by Pamela Morsi
Obviously embarrassed at being caught by a female on his return from answering nature's call, he moved to make a hasty retreat. Laron called out to him.
"My friend, could you escort Mademoiselle Gaudet back to the dance," he said.
Aida looked up at him, surprised.
"I must travel upriver tonight," he told her. "It is late already. I have only stayed this long that I might dance with you."
"But—"
"I will dream every night of the sight of you, my bride, riding in a pirogue of flowers," he told her, laying a feather-light kiss upon her knuckles.
She nodded slowly. "It must be spring then." Her tone was flat.
"Good, then that is settled," Laron said. "It is time that I head out. Monsieur Sonnier, if I might trust this lady's safety to your arm."
Jean Baptiste bowed with such enthusiasm that Aida managed a natural smile at him. He was safe. She didn't mind taking his arm.
As they walked toward the sounds of music in the distance, Aida heard, rather than saw, Laron boarding his pirogue. He had dutifully danced his one dance with her. He didn't want to marry her. He wanted to be married to the most beautiful woman on the Vermilion River. And he didn't even want to do that until spring, he said. In spring he would be suggesting the fall. In fall, the spring once more.
He was heading upriver. As he did every Saturday night, for a no longer so secret rendezvous.
He hadn't said, and she would never admit that she knew. But without question, he was heading upriver to see the German widow.
Chapter Three
The distance between the fais-dodo at the Marchands' and the homestead of the German widow was significant. But Laron poled the pirogue with enthusiasm. Up the wide Vermilion to tiny Bayou Tortue, guided by the light of the moon on the water to the lonely, desolate outpost of the woman he loved.
The spring, Laron thought to himself. He would wed in the spring. He hoped the good father and Aida's poppa would accept that. He could hardly blame them if they did not. Two years was a very long engagement indeed. If he was very lucky he could hold off his marriage until spring. But no later, in spring he would be the husband of Aida Gaudet.
Aida Gaudet. He shook his head as he thought of her. She was so pretty, too pretty. It was that prettiness that had originally attracted him. That, and the sense of challenge. All the men on the river wanted her, but Laron had been the one to make the catch. And what had he caught? He wasn't sure that he knew.
Laron had no illusions about the beautiful Mademoiselle Gaudet. He had no real interest in her, either. But she was to be his wife. He knew appealing to her vanity was the way to delay the wedding. She couldn't resist the image of herself in a pirogue bedecked with flowers poling to the church, with every man, woman, and child on the river watching with awe from the bank. In the spring, almost certainly, he would be forced to go ahead and wed her. And in the spring when that happened, he was also certain that he would no longer be welcome on this bayou.
Up ahead he could see the glow of light from the Shotz cabin. It was a welcoming sight, one he was hoping for. He hadn't told her to expect him, of course. He never said when he was coming or going. It was not their way to speak of it. But then perhaps that was because in the beginning, it was not their way to speak. In fact, in the beginning, they could not speak. Helga's French had been minimal and Laron knew not one word of German. Some things did not require talk.
Laron eased his pirogue next to her dock in the darkness without even bumping against the wood. However, the minute his foot creaked upon the cypress boards, he heard stirring from inside the house.
The curtain covering the doorway was thrown back and a pair of small bare feet hurried down the planking.
"Oncle! Oncle!" a tiny voice called out in French. "You are home at last."
Jakob Shotz threw himself in the direction of Laron Boudreau, confident that he would be caught, and he was.
"Tout-petit! You should be abed already," he told the child.
The little boy rewarded him with a wet baby kiss right on the mouth.
"I was in bed," the little one said in flawless French. "But I was not asleep. I'm a big boy and don't get sleepy."
"You are getting big," Laron agreed as he secured the child upon his hip. "I'm not sure if I can carry you and these provisions as well."
The little boy's eyes widened appreciably as Laron retrieved the heavy weighted sack from the pirogue.
"What did you bring me?" he asked excitedly.
Laron feigned confusion. "Bring you?"
"What did you bring me? What did you bring me?"
Laron laughed as he began walking toward the house, sack over his shoulder, child in his arms.
"What did I bring you?" Laron repeated the question. "Hmmm. Muskrat hide?"
"No, no." The little boy shook his head. "Something else."
"Haunch of venison?"
"No, no, something else."
"A pound of coffee?"
"No, no Oncle, it must be for a boy," Jakob explained.
"Oh for a boy!" Laron exclaimed with the appearance of sudden understanding. "Then it must be the sweets I brought."
"Sweets?" The child's eyes were wide as he licked his lips.
"Pralines," Laron answered. "My sister made them, and she makes the best ones on the river."
"Pralines!" the little boy called out. "He's brought pralines!"
Laron laughed at the child's enthusiasm. He glanced up to the porch. In the doorway stood a young girl of eight. Her long blond braids hung down on either side of her head; her blue eyes were bright with excitement.
"Bonsoir, princesse," Laron said to her, bowing low and feigning a threat of dropping the little fellow in his arms. "How is Her Majesty on this lovely moonlit night?"
Elsa giggled and offered a curtsy in reply. "As well as any girl might be when she has two brothers," she answered as she drew aside the doorway curtain. Laron followed her into the cabin. The interior was fragrant with the scent of tarragon, thyme, and burning tobacco. "One of my brothers is a baby and the other a brute," Elsa announced.
"I am not a baby!" Jakob protested loudly.
The twelve-year-old brute sitting on the floor next to the smoldering hearth did not dispute her. He was looking faintly bored and tapping a corncob pipe.
"Hello, Karl," Laron said. "Have you taken up smoking?"
The boy didn't get a chance to answer; his sister did it for him.
"He's smelling up the whole house with that thing. It makes me sick!" she complained.
"Dumb girls get sick at everything," he replied.
"I never hardly ever get sick!" his sister shot back.
"Then my smoking shouldn't bother you."
"Men usually smoke on the porch," Laron told him in a tone so factual it was free of any hint of reproach or even suggestion.
Laron turned his gaze to the far side of the room and made immediate eye contact with the lady of the house. Helga Shotz stood before the table, which was piled high with cowpeas being sorted for drying. Her dark blond braids were twisted like heavy ropes across the top of her head. The plain blue dress of Attakapas homespun she wore matched her eyes. The bell-gathered skirt, which only partially disguised the width of her hips, was covered with an apron of sunbleached cottonade. Helga was a large, sturdily built woman of thirty-one years. With strong features, broad shoulders, ample proportions, and an abundance of feminine curves, she would never have been described as pretty or dainty by any man. Laron Boudreau knew her to be beautiful.
He nodded to her slightly in greeting. She replied likewise.
"I have brought you supplies, Madame Shotz," he said.
"We are very grateful, Monsieur Boudreau," she answered. Unlike that of her children, Helga's French was heavily accented with the guttural sounds of her native tongue. Some might have found the sound harsh. To Laron it was an intriguing, exciting sound. He found this woman endlessly intriguing and exciting.
Laron crossed the room a
nd moved beyond her to the larder and began stowing the items from his sack. The children near the fireplace were arguing. Elsa was now insisting that her brother should smoke outside. Karl was loudly informing her that he was not her hired man. And little Jakob was warning both that the pralines were meant for him and him alone.
Squatting to reach the lower shelves, Laron turned slightly and surreptitiously patted the ample backside of Madame Shotz.
She slapped at his hand and blushed furiously as he grinned up at her.
"Missed you," he whispered.
"I missed you, too," she answered. "How was the fais-dodo?"
"Lonely."
She shook her head as if she didn't believe him. "There must have been lots of pretty girls there."
Laron shrugged. "None of them was you."
Helga blushed with pleasure.
The sounds of the children's disagreement increased in volume. Laron gave a nod in that direction.
"Difficult week?" he asked.
"One of the worst," she admitted.
"Your son is growing up," Laron said.
Helga nodded solemnly. "More than you know."
He finished his unpacking, stowing all the goods he'd brought in their rightful and familiar places. Finished, he stood, taking a long leisurely stretch, his hands nearly high enough to touch the ceilings before he nonchalantly took his place beside her.
"Thank you for the supplies, Monsieur Boudreau," she said. "I do hope you remembered to bring the salt. I am out completely."
"I brought it." Laron leaned forward slightly as if to get a better look at the abundance of pale green legumes with their very black nubs. He whispered quietly into her ear. "Sweet Madame, I have also brought something else, much more exciting."
Helga covered her giggle with a hand to her mouth.
Any more conversation was lost as the children's disagreement increased in volume.
"You are mean and hateful!" Elsa declared loudly.
"And you are stupid and ugly!" her brother shot back.
"Mama make him—"
Elsa was not allowed to finish her complaint as her mother held up her hand for immediate silence.
"Enough!"
The three quieted immediately, but her elder children were still looking daggers at each other.
"I think it is time that you went to bed," Helga told the three of them in German. "Monsieur Boudreau is probably tired and he did not bring his boat this long distance to hear children quarrel."
"Oncle must put me in bed, no one else," Jakob demanded in French.
"I will put you in bed," his sister told him. "It's my job."
Helga nodded. "And you must go right to sleep, my baby," she said. "Remember tomorrow is Sunday, and since Monsieur Boudreau is here, we shall have beignets for breakfast."
Little Jakob licked his lips in anticipation and then sighed with acceptance of the good-night ritual. He allowed Elsa to lead him to the loft ladder. The sounds of their feet overhead could be heard before Helga spoke once more to her eldest son.
"You also, Karl. You need your rest as well as the others."
The youngster continue to puff on his pipe. "I am not tired," he said in French. Then in German he added, "And I know exactly why Monsieur Boudreau has traveled in his boat this long distance."
Laron did not understand the boy's words, but from the tone of his voice and the shocked reaction on his mother's face, he knew the comment had been hurtful. She lowered her head not quite fast enough to hide her distress.
He wanted to come to her defense. He wanted to demand to know what was said. He wanted to wash young Karl's mouth out with soap. He wanted to do something. But he didn't know what it could be.
"I brought my cards," Laron piped up, pretending to have missed the undercurrent in the room. "I promised to teach you bourre. If you aren't tired, we can play."
Karl hesitated a long moment. Finally he shrugged. "All right, I have nothing else to do."
Laron pulled out his cards and smiled at Helga. "You go ahead and finish with your work," he said. "We men will do our best to stay out of your way."
She raised her eyes, which still glistened brightly. "Karl has said many times that he wanted to learn the cards," she said, forcing a smile.
Laron nodded and stepped past her.
"Let us go outside," he said to Karl.
"Why?"
"I want to smoke my pipe," he answered. "And I would never offend your mother by doing so inside her house."
Walking outside alone, Laron waited on the porch, wondering if the boy would follow him. The way things were going the last several weeks, he would not have been surprised if the boy was too stubborn to even do that.
It was simply a part of growing up, Laron reminded himself. Karl was young and confused and testing the waters. Boys grew up early in the bayous. And a boy with no father grew up quicker than most.
The youngster did come out to the porch, still puffing enthusiastically on the hand-hewn pipe. They seated themselves on slat-back chairs before a low table.
"Where did you get the pipe?" Laron asked.
"Traded for it," Karl answered.
"Hmmm." Laron nodded with interest.
"The Arceneaux brothers, Jacques and Duclize. I gave them a couple of fine turtle shells."
"Seems like a fair trade," Laron agreed.
"They know you," Karl said, looking at him closely.
Laron raised his eyes to look at Karl directly. "Yes, they are my cousins. They are a little older than you."
Karl shrugged and puffed heavily on his pipe. "I'm old enough," he stated.
Laron didn't argue. "Let us play," he said.
He spread the cards out upon the table and showed him the four suits and identified the face cards. Neither could actually read the printed numbers, but both could adequately count the hearts, diamonds, clubs, or spades printed there.
Laron showed him the trick of shuffling to make the cards stack randomly. As the boy practiced the new skill, Laron lit his own pipe and watched.
After several minutes the boy set the cards in a stack in the middle of the table.
"I'm ready to learn," he said.
Laron nodded. "First the rules," he said.
"All right."
Laron reached across and took Karl by the wrist. His hold was not bruising or confining, merely firm. The boy looked up, startled.
"Rule one," Laron said quietly. "A son does not say things to his mother that make her cry."
Karl's eyes narrowed and his jaw firmed.
The moment lingered, dark brown eyes staring into blue ones. The intensity growing to unbearability before it began to wane.
"I am sorry," Karl said finally.
"You should say that to her and not to me," Laron pointed out.
After a long hesitation the boy nodded.
"Deal."
He did.
An hour later Karl was yawning into his cards and Laron called the game to a halt. When they returned to the interior of the cabin, the boy didn't relight his pipe, but he did sprawl into a chair.
"Aren't you going to bed?" Helga asked him.
"No, I'm still wide awake," he proclaimed, although his eyelids appeared heavy.
Laron and Helga exchanged a disbelieving glance. She shrugged and began bustling, rather tiredly, around the kitchen once more. Laron looked longingly at the comfortable rope-sprung bed in the corner of the room and then turned back with purpose to the boy yawning before the fire.
"I must tell you the story of how my people came to this place," he said.
"I've heard it," Karl answered, his tone sarcastic and bored. "You've spoken of the Grand Derangement many times."
"But it is a story that must be told many times, lest anyone forget."
Seating himself, Laron began to talk. His words were low, almost monotone. Karl, his head propped up on his elbow, feigned listening as the older man spoke at great length about the history of the Acadians.
"As
a people we were scattered to the four winds. Exiles in places where our religion was reviled and our citizenship unwanted."
They were the stories Laron had heard all his life, told by parents and elders since the days when he could still find a comfortable perch on an old frail lap. Deliberately Laron left out all the tales involving adventure, danger, and excitement. Those had been his favorites at Karl's age. This night he concentrated fully on the factual and mundane.
He had just gotten to Theophile Peyroux's visit to the Spanish ambassador when the first little snore escaped from Karl's mouth.
Slowly, with big quiet movements, Laron turned to see Helga sitting with her elbow propped on the table. She was hardly able to hold up her own head. But when she saw his face and glanced over at her now sleeping son, she immediately became alert.
Laron grinned broadly, but put a finger to his lips, signaling silence, and pointed to the back door. She nodded and soundlessly the two crept out, keeping a watchful eye on young Karl until they were down the back steps and into the yard.
Laron grabbed her hand and they took off running. They were out of sight of the house when, breathless and laughing, they stopped to catch their breath at the trunk of a hardy old tupelo. "I thought he would never sleep!" Laron told her, chuckling.
Helga was shaking her head. "When you started reciting which boats headed for which ports, I thought I would be snoring first."
Laron wrapped his arms around her and pulled her tight against him. "But I would have awakened you, Madame," he said.
He bent his head and leaned down to kiss her. She met his lips with her own. Warm. Eager.
His hands roamed her body.
She pulled at his clothes.
"Love me! Love me!" she begged him.
He did.
The Sonniers' pirogue, crowded with sleeping children and tired adults, bumped lightly into the dock in front of their home very late that Saturday night. Armand held the boat steady with the pole as his brother tied it securely to the cypress posts.
Jean Baptiste squatted on the dock. "Hand them out," he said.
Felicite lifted the baby to him first. The little one was awake and fussing. Jean Baptiste laid him on the wide cypress planks and then stretched his arms toward his wife once more. The two older children were passed into their father's arms. And then, rising to his feet, he assisted Felicite, who was huge and ungainly.