Wading Home: A Novel of New Orleans (15 page)

Julian and Velmyra looked at each other. The flood. It had wiped out more than just phone lines for weeks. All mail delivery had stopped, and even now had not yet fully resumed.

Julian leaned forward in his chair. “I still don’t get how it could have happened. Daddy would never sell his share of this place, even a piece of it. Cousin G either.”

“Well, somebody did.” Kevin took another drink, then gave Julian a quizzical look. “These guys are slick. All they have to do is find one person willing to sell. And of course they never tell them about the consequences, that all the other owners could easily end up with no land at all.”

“What about your daddy’s other relatives? You think any of them might’ve wanted to sell?”

Simon had always said there were some “kin” in California, descendants of his grandfather Moses’s sisters, even talked about going out there someday to visit them. Julian studied a worn place in the wide-plank oak floor and scoured his mind for some helpful information, coming up with nothing. He’d been so uninterested in anything having to do with Silver Creek that he barely knew where it was. His father had stopped talking to him about the land years ago.

“We’ve got a handful of cousins, I think, living out near L.A., but I don’t even know their names.”

Kevin stroked his chin thoughtfully, then took another swig, emptying his glass. Velmyra got up and refilled it.

“Hey, this is pretty good. Tastes a little like Royal Crown, ’cept it’s got a little kick to it. Something else in it?”

Velmyra shrugged. “I don’t know. It was in the fridge in a big plastic bottle.”

Julian groaned. “Did it have a red seal on the top?”

Velmyra shrugged again. “Maybe. I just opened it.”

Julian remembered the sharp, burning edge of the drink from when he was a kid and had dipped into the big cola bottle by mistake. “Well, it’s Pepsi. Except it’s been spiked with some of Aunt Genevieve’s home brew.”

Kevin laughed out loud. “Moonshine! Pure corn liquor. Damn. I knew it was making me feel a little too good.”

Julian heaved a sigh, ran his hand along the back of his neck, as a slight buzz eased up his spine. “I wonder how much more I’d have to drink to forget everything that’s happened in the last month.”

Velmyra got up from the table, looking pale. “Sorry. I’ll get us something else to drink.”

“No, no. This is fine. Really.” Kevin took his glass and took another long drink.

Julian turned up his glass, too. “Vel, just bring out the whole bottle.”

A half hour later, they were still talking as the rain poured down, drumming a percussive roll on the tin roof. The big bottle of moonshine-cola was almost empty.

Returning to the issue of food, Velmyra went back to the kitchen in search of something that might make a meal. In minutes a familiar aroma wafted from the kitchen, bringing a smile to Julian’s face. In spite of all the bad news. It must have been written in some southern etiquette book that bad news should always be accompanied by good food, as if well-seasoned beans splashed with hot sauce had the power to salve the wounded soul. The bank foreclose on your house? Sit down to these collard greens. Wife walk out on you? Try some of this sweet potato pie. Left you for another man? Then
hot
pie with a scoop of vanilla ice cream. And if someone died, the bereaved family would never go hungry again as small country kitchens became arsenals of succulent, deep-fried chicken.

Cousin Genevieve had kept a covered dish as close as her double-barrel shotgun, ready to assault any ailment, physical or spiritual, so it didn’t surprise Julian when Velmyra placed three bowls of what looked like gumbo on the table, silverware by each place.

“Look what I found. Jars of this stuff in the freezer. It looked pretty good, so I microwaved it.”

“Smells great.” Kevin looked around the spartan dwelling, and nodded toward the rustic kitchen. “There’s a microwave in
there
?”

“Daddy bought it for Genevieve last Christmas, but she never used it,” Julian said. “Scared of it. Said she could never trust something that cooked food that fast. Had to be something evil about it.”

Julian took one whiff of the steaming gumbo and felt a chill, his heart racing. It was Simon’s recipe, handed down to him and Genevieve from her mother Auntie Maree, who got it from her mother, who got it from hers. According to Simon, the recipe was as old as the family itself. Large hunks of chicken and sausage and okra in a dark, medium-thick roux, shrimp as big as a thumb. At once sweet and savory, spicy and peppery, with a dash of something he didn’t recognize but that made the whole dish complete. Julian felt emotion swelling in his throat. He’d been weaned on this stuff. It was as if his father was back in the kitchen, stirring pots.

“What’s this?” Julian pointed a spoon at a platter Velmyra had set down in the middle of the table laden with marinated vegetables.

Velmyra smiled. “There’s a million canning jars in there full of good stuff. Pickled okra, pickled green beans, stewed tomatoes, pickled cucumbers…”

He remembered that about Genevieve; she would pickle anything that would stand still long enough.

Julian looked up. “Pickled cucumbers? You mean…pickles?”

Velmyra laughed. “Oh. Right.”

For the next few moments there was a silence that Julian remembered well; the Fortier recipes had a way of quieting a room to the sibilant sounds of swallowing and clicking teeth and the clank of forks and spoons against stoneware. The only other sound was the drumbeat of rain against the roof.

“Damn.” Kevin broke the silence, leaning back in his chair and licking his lips. “This is the best gumbo I’ve ever had. Tastes like something you might get in one of them fancy restaurants in New Orleans.”

They talked on as hours passed and light descended. After the distraction of moonshine and food, Velmyra leaned back in her chair and turned to Kevin. “Do you mind if I ask you how you got so interested in all this…this land stuff? And how you got to know so much about it?”

Kevin laid down his fork and sat back, his blue eyes luminous in the fading light. He had grown up in Pointe Louree Parish on a ragged remnant of land called Terre Rouge, not far from Silver Creek. In his first year at LSU, he’d studied contracts with a professor named Spencer LeClaire.

“He had to be the most brilliant man I ever met. Black man. His family lost a huge spread this way, up around Jackson Parish, a long time ago. A couple of years ago, he saw stuff happening again, land changing hands quickly, around these parts. So Prof decided he was going to try to help folks, you know, school them on how to protect their property, make wills and stuff. He got a couple of us students to help him, for a little extra credit.” Kevin spread his hands across the table and looked at his long fingers, his voice quieting. “Prof died last year. Eighty-three years old. Now it’s just me. So anyway, I’m hearing about somebody cruising around this property, somebody who sure as hell don’t look like they belong here. Then I’m reading about this auction. Didn’t smell right. That’s why I was looking for your daddy.”

Julian leaned forward, burying his head in his hands. The young law student cleared his throat, lowered his head and spoke quietly. “Sure sorry about what you folks been through, down there in New Orleans. Sure hope you find your daddy.”

“Me too,” Julian said.

Kevin told Julian he’d be willing to help him get the land back. “There might be a way we could fix this thing. There might be a loophole we could take advantage of.”

Julian sat forward, his arms on the table. “You think we got a chance if we fight this?”

“There’s a chance. There’s always a chance.”

They decided to meet the next day and try to find Genevieve. And maybe, Kevin said, Genevieve could lead them to the other relatives of the Fortier clan, one of whom had to have sold their portion of the land.

When Kevin stood up, his long body lurched forward into a stumble that almost landed him on the table. “Whoa. I guess I better get going. It’s getting late, and you folks’ve been awful nice. That gumbo. That was something special.”

From his mouth came the sound of a low, drawn out belch. He covered his mouth with three fingers. “Whoops. Sorry ’bout that.”

Velmyra stood and touched his shoulder. “You OK to drive?”

“Yeah. I’m good. I’m just down the road.”

“Why don’t you let us take you there?” Julian’s voice was etched with concern.

Kevin straightened up and arched his back. “I’m really OK. It’ll take me about ten minutes to get home. I been gone a while and my girlfriend’s gonna have a fit if I don’t get home pretty soon. She’s pregnant. Seven months along.”

He looked at his watch. “I’m more worried about you folks. The roads are gonna wash out pretty good with alla this rain. Maybe y’all oughta be staying here tonight. I wouldn’t try to go too far in this weather.”

Julian and Velmyra looked at each other.

“Maybe he’s right.” Velmyra shrugged. “That little road wasn’t that easy to navigate when it was dry. You think your cousin would mind if we stayed here?”

Julian parted the café curtain covering the small window that looked out on the front yard. Rain came down in thick gray sheets, made opaque by swirling wind.

Julian couldn’t help the twinge of guilt. He hadn’t been to Silver Creek to see Genevieve in years, even though she’d constantly asked Simon about “my young cousin.”

“If she knew I was here, she’d love it, after she’d ride my butt about staying away so long. We should be able to find some sheets or something around here.”

“Good.” She nodded. “Then we can look for your cousin in the morning, maybe visit her.”

Kevin walked toward the door. He took a long step, stumbled as if he were trying to board a passing train, and Julian grabbed his arm. “Easy, friend,” he said, and looked at Velmyra. “I think we better take you home, man.”

Julian drove Kevin’s big Ford truck, following Velmyra and Kevin in the Neon, through wooded, water-sludged paths in a slashing downpour. The truck rambled along the muddy road that rimmed the swollen creek, and when Velmyra and Kevin headed down a pitch-black path under canopying cypresses, Julian wondered if the young lawyer was sober enough to remember his way home. He was relieved to see the glow of a porch light at the end of the road. By the time they returned to Genevieve’s cabin, the rain had stopped and the clouds had parted to reveal a bright, full moon.

Four hours after he had found the sheets and pillows for Velmya and had stretched himself across the lumpy divan in the living room, the luminous moon shone through the sheer curtains in the living room, waking Julian from restless sleep. That, the soft rasp of Velmyra’s snoring, and the river of thoughts coursing through his brain.

There had been a time when that snore was as familiar as his own breath. The bedroom door was only half-closed, and from the pitch of her snore he knew exactly how she lay—on her side, one hand tucked under her face, mouth slightly open, and eyelids fluttering as the light of her dreams flashed in her sleep.

From time to time, she would arch her back, throw her arm across his torso, a signal for him to slide himself into the S-curve of her body as if she were the mold that defined his form.

That was how it had been with them—natural, easy. He had thought it would be that way forever. He got up from the divan and walked with the sheet draped around him like a bath towel toward the moonlight spilling in from the window.

The air in the cabin was as thick and moist as human breath, and the house seemed to heave and swell as the rainwater soaked deeper into the wood. He leaned his arms on the small sill and looked up at the blue-black sky. He looked over his shoulder at the thin bluish light seeping from the open door, and turned back to the moon. He thought about the last time he had seen her, years ago, before the breakup. How had they gotten to this point? A few feet away and worlds apart, two strangers on opposite sides of a half-closed door.

He hadn’t been the only one who needed to recover. When the thing with Vel ended, and Julian fell into moribund silence, he felt a steady beam of curious light from his father’s eyes. Tacit questions lay stranded in the air between them, the unease between father and son palpable.