Whispers of the Bayou (21 page)

…my prayer is ever against the deeds of evildoers;

their rulers will be thrown down from the cliffs,

and the wicked will learn that my words were well spoken.

They will say, “As one plows and breaks up the earth,

so our bones have been scattered at the mouth of the grave.”

But my eyes are fixed on you, O Sovereign Lord;

in you I take refuge—do not give me over to death.

Keep me from the snares they have laid for me,

from the traps set by evildoers.

Let the wicked fall into their own nets,

while I pass by in safety.

Last night, had it been the man’s intention to let me know that God had my back, so to speak? Or was he being more literal, trying to pass along some sort of clue about the information I sought? If that were the case, then I would have to look everywhere from cliffs to graves to snares in my search to find the angelus, whatever it was. A clue this vague really didn’t help at all.

Feeling disappointed, I decided to let the words roll around in my subconscious mind for a while, thinking maybe there was something here that I was missing. The choir was just finishing a lovely, inspiring number, and I forced myself to focus on that instead.

Following the song was a sermon, an interesting twenty minutes or so about brotherly love. I wasn’t paying a whole lot of attention until the preacher began to talk about the Lord’s plan for fellowship, companionship, and even marriage. In almost a direct echo of Nathan’s recent words to me, the preacher said that God did not want us to go through life alone but to join with others in our walk, learning to give and to receive in kind.

“ ‘Though one may be overpowered,’ ” the preacher said, “ ‘two can defend themselves.’ And three? Well, folks, ‘a cord of three strands is not quickly broken.’ ”

I thought that was a lovely way for him to put it, especially when he explained that that third strand was supposed to be God. As the man moved on to his conclusion, I wondered if maybe that was the missing element in my troubled marriage, that third strand that right now wasn’t
intertwined in our rope at all. If Nathan and I chose to “invite God” into our union, whatever that meant exactly, would we be bound more tightly? Would we finally be able to connect on the level that Nathan desired? I didn’t know, but it was an interesting train of thought, one I hoped to come back to later.

By the time church was over and Livvy had finished rounding up a group to go to lunch, I was starving. I took my own car to the restaurant and listened to Tess talk nonstop about her Sunday school class the entire way. Not surprisingly, she had loved every minute of it and was now the proud owner of a lion’s den made out of macaroni noodles. At the wheel, I was mostly consumed again with thoughts of Psalm 141 and the hidden message I simply knew it must contain.

True to her word, Livvy had found two Cajun families to join us for lunch. I forgot most of their names after the introductions, but it didn’t seem to matter. Mostly, they referred to each other—and to me and Tess, for that matter—as Boo or Cher or Ton Ton. One of the teenagers was named Ya Ya, and when I said that that had been my grandmother’s name, I was informed that Ya Ya was common for any name that ended in an “a.” Hence, my grandmother Portia had become Ya Ya.

The meal was delicious, Louisiana seafood prepared to perfection. Even Tess enjoyed the shrimp and fish—two things I could never convince her to eat at home. Once I felt comfortable with the group, I broached the topics I had come there for, starting with the question of whether anyone was familiar with a placed called Colline d’Or. None of them had ever heard of it, at least not in Louisiana. One guy said that Colline d’Or translated to “Hills of Gold”—though apparently the only hills of any real significance around here were the man-made rises at highway overpasses. Perhaps there were hills in Nova Scotia, I thought, deciding that I would get a different, more detailed map and try there again.

Next, I brought up the subject of Cajun myths. One by one, they each launched into their favorite
chucotement du bayou,
though when I asked if there was one about an angelus or a bell, no one could recall what it might be. Tess enjoyed the story of
Le Pont du Nez Piqué,
about a massive bridge that turned out not to be a bridge at all but the back of a
gigantic alligator who would rest during the day but get up and roam the countryside at night. She laughed in delight as the man next to her told the tale, though I had to wonder if she would ever look at any bridge the same way again. Given my warning at the festival, I decided to hold back on showing the drawings I had made. I also didn’t want to arouse Livvy’s suspicions. She still thought I was simply asking all of these questions for the sake of genealogical research.

Though I received no hard answers while there, about the best thing to come of the meal was a better understanding of the complexities of the Cajun mystique. Everyone at the table agreed that most people’s stereotypical idea of a “Cajun” was far too simplistic. Many Cajuns did live as trappers and shrimpers in rural carefree poverty, they said, but many also became scholars, poets, and well-paid professionals. Many Cajuns kept to themselves and spent their free time drinking and dancing, giving no thought to what the rest of the world thought of them, but others lived mainstreamed lives and worked hard to change the perception of a vastly unappreciated and underserved people group. They said that despite the differences, most Cajuns were extremely secure in their ethnicity, proud of their heritage, and filled with an uncommon zest for life. The more they talked, the more I began to feel something stirring inside my own heart, a sense of pride for that part of myself that I had never given much thought, my Cajun blood.

I asked if there was any history of tattooing among the Cajun people, but they just looked at me quizzically and said no more so than in the general public.

By the time the check came, my head was spinning from all I had learned. Grateful for their input, I insisted on picking up the tab. When they tried to fight me for it, Livvy just laughed and told them to let me have it, that I was an heiress now and could well afford a meal out. I smiled as I looked over the bill, thinking that the total cost for the entire group was less than dinner for four at the Plaza.

“I may be an heiress,” I said to Livvy as I handed the waitress the check along with my credit card, “but I’m afraid the house I’ve inherited needs more work than I can afford.”

“You should talk to my brother Aaron,” she replied. “He’s a carpenter and general fix-it man, and he’s staying with us for the summer. His rates are very reasonable.”

“Oh, do, Miranda,” one of the others added. “Aaron’s great. He really knows his way around construction.”

That sounded like a good idea, even if he just came over to give me an estimate of some of the more urgent repairs. I probably wouldn’t start on anything yet, but if we were eventually going to put the house on the market, there was certainly some work to be done first, however we ended up paying for it.

Outside, Tess and I said our goodbyes and thank-yous to everyone except Livvy, who walked us to the car. On the way, she asked more about our life in New York and my work there. When she learned that I was an art restoration expert, she became very excited, saying she had some paintings that had been damaged in Katrina that she’d love to hear my opinion on. I wanted to take a pass, but considering how kind she had been to set up this lunch for me, I felt obligated and agreed to take a look if I had time while I was in town.

“I’ll bring a couple of them over to Twin Oaks tonight,” she persisted, and for a moment I thought of Jimmy Smith and his insistence that I look at his stupid painting as well.
Wouldn’t it be bizarre,
I thought,
if Livvy’s artwork also had the symbol painted into it?

At least she seemed to know a bit about art and the restoration process. As she talked, I got the feeling that she had seen her share of masterpieces, particularly in her work with museums. It was fun to talk with someone who knew the trade. By the time we reached the car, gave some air kisses, and parted ways, I realized I was again smiling, just as I had last night. It had been a long time since I had made a new friend.

Steering the Buick out of town, I drove along Serein Highway and slowed as we neared Twin Oaks, once again savoring the grandeur of the iron-and-stone entryway. I turned onto the driveway and proceeded up and around the bend, to where the house and grounds suddenly came into view past the stand of trees. What a sight! I could only imagine how my grandmother must have felt when she saw it for the first time, the beautiful,
backwoods Cajun girl coming here to meet her fiance’s wealthy family. She must have been terribly intimidated.

I parked around back, in the shade of a tree, and as we got out of the car I noticed Lisa out in the yard, ahead and to the right, walking toward a small gardening shed and then stepping inside. We strolled over to join her, reaching the building just as she emerged from the doorway with a shovel in her hand. She jumped when she saw us.

“Sorry, we didn’t mean to startle you.”

“That’s okay,” she replied, running a hand across her sweating brow. “What’s up?”

She was wearing a T-shirt and shorts, both smeared with dirt, and in her other hand she held a bottle of water. Strewn on the grass nearby were several more water bottles, all empty, and a smattering of lawn tools.

“Are you digging a hole?” Tess asked, pointing to the shovel.

“Nope, just doing a little gardening,” Lisa replied. Then to me she added, “Working the dirt is how I handle grief and stress.”

Being a city girl, I didn’t know much about gardening, but it seemed an odd choice for the hottest part of the day.

“Come on around the back of the canning shed. I’ll show you.”

Rather than leading us to the area in the yard that had obviously at one point been the formal gardens, she simply led us around behind another outbuilding where the earth had been turned over in preparation to receive a flat of flowers that sat waiting nearby.

“Willy always meant to plant something here,” Lisa explained, “so I figured I’d put in some impatiens in his honor.”

“That’s nice,” I said, remembering how hard Lisa had worked to keep Willy alive, not to mention how deep her sobs had been once she realized he was gone. She must be feeling the loss quite strongly today.

“It’s supposed to rain tonight,” she added, “which will be good for them.”

“Can I dig a hole, Mommy?” Tess asked, greedily eyeing the shovel.

“Not in that pretty dress,” I replied.

“Okay,” she said and then she simply reached down, grabbed the hem, and pulled the dress off over her head. She handed it to me and reached
for the shovel, wearing nothing but her panties and a white cotton undershirt.

Lisa burst out laughing, and I had to admit that it was pretty funny. Glancing at my watch, I saw that Quinn could be here soon, so I decided we could stay outside for the time being and let Tess work off a little steam before starting the long drive to Houston.

“I’ll be right back,” I said, and then I took the dress to our bedroom and exchanged it in her suitcase for a shirt and shorts. Thinking better of my own white pants and expensive blouse, I made a quick change into jeans and a button-down shirt tied loosely over a white tank top.

By the time I got back outside, Lisa had put away all of the tools except for a small trowel, which Tess was now using to poke in the dirt. I made her pause to put on the clothes and then apologized to Lisa for interrupting her gardening.

“It’s getting too hot to work right now anyway,” she said. “And we need to talk. I’m glad to take a break.”

She gestured toward a shady spot on the lawn not far away. Together, she and I walked to it and sat on the grass, chatting softly as we watched Tess play in the dirt.

“Oh yeah, I guess we need to do this,” Lisa said, reaching into her pocket. She pulled out a pack of matches and a folded piece of paper, which I quickly recognized as Willy’s scribblings from yesterday.

“I forgot all about that,” I said, feeling terribly guilty that the promise we had made to burn it had completely slipped my mind.

Lisa did that now, holding it up as she caught it on fire and finally letting it drop to the grass when the flames nearly reached her dark fingers. The fire sputtered out when there was only an ashy triangle left, but just to be safe Lisa doused it with a splash of her bottled water.

After that she and I talked about all that Willy had said yesterday and all the questions that had been left unanswered by his death. I told her how I’d spent the time since, from our trip to the library to the boudin festival last night to our lunch with the Cajuns today. I showed her the drawing of Jimmy Smith, which she studied for a long time.

“You took this around at the festival?”

“Yeah.”

“And not one person recognized him?”

“Nope. Do you?”

She shook her head.

“I’m sorry, Miranda, I don’t. But it’s a good idea. Can I keep this and maybe take it around later to some of the places Willy used to go? You know, like the bars, the hardware store, the barber shop…”

I told her of the old Cajun man’s strange warning, but she said she’d only show it to people she knew and trusted.

As Lisa talked I watched Tess, lost in her own imaginary little world, and from what I could tell she was now setting the stage for her own version of
The Lion King.
She was wandering back and forth between the dirt and a pile of sticks under a nearby tree, carefully choosing the ones that would best suit her purposes for building a lion’s den. She noticed me watching and waved, a stick in each hand.

“Look, Mommy, I’m Scar!” she cried happily.

“I see that,” I replied loudly, then under my breath to Lisa added, “though why she wants to be the evil villain in the story rather than the hero is beyond me.”

Lisa smiled.