Little Gale Gumbo (34 page)

“No, sir, but you should. I'm Wayne Henderson. I married your daughter Josie.”

 

“Well, I'll be goddamned. My little Julep's a married lady.”

Josie smiled tightly at her father across the booth. Shell's Pub was quiet at the early hour of five, the bar empty except for Rick Harris at the far end and Danny Chandler behind it.

“Get us some drinks, will ya, Wade?” Charles said when they'd settled against the cracked red leather.

“It's Wayne, Daddy,” said Josie.

“I like bourbon,” Charles said. “Josephine knows how I like it.”

“Charles,” said Wayne, “why don't you just tell me—”

“Neat,” Josie said dully, her eyes meeting Wayne's. “In a highball glass.”

“All right.” Wayne leaned down, kissing her cheek. “I won't be long.”

When he'd gone, Charles reached across the table and took Josie's hand.

“The pearls look real nice,” he said, fingering the loose bracelet around her wrist. “You do like 'em, don't ya?”

Josie nodded dutifully, resisting the urge to lower her hand into her lap and out of reach. “Of course, Daddy. They're beautiful.” She kept her eyes fixed on the bar, waiting for Wayne to appear out of the darkness.

“How long you been married then?”

“Two years.”

“You pregnant yet?”

She looked up at him, embarrassed. “No,” she answered, then said again, “No.”

Charles raised his hands. “Hey, I'm just askin', is all. It ain't like I don't know from experience how that all goes.”

He chuckled. Josie forced a small smile, knowing he expected one.

“You know, Julep . . .” He leaned in then, his voice dropping, “I was hopin' you might do one little favor for your daddy. Just a little thing.”

Dread prickled the skin of her neck. For her father, nothing was little. And if he introduced it as such, it was all the more reason to be suspicious.

“What kind of favor?” she asked.

“Well, it's like this. . . .” He paused to smooth down his hair, one side, then the other. “I've been makin' money again, good money, and you know how I don't trust banks. But see, I can't keep all my money with me in New Orleans. It ain't smart. A man with my connections can't risk that. People steal, take shit that ain't theirs. So I was thinkin' I could leave some money here with you. Just for now. Just till things cool off a little bit for your daddy.”

“How much money?” she asked warily.

He sniffed. “Twelve thousand dollars.”

“Twelve thousand dollars?”

“Shhh,” he said gently, glancing around. He smiled. “Now, I could ask Vivian's family and all them, but you know I don't trust 'em like I trust you.” He patted her hand. “God's truth is there ain't nobody I trust more than you, Julep. Nobody. Not your momma, not Dahlia, not nobody.”

Josie could feel his eyes on her, waiting.

“So what do you say, baby? Do this little thing for your daddy, will ya?”

Josie looked up to see Wayne slipping through the haze of smoke. “Okay,” she said, the desire to appease her father still involuntary, still urgent, the need to keep calm whenever he was around. Her loyalty was always the price for peace.

Besides, she told herself, it wasn't as if she had to tell her sister or mother.

“Here you are, Charles.” Wayne set down the highball glass and two Cokes.

Charles raised his bourbon. “To your weddin', Julep.” They indulged the toast. Charles waited until he'd taken several sips before he looked at Wayne and said, “You know, it's usually courtesy to ask the father for his daughter's hand. Guess all y'all Yankees do things different, huh?”

Wayne glanced to Josie. “We couldn't get in touch with you, Charles.”

“Horseshit.” Charles tugged a pack of cigarettes out of his jacket and shook one out. He snapped open his lighter, sucking hard until the flame caught and the paper began to burn. “We get letters in prison, you know. Some of us get phone calls, too. You coulda told him, Julep.”

As they left, Wayne reached for Josie's hand but she kept it close to her side.

Driving home in a light rain, Wayne felt a useless regret bloom in him. He wondered what Matthew might have done in his place.

 

“See y'all still got that little café thing goin', Camille.”

Camille glanced briefly through the kitchen doorway to where Charles sat at the dining room table, nursing a cup of coffee. She lifted the kettle and poured herself a cup of tea. “That's right.”

“Y'all usin' my mother's recipes too, no doubt?”

“My own mother's, actually.” She added sugar. “I never cared for Lorraine's gumbo.”

She could feel Charles's eyes on her as she calmly stirred her tea and set the spoon in the sink. The past half hour had been shocking for him, she suspected. Arriving to find her in the bath, in no hurry to come out and greet him, let alone prepare him food. When she'd finally emerged from the bathroom, the warm smell of lavender powder trailing behind her, he'd watched her intently as she'd moved around the apartment, no doubt waiting for some sign of pleasure at seeing him, some hint of allegiance, and she'd given him nothing.

Times had changed. Camille wondered if he'd expected that. He should have.

“So where's Dahlia at?”

Camille took the seat across from him, setting down her cup and saucer. “She's away this month.”

“A little vacation, huh? Shit, does that girl ever work?”

“She works incredibly hard, Charles. She runs her own business, as a matter of fact.”

“Well, I know about work, Camille. Been workin' since I was old enough to reach a doorknob, for Chrissake, and waterin' some rich man's flowers ain't my idea of hard work.”

She blew on her tea. “How long do you plan to stay this time?”

“I ain't sure. I wasn't even gonna come, but I was in Atlantic City and I figured what the hell. Vivian ain't doin' so good. Cancer. It's real touch-and-go.”

“I'm sorry to hear that.”

“Yeah, well. We all pullin' for her.” He paused, sipped his coffee. “Y'all probably wonderin' about that business over in the Quarter, ain't ya? I tell you what—they got all bent out of shape over nothin'. I barely laid a hand on that son of a bitch. Let alone his goddamned car. What the hell do I want with an'eighty-two Chrysler? You tell me that.”

Charles tugged out his cigarettes. Camille's eyes snapped to him.

“I'd rather you not smoke in here.”

He frowned. “Since when?”

“Since I decided I can't bear the smell.”

Charles returned the pack and looked around the room, the harsh reality of his cool reception sinking in at last.

His hands fisted in his lap. “You know you can't marry him if you're still married to me. You do know that, don't ya?”

Camille looked at him evenly over the top of her cup. “That's quite a bracelet you gave Josephine.”

“What? Can't a daddy give his baby girl a present?”

“Not when it's paid for with drug money.”

His lips thinned. She hadn't expected him to deny it.

“You never minded my money when you was young, Camille.”

“I didn't know better.”

“Well, it ain't your business. Josephine's all grown-up now. She don't have to play by your rules no more.”

“She won't keep it, Charles.”

“Don't be so sure. Money does things to people who don't got much of it.”

“You would know.”

Camille watched the corner of his mouth twitch, wondering if she'd finally pushed him too far. She'd grown so bold in his absence, maybe too bold. But she held his gaze, determined now.

“From what I see, you ain't exactly living like a queen here, Camille.”

It was true. The previous summer had been bleak, plagued by long bouts of rain that had kept the tourists off the island for much of July and August, the café's most profitable months. Then there was the matter of the freezer and the oven that had needed replacing within a month of each other. She'd had no idea kitchen equipment could cost so much.

“Restaurants are a hard business, Charles. Some months are better than others.”

“Yeah, well. I'm just sayin'. You might want to be careful you don't need somethin' yourself soon. Be a real shame to have to come back grovelin' after talkin' to me this way.”

Her eyes rose to his, her voice tight. “I would never take money from you. Never.”

He snickered. “I'll remember you said that, darlin'.”

“Hello, Charles.”

Ben appeared in the doorway. Camille turned and gave him a reassuring smile.

Charles didn't get up, just offered a stiff wave and muttered, “Haskell.”

“I thought I recognized that trumpet case in the hall.” Ben crossed behind them, touching Camille briefly on her shoulder as he walked by.

Charles saw and his eyes narrowed. “I'll just go bring my things in.”

“Don't bother,” Camille said. “We haven't room just now.”

Charles looked at Camille, the shock bald on his face, but she wouldn't meet his eyes.

In the strained silence, Ben stepped forward.

“There are several inns on the island, Charles. You're welcome to use the phone to call for a room. I'm sure you'll find them all quite comfortable.”

Charles looked coldly between them. “I'll use your phone, all right. But I ain't sleepin' in no motel. Not tonight. Not ever.”

Camille sipped her tea. Ben's calm smile never faltered.

 

Josie moved to the other side of the pullout and snapped the fitted sheet over the corner.

“It's just one night,” she whispered across the mattress to Wayne. “We'll find him a room tomorrow.”

“Why can't we find him a room tonight?” said Wayne.

“It's too late now.”

“No, it's not. God, Jo, you didn't even try.”

“Wayne, please. Just let it be for tonight, okay? I promise tomorrow he'll go.”

Wayne sighed, handing her a folded blanket. “You know he won't.”

Josie fluffed it open, settling it neatly over the mattress. As she did, an envelope spilled out of her pocket and landed on the bed. Wayne picked it up, frowning as he felt the bulk between his fingers. “What the heck is this?”

Josie moved to him, her cheeks flushing, and took the envelope. She stuffed it back in her jumper pocket and returned to the pullout. “It's nothing.”

Wayne followed her. “I know what cash feels like, Jo.”

“It's not mine.”

“Then why did you just slip it into your pocket?”

The toilet flushed at the other end of the hall. Josie looked up at Wayne, her bright eyes pleading. “He'll be coming in.”

“Is it his money?”

“Yes.” She hurried to tuck under the edges of the blanket, her heart racing. “He just asked me to keep it for him, that's all.”

“Why?”

“Because he says he's nervous having it in New Orleans.”

“Then put it in the bank, for God's sake.”

“Daddy doesn't trust banks.”

“Doesn't trust banks?” Wayne leaned closer. “Jo, did it ever occur to you the reason he won't put it in a bank is because it's drug money and he
can't
put it in a bank?”

She felt the hot tears of regret and failure rise in her throat. Why did Wayne have to make this so hard? Her whole life she'd done it this way. It was too late to stop now.

“You don't understand,” she said wearily. “It's just easier to say yes to Daddy. It always is.”

“Easier on who?”

“On
everyone
.”

Wayne sighed. “Does Dahlia know?”

“No,” said Josie, panicked, “and she can't know. Not Momma either. Please, Wayne.”

The bathroom door creaked open; then Charles's heavy footsteps clicked along the bare floorboards.

“I'll send it back to him as soon as he's home,” Josie whispered.

Wayne looked at her. “Promise me.”

She touched his hand. “I promise.”

 

But there would be no need for a hotel. During the night, Vivian took a turn for the worse and Charles decided to leave the next morning on the seven-fifteen ferry. No matter the chilly reception upon his arrival, he was sure Josie would be hard at work in the kitchen with a proper send-off for his departure, but when Charles came downstairs, he found the first floor of the cape quiet, and only Ben present, standing in the living room.

“Ready, Charles?”

“What are
you
doin' here?” Charles looked around. “Where's Josephine at?”

“She and Camille went in early to the café. Busy day. Have a big order of jambalaya for the Historical Society this afternoon. I said I'd be glad to give you a ride down to the ferry.”

“I'm sure you would,” Charles said, snatching up his cases as Ben reached for them. “Like to make certain I get on the boat, wouldn't ya?”

“There's a bad storm coming, Charles.” Ben pointed to the window, his smile pleasant but firm. “Wouldn't want you to get caught in the rain.”

“Horseshit.” Charles gave the downstairs a final searching, as if refusing to accept the lonely state of his departure. “Horseshit,” he said again.

Ben opened the front door and let Charles exit first.