Little Gale Gumbo (8 page)

Camille handed a bowl to Dahlia. “Josephine made them.”

“No kiddin'? You make these all by yourself, Julep?”

Josie nodded, blushing. “Yes, sir.”

“Well, damn, girl!” Charles slapped his thigh. “You gettin' to be a real good cook. Just like your momma.” He reached out and tore off a hunk of French bread, glaring at Dahlia as he dunked it in his bowl. “When are you gonna start helpin' out in there?”

“Dahlia helps out plenty, Charles,” Camille said, serving herself at last.

Charles snickered. “Yeah. Helps herself to eatin' it.”

Josie reached for her sweet tea, feeling the familiar prickles of an impending fight crawl up her spine.

“Sure don't take after my side,” Charles added, chewing his bread roughly. “All the women in my family are tiny little things. Like Josephine. Bergeron women got stomachs like birds.”

Dahlia looked across the table at Charles. “That must be why Aunt Vivian is as big as an ostrich.”

“Dahlia,” Camille said, her eyes pleading, but Charles was already on his feet, moving to the other side of the table, where Dahlia sat calmly shoveling in spoonfuls of red beans.

He slammed his palm next to her bowl, causing the whole table to shudder.

“What's that you just said, girl? I don't hear so good all the way down there.”

“Charles, please,” Camille said, rising nervously. “Leave her be.”

“Answer me, goddamn it.”

Josie gripped her napkin in her lap, her stomach lurching.

Dahlia lowered her spoon, refusing to look up at him. “I said, your sister Vivian is as big as an ostrich.”

Without another word, Charles snatched the spoon from Dahlia's hand and struck the side of her face with it, leaving a fat teardrop of red beans just below her left eye.

“Charles!” Camille rushed from her seat, shoving her husband out of the way and moving to Dahlia, but Dahlia had already wiped herself clean.

“Jesus, it wasn't nothin' but a little tap, Camille. Girl's gotta know better than to disrespect family like that.”

Josie stared down at her bowl, too afraid to look up as her father walked behind her chair. Seated again, Charles reached out and touched her cheek. Josie flinched, startled, but he didn't seem to notice.

“Not you, though, Julep.” He smiled. “I ain't never gotta worry about you.”

That night, Josie crept from her room and into the kitchen, wincing as she opened the broiler door, so afraid to hear its usual creak. She reached in with trembling fingers and gasped, feeling the jagged shaft of a key.

Seven

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

November arrived, breezy and mild. Camille had taken a job cutting hair at a beauty parlor while Charles had been serving a six-month sentence for drug possession. He called to announce his release the day before Thanksgiving, though he wouldn't arrive until the next morning, just in time to make sure Camille had fixed his favorite holiday dish: roast turkey with oyster dressing.

“I'm home!” he called out, blowing through the front door shortly before noon. “Where y'all at?”

Camille summoned a pleasant smile when Charles swept by her, heading first to Josie to deliver a loud kiss to her forehead and a squeeze so hard that Josie swore he left the imprint of his shirt button in her cheek.

“Smells good, Camille.” Camille nodded, wondering how he could smell anything over the stench of liquor on his own breath. His celebratory round at the Oyster Shell on the way home, no doubt. “Looks good too,” he murmured, stroking her bottom.

Camille stepped aside to stir the gravy. “Glad you think so, Charles.”

“Let's speed this up,” he ordered, dragging a finger through the dish of sweet potatoes and sucking it clean. “I got a gig this afternoon at Lucky's.”

“On Thanksgiving?” Camille asked.

“Work's work, baby.” Charles looked around. “Where's your sister at, Julep?”

“Outside,” Josie said. “In the back.”

“What the hell she doin' out there? Didn't she hear me come in?”

“I'm sure she didn't,” Camille said, lifting the turkey out of the oven, knowing just how to distract him.

Charles's eyes grew big. “Damn, that is a good-lookin' bird. Y'all get Dahlia in here while I go take a piss. Then we eat. I'm starved.”

Camille nodded to Josie, who then walked to the back of the house, pushing open the screen door to find Dahlia laying down mulch on a rose bed.

“Daddy's home,” Josie said. “Didn't you hear?”

“Sorry. I don't have the news on out here.”

Josie frowned at her sister's filthy hands and thighs. “He's gonna hit the roof if he finds you out here looking like that.”

“I'm sure. Only thing worse than being a convict is getting dirty on Thanksgiving. Maybe I should be the one going to jail.”

“Dahl, please don't start,” Josie whispered. “Momma's made a really nice meal, and Daddy seems happy. Don't ruin it. Let's try and be like a real family today, huh?”

“We
are
a real family,” Dahlia said, annoyed. She rose to her feet, wiping her hands on her seat. “It's when he's here that we're not.”

“Jesus Christ, girl.” Charles appeared behind Josie, zipping up his fly. “What the hell you doin' out here? Diggin' a goddamned well?”

“Dahlia grew roses, Daddy,” Josie said. “You should have seen them when they were blooming. They were so beautiful.”

Charles looked at Dahlia. “Get on inside and wash yourself up. Your momma needs help settin' the table.”

 

Ten minutes later, the table was set and the sisters and Camille were seated. The turkey sat in the center of the table, its crinkled skin gleaming.

Camille looked around, shifting from side to side. “Where's your father?”

Josie shrugged, answering brightly as she reached for her milk, “Maybe he's bringing some food to the lady in the car.”

Camille looked up.

“What lady in the car?” demanded Dahlia.

“The . . . lady,” Josie said weakly, panic filling her as she looked between them.

Dahlia jumped up, and before Camille or Josie could stop her, she lunged across the table and scooped up the turkey in her arms like a drowsing cat.

“Dahlia Rose!” Camille cried, struggling to free herself from her chair to chase after her. Josie followed, steering around the slick trail of juice that Dahlia was leaving in her wake, and both mother and daughter arrived on the porch just in time to see Dahlia reach back and hurl the shiny bird at the black DeVille's windshield, where it exploded like a squeezed boil.

“You forgot your precious turkey, asshole!”

A scream came from the passenger seat, where a blond woman recoiled, her red-nailed hands covering her eyes.

Charles tore out of the driver's side, wild-eyed. “Jesus H. Christ!”

“Charles, leave her alone!” Camille pleaded, trying to barricade the doorway after Dahlia had run back inside, but Charles just shoved her roughly aside, shouting, “You come back here, goddamn it!”

Josie helped Camille to her feet and they raced inside. Charles slipped on the path of turkey grease, catching himself on the back of a chair before continuing his chase. “You get your ass out there and you apologize to that woman, girl! What she ever done to you, and you go and try and kill her with my goddamned turkey?”

Dahlia stopped at the table, spinning around to face him from the other side. “If I wanted to kill her, I would have aimed for the open window!”

Charles considered the answer a moment, his eyes narrowing; then he lunged across the table. Camille and Josie arrived, screaming for him to stop, but his rage was blinding. He swung the chairs out of his way, scrambling around the table as Dahlia dove beneath it.

“Charles, stop it!” Camille cried, dropping to her knees to pull Dahlia to safety, but Charles's hand wrapped around Dahlia's ankle and tugged her back. “Charles, no!”

Dahlia twisted onto her back and kneed his stomach, forcing him to free her, but he recovered quickly, catching her arm as she got to her feet. He managed a strike across her cheek, then another, harder. He had brought his hand back for a third when he sucked in a sharp breath and released her. “Son of a bitch!” he exclaimed, his back curved as he studied the streak of blood on his shirt; then they all saw the carving knife in Dahlia's hand. “You little bitch,” he gasped, wide-eyed. “You cut me!”

Dahlia thrust the knife at him again, her eyes as wild as his had been, looking even wilder behind the tangled mane of her dark hair.

“Dahl, don't!” Josie wailed, sobbing now.

Camille stepped forward. “Baby girl, give me the knife,” she ordered gently. “Give it to me.”

“Holy
shit
. . .” Charles just kept walking backward, staring dully at his wound. It wasn't deep—they all could see that—but it was deep enough to prove that Dahlia dared to do worse if he came at her again. He looked up, stricken, as he pointed at them all, still moving away. “I want her outta here,” he said, gripping his chest. “I want her gone when I get back!”

When Charles reached the doorway, he turned and stormed out, banging the screen door against the house. Dahlia dropped the knife and collapsed to the floor. Camille rushed to her, pulling her daughter against her and smoothing her hair. Josie followed, dropping down between them.

The three of them sat huddled on the floor, wrapped together in a sea of broken dishes and splattered food, waiting for the squeal of the DeVille's tires to disappear down the street.

 

Josie sat on Camille's bed, weeping. “What if they take Dahlia away?”

“They won't do any such thing,” Camille said calmly, even as her heart raced so loudly she could barely hear herself talk. She pulled her carpetbag from the armoire and yanked it open. “Now take out some clothes, and go tell your sister to do the same.”

“But, Momma . . .”

“Do it,” Camille said sharply.

Josie sucked in a sob and nodded, moving into the other room. Camille packed quickly—some clothes, a box of her oils and powders and candles, and a dozen records from Charles's prized collection in the parlor—then she set the whole pile inside the bag. She moved last to the kitchen, dropping in spices and herbs, then uncovering the jar of money she had been hiding behind the sink, rolling the bills into a neat tube. Seeing that Dahlia was too dazed to move, Josie packed her sister's bag for her, and when it came time to go, Josie even slipped Dahlia's sneakers onto her bare feet.

They took the streetcar to Canal and crossed over Esplanade to the Creole cottage, where Lionel and Roman put fresh sheets on the canopy bed and a pot of peppermint tea on the stove.

“Where will you go?” Roman asked, setting down Camille's tea.

She sighed, looking out at the courtyard where Dahlia and Josie wandered in the men's bathrobes through the forest of bamboo. “I don't know,” she said. “I've never lived anywhere but here. My family was all here, but there's no one left. No one I know of, anyway.”

Lionel took a seat beside her on the chaise, rubbing her back. “We'll figure something out,” he said. “You can stay here as long as you need to.”

Camille covered each of their hands, tears filling her eyes as she smiled, her heart breaking. Her precious city was too small to hide them now. It was time to go.

 

It was Dahlia's idea to use the spinning globe in Lionel's study the next morning. The suggestion of closing one's eyes and dropping a finger blindly on a map seemed ludicrous at first, but the more Camille considered the idea, the less absurd it became. After a languid breakfast of grillades and grits, the three huddled, hands clasped and eyes wide. Dahlia offered to spin it and let her mother stop it, but Camille felt it only fair that her oldest daughter get the right to mark their destination, since it was Dahlia's idea in the first place. So it was Josie who spun the sphere of their destiny, afraid at first, then filled with a strange and thrilling abandon, sending the globe whirling so fast it nearly toppled over.

They agreed that no matter the spot, unless it was water, they'd find a way to get there, that there could be no do-overs, no second chances.

When the globe finally began to slow its crazy twist, and Dahlia decided she had kept them all in suspense long enough, she planted her finger on it, forcing it still.