Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood (39 page)

A small wiry man of around seventy stepped toward the car. He was wearing a plaid bow tie and a finely tailored shirt, looking a little like a cross between an aging horse jockey and Mr. Peepers. “Sidda
Bébé
,” he said, and without hesitation gave her a long, warm hug. “Teensy was right. You look ravishing.”

“Chick,” Sidda said, “it’s wonderful to see you.”

“You must be Connor,” Chick said, giving him a kiss on the cheek in the European fashion. “I’m La Teensy’s lesser half. She raved about you. Welcome to Thornton, where the sin-loving Southern half of the state meets the atonement-hungry North.”

Putting his arms around Sidda again, Chick looked at her face. “And the nose looks terrific.”

“The nose?” Connor said.

“She took half of that little upturned beauty off on our diving board doing her first cut-away,” Chick explained. “Thrilled to see it grew back.”

It felt luxurious to have Chick’s arms around her.
The smoking bunny,
she thought, as she remembered the Easter he and Teensy helped keep her family pasted together.

“You darling man,” she said to him, smiling. “Where is Teensy? Where are all the Ya-Yas?”

“La Teens needed her beauty rest,” Chick said. “Necie and Caro followed suit. I’m the last of the red hots,
chère,
and I’m not red hot for long. About time for me to
vamoose.
I’ve probably worn out my welcome as it is.”

“
Nevah,
” Vivi said, “you know that.”

“Terrific party,” Chick said, stepping away from Sidda to give Vivi a kiss. “Happy Birthday again, Viv-o. Impossible to believe you’re thirty-nine. Gives new definition to the word ‘timeless.’ ”

Vivi laughed and kissed him again.

“Night, Chick,” Shep said, putting his arm around the smaller man’s shoulders. “Thanks for all your help.”

“
Bon soir,
Sidda, Connor,” Chick said, heading toward an immaculately restored Bentley. “Sidda, please don’t snitch and tell your
amoureux
that I’m a
faux
Cajun. I can’t help if I only married into majesty.”

As Chick was driving off, Shep said, “I believe I’ll turn in. I’m not good for much after ten
P.M.
these days.”

“I’m shocked you lasted this long,” Vivi said.

“Little bird told me we might have a surprise tonight,” he said, giving Sidda an almost indiscernible wink. “You know how Ya-Yas can talk.”

Sidda gave her father a quick peck on the cheek. “Goodnight, Daddy,” she said. “Love you.”

“Love you, Butter Bean,” he said. “Love you bunches.”

* * *

As Shep walked back to the house, Sidda became aware of raucous laughter coming from somewhere behind the house. “Who’s that? Are there still guests out back?”

“Our Lady of Pearl,” Vivi said, “I almost forgot about them. That’s your Uncle Pete and the boys out on the dock. They have been back there playing
bourrée
for God knows how long.”

“Bourrée?”
Connor asked, his eyes opening wide.

“But, of course,” Vivi Walker said, raising her eyebrows.

She led them in the direction of the bayou. “Do
you
play, Connor?”

“Oh, no, ma’am,” Connor said.

It floored Sidda to hear Connor say, “No, ma’am.” She knew those words had never crossed his Yankee lips before.

“Sidda’s only told me about
bourrée
,” he said. “I’ve always wanted to sit in on a game.”

“Connor’s an ace poker player, Mama,” Sidda said. “He has regular poker nights in New York, Maine, and Seattle—every theater he designs for, he’s got a group of poker buddies.”

Sidda knew that Vivi Walker automatically liked anybody who played cards. It didn’t matter if they were liars or embezzlers or Republicans. If they played a decent hand, they were okay by Vivi.

“What in the world could
Sidda
tell you about
bourrée
?” Vivi asked. “She’s never played in her life.”

“You’re right, Mama,” Sidda said. “I told Connor what a crackerjack
bourrée
player
you
are.”

“Said you were one of the best in the state,” Connor said.

Vivi stopped for a moment and looked first at Connor and then at Sidda. “Yall are trying to
please
me,” she said, giving them a wide, grateful grin. “Okay, I’m easy.”

It made Sidda want to cry when she saw how much this small effort delighted her mother.

“I am thoroughly impressed that you have taken up with a
card-playing man, Siddalee,” Vivi said as she continued walking. “I shall look forward to taking his hard-earned money away from him sometime in the near future.”

Vivi led Connor and Sidda back to a little dock that extended out over the bayou behind the Walker home. On the dock sat a card table and two old floor lamps, from which ran a long orange extension cord that disappeared in the direction of a small playhouse, where Sidda used to stage her tea parties. A small camp stool that held a platter of food was positioned between the lamps. On folding chairs around the table sat Sidda’s brothers, Baylor and Little Shep, her mother’s brother, Pete, and her cousin, John Henry Abbott. Irma Thomas was singing the blues from a portable CD player positioned next to a cooler. Spanish moss hung like wild witch hair from the trees that leaned out over the bayou.

Ain’t no doubt, Sidda thought: I’m right smack in the heart of Louisiana. She wanted to lift the tableau up, set it down on a stage, and say:
This is where I come from.
But this wasn’t a scene she could direct. She was in the middle of one sweet, messy, unpredictable improvisation.

When the four card players spotted Sidda, each man’s jaw dropped. Sidda knew exactly what they were thinking: hold on to your seat—Vivi and Sidda in the same state. If they’d been wearing holsters, their hands would have been on their pistols.

Sidda knew the scenes they’d had to witness down there in the thick of things: Baylor refusing to represent Vivi in a lawsuit against Sidda. Vivi’s letters, sent certified mail to everyone in the extended family, announcing that she had disowned her oldest daughter. Vivi’s highly publicized (in Thornton) firing of the lawyer who’d represented the Walkers for decades because he dared advise her to think it over before she cut Sidda out of her will. Vivi’s monthlong attempt to reach Arthur Ochs Sulzberger Jr., publisher of
The New York Times,
to give him a piece of her mind. Vivi’s wild attempt to force the Garnet Parish Library to burn their issue—and the microfiche—of
The New York Times
that carried the offending article. Then Vivi’s desperate cancellation of her library card when they refused. And of course her delight in the subterfuge when she later reapplied for a card under an assumed name. Baylor had kept Sidda informed of all this, hoping to make her laugh at the small-town drama, but it had only broken her orphaned heart.

Now, as she looked at her four male relatives, she did not blame them for hesitating before they spoke.

Baylor was the first to break their standstill. He made the Sign of the Cross, then slapped his hand of cards down on the table and sauntered over to Sidda. Once he reached her, he picked her up in the air, swung her around, and pretended he was about to throw her into the bayou.

“Go ahead!” the other
bourrée
players yelled. “Do it! She’s been dry too long! She needs a bayou baptism!”

“Don’t you dare!” Sidda hollered, delighted.

At the last minute, Baylor stopped short. Instead, he set her feet back on the ground and gave her a bear hug. “What is this, you little sneak! How’d you ever get into Hooterville without me, the grand gatekeeper, knowing? I thought they confiscated your passport.”

“She’s a sly one,” Vivi said.

Turning to Little Shep, who had not yet risen from the card table, Sidda said in Pig Latin, “Eyhay, Epshay!”

“Come over here, big sister,” he said, “and gimme a hug.

“Thought we’d never see
you
again,” Little Shep said as he stood and hugged Sidda with all his nearly two hundred pounds.

“God, you’re beautiful!” he said, looking at her. He stroked her hair. “Your hair, your skin. How come you look so good?”

“Luck? Love?” Sidda said. “A nearsighted little brother?”

Little Shep laughed. “No, I mean it. Women down here don’t stay looking as good as you, Sidda.”

“I beg your big fat pardon,” Vivi said.

“No, Mama,” Little Shep said, “I mean the ones in my age group.”

“Better stop while you’re ahead, son,” Uncle Pete said.

“How you been, Shep?” Sidda asked.

“Can’t complain, Sis,” he said. “Playing the hand I been dealt. Sorry I never wrote you back. You know how life is, huh?”

“Sidda,” Uncle Pete said, stepping over to give her a hug. “Glad to see you home. It’s been too long.”

Immediately after hugging Sidda, Pete protectively put his arms around Vivi’s shoulders.

“Birthday Girl,” he said with fondness. “How’s my little Stinky doing?”

Laughing, Vivi held her brother’s hand to her heart. “This just might turn out to be one of my favorite birthday
fêtes
so far,” she said. “Everybody’s here except Lulu.”

“Where
is
Lulu?” Sidda asked. Sidda’s younger sister didn’t stay in touch, and since
The New York Times
upset, Sidda had lost all track of her.

“Tallulah is in Paris,” Vivi said. “Left her interior-design business with her partner and took off for France.”

“Took off with a Frenchman is more like it,” Baylor said.

“His family owns a winery somewhere, and his divorce should be final any day,” Vivi said.

Turning to Connor, who’d been quietly watching the reunion, Sidda said, “I want yall to meet Connor McGill, my Yankee sweetheart. He is, by the way, a hell of a card player.”

Connor groaned loudly. “No, no,” he said, “she’s got it all wrong. She has me confused with some other Yankee—we all look alike. I don’t know a queen from a deuce—I mean a ‘two.’ ”

“Yeah,
right,
” Baylor said, reaching out and shaking Connor’s hand. “I’ve heard about you Maine boys. Killers. All those long winters. Pull up a chair, pal, have a brewsky. We’ll be happy to take you to the cleaners—I mean, introduce you to the cutthroat world of Louisiana
bourrée.
My big brother and I here learned the game at our mother’s feet while she was weaning us on bourbon-spiked baby bottles.”

“You crazy fool,” Vivi said, loving every minute. “It was
Tabasco,
not bourbon!”

Laughing, Connor asked, “What’s a foreigner got to do to get a beer on this dock?”

“Help yourself, Connor,” Uncle Pete said. “Some cold shrimp and fried frog legs still left.”

“Guess I better if I’m going to swim with the bayou sharks,” Connor said, opening a bottle of beer and pulling up a chair.

Everybody laughed. They liked Connor. Sidda liked Connor. She could not stop smiling as she watched her Yale-educated scenic designer release the Good Ole Boy within.

Connor took a long swig of his beer, then stood up. He put his beer on the table, walked over to Sidda, and leaned her back in his arms. Then, for no good reason other than bayou voodoo, he planted a huge wet kiss right on her lips.

The whole
bourrée
gang let out a holler as Vivi watched, eagle-eyed. Sidda loved it.

As Vivi led Sidda back in the direction of the house, she said, “Most of the food has been put away already, but come on, let me fix you a plate.”

While Vivi went inside the kitchen, Sidda walked out to the front yard and sat down in the swing. A Cajun cooker was set up nearby, along with several tables.
Laissez les bons temps rouler,
Sidda thought. A birthday crayfish boil.

Sidda watched as her mother walked back out toward the swing. She’s not as
feverish,
Sidda thought.

Vivi paused for an instant, a momentary hesitation that seemed to border on shyness. It was only for a beat, then she continued on to where Sidda sat on the swing.

She handed Sidda a glass of champagne and a plate piled high with boiled crayfish, new potatoes, corn on the cob, and hunks of buttered French bread.

“Thank you, Mama,” Sidda said, realizing just how hungry she was.

“Your daddy prepared the whole meal,” Vivi said. “I didn’t have to do a thing. I’m sorry there’s so little left. My guests just gobbled everything up.”

“This is plenty,” Sidda said.

“Can you handle eating that crayfish here on the swing, or should we move to the table?”

“Mama, I have not forgotten how to suck the heads of a Louisiana crayfish
wherever
I’m sitting.”

“Here’s a couple of napkins,” Vivi said, pulling two large squares of pink linen out of her waistband.

After tucking one of the napkins into the collar of her blouse as a bib, and the other under her plate, Sidda began to shell the crayfish. “Will you join me?” Sidda said, gesturing to a spot beside her on the swing.

“Thank you for offering me a seat on my own swing,” Vivi said in a tone that Sidda couldn’t quite read.

Vivi sat down, although not so close that their bodies touched. She stared straight out, keeping one hand behind her back. Sidda could hear her mother breathing. For the first time Sidda realized she hadn’t seen her mother light one cigarette since she’d arrived.

Afraid to say the wrong thing, Sidda said nothing. She shelled the crayfish and ate. “This is delicious.”

“Thank God Louisiana men know how to cook,” Vivi said.

“Not as sophisticated in its flavoring as your
étouffée,
of course.”

“Necie made sure you had some?” Vivi asked.

“I had forgotten food could taste like that,” Sidda said.

“You really thought it was good?”

“Good?! Mama, the
étouffée
you sent up with the Ya-Yas would have made Paul Prudhomme weep over his cast-iron skillet. That man is a short-order cook compared to you.”

“Well, thank you. I am
known
for that dish, if you recall. I learned how to cook it from Genevieve Whitman.”

“Thank you for sending it to Quinault, Mama.”

“The one thing I did right was feed yall well,” Vivi said.

Something in Vivi’s tone struck Sidda. Mama is as nervous as I am, she thought. She turned to Vivi and said, “You did more right than wrong.”