Southern Ruby (16 page)

We entered a bar that was so dark inside it could have been night-time. The oriental carpet and green walls reeked of stale beer, and the patrons were dressed in shorts and flip-flops, but at least it was a cool relief from the heat outside. We took a table near the window and I studied the menu:

Gator meatballs

Drunk squirrel

Coon

Garfish

‘What would you like to eat?' Blaine asked me.

‘Do you really eat squirrels and racoons here?' I asked, flustered. ‘Those were the animals that inhabited Snow White's forest in my favourite childhood Disney film. I can't imagine eating them.'

‘I was wondering about the choice of restaurant myself,' said Elliot. He leaned towards me and mock whispered, ‘Blaine's ancestors were from the Caribbean: he'll eat anything that comes out of the swamp. But don't worry, they also serve salads with French fries.'

Blaine threw back his head and laughed good-naturedly. ‘Well, if it was up to Elliot we'd be at some dive on Frenchmen Street listening to poetry readings and chewing on kale. I don't usually eat here — it's for tourists and I don't recommend it. But they've got a good selection of beer. Why don't you try the Lazy Magnolia Jefferson Stout?' he said, before adding with a wink, ‘it's the ideal Southern stout: dark and chocolatey. But I won't make the obvious joke. We can have a drink here and then walk to the French Market for something to eat.'

The waitress arrived and we placed our orders for drinks. A trombonist, bass player and saxophonist started setting up in the corner.

I watched them for a moment before turning back to my companions. ‘Was that a normal funeral for New Orleans?'

‘Well, it wasn't your typical Catholic service,' said Elliot with
a wry grin. ‘But it was what Estée wanted, and in New Orleans we aim to please.'

‘But that tomb?'

‘A lot of people are under the impression that we bury above ground because of our high water table,' said Blaine, missing my point. ‘They say the coffins float up in heavy rains. But our above-ground tombs are actually an environmentally friendly form of slow cremation.'

I gritted my teeth, sure he was going to tell me something I didn't want to hear.

‘In the tropical heat, it can get up to three hundred degrees Fahrenheit inside those tombs,' he continued. ‘After a year and one day, the official waiting time, there isn't much left of the deceased but bones and dust. Whatever is left of the coffin is disposed of, and the remains are swept to the back of the tomb where there's a space for them to drop to the bottom of the vault. Then the tomb can be used for another family member. Some of those tombs hold dozens of people. Tell me that's not a great space-saver!'

I must have been pulling a face because Elliot glanced at me sympathetically. ‘You'll have to forgive us, Amandine. We New Orleanians tend to forget that other people aren't as comfortable with death as we are. Death is as much a part of this city as a nose is part of a face. Four years after the colony was first settled, it was wiped out by a hurricane. In the 1700s it was destroyed twice by fires; and later, more than forty-one thousand people died from yellow fever. I think our history of death is the reason why we make merry today and don't worry too much about tomorrow.'

The waitress brought our drinks. I took a sip of mine. It tasted like a blend of roasted chocolate, coffee and caramel; more like a dessert than a beer.

‘My grandmother told me that in her day when a hurricane was approaching, they used to party,' I said, glad to get away from the subject of cemeteries and funerals.

Elliot grimaced and turned serious. ‘New Orleans was smaller then, and the wetlands were still intact. Professor Ivor van Heerden, a friend of mine, is a hurricane expert at Louisiana State University. He's been warning the city authorities that New Orleans is poorly prepared for a category four or five storm. He predicts even a category three hurricane could potentially destroy the city and surrounding areas.'

‘I saw an article about that in
NOLA Life News
,' I said. ‘But I didn't understand how that could be possible.'

‘New Orleans is below sea level and, according to Ivor, with climate change even a slow-moving hurricane could create a storm surge into Lake Pontchartrain and flood the industrial areas,' Elliot explained. ‘The waters, full of toxic chemicals, would then flow into the city, which would fill up like a soup bowl. The poorer, lower lying areas will be the worst hit. There are thousands of families who don't own cars in this city and many homeless, elderly and disabled people who won't have a way out if the city rapidly floods.'

‘Don't you have levees to prevent the flooding?' I asked.

‘We do have levees,' he replied. ‘Just badly designed and poorly maintained ones.'

‘Anyways,' said Blaine, throwing up his hands, ‘if there is another hurricane I'm going to lock myself in my shop and blow away to oblivion with all the antiques. I got caught up in all the doom and gloom hoo-ha last year over Hurricane Ivan. All that happened to me was I got stuck in traffic on I-10 for four hours, forgot to turn the air-con off, and had to leave the car by the side of the road and hitch a ride with some Christian evangelists. I still can't get the words of “How Jesus Loves Us” out of my head.'

Elliot and I laughed and the mood instantly lightened.

‘Blaine could be right,' said Elliot, leaning back and taking a sip of his beer. ‘Look at the millennium bug. There was talk about planes falling out of the sky and the end of civilisation as we knew it, and absolutely nothing happened.'

The musicians started up a lively jazz riff and we turned to face them. ‘I wonder if my father ever played here,' I mused out loud.

‘Your father was a musician?' asked Elliot.

‘His name was Dale Lalande. I never got to hear him play because I was only two years old when he died.'

‘Your father was Dale Lalande?' Elliot looked impressed.

‘Have you heard of him?'

‘Sure! He was a talented musician and composer. He died way too young. Only I didn't know he had a daughter in Australia.'

I stared at him in amazement. So my father really hadn't been some run-of-the-mill bar musician. He'd been well-respected.

‘You wouldn't happen to have a recording of him . . . or something like that?' I asked.

‘There could be something in the faculty's library.' Elliot reached into his pocket and took a card from his wallet. He handed it to me. ‘I'm back there next week for summer classes. Why don't you give me a call and I'll let you know if I can find anything.'

I lowered my gaze so he and Blaine wouldn't see what I was feeling. The possibility of hearing my father on a recording was more than I'd anticipated. But how could they understand? How could anyone understand what it was like to only now be learning that my father wasn't the scum I'd been brought up to believe. But I couldn't explain all that to people I'd just met.

After eating po' boys at the French Market, we walked back to the car so Blaine and I could return to the Garden District.

‘I look forward to hearing from you next week,' Elliot said, and smiled at me in a way that made my stomach flutter, even though he wasn't my type. My ‘type' so far had been angst-ridden artists who never painted anything, or unemployed cybergoths. I wasn't sure how I'd relate to a cute university professor, but I was glad he was willing to help me learn more about my father.

Back at the house, Lorena was vacuuming the rugs. ‘Your grandmother is having a lie-down,' she told me.

‘Is she all right?'

Lorena scrunched up her face. ‘She has turns sometimes, but I don't know if it's her age or her heart. She'll never say anything is wrong. Louise came by this afternoon and we both said how glad we are that you're staying with Ruby now. It used to drive Louise crazy worrying about her mother in this big old house by herself at night.'

I went up to my room and lay down on the bed, thinking about the funeral and Elliot Davenport, and worrying about Grandma Ruby. Nan's death had taught me that everything could be fine one minute and harrowing the next.

I got up and took from my suitcase the framed photograph of Nan I'd brought with me. I wanted to place it on the bedside table next to the picture of my parents and me, but then I thought about how much she would have hated to be part of this place and I hesitated. I missed Nan, but I was conflicted about her too.

‘Why couldn't you forgive him?' I asked her image before returning it to the sleeve of my suitcase. ‘I know you were hurt, but you hurt me too.'

After my experience at Lafayette Cemetery, I was apprehensive the following day when Aunt Louise turned up to take me to see my parents' tomb. On the way, she pulled up outside a florist on Magazine Street.

‘Go inside and choose something,' she said. ‘Put it on the Lalande account. I'll wait for you here.'

As soon as I stepped inside the florist shop I felt like a little girl who'd discovered a fairy grotto. The profusion of colours and scents bursting from the displays of hyacinths, daphne, cherry blossoms, lilacs and rambling guelder-roses was intoxicating. Nan loved flowers and had passed on her passion to me. I'd always enjoyed styling houses when there was a budget for fresh flower displays.

A summery arrangement of sunflowers, orange roses and lilies caught my eye. I chose them for my mother. The florist was on the telephone talking about wedding flowers, so I took the opportunity to wander among the leather leaf and accordion palms to find something masculine for my father. I spotted some deep purple irises in the cooler, and when the florist was free I asked her to team them with some yellow solidago. Somehow I felt it was the perfect arrangement for my father, although he was still an enigma to me.

‘Beautiful!' said Aunt Louise when I showed her my selection. ‘The fleur-de-lis — the symbol of New Orleans — is a stylised iris. It represents hope and courage.'

When we reached Saint Louis Cemetery, I was relieved to see that it was better maintained than Lafayette. The tombs were freshly whitewashed, and their uniform size and the straight avenues that ran between them gave the cemetery the bizarre appearance of a miniature housing estate.

‘There are actually three Saint Louis Cemeteries,' Aunt Louise explained. ‘Number One is the most popular with the tourists because it includes the tombs of the voodoo queen Marie Laveau, and Delphine LaLaurie, a sadistic slave owner. But I like this one the best. It's peaceful and doesn't attract vandals. It's got a few notables too, like Paul Sarebresole, the ragtime composer, and Ralston Crawford, the abstract painter. But the average tourist wouldn't have a clue who those men were.'

We came to a tomb set slightly higher than the others, and Aunt Louise crossed herself. At the top of it, a statue of an angel
spread out its wings. At its feet, the words
The Lalande Family
were carved into the stone. Two black granite tablets covered the entrance, carved with a list of names in gold lettering, but the first I saw were those I'd come searching for:

Dale Stanton Lalande

Paula Jane Lalande

Seeing my parents' names, and knowing this was their final resting place, brought a lump to my throat. They'd only been together for a few vibrant years, and now they were entombed here together for eternity.

My vision blurred and I began to weep. I hardly ever cried in Sydney, but in New Orleans tears seemed to come quickly. Perhaps I was becoming less Amanda, with Nan's tough Scottish ancestry, and more Amandine, the sensitive French Creole.

Aunt Louise put her arm around my shoulders. She was my only link to my parents now, along with Grandma Ruby.

‘I can't imagine what it's been like for you not knowing your parents,' she said. ‘When I look at you, I think I'm seeing Dale's female twin. You look much more like his sister than I ever did.'