Night Magic (12 page)

"Well, what you think the man gone do? They
ask him to evaluate if the site is safe, not if it oughta be in a
black neighborhood."

"Poppy, I can't believe you are defending
him."

"Look here, he told me what he was gonna have
in that report long before it come out. He didn't have to do that.
And he put in some recommendations he didn't have to neither."

"Are you serious?" Savannah looked up
sharply.

"If I'm lyin', I'm flyin'. That boy coulda
got himself in some kinda trouble, yeah. Trosclair got a long
memory, he could see to it Paul don't get no more business. But he
told me he wanted me to know what to expect."

"Oh." Savannah sat staring out of the
window.She cringed remembering the harsh accusations she had flung
at him. Savannah felt ashamed at her behavior now that she knew how
earnestly Paul had tried to help the people of Easy Town. She
reached for the phone after several minutes.

"He visitin' his mama and daddy for
Thanksgiving. But he gonna be back Sunday." Antoine grinned at
her.

"And how do you know I was about to call
him?" Savannah blushed.

"'Cause, you been itchin' to call him even
before you knowed you was wrong." Antoine gave her a peck on her
forehead before going back to his combination storeroom and
workshop.

"Cher, don't be so quick to jump on the poor
man. I been married, well never mind how many time, but I know men.
And I tell you, he's a good-hearted person." Tante Marie gave her a
pat and went back to packing gift baskets.

*****

For Paul, returning home seemed so strange
now. He saw everything about his family in a whole new context. He
longed to talk to his father, but he knew that was out of the
question. The day he announced his big contract with Batton
Chemical at the traditional family Sunday dinner, everyone was
excited. His oldest sister, Adele, grilled him for details as only
she could. In typical big brother fashion, Robert slapped him on
the back and began giving him unwanted advice on how to handle
himself with the big boys. And his father sat beaming with pride.
Always a quiet man, the family gauged his frame of mind by noticing
his body language. Charles said little but nodded his approval as
he watched his large, boisterous brood. Then with lightening speed,
his mood became dour.

"Don't worry, Robert. When I meet with Claude
Trosclair I'll remember to stand up straight." Paul laughed but the
sound died quickly at the sight of his father's face.

Gradually everyone realized the subject was
no longer one that pleased Charles. They endured several edgy
moments of silence before Robert eased the strain with a funny
story from his job. For the next two weeks, Paul tried to think of
what made his father displeased. Finally, he went to his
mother.

"He won't say anything to me, Mama. Just
keeps brushing it off." Paul and his mother sat on the front porch
of his parents' home.

"You know how he is. Sometimes he got things
on his mind." Reba was being evasive, something uncharacteristic of
her.

"Mama, come on. His mood changed too quickly.
Papa was feeling fine, then something happened that Sunday. I want
to know what's going on. And I'm not going to let this drop until I
do." Paul folded his arms to wait making it clear he would not
leave until he got a satisfactory answer.

Paul could not simply dismiss his father's
change of attitude. They had only in past few years eased their
strained relationship. Being the youngest and most rebellious son,
Paul had always wanted to go his own way. Clashing with his father
became inevitable. Since his graduation from college, Paul had
matured and Charles had mellowed. Slowly they made an uneasy peace
as Paul began to accept his father's wisdom in some things.
Charles, in turn, began to accept that Paul was not the impetuous,
irresponsible young man who he had feared.

"I know, son." Reba sighed and patted his
leg. "Last thing I wanna see is you and your Papa havin' bad
feelins' again."

"This is a big break for me. But for some
reason, Papa disapproves. There's no pleasing him. No matter how I
try." Paul turned to her, his face etched with sadness and
frustration.

"It ain't you, baby. It's..." Reba groped for
a way to explain.

"Of course it's me. It's always me." Paul
shook his head.

"Now that ain't true." Reba's expression
changed from one of uncertainty to one of decision. "Guess you got
to know sometime."She got up and went into the house. Several
minutes past before she emerged carrying a bundle of small
notebooks tied with a faded blue ribbon. "Take these with you. Read
'em, but don't tell nobody else yet. Your Papa would be very angry
with me if he knew. But I'd rather you find out the truth than have
this come between y'all." Reba pressed the notebooks into his
hands.

When he was alone, Paul began reading his
grandmother's diaries. Monmon Marguerite had faithfully recorded
her thoughts even until the last months when she was too ill to
write. The simple straightforward manner in which the young
Marguerite talked about her family and acquaintances, her wry sense
of humor about human nature was a delight to him. More than once
the narrative brought her so world alive to him, he became so
engrossed, he felt caught in a time warp. It was as though
Marguerite was near, watching his expressions, eager to tell him
even more than what the words on the pages. He marveled at the
difference between this lively creature and the subdued, even
melancholy grandmother he knew. From the date on the first book, it
appeared that she began keeping her diaries when she was fourteen.
It was in the sixth volume that Marguerite began to speak of her
growing affection for a young gentleman, as she called him. Paul
read with amusement the flowery language, some of it in the form of
mediocre poetry, singing the praises of this most wonderful man. It
was after thirty pages or so that Marguerite wrote of the agony she
felt that they could never expect to court like other lovers.

"I truly love Claude. It is painful that I
must hide my feelings, as he must hide his. So sweet to be near
him, to know that he is just on the other side of the hall as I
dust the parlor or sweep the gallery. There are times I let myself
imagine that this is our home, that we are man and wife. But always
there is a cruel reminder of who I am, a nobody colored girl who is
paid to clean up after others. Guarding my expressions, I find more
and more that I must turn my face away from others rather than have
my true heart known."

Then a later entry, "The taste of his lips
still lingers, there is warmth where they touched mine, a warmth
that covers me completely. It is worth the heartache to be with
him."

As he read, Paul had a growing sense of where
this affair was heading. Despite feeling like an invader prying
into an intimate part of her life, he could not tear himself
away."May God forgive us. We were lost in each other. No one and
nothing else mattered. We became one, forgetting
everything."Inevitably, there were the frightened entries of a girl
"in trouble".

"Papa will not look at me, he is so ashamed.
He shouted that I had disgraced our family, that I am no better
than the whores on the streets of New Orleans. His words stung much
more than the sharp slap across my face. Monmon says I must go away
to live with Tante Clovis in Grosse Tete. With all this, I long for
Claude, yet I know he can never come to me."The hardships, taunts,
and sacrifices she endured were on the pages, described without a
hint of self-pity. She spoke of being resigned to it all, just
payment for the sin of lust. She later wrote of her realization
that she was a passing fancy for Claude, that she been no different
than other girls in her position who deluded themselves that they
had inspired true love in the young master. Finally, she put her
son above all else."All fanciful dreams must be discarded. This
little one needs a strong monmon who can take care of him, no stars
in her eyes. I must make a way for us, no time, no use for silly
whims. This life is hard for me, but I must shield him from this
trouble I have brought him into. No matter what maman and papa or
Tante Clo say, he will stay with me. No one will take ma petite
bebe."

Weeks passed before he had the courage to
approach his father. He had prepared himself for a strong reaction,
but the force of it rocked him all the same. Charles had made it
all too clear that this was not to be revealed to anyone. Not only
did he not want to know more, insisted the diaries be burned.
Luckily, Paul's mother had been able to reason with him on this
last, but only because Paul turned the diaries over to them for
safe keeping.

Now a year later, this secret hung heavy
between them. For a long time, his father became distant in his
presence, unable to meet his eyes. Gradually, with his mother as a
bridge, they moved toward each other until Paul felt the gap was
almost closed. This Thanksgiving was like so many before, noisy and
cheerful. Everyone gathered at his parents' simple wood frame home.
His sisters and female cousins kept up constant chatter over the
clamor of their offspring. His two brothers and brothers-in-law
talked about hunting, fishing, and football. They also took
pleasure in teasing him about his enviable bachelor state. He
endured it all with good-nature, delivering a few jabs back at
them. But he was more distracted this time. Seeing his father
alone, he joined him the large den that had been added when they
were teenagers.

"You doing okay, Papa?"

"Fine. Just takin' a break from all that
racket. Char pacan, them little ones can keep up enough noise to
rattle the walls." He chuckled.

"Yeah, sure can." Paul fidgeted for several
minutes, watching the television screen without really seeing
it.

"You been doin' good I hear. Got youself a
new girl, so your mama say." Charles rocked gently in the recliner
that was his favorite chair.

"Yes sir, she's something special. I met her
in Beau Chene. Where I'm working on that Big River contract."The
smile faded from his father's face as he continued.

"That plant Mr. Trosclair opened has stirred
up some bad feelings. But he really is trying to make it safe. I
met with him several times, he seems reasonable."

"Paul, you know how I feel about this. And I
ain't askin' you to hurt your business neither. Go on with your
contract. As for him, what he is or ain't don't mean nothin' to
me."

"But he's your--"

"I didn't have but one papa, his name was
Henry." Charles snapped back, his voice hoarse with emotion.

"But aren't you curious? I mean, when I read
Monmon Marguerite's journal I felt as though I had never really
known her. The girl who wrote those words was so passionate, and
funny. What I remember is her being real quiet and solemn when I
was a little boy. And I couldn't help but wonder what changed her
and what the Trosclairs were like."

"Hardship changed her. Having a baby and no
husband was a shameful thing for a Catholic girl in those
days."

Paul stared at his father until Charles began
to fidget. Not for the first time since he arrived, he noted the
strange mixture of features. Charles had the stocky build of the
Ricards, resembling his grandmother's father, whose picture was on
the wall near the stairway. But he had the nose and mouth of Claude
Trosclair. His hair, thick but cut close to his head, was curly.
There the resemblance ended as he had the mannerisms of Henry
Honorè. The way he held his head, or sat back with his arms folded
when he was thinking deeply about something, all reminded Paul of
Pawpaw Honorè. Charles was fiercely loyal to the memory of the man
he consider to be his one, his only true father.

"Isn't there anything you want know about
them? About him?"

"Look, it don't matter to me. I got my
family. What the Trosclairs do, what they like is nothin' to me.
They live in their world, we live in ours. When you try to bring
them together, somebody gets hurt. Let it stay buried, Paul."
Charles got up abruptly and went into the living room to join the
rest of the family.

Paul sighed. Maybe he was right, what did it
matter after almost fifty years? They could never be family in the
true sense of the word. His curiosity was not enough of a reason to
hurt his father or cause his family the kind of notoriety such
information could bring. Better to let secrets stay secret.

"Everything all right, sweetie?" Paul's
mother took his hand as she sat next to him. "Why you not in here
with us? Your brother is tellin' some of them silly jokes. Got us
cryin' from laughin' so."

"Yeah, Robert always could tell jokes."

"One thing, he ain't even brought the first
smile to his papa's face." Reba looked at her son, waiting for an
answer.

"It's all right, Mama. Really."

"Your papa wants this kept between us three.
You know how he felt 'bout his mama. Took years for her to live it
down, Charles heard the whispers when he was a little boy. It was
only 'cause folks had so much respect, some a fear, of Mr. Henry
the talk was never more than that. Please let it go. And be
careful, the Trosclairs might turn nasty if you bring this up."

"Don't worry, Mama. I just wanted to learn a
little more about them, to understand what it was like for Monmon
back then. The Trosclairs have nothing I want. No one knows and
I'll be sure it stays that way."

*****

Paul rushed into the house, frantic to get to
the ringing phone. Throwing his bag down he snatched up the
receiver just in time to hear the dial tone.

“Damn!”

He held the phone for several minutes, first
dialing, and then pressing the button to hang up. The sharp ring
while he still held the button caused him to jump.