw her farmer out of the house," Benoit told them dramatically. "For while they were loving he called her by another woman's name."
The men gathered made collective sounds of humored horror.
"She was furious!"
Many nodded. One of the Acadians whistled in understanding of the seriousness of the mistake. All, along with Armand, leaned closer, grinning in anticipation as Benoit continued.
"The farmer swore he was innocent of any wrongdoing, saying to her that the name was not the name of another woman but only the name of his mule."
A couple of the men snickered.
"So she said she would forgive him, because she knew that he talked to that worn-out old mule all day as he worked. But she told him she thought that it was very strange that he would make such a blunder at such a time."
The group around Benoit nodded in grinning agreement.
"'But dear wife,' the farmer said to her. 'Your face was turned from me. From that direction any man might have mistaken you for my mule.'"
Hoots exploded from those gathered, but Benoit was not yet finished.
"'And,'" he continued. "'I spend a lot more of my life staring at hers than staring at yours!'"
The roar of laughter was nearly deafening. Armand chuckled along with the rest, shaking his head.
"You fellows with your stories of marriage misery are going to rob me of my dreams," he complained.
"If they are dreams of women," Emile Granger shot back quickly, "only death can steal them."
Armand laughed along with the others before continuing on his way.
He noticed a heated quorum gathering. Father Denis was right in the center of the verbal fray and Armand had the good sense to immediately put some distance between himself and the good father. The old priest was bound to try to draw him in and Armand wanted no unpleasantness to ruin his Saturday night.
Finally he made his way over to an old woman sitting in front of a big black cauldron. She seemed almost lost in thought as she stirred the mixture of fish and vegetables in the dark, rich roué.
"Are you cooking up something good for me, Nanan?" he asked.
A grown man's use of the childish nickname for godmother might have made another woman's eyes twinkle and another woman's lips curl in a smile, but Orva Landry merely looked up and gazed at him critically.
"You have not been to see me," she said simply.
Armand bowed his head slightly by way of apology. "I did not realize that I was neglecting you," he said.
"I have heard your name," she said, looking at him intently, her rheumy eyes serious and purposeful. "I have heard your name on the water."
Armand was momentarily taken aback.
Orva Landry, some said, was older then the bayou. She was a cold and mostly silent person whom few thought of as a friend. But she was held in great respect by the people of Prairie l'Acadie. Orva Landry was la traiteur, the treater.
Born in the place the English called Nova Scotia, she had lived through the Grand Derangement, the time of terror when women had been pulled from their houses, children captured at play, and men herded from the fields. They were forced onto English boats that carried them away from the land they had tended and toiled upon for one hundred and fifty years. All for their failure to swear allegiance to an English king.
According to local legend, Orva, a frightened little child, had been separated from her mother and father, her sisters and brothers, and never saw them again. But as God is often wont to do, when He taketh away He also giveth. Orva Landry was given the treater's gift. Where the young girl, now an ancient crone, had learned the secrets of charms, gris gris, and hoodoo, no one knew. But she could heal both man and beast, had treatment for any ailment, and heard the voice of Joan of Arc speaking to her on the river.
"You have heard my name, Nanan?" Armand asked, disquieted. Perhaps more than any human on the Vermilion River, Armand Sonnier knew Orva Landry as a person. Therefore he feared her less than most. But he never for a moment doubted her gift.
Armand had been born frail and feeble. He had come into life feet first and too early, and his mother was too weak to properly care for the sickly child.
Armand's father had wrapped his baby son in a blanket, laid him in the floor of the pirogue, and poled down the river to Madame Landry's tiny house.
The old woman tended the child and was credited by one and all for keeping him alive. The Sonniers named her as Armand's godmother and throughout his life he sought her out when he was ill. Armand knew Orva Landry. And if she said she spoke to voices on the river, Armand knew that she did.
"Are you sure it was my name that you heard?"
Madame Landry glared at him impatiently. "A human does not get so deaf that she can't hear the voices clear," she said gruffly.
Armand apologized. "What do they say, Nanan?"
"'There is uncertainty on the wind,'" she quoted. "Swirling around us now on this prairie is change, unexpected. And you, mon fils, you are at the center of it."
Armand's brow furrowed. Although everyone knew that Madame Landry spoke with the revenant specter of Joan of Arc, the saint's name was never mentioned. Superstitious and fearful, people spoke of her euphemistically only as the voices. To his knowledge the voices had never before spoken his name. It was disconcerting even to think that they knew it.
Armand shook his head thoughtfully. He knew of nothing, no one, with whom he was in conflict. He glanced around the gathering. His gaze paused momentarily at the little irritable-looking crowd speaking with Father Denis. Perhaps the trouble was there.
"Did they mention Father Denis?" he asked.
"Father Denis!" Orva huffed with disregard. "The voices care not for rich Frenchmen, even those who wrap themselves in robes."
The two spiritual leaders of the Prairie l'Acadie had very little mutual respect.
"Then what can this vision be about?" Armand asked.
The old woman stared at him for a long, thoughtful moment, then nodded in the direction of the river.
"It's about her," Madame Landry said quietly.
Armand turned in the direction she indicated just in time to see the most beautiful woman on the Vermilion River alight from her father's pirogue. Her dress sw
irled around her like a pool of lilies in a summer breeze and her voice was as cheering as music on the water. The music had ceased as if by design. Laughing and lovely, she had every eye upon her.
A twinge of shock stilled Armand's body and he involuntarily swallowed.
"It's about Aida Gaudet?"
The old woman didn't answer immediately but continued to study Armand.
He felt the heat rise to his cheeks. She couldn't know. He was sure of that. Madame Landry couldn't know how he felt about Aida.
"What about her?" he asked quickly.
Orva tutted in disapproval and continued to stir her brew. An uncomfortable silence dragged between them. Armand waited.
"A careless word spoken is like a tree falling into a mighty river," she told him finally. Raising her chin, she looked him straight in the eye. "Most times the tree merely lies to rot and be swept away. But sometimes when the water is low and the yonder bank delicate, the river will swirl around the tree with some force, wear away the weak side, and cause the flow to meander in a new direction."
"What are you saying, Nanan? That a careless word of mine has changed the destiny of Aida Gaudet?"
Madame Landry nodded as she lowered her gaze to the boiling pot of aromatic gumbo. "She will not wed the young Boudreau," she said quietly.
Armand was surprised. He remembered speculating to Laron that if he married a woman he did not want, he would be miserable. Could it be that Laron would take his words seriously? Armand found the thought lightening his heart. But he rallied against the wishfulness. Separating Aida from Laron would not turn her in his direction. Aida was flighty and carefree. She liked handsome, dashing men, and Armand was forever short and plain. But he hoped Aida would find a husband whose heart was not engaged elsewhere.
"I find that news not disquieting, but welcome," he told the old woman.
She huffed in disapproval. "Well, perhaps you should not," she said. "Altering the fate of one alters the fate of all."
He knew the admonition was true. Laron could never marry the German widow, of course. And they could have no legitimate children. But he would be a good man to her, loyal and true as any husband, and even a fine father to the little ones she had. Those would all be positive things. Armand could not see any bad consequences. Of course, there was the jilting.
"What about Aida Gaudet?"
Orva nodded approvingly as if she could see his thoughts coming full circle. "Soon she will cast her heart in a new direction," the old woman said.
"And in what man's direction will that be?" he asked.
Madame Landry ceased her stirring and slathered a helping of the broth and fish on a large piece of bread in a wooden trencher. "This is for your sister-in-law, isn't it?" she said. "She should eat, she will need her strength."
He accepted the dish, but continued to watch his godmother curiously.
"Who is the new man for Aida Gaudet?" he asked more forcefully.
Orva Landry raised her eyes to meet his gaze directly, but her words failed to satisfy his curiosity. "Someone I am sure that you would never suspect."
From the moment Aida stepped upon the Marchands' dock, she was determined to have a wonderful time. She did not immediately see Laron and she would not deign to cast her glance into the crowd for him. She knew that he must be there and that he was undoubtedly looking at her.
It was Monsieur Marchand himself who helped her from the pirogue. Her wooden sabots scattered behind her in the boat as she attempted to slip her dancing slippers from her sleeve. She was certain that she had put them right there, but inexplicably she could not locate them.
"I've been hardly able to hold my feet still since the last bend in the river," she confessed breathlessly to her host. "If I could just lean on someone strong like you while I hurry into my slippers . . . where are my slippers?"
Somehow the prized kid dancing shoes had disappeared in the sleeve of her gown, and with her other
arm completely inside the covering of its opposite, she could not locate them.
"Where on earth . . ."
"I believe, mamselle," Monsieur Marchand said gallantly. "That perhaps they are in the left rather than the right."
"The left?"
She glanced down and could clearly see the telltale bulge in the other sleeve.
"Oh, they are here!"
Aida laughed gaily, as if it were a good joke, and amazingly, the gentlemen laughed with her.
"Indeed yes, mamselle," Emile Marchand agreed, holding himself very tall and straight. "It is an honor to be your champion."
Aida giggled as if the older man had said something quite clever and then braced herself against him as she bent to put on her shoes. To her surprise she found a gentleman at her feet.
"Monsieur Sonnier?" Her eyes were wide with feigned confusion. "It is very polite to bow to a lady, but it is not necessary to drop to one's knees."
Jean Baptiste laughed delightedly. "You tease me, Mademoiselle Gaudet. Your humble servant wishes only to offer assistance."
He took Aida's red slippers from her and placed one on each small foot as she leaned upon the sturdy shoulder of Monsieur Marchand.
"Thank you very much, gentlemen," she said when she was properly shod and standing unassisted once more. "You are both too kind."
"I am not too kind to ask a reward, mamselle," Jean Baptiste told her.
"A reward?"
"When the music starts up again, could an old married man beg a dance with the loveliest lady present?" he asked.
Aida batted her eyelashes at him. "Oh monsieur, I do hope that Madame Sonnier doesn't hear you say such a thing."
Jean Baptiste laughed lightly. "My good wife would never dispute the truth."
Aida batted him lightly on the sleeve with her guinea feather fan as if to scold him for his words. "All right, monsieur, I must risk your lady's wrath, for I fear I have no other partner," she told him.
He offered his arm and led her out among the dancers. They joined three other couples in a set. As soon as they took position, the music began once more as if Ony Guidry had been waiting just for them.
Aida curtsied to Jean Baptiste and he bowed to her. She turned and did the same to Pierre Babin, who was partnering his sister Ruby. The couples and corners of the square clasped hands and the intricate steps of the dance began.
Aida followed the well-learned steps and spins and turns and bows with natural grace. She did not have to think about the dance, the movements came to her as easily as a smile.
Jean Baptiste was an excellent dancer and he was tall and looked good beside her. But the man she expected beside her was not. As she circled backward in a handclasp with the other girls, she spotted Laron in the crowd. His face was visible for only a minute, but she knew that he was watching her. When she turned back to Jean Baptiste, she deliberately flirted with her eyes and giggled prettily at him.
A little tinge of jealousy wouldn't hurt her fiancé one bit.
When the music ended she laughed gaily and applauded as if Guidry's music wasn't just exactly as squeaky and slightly off-tune as last week and the week before.
Giving Jean Baptiste a nod of dismissal and the little half-smile that hid her chipped tooth, Aida grabbed Ruby's arm and pulled the girl close to her, giving her a gentle hug.
"Comment ça va, Ruby?" she asked. "How are you?"
Ruby accepted the hug with enthusiasm and smiled with shy delight at being noticed.
"I'm fine," she answered politely. "And how are you?"
Aida answered positively and waved away Ruby's awkward younger brother. "You go on, Monsieur Babin," she told Pierre. "Your sister and I have lots of girl talk and gossip to catch up on."
He gave a sigh of relief and nodded gratefully, hurrying away as if in fear that Aida might change her mind. She did not. She smiled warmly at Ruby.
"Don't you look sweet tonight!" she said.
Ruby's face nearly glowed.
In fact Ruby did not look sweet at all. Thin to th
e point of emaciation, her features were so sharp and pointed, they gave the appearance of meanness. Ruby Babin was one of the least attractive women on the Vermilion River. Perhaps if she had been witty and clever, or sweet and lovable, that would not have been a problem. But Ruby was none of those things. At the age of twenty-two she was an old maid. Her mother despaired of ever finding her a mate and her brother spent an inordinate amount of his own youth escorting her around.
It was all so unfair, Aida thought. Ruby was hardworking, often kind, and always dutiful. She deserved to have a husband and family as much as any other woman.
Aida couldn't give her that, but she could give her a bit of opportunity. Men swarmed around Aida like bees finding the last flower of summer. She could dance with only one at a time. And she wasn't interested in any of them. So she made it a point to share them with Ruby.
Another women might have kindly offered a short prayer in Ruby's name, but Aida was a young woman of action. If another person was starving and you had bread, you did not pray that they would get some, you shared with them what you had. Why would having an abundance of gentlemen be any different?
"How was your week, Ruby?" It was a question that neighbors always asked one another and Aida had found that it often set the other person to gabbing.
"Mama's felt real good. That tea you sent her has kept away those awful flashes of heat," Ruby answered. "And my little hen laid for me every day. Those are the best chickens I ever had."
Aida smiled. Ruby was no better at conversation than she was at anything else. Fortunately the two were both comfortable just to stand and smile at each other and let those around them lead the talk.
The would-be beaux had gathered eagerly. They treated Aida as what she was, the most beautiful woman present. The fact that she was engaged didn't deter their interest. Why should it? Her fiancé never showed even a speck of jealousy.
As the sets began reforming, Aida was snapped up by one of the quickest of the young gallants. One of the less hasty brethren politely requested Ruby's hand.
Aida danced with deliberate delight, refusing to allow herself to become annoyed. Laron always waited until well into the dancing to claim his chance with her, and although they were betrothed, he never danced with her more than twice. The fact that Laron was so considerate of her reputation was noted favorably by the old gossiping women. Aida herself would have flaunted convention. Laron was, by far, the best dancer. It seemed grossly unfair that she should not dance with him as long as she cared to. At least, she told herself as she was partnered adequately by Placide Marchand, one of the host's younger sons, Laron wasn't dancing with anyone else.