These Sheltering Walls: A Cane River Romance (4 page)

            “I
was real excited to hear you’re tearing up a few sites on the grounds. I’m
interested in bein’ part the project. Now, I know my Creole and freed slave
history. I can identify a ten dollar Confederate treasury note at twenty
paces.”

            “Doubtful
we’ll be finding any cash in the slave quarters. The last artifact we uncovered
was a small brass cross about an inch high.” She saw his eyes narrow and could
practically see him calculating the worth of such an item. “And I wouldn’t way
we’re tearing up the outbuildings. We’re excavating, removing the floorboards
and looking behind the walls. If we find any rot or problems, we’ll fix them. That’s
very kind of you to offer your expertise, Mr. Sandoz. Of course, anyone who
works here needs to go through an application process with the National Park
Service.”

           
“Oh,
I was just hoping to volunteer my services. I’ve dedicated my life to this area.
There’s no price you could put on making sure our children and grandchildren
know the sacrifices that our forefathers went through to build a life here. And
it’s real personal to me. My great-great-great granddaddy Milton LeFleur was
part owner of Oakland Plantation at one point in time.”

           
Lie.

             Even
if she hadn’t known the plantations history by heart, she would have known that
was a lie. She felt sweat beading near her hairline and on the back of her
neck. She stared down at his card, struggling to form a sentence. When someone
lied to her, it was like watching a movie with the wrong soundtrack. Nothing
made sense.

             “What
year was this? I don’t know I’ve seen that name anywhere on the records.”

            “Oh,
it was probably written out and covered up.” He leaned forward, lowering his
voice. “Those Prud’hommes weren’t all sunshine and happiness.  Big powerful
family like that.”

             The
Prud’homme family was still in the area. As far as Henry could tell, they were
as protective of the history, good or bad, of the plantation as anyone else.
She decided she’d had enough of Barney Sandoz.

            “The
archeology students have just started this week. I’ll let you know if we find
anything that we’re unsure of or if we need another opinion.” There was no way
she would let a man like Barney Sandoz near the excavation site. Or any other
spot on the national park, for that matter.

            “My
daddy used to say the time to peel your crawfish is before you eat him.
If
you wait too long to give me a call, I could be all tied up and then you’d be
in a pickle.”

            Henry
felt her blood pressure rising. She didn’t like the hard sell approach,
especially from someone she’d never met. “Did you say you’ve been working with
other places in Cane River? I was just at the parish archives today.”

            He
straightened up as if she’d waved her fist. “I’ve been there. Don’t care much
for the director. He’s not our kind of people.”

            “You
mean, he’s not from around here? I thought he was a native.”

            “Huh.
He may be from around here, but my mama would be rolling in her grave if I
worked with a man like Gideon Becket. You know what he did, dontcha?”

            “He
told me he was in prison for murder, yes.”

            “Not
just murder. He strangled a man when he was just a boy and it was all over some
cocaine.”

           
Truth.

            “Look
at the man,” he went on. “Looks like he did just fine up at Angola and that’s
one of the worst prisons in the country. No boy could survive in place like
that unless he’s scarier than all the other criminals. I bet he was part of one
of those big cartels up there. Maybe he still is. I bet he’s all tattooed under
those nice clothes. He’s got ice in his veins. You can’t look him in the eye
and tell me that’s not true.”

            She
thought of the way Gideon didn’t lie, the way he didn’t seem to care what anyone
thought of him. He acted like a man with nothing to lose. Or one who didn’t
care who he hurt to get what he wanted.  

            “I
don’t know him that well.” She held up his business card. “Thank you for
stopping by and I’ll let you know if we need your help.”

            His
eyes narrowed for a moment as if he wanted to get some kind of guarantee that
he could be involved, but then he smiled. “Thanks for your time, Miss Byrne.
And say hello to your aunt Kimberley. Tell her I’m a big fan.”

           
Lie.

           
She
nodded, walking him to the door. As he left, she stood at the screen and
watched him walk back down to his car. As he pulled away from Oakland Plantation,
the sunlight flashed on the chrome hubcaps. Long after the dust had had settled
back into the long drive way, Henry was there still, thinking.

                                                                        ****

            “Hey,
how’s my favorite introvert?”  Tom stood up from his desk and gave Gideon a
hug, clapping him on the back. His dark curly hair stood out straight as if
he’d been running his fingers through it.

            Gideon
set down his leather satchel on the floor and slumped into the chair across
from Tom’s desk. “Thinking he should get back to his office where it’s safe.
I
was just near run off the road ‘cause I was going the speed limit. Whatever
happened to slow country life? It’s Thursday afternoon in Natchitoches and
everyone’s driving like it’s Saturday night in New York City.”

             “You
sound like old Sal Panettiere. Every Sunday he traps me at the door on the way
out and gives me a lecture about how things were in his day, when the men caught
dinner and the women cooked it.”

            “I’m
not that far gone. I’ve had possum stew and I’ll stick with tater tot casserole,
as much as I hate it, thank you very much.” He didn’t know how Tom could stand
the cramped little office. Being the parish priest of the oldest church in Cane
River should have some perks, like a window with a view. But Isle Brevelle was
on the National Historic Registry and there weren’t many renovations they could
do on such an old building.  He rolled up his sleeves, his movements sharp with
nervous energy and free-floating irritation.

            “Are
you working out more?” Tom asked.

            “Me?”
Gideon lifted an arm and flexed, letting his biceps strain against his shirt.
“Maybe. It’s relaxing.”

            “Maybe
too much of a good thing. You’re getting muscles on top of your muscles.”

             “I
don’t see the problem with that.”

            “Let
me put it this way,” Tom said. “I know you had to work hard to not look weak in
prison. But here, it just may be the opposite.”

            Gideon
frowned at him. “Are you saying I’m scary looking? Did somebody complain?” He
smoothed his tie. “It’s not like I’m covered in tattoos and shave my head.”

            “No,
nobody complained, but you’re always going to be working against preconceived
ideas. If you look like you spend all your time preparing for a fistfight, it
sort of fits their idea of who a felon is.”

            “Got
it.” Gideon could always count on Tom to tell him the truth.

            Tom
shuffled papers on his desk and Gideon knew what he was going to say before he
said it. It was like clock-work, this conversation. Every spring, summer,
winter, fall.

            “Harris
and Sally called. They hope you’re well,” Tom said.

            Gideon
nodded. Just hearing their names was like a physical pain, like a punch in the
gut.

            “They
say Austin’s doing really well at University of Louisiana. It’s his last year.”

            There
it was, the kick that felt like a chaser to the emotional torture routine.
“Good,” he managed.

            “They’d
always be glad to see you. Maybe we can drive up together sometime,” Tom said,
his voice carefully neutral.

            “You’ll
never stop trying, will you?”

            He
sighed. “Nope. They were the closest thing to real parents we had. For me, they
are
my parents, and you were there first, years before I was placed
there. I know none of us are really related but I feel like my family won’t be
complete until y’all on the same page again.”

            “I
can’t un-burn that bridge. There’s no going back.”

            “Only
because you say so. They’ve never rejected you. They even wrote you in prison,
even―”

            “Listen,
I’m glad they say they can forgive me, forgive the way I lied to them and stole
money from them and ran away to get on a bus going half way across the country
so I could murder a man.” He could hear the anger in his voice. “But I have a
hard time believing that. I’ve apologized to them. But I don’t think that
relationship can be repaired. Not really.”

            “Of
course it can. They loved you like a son.”

           
Like
a son.
And without his willing it, a memory rushed through him. Austin
tucked under his arm, head against his chest, listening to his favorite train
book, again. Somehow he’d fallen into bedtime reading duty. Maybe Sally and Vince
knew that being a big brother to Austin would help heal the loss of Katie Rose.
Maybe they understood how much comfort it would give him to care for someone who
was around his sister’s age when she was murdered.

            Gideon
closed his eyes. What those men had done to Katie Rose, he had done to Austin.
Not physically, but after being there Austin’s whole life, he’d walked away. He
knew what it felt like to be betrayed as a kid and he knew what it was like
when someone hurt a child that you loved. There was no way to forgive that.  He
couldn’t face Austin, and he couldn’t face his parents.

            “I
just… can’t,” he whispered, opening his eyes.

            Tom
nodded. “So, besides saving me from writing up the announcement of the jambalaya
feed for the church bulletin, what are you doing here? You don’t usually drop
by in the middle of the day.”

             “Just
running errands. And I was thinking about going out on the river sometime. Maybe
call up Bix and see if he wants to show us that spot he found with all the
bluegill. You interested?”

            “Sure,
name the day. But the last time we went out on the boat, you said Bix’s running
commentary gave you a headache and you’d rather listen to banjo music for five
hours straight.”

             “Even
a whole day of his stories can’t be as bad as one more day sitting in my
office. Nothing ever changes there. Day in, day out. Same old, same old.”

             “I
thought that’s what you liked about the place. It’s not like you to get cabin
fever.”

            “It’s
been known to happen,” he said. “Actually, I’ve been thinking of going to the
Southern History conference in Atlanta in November.”

            Tom
was quiet for a moment. “A conference.”

            “Right.”
Gideon tapped his fingers against one knee. “Or maybe the one in Miami in December.
People probably think I’m some old recluse. ”

            He
came around the front of the desk and leaned against it.

            “You
never cared what people thought before.”

            Gideon
couldn’t argue with that. “I just think I might need to be more visible…
professionally.”

            “What
started this? It seems like a pretty big change of heart.”

            “Nothing.
And it has nothing to do with my heart. It’s just a conference.”

            “Okay.
Then let’s talk about why you’re really here.” Tom waved his hand toward the
phone, smiling. “You could have called. The telephone- it’s a modern
convenience we non-historians use for purposes of communication.”

            “Well,
if you’d rather I call next time, I can do that.” Irritation surged through
him. “And don’t try to poke around in my psyche. I don’t need a counseling
session.”

            “Fine.
No poking.” Tom watched his face for a moment. “I guess I won’t bother being
subtle. Just spill it.”

            “Nothing
to spill.”

            “I’m
your oldest friend. Probably your only friend. I know when you’re chewing
something over.”

             “I
just need some time on the river. Nothing major.”

            “Well,
you know I’m always up for some bream fishing. Bix said they were real feisty
when he was out with Paul a few weeks ago.” Tom paused, as if choosing his
words carefully. His voice was much softer, all joking gone, as he said, “Gideon,
you know that whatever it is, you can always talk to me.”

             “It’s
nothing. No existential crisis, no test of faith, no big temptations. I just
felt like a change of scenery was in order.”