Courir De Mardi Gras (16 page)

Doris sent George home with some fried chicken and yam pie for his “friend.” No surprise that the obvious didn’t work because George had no confidence in himself anymore when it came to women. Seven years of nursing the ice queen had seen to that. He called saying his spontaneous arrival home for lunch with hot French bread hadn’t worked out too well.

“Yeah, right. Nothing says romance like bread, George.”

“She was upset over a letter in the mail.”

“From a man?”

“I guess. I don’t know.”

“Great! She’s on the rebound. You were always the best with the rebounds, George. Did you ask her out?”

“I was going to. I will.”

“Look, it wouldn’t hurt to tell her some of your problems without getting too wimpy. Women love to dish out sympathy.”

“I don’t think I can do that.”

“Then, we’d better work on my plan. Mardi Gras is coming up. You go into the city to one of those big costume places and get yourself a cape, a plumed hat, the whole bit. I’ll work on the white horse, one you won’t be afraid to ride.”

“This is ridiculous, Linc.”

“If they want to be carried off on a white horse, then carry them off on a white horse. No wonder I was the one who always had to call the shots. You have no imagination, George.”

“I’ll feel like a fool.”

“So long as you don’t act like one. Now get on it!”

“Right, Coach!”

****

George loosened up the next few days, especially after the brawl at Joe’s Lounge. He didn’t look like a man who kept in shape because he nearly always wore a suit that sort of hid his physique. He had that long kind of muscle, not the type that gets bulky. Linc and George, the two of them worked out with the weights and played ball as often as they drank beer at Linc’s house. The strength of George’s right arm must have come as a real shock to the Patout boys. How cool it would have been to see those rednecks pee in their pants, but blacks knew to stay out of Joe’s Lounge. Still, getting drunk and flattening three Patouts probably did not improve George any in Suzanne Hudson’s amber eyes. Passing out from a bad wound might, but passing out drunk had never been high on Doris’ list of romantic ways to end an evening. Suzanne probably felt the same.

Plans moved ahead. George got the costume, a real beauty, all black with just a red cape lining. The costumer called it the Devil’s Horseman model and altered it for George’s length free of charge since he would be buying, not renting. The Ghost looked fantastic in that outfit except where the frame of his glasses showed above the black satin mask.

“Take off the specs, George.”

“I won’t be able to see.”

“Whatever happened to those contacts you wore when we played ball, the ones with the blue tint that drove the women wild?”

“In my dresser, I guess. Mother said I didn’t look like her son with those things in my eyes. I guess they were a little bizarre.”

“Find them, or get another pair.”

He tried to argue, but Doris barged into the garage just then to get Misty’s bicycle. She gasped and put a hand to her throat, then relaxed. “Oh, George, if I hadn’t seen those glasses I wouldn’t have known it was you. You look so dashing. Getting ready to take Suzanne to Mardi Gras?”

Then, she turned on her husband. “Why don’t we ever go to Mardi Gras anymore?”

Part Two of the plan was thought up right then—the part that turned out to be such a bad idea.

“Sure, baby. Why not? Can you make me a pirate costume?”

“Not like that. That’s professional sewing,” Doris said fingering George’s cape like she could hardly keep her hands off him. “Would you just look at this heavy scarlet lining? I like the way they sewed on the braid to cover the seam when they lengthened the arms and legs. Very nice—like something you’d see at one of those fancy masked balls they have in New Orleans.”

“No, no, honey, I don’t need anything like that. I’ll just put on some jeans and a tight striped shirt. You make me a mask out of a bandanna, and I’ll wear one of my gold earrings from back in the days before I became a teacher. We can dress the whole family up the same way and take in the parades in Lafayette.”

Doris liked the idea. Anything that included all the children softened her up.

“I only want to be back to see the Courir de Mardi Gras ride in, baby.”

“That bunch of drunken cowboys!”

“This year is going to be special.”

“Well, I can tell that,” Doris replied, flirting her eyes over George one last time as she wheeled the trike out for Misty.

By the time Doris left, George convinced himself to wear the blue contacts. Having a gold bugle slung across his chest would be a nice touch, too. Tiffy demanded five dollars for its rent and another dollar to get the bugle shined. She warned that any dents or scratches were taken very seriously by the conductor of her drum and bugle corps at Port Jefferson Elementary School. If the instrument came to any harm, she’d charge extra big time, Uncle George or no Uncle George.

“Yes, ma’am,” everyone answered to that.

****

Linc found a white horse of sorts, one George could handle with no problem. The animal usually pulled Alcide Porrier’s vegetable wagon, but during the winter off-season, Puffy went out to pasture for a month or so. His harness sores healed over, and his ribs almost became covered in fat again. The horse wasn’t a problem, but striking a deal with Alcide Porrier came hard.

“Mr. Alcide, I’d like to borrow your horse for the Courir.”

“Don’t no black man ride wit’ da Mardi Gras in Port Jefferson.”

Being a basketball coach in a small town had its advantages. Mr. Alcide could have been ruder.

“For a white friend, and he wants a white horse. Only Puffy looks a little yellow to me around the mane and tail.”

“Oh, we can bleach dat out, you got da money for da bleach.”

“And he looks a little thin.”

“Oh, we can feed him up wit’ oats, you got da money for oats.”

“Can he run, a little ways anyhow?”

“Ever seen a Cajun horse can’t run?”

“Guess not. We’ll need a saddle, a nice saddle.”

“I can get a nice saddle if you got da money for a nice saddle.”

“Fifty dollars the best I can do, man.”

“Dat horse eat lotsa oats ’til den.”

“Sixty and you be sure to get the yellow off him.”

“Seventy-five, I shine da saddle, too.”

“Done! Why you call him Puffy anyhow?”

“Oh, he puff up some when you put da saddle on. For five more dollar I make sure dat saddle’s real tight.”

Not wanting to spoil George’s entrance if the saddle slipped, Linc paid out another five dollars. He picked up the tab for everything over the fifty dollars George contributed. That costume set Ghost back, but the shop wouldn’t alter without purchase.

****

Part Two of the plan came absolutely free. What a great inspiration. Uncle Jack had a boat, a big, old-timey pirogue made from a hollowed-out cypress log that he’d lend. What could be more romantic than being abducted by a handsome stranger and paddled down the bayou to a secret destination?

This deserted cotton warehouse downtown had a broken lock. So, maybe every kid in the Port who wanted to sneak a drink, smoke pot, or make out, knew about the place, but for sure, Suzanne Hudson did not. An anonymous tip to the sheriff saying druggies were using the place would make the law walk through the building prior to Mardi Gras and get rid of any undesirables. Then, clean up a corner, stick a few candles in bottles for atmosphere, lay down some nice, soft blankets, stash some wine and chocolates, pack some clean clothes for the morning after, and put a new lock on the door—a perfect spot for a little Mardi Gras nookie.

George had to take things from there. He could pull off the mask and say, “Ha, ha, it’s me.” That would be like him. Or he could leave it on, untie Suzanne, and proceed to romance her from there. Or he could leave her tied up and…. Damn! The thought gave Linc the hots for Doris. The kids could go visit their grandmother this afternoon. What a crying shame and a pity George had no imagination. A good guy, but he might not be able to bring this off.

Mardi Gras day, the plan started off well. Puffy flatfooted along the river bank with his saddle still in place and George still in that saddle. Suzanne, slung over the white horse, had her cute little ass in the air, wiggling like she wasn’t really scared at all, which she wasn’t supposed to be.

Both George and the horse looked a little sweaty. After all, Puffy had been tied up out of sight below the ridge all morning, then asked to charge up a slope on short notice. George, to bring off the quick change, wore two sets of clothes most of the day so he only had the cape, mask, bandanna, gloves, and hat to slip on when ready to go. He put in the contacts and wore sunglasses to greet the riders of the Mardi Gras. Those blue, blue eyes sure looked wicked staring out from the black mask. He made an impressive move when he crushed Suzanne to his breast, as they said in those bodice-rippers Doris is always reading—and bruised her lips with his—okay, sometimes she read the good parts aloud to get things started in the bedroom—but George had no time to waste. Those crazy cowboys from the Courir might be following.

With Puffy tied a tree to keep him from wandering, Suzanne got hauled to the pirogue. She had a real solid heft for a girl, like maybe she worked out in a gym. She could have escaped if she’d put any effort into it, but tied real loosely, she didn’t panic and went along with the joke.

George goofed when the water carried the pirogue past the warehouse and toward the bridge into full view of the town and everyone gathered on Main Street for the
fais-do-do
and gumbo supper. He tried to cut to shore too fast. Not all his fault, though. A pirogue is a bitch to steer. The last time Uncle Jack took anyone out in the boat, he made all the passengers wear life vests because, he said, the pirogue could get a little tippy. A little tippy, hell! Where were those life vests when the boat turned over?

“Gawd, I can’t swim!”

Chapter Nine

George’s story

Suzanne is dead, drowned in the bayou on Mardi Gras day. Linc went under and had to be saved. By the time he lay stretched on the shore and coughing up brown water, she’d vanished downstream. If her arms hadn’t been bound, her mouth gagged, she might be alive, but no, they killed her trying to bring off a stupid, stupid romantic stunt. George St. Julien, CPA and murderer.

This whole crazy idea was Linc St. Julien’s style, not at all the way George St. Julien would do things, but then he thought he never did have much imagination. Linc deserved to be called a showboat. Watching him do his stuff on the court, on the dance floor, with women—pure pleasure for one who always stood on the sidelines. A shy man needs a friend like that to make him take the chances he would never take alone. Linc is a generous man, too. He always left enough for good old George. During those years of taking care of his mother, George missed Linc’s friendship the most, not the big games or the easy women.

Not to say he didn’t miss being with women. When he first saw Suzanne Hudson at the airport, he thought she had warm brown eyes like LaDonna, but with little gold specks in them, he noticed when he bent over to greet her, and a great, curvy build like Cherry Fontaine hidden away under that navy blue suit. George expected an academic geek wearing glasses even nerdier than the ones his mother picked out for him to wear, her hair all pulled back tight in a bun, not this young, sexy woman. He could tell right away she saw her new boss as nothing more than an employer. It took a winning game or a push from Linc for women to notice George St. Julien.

On the way back to Magnolia Hill, he put her straight to sleep with his company. George felt as gray as the clouds overhead, as uninteresting as the local crops in the fields. Sometimes, he expected to see gray hair on his head when he looked in a mirror. He’d been fading away ever since coming home to Port Jefferson to take care of his mother. Funny, they called him Ghost in college at a time when he was most alive. Now, the nickname fit.

George tried not to stare while Suzanne slept, but he liked the way her hair, the color of tupelo honey, curled softly around her cheek, the surprising candy pink of her half-open lips, the fullness of her breasts beneath the blue jacket. He felt a woody coming on and had to turn his thoughts back to ways to make Magnolia Hill pay for itself before he had to sell out. That always had a deflating effect. By the time they reached the Hill, he had himself tightly under control. Suzanne had gotten a little rest and was bursting full of questions.

They had formal coffee in Mother’s uncomfortable parlor instead of in the kitchen with Birdie. He started to tell the George Washington’s descendents story but Suzanne, being smarter than Cherry Fontaine, caught on right away. He would have enjoyed watching Virginia Lee and Suzanne Hudson going at it over tea and tiny sandwiches. George imagined Suzanne winning the conversation.

She passed your test, Mother, she passed, he couldn’t help thinking.

Okay, he had another infatuation setting in. Linc said George was prone to them, that he didn’t have to propose to every woman he dated. George thought he’d outgrown this failing with graduation, but his “dates” came few and far between afterwards, and he had no extra cash to pay for them. LaDonna knew they weren’t right for each other and moved on. Cherry Fontaine—Mother said at least she least was white, but definitely trailer trash—had folded without a fight and found someone else. But, George raised his guard now. He did his best to nip this one in the bud by being as businesslike as possible. He would not make any stupid moves like the kid fresh out of St. Mark’s all-male Academy.

He would have been safe if Linc had stayed out of it. George didn’t know how his old teammate found out about Suzanne so quickly. He never mentioned her to him, but Port Jefferson is a small town, a place where people talk to their mamas every day.

Why did he let Linc talk him into the whole crazy scheme? First, Linc always led and fixed him up in college. Second, he always wanted to be like Linc St. Julien, the star player in the big leagues, the man adored by his mother, his wife, his children, and let’s face it, lots of other women.