Courir De Mardi Gras (13 page)

“Don’t call me that.”

“What, Four-eyes?”

Evelyn heaved at Billy’s arm trying to draw her husband away. Her high voice squeaked, “Now, Billy, now Billy, we was having such a nice time.”

“You know what, Four-eyes? Your daddy hustled you off to that fancy-dancy school before I could return the black eye you give me in grade school. And I got the strap, too, for fighting with Jacques St. Julien’s kid. Daddy beat the shit out of me over you, Four-eyes. Son of the Capitaine and afraid to show his face in Joe’s Lounge up ’til now, eh, candy-ass.”

George did not reply. One of his long arms shot out at waist level and cut off Billy’s air with a blow to the stomach.

“No, no, no! No fighting in Joe’s Lounge! What for you want to break up my place?” Hippolyte Huval shimmied around the bar. “Your drinks are free, George. Now take your
jolie
blonde
back up da hill. Your daddies would be mad over dis, yeah.”

Rodney stepped up to George while Billy vomited on a table. George’s arm swung up this time, and Rodney caught it square on the chin.

“Dere’s more Patouts in dis room den you can take, Georgie. Come on now.”

“Don’t call me that, Hippo.” George swayed and glowered over the fat man.

“Sure, George. Sure t’ing, Mr. St. Julien. Come now,” implored Hippolyte, but he was too late.

Suzanne pointed frantically to a man, a slimmer, younger version of Billy and Rod, who had climbed up on the bar. He lowered a beer bottle toward George’s skull, but George jerked back at the last second and caught the blow on the rim of his glasses. The bridge broke, and the two halves dangled. Blindly, George cleared the bar of his opponent and quite a bit of glassware, but at least he backed up as Suzanne dragged on one arm and Hippo dragged on the other. They rushed out the side door before any more Patouts could make their way over the fallen bodies and broken glass.

“Where’s your car,
cher
?” Hippo turned a key in the exit door.

“Down on Main.”

“Dis here’s a fire door. I got to open it soon. Can you get him dere fast?”

“Sure. Thanks, Mr. Hippo. Come on, George. Want to run with me, George?”

Suzanne held out her hand. It took a minute for her to grasp that George could not see the help she offered. She led the way holding on to his arm, forcing him to a staggering jog down the alley running parallel to Front Street. Should have worn the low heels, should have worn the low heels, her shoes tapped out in the gravel. They reached the car, and she desperately searched George’s pockets for the keys. He grinned stupidly at the body contact as if she were feeling him up instead of trying to escape an angry mob. Keys finally in hand, Suzanne opened the door and sort of folded George into the passenger seat. She exceeded the speed limit all the way home.

George’s height presented another problem when they got back to the Hill, but with him doubled over like an old man leaning on a short crutch, she did manage to get up the stairs. Suzanne let George fall face up on his bed. He grinned at her foolishly again.

“Well, I’m not undressing you, George St. Julien. You were very bad!”

“Bad,” he echoed with some satisfaction. “Haven’t had so much fun since I punched out that dumb shit in the second grade. Maybe it will all work out. Maybe.”

He still grinned as Suzanne turned out the light and shut his door.

Chapter Seven

Suzanne’s story

On Sunday morning, determined not to nursemaid George, Suzanne purposely fried bacon, knowing how nauseating that smell could be to a person with a hangover. Later though, when she heard him blundering blindly into the furniture in his room, she had pity on him and filled a cup with black coffee and a palm with aspirin. She went into his room without knocking, partly because her hands were full and partly because she doubted if George could find the door.

He stopped groping in the pine dresser where men’s white briefs and balls of matched socks escaped over the edge.

“Coffee and aspirin, though you don’t deserve them,” she stated, setting the cup on the night table.

George blinked at her with his pale gray, bloodshot eyes. Without his dark-framed glasses, his face possessed a terribly vulnerable look despite an impressive dark stubble on his chin. The bridge of his nose had purpled and swollen, and he kept brushing his hair out of his eyes. For the first time, she noticed he’d abandoned the greasy hair cream, but had not quite mastered gel and hairspray. In fact, he must have had his hair styled in the city prior to their date. The cut looked fresh and far less dorky than his usual old-fashioned do. With too much on her mind last night to notice, she could hardly admire the remains of the styling now.

“Would you help me find my spare glasses?” he asked, his voice gravelly.

“Sure. Where are they?”

“In the top drawer somewhere.”

She found them in a plastic case under a pile of neatly folded, white v-neck T-shirts. Athletic glasses in safety frames, they did nothing for George’s looks. If anything, they were uglier than the black-rimmed ones he usually wore.

As he slipped them on, he said completely deadpan, “May I tell everyone you’ve been in my drawers?”

By the time she realized the always-serious George Washington St. Julien had been joking and reformed her appalled stare turned to a smile, he’d turned to the coffee and aspirin.

“I don’t think that would be a good idea,” Suzanne replied lamely.

George shrugged with his back toward her. “I think I’ll take a cold bath,” he mumbled. Taking the hint, she left.

****

The first Sunday in February turned out to be a lovely day, more spring than winter. Suzanne missed the flock of robins that had moved farther north when nature gave them this little nudge in the right direction. No one had brought in Saturday’s mail or Sunday’s newspaper. Savoring the day, she walked slowly down the long drive and back even more slowly as she sorted through the envelopes. Most were for George or Occupant, naturally.

Her mother had written a long letter full of questions about the antiques. Mom hinted that just maybe, Dad could be persuaded to make a short trip to Louisiana when the azaleas bloomed. Dad did love a beautiful garden.

Dr. Dumont sent a timetable concerning her project and a scribbled note saying, “
C’est la vie
. Perhaps, Port Jefferson has other entertainment to offer.” Tempting, very tempting to send her advisor an e-mail about the Patout boys and Joe’s Lounge. Maybe she would do that this afternoon. She found nothing from Paul, thank God. When she returned to the kitchen, George sat eating dry toast and hunched over another cup of black brew.

“You make good coffee. Birdie’s is always really strong because my father preferred it that way.”

“Despite what you said last night, I make great bacon and eggs, too.”

He turned a little green when she pointed to the bacon. “No, thanks. Not today.”

“The mail.” Suzanne placed his letters on the table.

He rummaged through the flyers. A business envelope addressed in dark lead pencil and bearing no return address fell out of the folds. “This is for you.”

She drew her fingers back as if he handed her a red-hot poker. “Trash that, please.”

Obediently, George put it in the waste can with the rest of the junk mail. They drank coffee and shared the Sunday paper in a very relaxed and domestic way. George’s color improved as the double dose of aspirin took effect. Good a time as any to break bad news.

“George,” she began, very seriously.

“Suzanne,” he said with a hint of passion. This time she could tell he jested.

“This is serious, Mr. St. Julien,” she snapped.

George put his hands over his ears.

“About your mother’s silver. Most of it is, well, not as described.”

“Not as described?” He gave her a blank stare.

“It’s plated, not sterling, which considerably reduces its value, and some of it isn’t even Victorian.”

George took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes as if he did not want to look at the facts.

“I believe your mother was conned.”

“No one ever conned my mother except my father when she married him!” He hit the table with his fist, and coffee sloshed from the cups onto the newspaper.

“George.” Suzanne covered his fist with her hand, and his fingers relaxed. “Your mother was very ill, probably taking drug therapy, when all the switches occurred. It’s very possible her judgment was impaired, or she might have been outright swindled. Perhaps, the dealer borrowed a piece and switched it without her knowledge.”

“Randy Royal.” His fist clenched again. “Always coming here when I was gone, always bothering her when the only person she should have been seeing was Doc Sonny.”

Pale gray eyes could look fairly murderous, she thought. “George, George.” Suzanne stroked his arm, and the glare in his eyes changed to a gleam.

“You still have Magnolia Hill. At first, I thought your mother had assembled all the antiques, but the documentation tells me most of it belonged to the Jeffersons and is original to the house. Even the gothic bedroom set was purchased by the first St. Juliens to live here. Your mother seems to have done the Eastlake parlor, your room and her own. Her major contribution came in creating the setting, the wallpapers and light fixtures, bringing it all together. Tourists love original furnishings. I’m going to write a fabulous history of the Hill that will bring them in droves.”

“What about the silver? What about Randy Royal?”

“I’m not sure we can do anything without dragging your mother’s reputation through the dirt, too. She isn’t here to defend herself, and Royal could claim collusion. It won’t help the tourist trade any if the work ‘fake’ is mentioned. I’ll have to consult with Dr. Dumont about how to handle this. Meanwhile, you should confess that a ‘mistake’ has been made to your insurance company and lower your coverage.”

“Goddamn. I always believed if things got rough enough, I could sell some of the silver. I wouldn’t touch it while Mother was alive, and all those medical bills rolled in. Suzanne, it’s all I can do to meet the mortgages, pay the heating and cooling, and put something toward the hospital debt. If Doc Sonny had taken what was due to him, I’d have gone under before she died.”

Suzanne had never witnessed such personal despair before, not even in her own face when Barry Cashman left her for Beth Ann. Compared to this, all her problems seemed petty. And that’s why she agreed so easily to the next thing George said.

“Could you delay telling anyone about this for a week or two, just until I get my act together?”

“Of course,” she said and squeezed his hand. “Of course.” She had no idea then what an act that would be.

****

All week long, they shared the intimacy of two people keeping a secret. Once, she’d had a friend who had gotten pregnant. They kept the secret for a month until the girl made her decision and married the father. All during that month, the two of them would smile suddenly at each other and squeeze hands at odd moments to give reassurance everything would turn out right. She found herself doing this with George, and he responded with quick hugs.

To her relief, no more discrepancies turned up in the inventory, though she did come across some touching items while doing Virginia Lee’s room. A little section of her files covered her collection of figurines. All of them were gifts from George, starting when he was six years old and continuing up until the year of his mother’s death. The first figure listed—a pottery milkmaid, real discount store junk with sloppily painted features and “Made in China” stamped on the base. Virginia Lee duly noted the value as one dollar and the source as “Georgie.”

The last figure in the collection, a contemporary Royal Doulton porcelain lady executing a graceful curtsy, Virginia valued at $250, a gift “from George.” By the time Suzanne checked off each card, her eyes had misted over for the small boy giving his first gift and the young man spending $250 he could not afford on his dying mother. That evening when she had a nightcap with George in the Eastlake Room, Suzanne pressed his hand two times and sighed once, wishing she felt more than sympathy for this really nice guy. George kissed her on the forehead outside her bedroom door when they went upstairs for the night.

No one would call George a talker. During their evenings together, he perused the newspaper or buried himself in some incredibly boring accounting magazine. She read a paperback romance she’d brought along for pleasure and sipped her drink. Now and again, she studied the portrait of Jacques St. Julien astride his white horse. She could make better sense of it now because an early Mardi Gras approached.

The little town came alive with excitement over the Courir. According to Birdie, the riders met every night at Joe’s Lounge, planned their costumes and their route, arranged for the band, the chicken gumbo supper, and the
fais-do-do
where everyone danced until midnight. Suzanne could see an aura of that excitement and
joie de vivre
in the painting. What a shame that men who were good to their wives and mothers were seldom interesting. Why couldn’t she fall in love with a sweet kind of fella instead of a rat like Barry Cashman? She had no answer to that.

****

George took her along the next Sunday when he went to get a chicken for the gumbo. He claimed he hated the Courir, a bunch of drunken rowdies, he said sounding like an old man. But the riders were sure to come to Magnolia Hill anyhow and would tear up the lawn with their horses if he had no chicken to throw. He overpaid an elderly black woman on St. Julien Street for an old rooster whose left eye had been pecked out by a younger rival. George fed the bird lavishly on cracked corn for its remaining two days of life.

As for Suzanne, she craved some excitement and a little escape from heavy secrets and troubled finances. On Mardi Gras Day when every business in Port Jefferson put up its shutters and closed down, she watched from Virginia Lee’s window for the approach of the Mardi Gras riders. When they came, they came grandly, charging down the shell drive on horses, black, bay, and pinto, their Capitaine riding a big palomino, leaving behind their slower entourage of wagons and a couple of tour buses. By the time the riders circled the house, the wagons had pulled up—one for the band, one for the beer and other beverages, and one for the captured chickens, donated sausage, and bags of rice and flour.