Fade (4 page)

The sentence was not completed as Armand and the twins arrived home in a rush. Conversations in our family seldom ended of their own accord; they were always interrupted by an arrival or a departure or a sudden eruption of activity. The worst part of eavesdropping was all the incomplete conversations you heard.

I went to my grandfather's house one humid afternoon and heard no answer to my soft knock on the kitchen door. Holding my breath, I tried the doorknob. The door swung open without a sound. I paused, peeking in, feeling as though I were committing a sin. Walking softly across the kitchen floor, I listened at the door of my grandparents’ bedroom and heard the soft snores of my grandmother rising and falling. I slipped through the dining room and parlor, glad for the soft carpets, on my way to my Aunt Rosanna's bedroom at the front of the house.

I paused before the desk that contained the family album with the photograph from which my uncle Adelard was absent. On the wall next to the desk was another photograph, in a black frame, of my uncle Vincent, who had died long ago and was buried in St. Jude's Cemetery. He had died in his sleep, found dead in his bed, at the age of ten, a gentle boy who, my father said, had loved birds and small animals.

Although my father always defended my uncle Adelard when my uncle Victor and others criticized his wandering ways, he was bitter toward Adelard for having left French-town so soon after Vincent's death.

“A family should stick together when tragedy strikes,” I heard my father telling my mother after a high mass on the anniversary of Vincent's death. “Adelard had no business leaving like that, on the day of the funeral….”

“Maybe he was so sad he couldn't bear to be here,” my mother said.

“Maybe,” he answered, but the tightness of the muscles in his face showed that he was not convinced.

I made the sign of the cross in front of my uncle Vincent's picture before walking slowly, carefully, to my aunt's bedroom.

Her door was slightly ajar, and I paused, all my senses alert. Her spicy perfume scented the air. Was she inside? Should I knock on the door? I ached to see her and had gathered enough courage to show her the poem I had written especially for her. I had carried it around in my pocket for more than a week. The poem would speak for me, say the words I was too shy and self-conscious to say. Now, standing in the parlor, breathless and apprehensive, I lost my nerve.

Turning to leave, I heard a sound I couldn't identify. Was she crooning a song? Approaching the door, I inclined my head, taking a deep breath. And I realized at once that my aunt Rosanna was softly crying in the bedroom. Like a child, sniffling.

“Who's there?” she called suddenly.

“Nobody,” I said. Then: “Paul.”

I heard the rustle of her clothing as she approached. The door swung open to reveal her in all her loveliness. She wore a blue robe of filmy material and, unbelievably, as in my dreams, the robe was not buttoned all the way and her breasts almost spilled out. But I was immediately stricken with guilt when I saw the tears on her cheeks.

“Paul,” she said, and, as always, my name on her lips made my body quiver like the string after the arrow has flown.

“I'm sorry,” I said. Sorry for sneaking up on her like this, sorry for seeing her in such distress and yet made all warm and itchy at the sight of her and my pants again too tight.

“There's nothing for you to be sorry about, Paul,” she said, pulling her robe around her, hiding those objects of my lust.

“Is there anything I can do?” I asked even as I knew the futility of that question.

“Do you know how to pound some sense into a person?” she asked. “That's what I could use. A good dose of common sense. About men. About everything.” She wiped her cheeks with a lace handkerchief and managed a small smile. “Then maybe I wouldn't be so stupid….”

“You're not stupid” I protested. “You're … you're …” And hesitated, the words stuck in my throat. For weeks I had been wanting to declare my love for her, to tell her of the storm she had created in my heart and the sweetness she had brought to my life. But I couldn't even open my mouth as I stood before her.

“What am I, Paul?” she asked, and I searched for the sound of teasing in her voice but it wasn't there.

With trembling fingers I groped for the poem in my pocket, saw to my dismay as I drew it out that it was wrinkled from being folded and refolded so many times and soiled from my sweating fingers.

“Here,” I said, thrusting it at her, unable to utter more than one word.

She unfolded the sheet of paper and after a glance at me, soft and full of tenderness, she began to read, her lips forming the words. I recited the words to myself as she read them.

My love for you is pure

As candle flame,

As bright as sunshine

As sweet as baby ‘s breath.
…

Yet even as I said the words I knew they were a lie. Because my love for her was not pure and sweet. It was hot with desire for her body. I wanted to caress her, to gorge myself on her.

My love for you

Is a whisper in the night

A silent prayer at vespers
…

This was the worst of it, I saw now. Bringing church and prayer into the poem, a sacrilege, and yet I needed to show her that I was not like the others, the men I pictured groping for her in saloons, the men who whistled at street corners. I wanted to assure her that I was different from the others. Despite my shameless thoughts and my desires. Underneath all of that was something pure, unsoiled, chaste.

She sank onto the bed as she read the poem, and I could see by the movement of her lips that she was reading it again. Her robe had fallen open once more and the tops of her breasts were again visible, round and full and white as milk. She had crossed her legs and I saw the red garters on her thighs, a sight that made my eyes bulge and my heart pound and a terrible hotness race through my veins.

“It's beautiful,” she said, her voice gentle as she held the poem in her hands, her eyes liquid blue as always but the liquid now resembling tears.

My own eyes were fastened on her breasts—it was beyond my power to look elsewhere—and for a glorious moment I feasted on them while I squirmed before her, face flushed, juices thick in my mouth. Then I felt the surge of ecstasy developing and struggled, bringing my knees together, stricken, as she looked at me, the poem still in her hand, her expression soft and tender. I bent forward, trying to make myself small and, at the same time, to hold back that quick beautiful terrible spurt but unable to do so. As our eyes met, my body quivered with delight. I had never known such piercing happiness, such an explosive moment of sweetness. I trembled, shivered, as if strong winds were assailing me. And then, as always, came the swift shame and flush of guilt but this time worse than ever before because it had happened while she watched and I had seen her eyes grow puzzled and then alarmed and then—what? I could not read her expression—surprise, disgust?—I saw her mouth shape itself into an oval and heard her voice.

“Oh, Paul.”

Could she see the stains on my trousers?

“Oh, Paul,” she said again. Such a sadness in her voice but beyond sadness. Accusation, maybe, or betrayal.

For a split second I could not move, stood pinned and fixed before her in my shame and disgrace, feeling the terrible stickiness in my trousers, trying to swallow and almost choking on the juices that had turned sour in my throat.

“I'm sorry,” I cried, backing away, tears blinding me so that I could not see her through the blur they created. Then I was out the door, sobbing my tears away as I ran through the parlor and the kitchen to the back hall and the piazza. Down the steps and into the street I ran, past the three-deckers, the stores, the church, the school.

Why did I always seem to be running from her?

mer LaBatt.

There on the corner of Fourth and Mechanic, waiting for me in front of the First National Store, his feet planted firmly on the sidewalk, hands on his hips, the visor of his green plaid cap tilted over his eyes.

Bad enough that I had probably lost my aunt Rosanna forever, but now on the very next day I was confronting my enemy, my nemesis. Although he was across the street, I saw his dark scowl and, as he pushed up his cap, the dull, luster-less eyes without a flicker of mercy in them.

Omer LaBatt always appeared before me this way, like a phantom, without warning, out of nowhere. Sometimes I'd burst out of the alley between the two five-deckers on Second Street—the tallest buildings in Frenchtown after St. Jude's Church—and find him waiting for me, hands on his hips. Other times he stationed himself near places he knew I would visit sooner or later—Dondier's Market or Lakier's Drug Store—and confront me as I came out the door.

Like at this moment.

I gulped, preparing to make my getaway.

He was older than I was, yet seemed to have no age at all— was he fifteen or nineteen or twenty? He was not tall, which accentuated his wide shoulders and broad chest. His legs were stumps and he wasn't a good runner. I could easily outrun him and that was my saving grace. But I had nightmares about tripping, falling down and lying helpless on the ground as he approached.

Because I was so miserable about the loss of my aunt Ro-sanna and figured I had nothing more to lose in the terrible place my world had become, I called out:

“Hey, LaBatt, why don't you pick on somebody your own size?”

I had never spoken to him before. He didn't answer, but continued to glare at me. Then he grinned, a vicious grin that revealed jagged teeth.

I pondered my chances. My chances, of course, depended on what he did. Omer LaBatt didn't always chase me. Sometimes he was satisfied if he merely forced me to change directions, to cross the street, giving him wide berth, letting him dominate whatever piece of the planet he stood on. Other times we engaged in a wild chase through streets and alleys and backyards.

Made a bit bolder by having spoken to him and not having the earth crumble at my feet, I yelled: “Why me, LaBatt? Why pick on me?”

This was a mystery I had long pondered and never solved. He had been the bully in my life for at least three years and I couldn't figure out the reason. He was a stranger to me. I had never done him harm. I didn't know his family or friends, if he had any. He had simply appeared in my life one day, in front of Lakier's, our eyes meeting in a fatal deadlock, and I knew in that instant, looking into those pale yellow eyes, that here was my enemy, someone who had the power and the desire to hurt me, maim me, to destroy me, maybe.

I never talked to anyone about this, not even Pete Lagniard. But shortly after that first encounter, I pointed him out to Pete one day and asked: “Who is that guy, anyway?”

As usual, Pete had the answer.

“That's Omer LaBatt,” he said. “A tough guy. He just moved here from Boston. He does things for Rudolphe Toubert.”

This information was enough to cause me shivers because I had an idea what he meant by “does things.” Pete wasn't finished, however.

“He quit school,” he continued.

“Everybody quits school,” I said, pointing out the truth. Most of the boys and girls of Frenchtown ended their education at fourteen, the legal age for going to work in the shops.

“Yeah, but he quit in the fifth grade,” Pete said. “Fourteen and still in fifth grade.”

This knowledge sealed my doom. You could reason with someone who was halfway educated and appeal to his intelligence, but I felt helpless in the face of utter stupidity. Trying to approach Omer LaBatt to make some kind of peace would be like coming face-to-face with an animal.

I was face-to-face with him now as he called out:

“You're a dead man, Moreaux.”

He came after me.

Hurtling himself toward me, leaping over the curb and into the street, legs pumping away, huge shoulders looking even broader and bigger as he came closer.

Off I went, as if shot out of a cannon, my feet barely touching the pavement, proud of my single athletic accomplishment, running. Something else in my favor: the ability to hide, to find places in doorways or on piazzas, behind bushes and fences and banisters.

I cut through Pee Alley between Bouchard's Hardware and Joe Spagnola's Barber Shop, hustling over the ground that was littered with broken bottles left by drinkers who gathered there for quick gulps of booze or to pee against the brick wall. In Mr. Beaudreau's tomato garden, I crouched behind the plants, the smell of the tomatoes making my nostrils itch. Peering through branches heavy with tomatoes, I saw Omer LaBatt standing indecisively near some rubbish barrels. He looked my way, squinting, and I ducked my head.

But not quickly enough.

“Dead man,” he raged as he galloped toward me.

I leapt up and the chase was on again. I ran along a warped wooden fence that I knew contained a loose slat through which I could squeeze. Protected from exposure by the outlaw bushes that sprouted in empty lots, I scurried forward, hearing Omer's curses—
son of a bitch, dirty bastard
— as he thrashed through the tomato patch. My hands found the loose board and I inhaled, trying to make myself thinner as I slipped through the opening. Omer LaBatt would have a bad time, I figured, sliding his wide shoulders through that slender space. Panting furiously, drenched with sweat, I paused as I found myself in the widow Dolbier's backyard.