Courir De Mardi Gras (8 page)

She made her way to the bar through a maze of small tables with four upturned chairs crowning each one.

“Could I have a Coke, please? With plenty of ice.”

“Don’t you see dat sign,
cher
?”

Among the display of bottles fronting the mirror behind the bar, a taped message read, “No Ladies without Gents.”

“It keeps down da fights, you see. We ain’t one of dem city singles bars, no. If a guy brings a lady, well, we don’t ask do she come from a good home. But, no mother’s son ever come in here and got rolled if it wasn’t his own damn fault. On Fridays and Saturdays, we got da best Cajun music in da state. You get yourself a man, honey, and come back den. Be glad to serve you.”

“But no one else is in here, and I really need something to wash down my lunch. Please!”

He started moving his bulk around the bar as if he were going to bodily remove this annoying Yankee girl. Rolls of fat undulated softly beneath his Lite Beer T-shirt as he made headway. She tried another tack.

“You see, I’m doing research on Port Jefferson, and everyone said you have to go to Joe’s Lounge. They have the best bands in Louisiana. Are you Joe?”

“Me? No! Dere ain’t no Joe, no more.” The bartender’s big belly quivered with laughter as if she had tickled him in the stomach, but he stopped advancing. “Me, I’m Hypolite Huval. ‘Hippo’ people call me. Guess you can see why. I own dis place now. Used to have da Roadhouse, but one of da young Sonniers bought me out to fix it up fancy. Old Joe, he was ready to retire down by Grand Coteau wit’ his daughter, and I had to have me a place, so I bought him out.
Bon
, no? Old Joe’s been dead, I t’ink, since some time last year. You gonna put Joe’s Place in da city papers,
cher
?”

His pudgy fingers pulled on the soft drink tap and extracted an extra-large Coke onto half a glass of crushed ice. “On da house,” he said, pushing it toward Suzanne.

“Actually, I’m not with a newspaper. I’m staying up at Magnolia Hill while I prepare a booklet on the house and town.” She half expected the friendly Hippo to repossess the drink. “I understand Mr. Jacques St. Julien came here often.”

“Near every night. You be sure to mention dat. Here’s where da men meet to plan da Courir de Mardi Gras, and Jacques, he was da Capitaine.”

“Tell me about the Courir.”

“Well, I can’t. It’s a secret society like da Masons, you see. Womens ain’t supposed to know not’ing about it.”

“I understand.” She thought “male chauvinist pigs,” but didn’t say it.

“But you come back wit’ a date on Saturday night and dance. I always say, me, free drinks to anyone from da Hill, but George ain’t sociable like his daddy. He don’t even ride wit’ da Mardi Gras.”

“Then tell me about Jacques.” It would take a while to swill the Coke she’d begged. To leave after her victory seemed out of character for a journalist who was going to put Joe’s Lounge on the map.

“Oh, Jacques, he was da best of all da Capitaines in all my years. When he blew dat horn, all dose riders had better saddle up or he’d fight ’em, and he stayed sober so he could do dat.
Mais cher
, he let you have some fun, too. Sometime, he ride off wit’ one of da pretty girls on his horse. Da mamas would cry and pray ’til he brung her back, but dey was only gone jus’ a minute. Maybe he kiss her out around da barn, dat’s all. Rest of us do da Mardi Gras song and dance for da old and ugly ones to make ’em feel good. We have a little beer, chase da chicken for gumbo, and move on when Jacques tell us. He gallop us into town, stirring up dust and scaring dose old roosters, and we dance and eat and drink ’til midnight. Den, he make us all go to Mass.”

Hypolite sighed deeply. “Now dey want to let the womens ride. Man, dat’s da end of a real good time. I mean you could piss off da side of your horse, and everyone laughed. Can’t do dat wit’ womens along.”

Wondering why any female would want to ride, drink beer, and chase chickens all day, Suzanne almost sympathized, but her mother’s feminist upbringing held her back. How much more appealing to be carried off on a white horse for a kiss behind the barn than to be one of the boys, but to each her own. She finished enough of the enormous drink to be polite and said good-bye and thanks to Mr. Hippo who shouted after her, “Y’all come back Saturday.” Between coffee with the St. Julien sisters and Saturday night at Joe’s Lounge, her social calendar was certainly filling up.

She rounded off the afternoon by exploring another of the side streets, appropriately named St. Julien, running alongside the old basket maker’s shop. Behind the row of shops lay a pleasant residential strip of small white, blue, and pale yellow cottages. The road sloped gradually downward, the housing having less paint and more peeling the lower the street went. Trailers sat in the yards behind gray wooden shanties. She passed the Pilgrim Baptist Church with its one pane of stained glass shining like a ruby in the forehead of a Buddha over the narthex.

Suzanne experienced the same feeling of anxiety she might have if she’d wandered innocently into the black ghetto of Philadelphia, but no one threatened her. The elderly sat on porch steps or tended the remnants of their winter gardens. Tiny, dark children stared as she passed, but the elderly nodded pleasantly enough.

The sky clouded over again and grew as black as her surroundings. She had no desire to bring attention to herself by returning the same way she’d come, but St. Julien Street appeared to have no crossroads. The street transformed into a rural route where a few shabby lounges hugged a curve in the road.

Resigned, she crossed the street, and marched purposefully up the other side as if she were late for a very important engagement. Most of the children had gone inside when the weather threatened. She approached the Pilgrim Baptist Church when the deluge let loose. In moments, water cascading down the decline lapped over the low curbs. She shoved the parish history book under her top to protect it, but her shoes grew soggy. Her hair plastered to her skull in wet ringlets. She kept walking directly into the rain, back toward the security of Main Street. A woman, middle-aged and medium brown, hailed her from a screened porch where she sat watching the storm.

“Come on in, come on in! Get yourself out of that rain.”

Suzanne hesitated and then made her way up the walk and the three cinder block steps leading to the porch. Her hostess wore a brightly striped caftan over her ample body and covered her gray hair with a stiffly styled black wig.

“I saw you pass and wondered what would happen to you when the storm broke. It wasn’t likely you were visiting anyone on this end of town. Why, you looked as out of place as a crawfish in an oak tree. I saw that once back in the big flood. Come in and dry yourself. I’m Odette St. Julien.”

“Suzanne Hudson. Thank you for inviting me.”

“Just being Christian. Let me make you some hot mint tea. Take off those wet shoes and get a towel out of the bathroom to dry that hair.” She hesitated a moment, then suggested cautiously, “You could put on my robe hanging there on the peg. It’s clean. I have an electric dryer, and we could get the wet out of your clothes.”

Suzanne put on the warm, red flannel robe even though it wrapped twice around her and padded barefooted into the living room where she exchanged her dripping clothes for the cup of mint tea and a seat on the sofa. Despite the sagging porch and flaking paint that made Mrs. St. Julien’s home blend with the rest of the neighborhood, the interior was clean and cozy on this dreary day. A burnt orange area rug covered the gray linoleum of the floor, and a hand-knit afghan of umber, green, and yellow yarns fanned across the divan. A large single room air conditioner, not operating this moist January day, filled one window. An immense television took up most of the wall opposite the sofa.

The air conditioner served as a stand for potted plants: begonia slips wintering over in small clay pots; an avocado grown from seed in a Mexican jar; broad-leaved house plants set in baskets like the ones the old man wove. The television had its own burden of framed photos: large and small snapshots of children and grandchildren; a very tall young man in cap and gown; a couple with the bride in white lace, the groom in a tuxedo; and one that looked like a black and white publicity still of a sports figure kneeling by a basketball. She got caught examining them more closely when Mrs. St. Julien returned with her own cup of tea.

“There now. Let’s have our tea and talk while your things dry.”

She could hear the whir of the dryer and the clanking of the zipper of her jeans against the drum coming from the kitchen. The air smelled pleasantly of perfumed dryer sheets. She and her hostess settled comfortably on the sofa.

“You have a handsome family.” Suzanne nodded toward the framed pictures. She’d seen her activist mother do this countless times to set people at ease when she went out soliciting for her favorite charities. In this case, her daughter was the object of charity.

“My daughter, Harriet. My son, Lincoln.” Her hostess rose, gathered an armful of the photos and brought them to the coffee table where the teacups sat.

“They’re both school teachers. I’m a retired teacher myself. Harriet has two sons, and Linc, he got a boy on the fourth try. This is Linc and Doris on their wedding day. And these are my grandchildren.”

She handed Suzanne a multiple portrait frame stuffed with school and baby pictures. “Harriet’s boys, Ohin and Salim. Those names mean ‘chief’ and ‘peace’ in some African language. They laughed at me for naming them after Harriet Tubman and Abraham Lincoln. At least those people were Americans. And here’s Linc’s girls, Tiffany, Crystal, and Misty, and the baby, George Lincoln, Little Linc we call him. Here’s my boy when he played basketball for the NBA.” She showed the glossy still with obvious pride.

“Your son was
the
Lincoln St. Julien,” Suzanne said, mentally thanking Birdie for the information and trying to remember what NBA stood for, not that it mattered. The word basketball gave her the clue.

Mrs. St. Julien’s brown face brightened with pride. “That’s my son. He played with the NBA five years before his injury. He coaches at the high school now. When he was making all that big money, he wanted me to have a new house and a big car, but I said to save for the future because you never know what plans God has for a person. Besides, I like it just where I am. He got me that big TV and the air conditioner even though my old set still worked fine, and I’ve been used to the heat all these years. Well, truth to tell, I’m glad I have them and gladder still he saved his money so he and Doris could build a nice place for their family in the country. I’m too old for change.”

Mrs. St. Julien paused a moment as if she were aware she monopolized the conversation in a typical proud parent way. “Rain’s quitting,” she said almost regretfully. “You want me to call you a taxi? There’s just the one in Port Jefferson, and Willie sometimes takes a while to get here, especially if the streets are flooded. Are you visiting family, honey?”

Suzanne hesitated. She had no idea how staying in a big white mansion would be taken by a person like Mrs. St. Julien—politely no doubt. Oh well, the words “Magnolia Hill” had opened the library, the bank, and Joe’s Lounge to her. She tried the magic words once more. “I’m staying at Magnolia Hill.” And received an instantaneous reaction.

“Then you’re George’s special visitor. I’m so happy he finally brought a nice woman to stay at the Hill. You’re a sweet girl, and he’s such a fine young man. I’m sure you two will hit it off. I can’t understand why he hasn’t brought you to see me sooner. When he and Linc were playing ball together, George spent more time down here than up at the Hill. And when Linc went away to play for the big leagues, George would bring me flowers on my birthday from the both of them. Look here.”

She went to stand by a large ficus tree in a wooden tub filling one corner of the room. “George gave me this one Mother’s Day when Linc was away. It’s almost as tall as he is now. I remember…”

Mrs. St. Julien sat on the sofa to do her remembering. “I recall the weekends those boys would come home from college when they weren’t playing ball. That wasn’t often, not often enough for a mother. When they
were
here, I thought I’d have to go on food stamps to feed the both of them. George’s favorite was yam pie. He would eat the whole thing and wash it down with a quart of milk right out of the carton. I’d say didn’t his mama teach him better manners, and he’d just grin at me and say I’d have to teach him. Yam pie! I have one in the refrigerator. You take it to George and tell him he’s been a stranger. Now let me check your clothes and call that cab.”

“No cab! Really, I’d rather walk,” Suzanne intercepted. How would she explain showing up at George’s office with a yam pie in hand? “You do know I’m simply doing research at the house? I only met George, Mr. St. Julien, a few days ago.”

“Oh, that’s a shame. I hoped he was going to settle down when Birdie mentioned he had a girl staying up there. I guess I would have heard from Linc if George had found someone special,” she called from the kitchen.

Mrs. St. Julien returned, smoothing the wrinkles out of the still-warm clothes with her hands. Suzanne went to change. When she returned, Odette St. Julien had the pie covered with aluminum foil and ready to go, but she held it back a moment.

“It’s a pity for George, always getting mixed up with the wrong women. Between us, I thought he was going to marry Linc’s cousin, LaDonna Williams. No big thing in the city, but that would have set the kettle to boiling in Port Jefferson. They were seeing each other in college. I wasn’t supposed to know, but Harriet told. LaDonna ran a little wild back then. I was just getting ready to say something about how that relationship was bad for both of them and all of us,” she gave a general nod to the vicinity of St. Julien Street, “when they broke it off. Then, LaDonna married that boy from Metairie and took a weight off her folks’ mind. He’s a dentist, and their twins have settled her down a bit. That’s just between us, you understand.”

Suzanne gave her promise. Really, who did she have to tell except Birdie, and Birdie probably knew already. Mrs. St. Julien walked her out to the porch steps and gave her the pie. “Tell George to return the plate in person. You are welcome any time, too, dear.”