Pamela Morsi (21 page)

But even more he required Helga. He could not
recall the day, the hour, the moment when he first knew that he
loved her. But he did and there was no stepping back from it.

The previous day he had been able to stand it
no longer. He'd poled his way up Bayou Tortue hoping for a glimpse
of her. He could be content with not even a word but he was
starving for the sight of her. But it was not to be.

As he approached the house a longing stirred
inside him as familiarity warred with separation. He noticed a
section of rotting shingles on the roof and thought to himself that
he'd get Jean Baptiste and Armand to help him replace them. Then
like a direct blow to the chest he recalled that it was not his
house and that his help, even his presence, was no longer welcome.
Who would help Helga now? Who would see that the roof over her head
was sturdy and that she had stores for the winter?

Elsa was in the yard pounding grain with the
pile et pilon. She was young and strong and straight. A daughter
any man would be proud to call his own. Her blond braids swung and
slapped her back like ropes as her arms worked the pestle up and
down into the hollowed-out log mortar. Across the distance of the
water, Laron could hear the pop and shatter of corn being cracked.
In memory he could taste once more that strange German version of
fried coushe-coushe that Helga had so often served him for
breakfast.

"Oncle! Oncle!"

Laron heard the cry before he saw the little
fellow who uttered it. Jakob had come around from the far side of
the house. He carried a carved gourd crawfish trap, but he cast it
aside carelessly and raced to the end of the dock when he spotted
Laron.

"Oncle, where have you been?" he called out.
"We have missed you so much."

Elsa, too, had set her work aside and
followed her brother, a little uneasily, to the end of the
dock.

Laron had not intended to stop. He had
thought merely to pass by, to see from a distance those joys that
he used to hold close with such casual unconcern. But he could not
merely pass by. Not with young Jakob jumping up and down with
delight on the dock. He steered the pirogue in the direction of the
children. He even cast the line to Jakob to secure for him, but he
did not disembark.

That did not matter to the little boy who
eagerly threw himself into Laron's arms. It took all his balance to
keep the pirogue from tipping, but he wouldn't put the boy aside.
It felt much too good to hold him close. Tightly the child hugged
his neck, punctuated by a smacking kiss at his temple.

"Mama said that you would not come back," he
told Laron. "But I knew that you would. You love us and I told her
so."

"I do love you," Laron whispered as he felt
the tears well up in his eyes. "I do love you all, and that is
forever."

"Karl said you are going to be like our
poppa," he continued. "Not dead really, but as good as dead to
us."

"I am not at all and in no way like your
poppa," Laron assured him, deciding for himself as the words came
from his mouth. "No matter what happens between your mother and me,
I will never be dead to you until I am dead in fact."

"Oh Monsieur Boudreau!" Elsa tearfully threw
herself into his arms also. "Mama is so unhappy. Now you are back
and everything will be wonderful again."

The misery in her tone belied the hope in her
words, but Laron could only press her tightly against him and pray
that it could be so.

"Get in the house!"

The command was forceful and abrupt. All
three looked up to see Helga's oldest son standing on the porch
steps; the flintlock rifle Laron had given them for protection was
in Karl's hands at the ready.

"You children get in the house!" he
repeated.

"Shut up, Karl," Elsa hollered back. "Who
made you the boss of anything?"

"Oncle is here," Jakob told him. "I'm not
going into the house without him."

"You two mind your brother," Laron told them
quietly. "Go on into the house. He and I need to talk."

"He thinks he's the man of the house," Elsa
complained. "Ordering us all around and Mama crying every
night."

"Go on inside, princesse," Laron said. "Your
mother is in the house, is she not? She may need you beside
her."

Reluctantly the two stepped away. Elsa took
Jakob's hand and they made their way past their older brother. Elsa
didn't resist snapping one more word of dissent at Karl. Jakob took
that opportunity to look back in longing at Laron, still standing
in his pirogue.

The children hesitated momentarily on the
porch and then passed through the curtained doorway into the
house.

"Hello, Karl," Laron said finally.

"Mama wants you gone from here," the boy
answered.

"Did she tell you to bring the gun?"

The youngster was momentarily nonplussed.
"It's your gun, I know. Do you want it back?"

Laron shook his head. "No, no, certainly not.
But it is meant for killing game and birds, not Acadians."

Karl raised both his chin and the rifle
muzzle in challenge. "Any Acadian who comes here to make my mother
cry deserves killing."

Laron almost smiled. The boy was a defender,
a protector of the family. A man could ask no greater thing from a
son.

"I am leaving now," Laron told him. "But I
wish you to give a message to your mother."

Karl looked skeptical but nodded.

"Tell her that I am going to make it all
right. Once and for all time, I am going to make it right."

And he would, Laron vowed silently once more
as he poled himself and Armand toward the ever increasing volume
of music along the river. He was going to make it right.

"She is very sweet and genuine, actually,"
Armand was saying. "Certainly a man cannot look at her without
feeling a degree of lust, but it is not as if she draws it to
herself or even desires that attention. A woman cannot be held
responsible for her own beauty any more than she can be condemned
for plainness."

"If you think she is so wonderful, Armand,"
Laron interrupted, "then perhaps you should set your own sights in
that direction. I am no longer interested."

"But Laron—"

"We are here already," he announced. "I fully
intend to talk to her, my friend, so please do not bend my ear any
further about it."

The fais-dodo was in full swing. Dancers
twirled on the most even spot of the Guidrys' high ground. A huge
fire was lit in the outside hearth, but it was not as much for
cooking as for fending off the November chill in the air. The space
at the end of the dock was overcrowded; the two men stepped out of
the pirogue and were forced to wade the last steps to the bank,
dragging the boat up behind them.

"I'm getting wet," Armand complained.

Laron laughed at him. "If you insist on
wearing those resplendent Creole trousers, then you must learn to
live with your damp pant legs."

His friend growled back at him
good-naturedly. They were met upon the bank by friends and
neighbors with happy greetings and slaps upon the back. Laron, who
had not been seen among them since his now well-known foray to the
Bayou Blonde, was greeted with both warmth and curiosity. He'd
stepped over the bounds, but he was back in the fold. All were
willing to forgive and forget, and could do so easily.

Laron laughed and talked and communed with
them. He enjoyed these people and this place. He cherished being a
part of them. They were his family, some literally and others in
his heart. He loved them. But he loved Helga more and he had things
to accomplish. It was time to do those things.

He made his way to the edge of the dancers,
his eyes taking in, with pleasure, the beauty of Aida Gaudet. On
Granger's arm she danced with delicate grace. She was a treasure to
behold, all light and prettiness as shiny as morning. She was a
swirl of eye-catching color, all red and blue and yellow. Any man's
attention would be drawn to her. He understood how his own once
had been, too. He had thought to possess her. To press that lovely
body against his own and fill it with his seed. He no longer had
the desire to do that. He could look at her dispassionately now and
know that she was human. He could be sorry that he was going to
abandon her, but he would not regret the loss.

The music ended and the dancers clapped
politely. Aida spotted him in that moment and paled. He never
approached her early in the evening. He always watched her have her
fun until he was ready to take his obligatory dance. Tonight he
stepped forward immediately.

As if knowing that a Passepied was not
Laron's main interest, Ony Guidry took that moment to put down the
fiddle and seek out a cup of coffee.

"We must talk," he said to her.

"Yes," she answered, nodding.

Laron hesitated momentarily. Should he take
her into the relative privacy of the nearby trees, or would that be
unconscionable for a couple who were just about to become
unengaged?

He led her a little away from the other young
people, but kept in full sight of every person present. He wished
suddenly that he had practiced what he had to say, but he hadn't
truly gotten much past the decision to say it.

"My dear Mademoiselle Gaudet," he began
formally. "It seems that I have done you a great wrong. I—"

Laron hesitated. Aida wasn't even looking at
him, she was searching for something inside her sleeve.

"We have known each other from childhood," he
continued a little warily. "And we have been betrothed for some
time so I feel that I must speak plainly. I . . ."

She was still trying to retrieve something
from her sleeve.

"Mamselle?"

"I have it here someplace," she said. "I
purposely put it right here in my right sleeve so I would not lose
it."

Laron's brow furrowed with curiosity. "I
believe that is your left sleeve," he whispered.

Aida looked up at him wide-eyed. "Yes, yes it
is. Oh dear, sometimes I just get so rattled. Just one minute. I
have it here—"

She began immediately digging inside the
other brightly colored sleeve. A moment later she pulled out what
appeared to be a wad of multicolored rags. She pressed them in his
hands.

"I know what you are going to say, or at
least I think that I do and it is not necessary. I ... I cannot
marry you, Monsieur Boudreau, because I . . . think I may love
someone else. And I believe that you do also. I think, however,
that I should call it off. Everyone will think it is because of
your adventure at the Bayou Blonde. That should keep the gossips
occupied and we can try to sort out our lives as best we can."

Laron spread the wad of rags across his
hands. It was a miniature collection of male clothing. A tiny
shirt, a little coat, and a pair of culottes that would more likely
fit a mouse than a man. He had been sacked, handed his vetements.
In the traditional way, he had become the rejected suitor. He had
shown himself too small in her eyes.

Strangely he caressed the tiny blue jacket
and then looked up at her. She was very young, very pretty, and
very anxious.

"I didn't realize that you could sew," he
said.

"I can do anything that I have to do," she
answered.

There was a gasp beside them and they both
spotted Ruby beside them, staring in horror at the jilting suit.
The small sound had captured the attention of others around her
and within a moment's time there was a complete silence in the
company and every eye was staring at the couple with shock and
disbelief.

Laron leaned closer, not willing for any to
hear.

"Thank you, Aida," he whispered. "I'm going
away this night and won't be here to face the gossips with
you."

"I can handle them," she answered. Her brow
furrowed in concern. "Where are you going? Not to Bayou
Blonde."

He shook his head. "Down the river to the
German coast," he answered. "I'd rather no one knew, but I have
business there."

She nodded. "Best of luck with your business,
monsieur," she said.

He took her hand and brought it to his lips.
"And best of luck to you, mademoiselle. I think I will find you
more agreeable as a friend than I would have as wife."

She smiled at him, that tiny shy smile that
could slay the heart of any man on the Vermilion River.

"Indeed I think you shall," she answered.

He stepped back, bowed formally, and walked
away. The silence around the gaily lit party was near complete.
Laron walked straight to his pirogue, looking neither to the left
nor to the right. No one spoke a word or moved to stop him.

Suddenly Armand broke free from the group and
hurried after him calling his name. Laron kept walking. He kept
his face devoid of expression but he wanted to scream for joy.
Free! He was free! Now it was left only to make her free also.

"Laron!"

Armand was hurrying behind him. He would not
let him merely go without a word. But Laron was already ankle-deep
in water before he finally forced himself to turn and speak to his
friend.

"I am leaving," he said simply. "Do not be
concerned for me. And tell my sisters not to worry. I won't be at
Bayou Blonde."

"Laron, you cannot do this," Armand insisted.
"I will not allow you to throw you life away. You cannot break this
engagement."

He held up his handful of little clothes. "I
did not break it, she did. It seems, my friend, that the lovely
Aida thinks she loves someone else."

Armand had great hopes for the fais-dodo. It
had taken a bit of arm twisting to get Laron to attend, but he'd
done it. Armand was certain that familiarity, duty, and the lure of
the most beautiful woman on the Vermilion River would do the
rest.

As Laron had watched the lovely Aida dance,
Armand made his way to the fire. He pretended an interest in the
conversation going on there. In fact, he stood near the blaze in
the hope of drying out his pant legs. He enjoyed the companionship
of the fire until the fiddle stopped playing and the din of
conversation increased dramatically.