These Sheltering Walls: A Cane River Romance (5 page)

            “Okay.”
He smiled as he spoke but Gideon could see the tension in his shoulders, in the
way his eyes were narrowed just a little.
He didn’t say anything
more, just stood there, leaning against the desk, arms crossed over his chest.

            A
minute passed in uncomfortable silence. Gideon heaved a sigh. Half of him
admired how Tom could engage people on the very deepest level, bringing their
fears and hopes out into the light, giving support and encouragement by simply
hearing what needed to be said. And the other half of him wanted to tell Tom
that he was too old to have someone hold his hand and tell him everything would
be okay. Some things would never be okay. Some things were irreparably broken.

            “I
know what you’re thinking,” Gideon said. “But I’ve known for years that Duane
Banner is going to walk out of prison in October. I’m not going to throw away
everything I’ve built here and turn my back on everything I believe, just to
get revenge.”

             “It’s
going to be tough once he’s out there, living like a free man. It’ll take some
adjustment. It’s another step in learning how to live with what happened.”

            “And
what I’ve done.” Duane Banner’s face was burned into his memory, along with
images of terror and death that populated his nightmares. There had been a
point in his life when he gladly took a place in hell just for the chance to
kill the men responsible for the destruction of his family. “But honestly, none
of that has anything to do with a river trip.”

            “Okay,
I believe you” Tom said. “Just remember―”

            “I
know,” he said. “And you’d be the first to know if I started making plans.” There
was real comfort in knowing that if he ever confessed a temptation to give
Duane Banner a taste of vigilante justice, Tom wouldn’t be disappointed in him.
They both knew redemption wasn’t simple. You fought for it every day, down in
the mud and the muck of life, one decision at a time.

            Tom
nodded.  “I’ll call Bix and see when he wants to go out on the river.”

            “Great.
Let me know,” Gideon said. “I’m headed over to Oakland Plantation to drop off a
few things. Have you met the new director?”

            “Henry
Byrne? Not formally, but I’ve seen her a few times. I know Birdie and Frank
Pascal from the Zydeco Festival planning committee. They seemed real excited to
have her come home.”

            Gideon
rubbed a hand over his beard again. Maybe it was time to shave it off. “I can
imagine. Anyway, I better get there before they close the office.”

            “Wait,”
Tom said, holding out a hand. Gideon could see the wheels turning in Tom’s
head. “So, what do you think of her?”

            “Me?
Seems fine.” He grabbed his satchel, stood up and glanced toward the door. “She
sent a list of things she needed from the archives, I thought I’d bring them
over, since she has some sort of anxiety disorder and doesn’t like to go out.”

            Tom
frowned. “Doesn’t like to go out?”

            “That’s
what she said.” Gideon had his hand on the door frame. He didn’t want to be
pulled into a conversation about Henry Byrne.

            Tom
started to say something else but Gideon was already waving and on his way out
the door. He’d drop the papers off and head home. Or maybe he’d head down to
the riverwalk and pick up some biscuits, barbeque and slaw at The Red Hen.
After a quiet day at work, he usually looked forward to going home to his
little house, but somehow it didn’t appeal.

“If people would dare to speak to
one another unreservedly, there would be a good deal less sorrow in the world a
hundred years hence.”

―Samuel Butler

            Henry
signed into her e-mail account and stared at the list of names in her inbox. Gideon
hadn’t responded to the message she’d sent on Monday. Turning, she reached for
her office phone, thinking she’d just call over to the archives and make sure
Bernice remembered she was coming tomorrow morning. Her hand hovered over it. No,
Gideon most likely saw her e-mail, made a note, passed it on to Bernice without
thinking to respond. Nothing to worry about. It didn’t really matter in the
scheme of things. Unless she arrived tomorrow in the middle of a Friday morning
tour and couldn’t get access to what she needed. In that case, it would be a
problem and she would have driven over there for nothing.

            Her
inability to make a decision about a simple request was more irritating than
anything else. She wasn’t an indecisive person but for some reason, she
hesitated now.

            Henry
stood up and faced the long window, drawing the heavy burgundy curtains to the side.
The afternoon sun streamed in, lightening the deep green wallpaper to a jewel
hue and flashing over the surface of the burnished oak desk. The pale blue linen
summer dress she’d put on that morning felt wrinkled and stale. The old place couldn’t
handle the August heat unless they kept the windows covered and every door
closed, but she felt trapped in the dim little room after a few hours. She
squinted out at the trees and the outbuildings in the distance.  For her, the
best part of Cane River Creole history was everything she could touch, repair, and
explore. If she spent too much time inside with the papers, she started to feel
claustrophobic.

            The
temperature in the room started to climb and she dropped the curtain again. She
would just drop Gideon a quick note. No need to overthink it.

            She
hit the reply button and sat motionless. “Dear Gideon” seemed far too friendly.
She erased “Gideon” and inserted “Dear Mr. Becket”. Now it was
simultaneously
too formal and too intimate. Erasing the “dear”, she typed a few lines, hoping
for a good balance between chipper and professional. She sat back, re-reading
the message.  It seemed cold. She re-inserted the “dear” and read it over. No,
better without it. Another quick deletion and she gave it another look, this
time whispering it to herself. Maybe it was the word choice, or maybe it was
too short but something seemed off.

            Taking
off her glasses and setting them on the desk, she rubbed her temples. She
wasn’t one of those women who worried about what every man thought of her. She
did her job and took pride in her work. Spending five minutes on a two line
e-mail made no sense at all.

            A
knock at the door made her jump. “Come in,” she called out.

            The
door swung open and Gideon stood there. He looked the same as he had a week ago,
bearded and nicely dressed, but this time he carried an old leather satchel.

            Henry
felt her mouth drop open and she glanced at her e-mail, up at him, then back to
the screen.

            “I
brought what you needed from the archives,” he said.

            “Oh,
I never intended you to bring it all the way here,” Henry said. She ran a hand
over her hair, wishing she could check her lipstick, then was irritated with
herself for thinking about it.

            He
came closer, glancing at the rows of books on her shelves, the framed prints of
battles, the miniatures of Civil War soldiers she’d found at a flea market. 
“If you’d like to look through them, you can make copies of what you need and I
can take the rest back home. To the archives, I mean.”

            She
smiled a little at his slip. “I really didn’t mean for you to do all this
work.”

             “You
mentioned you didn’t like to go out much so…”

            He
thought she was agoraphobic. “It’s not quite like that. I’m sorry if I gave you
the impression that I―” She shook her head. “Thank you. I do appreciate
it. Please sit down.”

            Setting
a straight-backed wooden chair closer to the desk, he opened the satchel. “I
brought any letters that mention the former slaves’ quarters or homes of the
free Creole farmers and any pictures we had of those outbuildings. You
mentioned subsurface work?”

            “Right,
our archeology students arrived last week. It’s all very exciting.” She leaned
forward to look at the documents he was setting on the desk. The delicate paper
was protected by velum sheets and she gently unfolded the notes attached. “Are
you in a hurry? This might take me a few minutes to sort through.”

            “Not
at all. Take your time.”

           
Truth.

            She
scanned the letters as quickly as she could, sorting them into piles. Some of
the writing was faded but each letter had a small sheet attached with a typed
explanation of the contents. “The notes make this a lot easier. Some of these
handwritten letters are a real pain to puzzle out.”

            “You’re
welcome,” he said. “I want to leave the archives in better shape than I found
it. I typed all the letters, and keep updated, identical files. My main goal is
to scan, document and codify everything in one large searchable database.”

            “That
would be incredible. It would change the way we study Cane River history.”

            “Right.
And there’s so much more than what’s catalogued right now. There’s a basement
full of old letters and diaries and pictures over on Trudeau Street. It was
started by Ellison Finnamore and continued by his son, Arthur. After Arthur
died, he passed it on to me. I go over as often as I can, a few evenings a
week.”

            “A
basement? How much is a basement?” Henry leaned forward. Trudeau Street was
only a few blocks from her apartment in the Cane River Historic District.

            “Ninety
eight boxes.” He nodded at her gasp of surprise. “I’ve worked through forty
seven of them in the last few years.”

            “And
you’re trying to sort through and catalogue them all by yourself? You haven’t
asked anyone to help you?” Of course he preferred to work alone. It was the
kind of project that could make a historian famous. Or more famous, in his
case.

            “There
aren’t many people who know enough Cane River history to be able to sort the
letters and pictures, let alone catalogue them. Our storage is at a premium at
the archives so I haven’t bothered to move the boxes, even though the house in
unoccupied. I have a scanner and a copier down there and just upload to an
external hard drive while I’m working. If the estate ever sells it, we’ll have
to find another storage place. But I doubt they’ll manage to sell the house any
time soon. It’s got wiring issues.”

            He
glanced down at the desk for a moment. “I was wondering if you’d like to be
part of the project.”

            Henry
sat up straight. It was an unofficial, unpaid position that promised a lot of
dusty hours alone. It was a dream come true.  “Yes, that would be very nice.
Thank you for offering.”

            Something
in her tone must have struck him as funny because a slow smile started around
the edges of his lips. “I’ll have to make a copy of the key for you and I’ll
show you what area I’m working on so you can choose your boxes, but I’d be very
glad of the help. And of course, you would be credited when the catalogue goes
online.”

            “Wonderful.”
Her heart was pounding. She could almost see her name in bibliographical
footnotes, already.

            “I’ll
let you get back to reading.” He motioned toward the letter she was holding and
she swallowed back her excitement. First things first.

            He
sat quietly, hands folded in his lap. He wasn’t one of those people that needed
to fidget or chatter and she appreciated that. Maybe some people found his
stillness intimidating. Barney Sandoz’s words about gangs and cocaine and
tattoos rattled around in her head but she refused to give in to the temptation
to look at his wrists, to see if anything was showing under the cuffs of his
shirt, or at his neck.

            After
a few minutes, he leaned forward and she looked up to see him staring at her
glasses where they rested on a Louisiana history magazine. She knew what he was
seeing before he reached out: the view of the glossy cover wasn’t distorted
through the glass at all. He held the frames up for a moment and then gently
placed them back on the desk without comment.

            She
felt her face go hot. “They make me look smart,” she said.

             “But
you are smart.”
His brows drew together. “I understand
the need to put forward a certain persona. I know some women struggle to be
taken seriously in higher academia and research, especially if they’re
beautiful.”

            Her
mind snagged on his words.
She didn’t want to be known as a
beautiful woman.
“I guess I don’t want people to make a snap
judgment about me.”

            “Actually,
you do,” he said, smiling. “But you want it to be one that you control.”

             “And
your beard? Do you think it makes you look wise?”

            “I’m
not sure I was thinking of anything except that I don’t like to shave.”

             “Really?
You have to admit that a beard gives a man a certain gravitas. Add in the hint
of General Sherman and you make quite an impression.”

            His
eyes widened. “Impersonating General Sherman doesn’t sound like a good way to
make friends here.”

            “Maybe
you’re not really interested in making friends.”

            “Neither
of us are, it seems.” The corners of his lips had turned up again.

            After
a few seconds, she realized she was simply holding the letter and smiling back
at him. She cleared her throat and refocused on the notes. He said nothing more
and soon the piles were sorted.

            “I’ll
go make copies of these. And I’m sorry I didn’t offer you any coffee. Let me
put on a fresh pot. We had a group come through earlier and there might not be
much left.”

            “Oh,
no, don’t worry about it. I’m fine.”

           
“Okay,
then.” She stood and walked to the door. “Would you like to look around? Or you
can stay here and wait for me.” It felt awkward to just leave him sitting
alone.

            “You
don’t have to entertain me, Henry.”

           
Truth.

            “Good
to know. I’ll file that away.” She walked through the door and was all the way
to the copier before she realized she was still grinning.  It was odd, really. When
she talked to strangers or spent time with someone new, the anxiety was
crippling. It was a curse to able to hear a lie in someone’s voice or see it in
their eyes. Growing up, she’d prayed that God would take it away, make her like
everyone else. She’d finally come to accept the fact that she’d never be really
normal, never marry, never have a family of her own. She couldn’t get through a
first date without accidentally knowing something she really wished she hadn’t.

            She
arranged a series of photos on the glass and closed the machine again. She
hated lies the way a fireman hated fire, with a combination of fear and awe at
the total destruction it could bring. But at the same time, she knew it was
just a fact of life.

            She
pulled the copies from the tray and gently gathered all the archived letters
and photos. She’d always been a logical person, trusting historical facts and
textbooks more than people. She would be as wary and as careful as she always
had been. Nothing would change that.

                                                                        ***

            “Cora,
I don’t think this is a good match.” Gideon glanced back into the crowded waiting
room. It was uncharacteristically busy for a Tuesday morning at the Juvenile
Justice Center.

            “Sit
down for a moment, Gideon,” she said. Cora Jeunesse had a soothing, pleasant
personality. Nothing much bothered the sixty something woman. Maybe raising
eight kids of her own and mothering countless foster children had something to
do with her unflappable attitude. “This is Marlowe Edison’s grandson. She’s
been taking care of his son while he was in prison. They’ve got a long road
ahead, trying to learn how to be a family again.”

            “Exactly.
I’m not a parent. I don’t know anything about what he’s going through.”

            “But
you know how it is to get out of prison and find that the rest of the world has
moved on without you. Reggie was convicted for driving the car in an armed
robbery and the sweet little baby he left is now an angry nine year old,” Cora
said. “He’s fighting to get back on his feet but aside from his grandma
Marlowe, his family doesn’t want to own him. They’re waiting until he proves
himself. And we know that proving yourself can take a really long time.”