Cajun Waltz (20 page)

“Done it lotsa times.” He'd done it never. He'd recited descriptions from
Fanny Hill
with himself substituted for the lead role.

“Will you for me?”

“Okay. Sure.” His eyes dropped to where her skirt had ridden up. Yup. Nothing but her. He took a moment to gather himself. “Ready?”

Her answer was muffled but clear enough. “Fuck yeah.”

He was at it a while. Kissing wasn't possible with her hands pulling hard on his head; it was mostly wetness and licks in multi-directions and breathing through his nose. He had no awareness of enjoying the act beyond the fact that Bonnie seemed to, and even that came into question when he heard her growl, “Get it out.” He stopped at once, thinking he'd hurt her. She stepped away from the chair, further shook out her hair, and reached behind to unhook her bra. “Get it out,” she repeated, whereupon, looking down to his lap, he discovered that indeed he'd been enjoying himself.

“This?” It was an honest question.

Her arms were folded across her bare chest. She unfolded them. Hands to her side, she met him eye to eye for the first time today and for the first time ever with something other than command in her gaze. “Yes, please.”

He got it out. She never did say “please” again, though it echoed in his head during much of what followed, along with “thank you,” of course.

*   *   *

L
OVE WAS MADE
between them that day, and of an ease and fulfillment far better than most people's first time together. But Bonnie being Bonnie, her thoughts returned to practical matters moments afterward. “The dead guy. Did he deserve it?” They lay entwined on the love seat.

“World's a better place without him.”

“So you knew him?”

“By type. Jailbird all the way.”

She shivered. The idea of mortal violence made her feel like royalty, when royalty took guts and wielded real power. “Hard to picture my brother a killer.”

“He was no slouch in Korea.”

“He killed people there?”

“Part o' the job.”

“Bit different this time. Head all split open.”

“No different,” Alvin said.

The phone rang across the room. Naked, he went over to pick it up with a brisk hello. Bonnie, like any woman who'd just lost her virginity, was alert to the occasion's details and would never forget how anger flushed his body as he listened. “Don't call here again!” he barked before hanging up. When she asked who it was he didn't reply at first, bending to pick up his shirt and drape it over his lower half. Sensitive to her innocence or merely shy himself, he didn't want to offend her with lamplight illuminating his dangling self. “You remember Chief Jenks?” he said.

“Daddy's old snitch? Practically an imbecile, I always thought.”

“Wants to come visit.”

“For that you yell at him?”

“I shoulda said yes?”

“God no.” She laughed. “My hero.”

Distractedly, his mind still on the call, he collected his clothes to leave.

“Don't be a stranger,” she said.

“Jus' leave me a note.”

“Oh, and Alvin?”

He turned.

“Happy Valentine's Day.”

Again his body blushed. “That today?”

“Didn't get you a card.”

“I won't complain.”

She gave a smile the likes of which he'd never seen on her.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Little sore. Little … surprised. Funny,” she began.

“What is?”

“Valentine's Day. Makes it memorable. Not that I'd need it.”

Alvin swayed at the ankles, adrift in wondering if she'd just paid him a compliment. “Me neither,” he said.

“Why, thank you, Alvin. That's sweet of you to say.”

In a full swoon now, the naked man absently dropped his bundled clothes, stooping to pick them up as color flooded his face and cheeks. He was now in love as deeply as a person can get. This was good and bad news—good in that the world is always improved by love, bad in that henceforth he would go about working on Bonnie's behalf with fresh and ruthless vigor.

*   *   *

T
HE DATE OF
Alvin and Bonnie's first occasion of intercourse—Valentine's Day, 1957—preceded by one day an event verifiable by Lake Charles town records or by taking a walk through Orange Grove cemetery. The event occurred in the waters of the lake and involved Hollis Jenks.

The lake is cold that time of year, but Chief Jenks prided himself on catching largemouth bass under any conditions. Towing his boat on a trailer to the public ramp, he drove his truck into the parking area at dawn. He wasn't adept at backing the trailer and preferred an empty lot in which to maneuver. After several tries he got lined up and began inching down the ramp until the trailer wheels submerged and the boat lifted off its cradle on the water rising beneath it. He put his clutch in neutral, set the emergency brake, and got out to loosen the cable attaching the boat to the trailer. Straddling the trailer hitch, he grunted over the winch to gain slack in order to float the boat free. He would then tie it to the dock beside the ramp, go park the truck, and be the first one to the best fishing spots on the lake.

Something unusual happened. The emergency brake let go and the truck and trailer swooshed down the ramp into the water like a new-launched battleship, taking Jenks under and pinning him there between the winch and tailgate.

His face was upturned not two inches below the water's surface when boaters found him later. No one doubted that it was an accident, not even the person who'd crept up and released the brake. He'd only meant to give Jenks a scare—to which end, mission accomplished.

*   *   *

N
ONE OF THE
Jenks family at Hollis's wake recognized the fat man who entered the viewing area with a deeply mournful visage. When he placed an envelope presumably containing a cash gift in the basket of cards at the foot of the coffin, they received him as a dear friend. He tearfully shook every hand in the condolence line, took a seat in the back of the funeral parlor, and prayed for strength in this difficult time. Someone tapped his shoulder. “Surprised to see you here.”

Alvin slid into the pew next to Abe Percy. Brown suit stretched across his frame and black hair slickly sculpted, he resembled a gangster at Easter mass. Abe realized it was the man he'd spied with Bonnie Bainard in Hancock Bayou and again later at R.J.'s funeral. “You work for Richie,” Abe said.

“For Mr. Bainard, yes.”

“I've been hoping to speak to him personally.”

Alvin indicated the candlelit casket at the head of the viewing room. “You stand a better chance with Chief Jenks over there.”

“I know his son is alive.”

“Thought Jenks had only daughters.”

“Don't mock me!” Heads turned to shush Abe. “I'm talking about R.J.”

“We buried that boy last month.”

“You buried someone. And I can prove it.” Abe's reason was not at its best. He was spouting off to a stranger without heed to decorum or prudence; worse, he embraced it as a heaven-sent opportunity to make something positive happen at last. “I want thirty thousand dollars from the Bainards within one week. Stick it here.” He handed Alvin a yellowed business card embossed with his name and a post office box.

Alvin studied the card. “They won't never oblige you on this.”

“Think not?” Abe was mimicking movie talk now, trusting that any danger would likewise be pretend. “Then they'll find they have cause for worry.”

“Way I see it, I know your name, what you look like, and where you pick up your mail. The worry might be yours.”

“Is that a threat?”

“Pretty much.”

“Well, in that case…” Abe struggled to keep up his bravado. “I'm not the only one who knows. Silencing me won't make a difference.”

Alvin was disappointed but not surprised. “I suppose you won't tell me who.”

“It's my insurance policy.” Abe had in mind Tarzy, the colored boy in Hancock Bayou, and Delly Franklin. “To corroborate that whoever you and Bonnie Bainard buried in much haste was
not
her brother. Hence the question, who was the dead man? Who killed him? And where is R.J. now?” Proud of the points his summation had struck, Abe was taken aback by Alvin's response:

“How much you leave in the kitty?”

“Excuse me?”

“By the coffin there. You donated to the family, right?”

“I did what's proper.”

“How much? I'm curious what a man will pay for a clean conscience. Boat accident? Come on. You and me know better.”

“You're saying…” Abe realized Alvin was saying a couple things, none of which he could make himself utter.

“Hey, my hat's off to you. Everybody's sold.”

“You're implying I drowned Chief Jenks?”

“Somebody did.”

“Twenty thousand.” Abe licked his damp lip. “I'll be waiting.”

With a joyless smile Alvin rose to leave. The smile was hard to maintain. More problems. More chores. For love.

Abe, alone in his pew, surveyed the flowers, candles, and open casket. The morbid spectacle had become almost ordinary in the course of sitting here. He regarded the basket full of envelopes, one of which held his dollar gift to the family of the deceased. The puny sum now seemed as damning as any bad thing he'd ever done, almost.

*   *   *

S
ETH WASN'T SMOOTH
with girls. The best line he could come up with was to beg a favor: Would she give him a lift home from the hospital this weekend? The instant Delly Franklin agreed he began fretting about her reaction to seeing Georgia Hill. He didn't want his connection to Richie Bainard's wealth to influence her view of him. If she liked him more for it, that would be bad. If she liked him less, that would be worse.

Whenever he stood near her at the hospital, Delly's figure was discernible to him as ripe clusters of fruit within fog. Heated thoughts about her had pushed Seth's Bible study to the back burner; perdition and penitence held little attraction compared to someday kissing her breasts. Other obsessions had likewise diminished. His half brother had shot himself dead in some swamp. Case closed. Now his father was dying, another instance of angels working overtime to punish the violence done to Seth's mother. It seemed no longer Seth's mission to tabulate the rights and wrongs and avenge where indicated. Better to dream of winning a woman than get sidetracked by other men's doom.

His and Delly's few exchanges so far had concerned her cousin, Joey. She was vigilant in overseeing his recovery. Recently she'd confessed why. “I'm the one put him in this hospital. Guilt's made me mush, I guess.”

“You don't seem mushy to me. More the opposite.”

“I've been told that before.” She explained how she'd bashed in Joey's skull, attributing it to poor light and much wine. “So if you heard any rumors—”

“I haven't,” he lied.

“—now you know the truth. Just me acting crazy.”

Anxiety plagued him ahead of their Saturday appointment. His courtship plan involved strategies of picturesque pathos. Showing Delly the mansion whose privilege he'd rejected was step one.

She knew the area of Georgia Hill's address. He asked if she minded taking a detour past the high school. “Kinda outta the way,” she said, but turned the wheel as asked.

They sat apart on the front seat of her car. “You smell different,” he said.

“Today's my bath day.”

“Yeah?”

“Just kidding.”

“It's not?”

“Lord, Seth! I bathe every day.”

“That's not what I smell,” he persisted.

“It's my perm, all right? I got a perm this morning.”

“They smell?”

“The chemicals.”

“Why would you perm your hair?”

“Why?” She sighed. “I went for a dye job. Get back to my natural color. My stupid hairdresser talked me into a new perm. Now I'm a poodle.”

He found this enchanting. “You're not a poodle.”

“Ooh, now there's a compliment.” She glanced at him across the seat. His reaction—a baleful expression, as of an old dog kicked by a new owner—told her this cripple with no life was attracted to her. “How much can you see, Seth? I'm never sure.”

“With enough light I can see close up. Past that, it's pretty dim.”

“Can you see my face?”

“If I got near.”

“Then no.”

“Correct. You're a shape and a voice. And a smell.”

“In movies blind people touch people's faces to tell what they look like.”

“Kind of an awkward thing to ask somebody.”

“You could touch mine if you want to. Not while I'm driving, but sometime.”

Seth touched his own face as if to verify its blush. “Okay.”

She studied the road, embarrassed by his embarrassment. “Since I know what you look like, it's only fair.”

“What do I look like?”

“Pardon?”

He repeated the question.

“You?” she stalled. “Well, you're tall and kinda thin and—”

“My face.”

“You don't know?”

“Not since fifteen, when I got hurt.”

“The car accident.”

“Yes.” He shied from the subject. “I can see myself in a mirror close up. But I don't know how I compare with other guys.”

“So what you're asking is are you good-looking?”

“I'm asking am I bad-looking.”

This touched her. “You're not. Okay?”

“Not ugly?”

“Not at all.”

Seth leaned back and exhaled.

The road wound through Lake Charles's white working-class neighborhood. Carports, clotheslines, vegetable patches in the side yards, tool sheds in back. Some homes had wire-and-plywood coops for chickens and rabbits. “Part of town I grew up in,” Delly said. She told Seth the high school was coming up.