The Vigil (3 page)

A warm breeze blew through the oaks towering above us sending my hair in crazy directions while my grandmother's words sent my thoughts aflutter. Had my grandfather hurt my grandmother?

“Mawmaw, did PawPaw…” I couldn't bring myself to ask. I had such fond and wonderful memories of PawPaw that I'd be crushed to know he'd been anything but the kind, sensitive man I knew him to be.

She continued to stare at the yard for a moment longer and then shook her head and waved as though the somber exchange had not taken place. “No. No. Your PawPaw was a wonderful man. He never raised his hand or his voice in all the years we were married, he was nothing but good to me and the girls. After the Lord made him, I believe He broke the mold.” Her lips spread as she patted my arm once again. “If you change your mind about suppa, come on over.”

“Will do.” I contemplated her words as she went through the thick St. Augustine grass. Would I ever be in such a long-lasting and committed relationship as Mawmaw?

 

****

 

“Mornin'.” Carlton sat up in bed and smiled as I entered his bedroom.

“Good morning. You seem chipper this morning. How was your night?” I placed my bag at the foot of his bed.

“‘Bout the same...restless.”

“I'm sorry. I brought some books. Would you like me to read to you?” I held several westerns I'd gathered from the library.

After a while, he nodded and then pointed to an antique dresser in the corner of the room. Bare wood peeked through the edges where the dark stain had worn off. “Top drawer.”

I dropped the books onto the chair and walked to the dresser. When I turned back to Carlton, he pointed. “Open it.”

I pried the drawer and peered inside. The tender scent of lavender drifted out and captured my senses. Letters filled the space. Bundles of letters. All addressed to him with the return address a post office box in Bijou Bayou.

“You want me to read these to you?” I turned back to face him.

He nodded.

Something new he'd asked for. Another first. I lifted a bundle wrapped by a long strand of twine. A deeper scent of lavender wafted from the letters.

“They're in order.” He took a deep breath. “Top right corner.”

Faded blue ink marked the number two next to the postmark. A quick search through the drawer produced the number one bundle.

“Would you like anything to eat before we get started?”

He shook his head. “Just water.”

I filled his glass and my own. After returning the westerns to my bag, I settled in the chair facing his bed.

With a firm tug, the twine fell apart releasing the letters. Aged paper crinkled as I opened the first envelope and removed the precious letter.

Carlton's eyes darkened and his labored breathing paused, causing a rise in my heartbeat. He stared at my hands. Only when I unfolded the letter did his raspy breathing resume. The words were written in black ink, faded on sepia paper. Broad, elegant strokes filled the entire page. I cleared my throat and began.

 

Dear Carlton,

It's only been two days since you've left but it feels like years. This bottomless void grows each hour that you're apart from me. I'm not sure I'll survive this tour. I miss you so much it hurts. Mama said it would fade as time went on, but I don't see that happening. Of course, what would she know about true love?

I hope you are well. Maybe you're settled and won't see too much action. I can't bear the thought of something happening to you.

The weather here has been unusually cool. For October that is. If you can imagine we're finally getting some cool weather especially after this summer. I'm holding on to the memory of our day at the water hole. I hope that day was as special to you as it was to me.

I have a candle burning in church for you. Please come back to me. I will be waiting here and praying for you. Write soon.

All my love,

Your Lady S

 

Carlton's gaze was fixed on the edge of the bed where I'd folded a multi-colored, crocheted afghan.

Was he thinking of the day at the watering hole? I imagined a younger Carlton, handsome and romping through the water with a laughing young girl—one with eyes only for Carlton and his eyes only for her. I folded the letter, careful to duplicate the original creases, slipped it back into the envelope, and returned it to the stack on the nightstand. A quick glance toward the bed revealed an engrossed Carlton still staring at the colorful blanket.

I slipped from the room leaving him alone with his memory. When I stepped onto the peeling paint and raw-wood boards of the front porch, the warm humid air engulfed while guilt riddled through me. A weathered wooden swing hung from chains attached to the rafters. I tested its strength and then sat. A gentle push sent the swing swaying. I glided back and forth and thought about the letter. I didn't belong in the middle of something so personal.

The letter opened a portal to images of Carlton I'd only suspected existed. But now the letter piqued my curiosity. Who was Lady S, and what had happened to their love? Was she Sherri?

I returned to the room to find Carlton asleep, his brows relaxed and his breathing, while still labored, didn't have the same desperate tone as before. I stared at the stack of letters. What answers did those letters contain? I gently tied the envelopes into a tidy bundle and replaced them in the top drawer of the dresser. If Carlton wanted more letters read, then I would happily oblige. Otherwise, his secrets would remain just that—his.

 

 

 

 

Quatre

 

I turned into the gravel driveway of my mother's house. The house sat on piers nestled among large oaks, magnolias, and dogwoods. A screened porch circled the front, sides, and back of the house. Maybe it would be cool enough to have dinner on the back porch. The setting sun would be nice this time of day castings its reflection on Bijou Bayou.

I climbed the fifteen steps to the screened door of the porch. A conversation group of brown wicker furniture decorated with lime green and blue flowered cushions filled most of the porch while potted plants crammed the remaining space. Vivian Clement Broussard did have a flare for decorating.

“Mother, I'm here.” When I entered her house, the tantalizing aroma of sautéing onions and browning flour sparked the hunger I'd held at bay for most of the day. After reading the letter and seeing Carlton's reaction, I'd skipped lunch. The fragrance sent me back to grade school and coming home to the tantalizing aroma of her Cajun cooking.

“I'm in the kitchen.” Vivian's voice drifted down the hallway.

Once I made my way to the large country kitchen, there she stood in all her glory doing what she did best—cooking. Steam from a large iron pot floated toward the exposed beams of her ceiling and curled the small strands of bleached-blonde hair around her temples. Today she wore a purple blouse over dark jeans. Her violet-blue eyes and curling hair reminded me of my brother, Anthony. He'd inherited the blond hair, beautiful-eyed genes, while I had my father's brown eyes and hair.

“Hi, sugah. How was your day?”

“Good.” I slid my purse off my shoulder and onto her large antique table. She liked the distressed look. This table looked like it had been beat with an anchor chain and then left in a barn for fifty years. Six chairs, of different form and color surrounded the table. She also liked the eclectic look.

She pointed to the pots on her stove. “I've got all your favorites here.”

The woman loved to cook, but mostly she loved to watch people eat the mountains of food she prepared. It was her greatest joy.

She smiled. “I'm so glad you're havin' suppa with us.”

The first hour Mama and I spent together usually fared well. After that, neither of us could predict how things would go. Even though we had the same blood, we were like a Southern woman wearing a pastel dress and white shoes after Labor Day. We clashed.

“Thanks for inviting me.” I slid onto the bar stool at the center island where the gas stovetop held cast iron pots in bright red, purple, and aqua. Each spouted steam trails toward the twelve-foot ceiling. I curled my hair behind my ears and then leaned over the bar and sniffed. “My favorites, huh?”

“Yes, ma'am. Shrimp okra gumbo and fresh green beans with salt pork.” My mother wiped the counter around the stovetop, and then glanced at an index card on the counter.

Wow. I braced myself. She never cooked my favorite dishes unless she wanted something. I knew better than to say anything, yet.

“Thanks.”

“I met Beau at the post office yesterday.” She peered over the top of her cat-eye reading glasses. “He told me he saw you.”

This was why I left Bijou Bayou in the first place. This place was too small to keep my business my own. “Yes.”

“Did he tell you about his wife?”

“He did.” I leaned back into the barstool.

“Well?”

“Well, what?”

Her fisted hands flew to her hips. “Are you planning to talk to him again?”

“I'm sure if I run into him, we'll have a conversation, but if you're asking if I've made plans to see him again, the answer is no. He's married.”

“I know he's married.” She huffed and then lifted the heavy cover from the large, bright red pot, the one that held the gumbo, and stirred. She continued to stir, never looking up at me. “I just thought that maybe you two could become friends again. He could use a friend, you know.”

“I doubt it. Besides that's not a good idea. There's a lot of water under that bridge.”

“What about Jarrod? Are you going to give him another chance? You know he makes good money.”

I couldn't believe she asked that question, but then again I somewhat expected it. She allowed her abusive husband, Elray, to drive both my brother and I away when we'd graduated from high school. She'd chosen him over us shortly after our dad died. Hard to understand when you're five and your brother is eight.

“No. There is no second chance for Jarrod. I can't believe I was with him in the first place.” I shifted on the stool. At sixty-one, Mama's beauty remained. Her violet-blue eyes with specks of gold reminded me of the sky just before sunset.

“Well, sometimes women have to make certain sacrifices.” She tapped the side of the pot with her spoon.

“What? Are you serious?” I slid off the stool ready to have this long overdue conversation. “Not for me. I can take care of myself. I'll not sacrifice my safety for a man to take care of me. Do you really think Elray took care of you? Took care of us?”

Mama lowered her aluminum-stirring spoon onto the spoon rest with a slow, deliberate motion, all the while avoiding my glare. When she finally lifted her eyes to meet mine, anger flashed in them followed by sadness. “I did the best I could at the time. It's time you realize that. You never went without what you needed. Remember that.” She flipped the heat off each burner, turned her back to me, and then stormed out of the kitchen. “Spoiled brat.” Her last words cut.

Her bedroom door slammed a few moments later. So much for long overdue conversations. While Mama and I had our share of disagreements, she'd never acted that way before. But we never delved that deeply into our past before.

“Hey, sis.” Anthony walked into the kitchen. “Where's Mama?”

I nodded toward the bedroom and gave my brother a hug. “She's in her room. We just had words, and she's not at all happy with me right now.”

“Words? About what?” His confusion was evident in his furrowed brow and concerned expression.

“I actually questioned her about Elray.” I slid my purse onto my shoulder.

“Really.” Anthony lifted his eyebrows. “Let me guess. She refused to discuss it.”

“Not quite, she said she did the best she could and then stormed off to her room.” I stood on tiptoes and kissed his cheek. “Good night. I think I'll go home. Tell her I'll call her tomorrow.”

“I will. That is if she wants to talk to me.” He kissed my forehead. “Good night.”

I ventured out into the damp evening air and glanced at my phone. I'd been there a little over an hour. Some things never changed.

 

****

 

Carlton was awake when I entered his room the next day. “How are you today?”

He lifted his hand and vacillated it back and forth. “
Comme ci, comme ça
.” His lips tilted up to the right.

I hadn't heard the Cajun phrase for
so-so
in a long time. “Sorry to hear. Guess that's better than feeling worse.”

He laughed. “Yeah, Miss Half-full. It is.”

I checked his equipment levels and made sure he'd taken all his medication for the day. “Do you need anything?”

“I'd like to try sitting in my chair for a while.” He nodded toward the recliner on the opposite side of his bed.

“Sure.” I crossed to the other side of the bed and helped him walk the two steps toward the chair. Once he was comfortable, I draped the colorful, crocheted afghan across his lap. “Do you need anything else?”

“Nope.” He pointed to the stack of letters on the nightstand. “Can you read more?”

“Sure.” I filled both our glasses with water and angled my chair across from his.

I reached for the stack of letters and unfolded the next one.

 

Dear Carlton,

I hope this letter finds you well and safe. I got your last letter and have read it at least five to ten times every day. Yes, I am well and trying to keep busy. I miss you so much. Mama keeps pushing me to get out and do things with my friends, but nothing sounds fun without you.

I walked by Mr. Levi's place the other day and thought about the time you and I jumped his fence and his bull nearly pinned us. I was never so scared and excited in my whole life. That's what every moment with you is like—exciting. Everywhere I go in town reminds me of you. Which I guess is good since we have so many wonderful memories together. I can't wait for you to come home so I can be Mrs. Carlton Perlouix. That has a nice sound to it. Of course, if Papa knew that you had proposed to me and I accepted, he would be mighty mad. Even Mama doesn't know that I plan to marry you. I refuse to let a stupid family feud ruin our happy future together. All I want you to concentrate on is staying safe and coming back home to me. I will be praying and waiting.