Postmark Bayou Chene (5 page)

Everybody handles grief their own way. For me reading and cooking became a comfort, just like pulling weeds seemed to comfort Mame. While she plunged into despair after the drownings, I suppose I just sort of waded in over my head. My own grief got buried under trying to raise a blind daughter alone, keep the store and post office open for the rest of them, and halfway looking after Fate and Mame.

It seemed like all those details started to cover me up like moss in a grove of oaks. I gave up fishing but still couldn't get ahead of all there was to do. Deliveries came to the store, and I just stashed them in any vacant spot. Customers got used to searching for things they wanted to buy or had ordered, so I just left out the pry bar and hammer for them to open the crates and barrels. It got to where layers of dust told me how long something had been part of the inventory.

Sometimes I just let everything go and lost myself in a book. At first it was
Little Women
, one of Josie's favorites as a child. A strange choice for a man, you might say, but all that domesticity was a comfort to me. Besides, it was about a parent trying to handle everything alone, like me. Mrs. March seemed a lot better at it than I was, but I noticed that the book didn't mention who did the washing of all those big skirts and petticoats.

Later I spent a lot of time in
The Innocents Abroad
, Mark Twain's story about traveling all over the world. He went just about everywhere and didn't back up from saying when he didn't approve of something. Before Josie drowned, we used to take turns reading that one aloud to the rest of the family. She'd get to laughing so hard, I had to take over from her most nights.

Come down to it, which book I read didn't matter. Mostly I just took comfort from handling the pages and breathing deep of the covers she treasured. It brought her close to me again.

I know some say I'm lazy, especially when they come in and see me sitting on a case of canned goods with my nose in a book, but that's not the whole story. As a U.S. postmaster, the mail is my sworn duty. Along with sorting what comes in, I help people get their packages and letters ready to go out of this swamp and into the world. Sometimes I write down the most personal kind of information for my customers who can't do it themselves—applications for war widow pensions, notes to relatives about births, letters telling the inside story of marriages, not to mention the death notices of every man, woman, and child who dies here with relatives off somewhere. I know the secrets of every family on the Chene, a privilege I don't take lightly.

And when it comes to the store, why, every baby still gets weighed on my dry goods scale until they pass the twenty-pound limit. That hasn't changed since the days of Elder Landry. And don't forget that letting people serve themselves when I'm busy doing something else is an advantage if a customer is short of cash; he just pays what he has in his pocket and writes what he owes in the account book. Some people say my way of doing business hasn't turned a profit since Josie died. Can't say whether that's true or not, but I know it's kept goods flowing through the Chene and helped more than one family during hard times. Still and all, I'm probably not as good at running the store as I am at being postmaster.

The morning that dog showed up, I was just about finished sorting the letters when the screen door opened and slammed shut again. I knew from all the commotion coming with her it was Mary Ann Bertram. She's married to Mame's nephew, York Bertram.

Mame's baby brother, Martin, settled in Plaquemine after the war. He never came back, even for a visit, but his son, York, moved here a few years ago, bringing his bride, Mary Ann. They've made a good run of the old homestead where Jakes Bayou splits off from Lake Mongoulois and takes its own winding way down to Lake Chicot. The Bertrams had a sugar mill on that point before the war. Now York's turned it into a place to make lumber, charcoal, whiskey, and I don't know what all.

York's plum crazy about machines—in fact, that's how he met Mary Ann. Her pa has a big machine shop in Plaquemine, and York was always fooling around in the shop with her brothers.

Mary Ann, now, it's critters she loves, especially those horses that pull her wagon. She does a handy business delivering goods from the Jakes Bayou dock all around our island, including to my store. That morning she brought a hunk of ice for my icebox. Mary Ann is as jolly as York is glum.

“Adam Snellgrove, I've seen pigpens cleaner than this! If there was another store around, I'd shop there.” She always starts talking soon as she gets through the door, sometimes before.

I'm tall, and her blue eyes were even with mine as she pushed her way through the merchandise. Instead of a bonnet, she pulls a felt hat down over her hair and ties it with a leather cord. As usual, a man's flannel shirt was tucked into canvas work pants, which were tucked into tall rubber boots. She gets her rough-and-tumble ways from being the only girl in her family.

“Well, you'd be the expert there,” I said. “How's that new litter coming along on those Dr. Legeare vitamins?”

“Eating like hogs, ever one of 'em. Never saw a turnaround so quick on a bunch of runts.”

“I don't remember who ordered those vitamins or even what kind of livestock they were for, but I'm glad they came in handy,” I said, and I meant it.

Mary Ann has helped all of us at one time or another with our animals. You'd never know she wasn't from the Chene—in fact, only been here a few years.

“Hmmph,” she grunted with the effort of moving a crate. “There's no telling what's packed away in here. If you'd ever clean this place up we'd all know.”

She swiped a cloud of dust off a pair of black rubber boots and checked the size on the bottom before placing them on the counter.

“That rooster spurred another hole in York's boot, the left one again. I told him not even you are going to sell me one boot, so tally up this pair. It's gonna aggravate the tar out of him to have those two extra right boots. Whatcha wanna bet he'll be dancing a jig trying to get the right one spurred next time. Any mail for us today?”

“Nope, I just got through sorting what Val brought in,” I said. Just then Alcide Verret pulled open the screen door. The old spring waited a bit before slamming closed behind him. I always listened for the time it just couldn't pull anymore. Then I'd change it out. That meant looking for my extra springs, and I hadn't gotten around to that yet.

Cide's suspenders were run up as short as they would go, but he still crossed them in the back, trying to take them up a little more. He might be short, but he's thick and strong. I've seen him pull a crosscut saw with two men on the other end, holding up his part and talking the whole time. Might be why people rarely notice how short he is. Or how old. He's foggy about when he was born, but no one on the Chene can remember a time when he wasn't here.

“What a rain last night! I had to kick my way through drowned frogs just to get to my pirogue this morning,” he said.

Cide's always good for a colorful take on a situation. He also likes the ladies, and he winked up at Mary Ann, who snagged him right up in a headlock and ruffled his white hair. The ladies like him back.

“Speaking of drowned, Fate pulled a dog out of the bayou this morning,” I said. “Don't know if she'll make it. Loyce has her over in the kitchen drying out.”

“Couldn't she swim?” Mary Ann let go of Cide and looked back at me.

“Probably real good,” I said, “But she was tied to an empty skiff. No telling how far she come. It's black with blue trim, not from anywhere close to here.”

“Guess somebody'll be pulling up a body on their net anchor 'fore long.” Cide shook his head in sympathy.

Mary Ann stomped to the other side of the breezeway to inspect the box and give us all advice for the dog's recovery. By noon the story of the mysterious skiff and its passenger had made the rounds, and the dog had officially picked up the name Drifter.

At that time none of us knew about the letter.

3

Two weeks later the little dog was still hanging on but was more mysterious than ever.

“Fate, how about scraping the leftovers into this, and I'll see if I can get Drifter to eat a bite,” Loyce said, sliding a pie tin across the table.

Fate wasn't surprised when it stopped just short of the edge. They had been practicing such diversions for so long it was second nature.

“Half-inch, not bad,” was all he said.

“It just beats everything; she's strong enough to eat but won't.” Loyce's voice lifted above the rattle of utensils.

“Seems like she'd be glad to find a home, after what she's been through,” Fate began, as he scraped another plate into Drifter's pan, adding a little extra gravy over the biscuits.

“Don't say she's found a home—she's not staying here!”

Loyce popped a wet dish towel near his ear for emphasis.

Fate charged around the table. Loyce sensed his feint and stepped in the opposite direction. He anticipated her guess, and she found herself nose to chest with her agile cousin. Fate grabbed the dish towel and stepped outside her reach. Second nature, he thought. Second nature.

Loyce pretended to ignore his victory and went back to the problem at hand.

“We just need to get her well enough to go somewhere else,” she pondered. “What I set out for her last evening was covered in ants this morning. I don't think she ate any of it. Starting to look like she might not make it after all.”

As soon as the black dog had gained enough strength to leave the porch, she had followed her nose to the skiff. Fate had upended the odd vessel on the bank to keep it from filling with rainwater. When she reached it, her tail wagged feebly for the first time. Her nose snuffled the ground from bow to stern. She circled the boat two more times before lifting her head to scan the bayou, upstream and down. Then she whimpered and crawled under the skiff, refusing to come out. Two days later Fate attempted to pull her out, but she only growled and backed farther into the gloom.

Sometimes early in the morning or late in the evening, if no one was near, she would creep out and sit on the upended boat, watching the water, ears up, tail moving back and forth hopefully. If another boat landed at the dock or if someone stepped off the porch, she scurried back under the shelter of the skiff.

Morning and evening Fate or Loyce brought a pan of food—leftover bread, gravy, deer ribs, or fish picked clean of bones. Most of the time it was still there at the next meal, minus what the ants toted off. Days passed, and her profile grew sharper as she sat watching the water. Fate described the outline of her ribs to Loyce whenever he saw the lonesome figure sitting on top the skiff.

At night Loyce's sensitive ears picked up soft whining. Barely audible so as not to draw attention to her grief, sadness seeped out of the starving dog. Loyce listened and remembered her first nights at the school for the blind when she was separated from every smell or sound that was familiar—from everyone she loved.

One night the whimpering was so pitiful, Loyce couldn't sleep. Swinging her legs over the edge of the bed, she felt for her cloth slippers with her feet. It was a warm night, so she didn't even cover the cotton gown but padded downstairs and across the porch to the steps. Touching the banister lightly for orientation, she reached down with one slippered foot until it was safely on a step, then set the other foot beside it. She descended in this halting manner until she reached the plank walk, one of three that Adam had built for her years ago. Most often she used only the planks that went out back to the privy and the rainwater cistern. She rarely took this front one toward the dock. There was no call for her to use it unless someone was taking her somewhere in a boat. That didn't happen often because everyone in the community came through the store and post office on a regular basis. Most days her world was no bigger than the porch.

Her feet shuffled eleven steps before she put a cautious foot out to the right, off of the raised wooden path. She had counted the distance the first time Fate had led her out to bring a pan of food. As usual, scuttling sounds told her the dog was backing under the skiff.