Courir De Mardi Gras (9 page)

She waved and started up St. Julien Street. Yellow school buses dropped batches of children along the way. They flowed past her, some shucking shoes and wading barefoot in the puddles, brown feet in brown water, none pausing to stare because they were at the busy age and had homework or odd jobs to do, a television program to catch, a basketball game to get started. With the library book tucked under one arm, Suzanne moved against the dark tide back to Main Street.

She loitered on Main long enough to arrive at 4:45 on the steps of George’s office. All too aware her clothes looked as if she’d spent the afternoon curled up in the trunk of a car and her hair had puffed out around her face like a giant dandelion going to seed, she balanced the pie on one hand and knocked with the other. A white woman well past forty answered the door.

“Yes?” She eyed Suzanne as if she might be an itinerant pie salesman whose goods were suspect.

“I’m Suzanne Hudson. I’m supposed to meet Mr. St. Julien for a ride back to Magnolia Hill.”

“Yes. I’m sorry to keep you standing on the porch. We do have a policy about solicitors coming to the door.” She stood aside to let Suzanne pass. “You aren’t exactly as Mr. St. Julien described. He said you had a very businesslike demeanor.”

As hard as she tried not to, Suzanne blushed with embarrassment.

“I’m Lonnie Breaux, Mr. St. Julien’s secretary.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, I’m sure,” Suzanne said in her toniest up-east accent. Miss Breaux took a turn blushing as she shook hands formally. Still holding the pie in one hand, Suzanne thought she’d brought the whole situation off rather well.

A dark walnut desk dominated the outer office. Straight-backed chairs with needlepoint cushions waited for clients and blended nicely with the old pine flooring and wavy glass in the small panes of the windows. An old upright typewriter would not have looked out of the place on Miss Breaux’s desk, but she had a sleek, black computer, this being a business and not a museum.

The door to the inner office was closed, but George must have heard the conversation. He looked out, said Miss Breaux could leave a little early, he would lock up, and ducked back as if a secret society met inside. Lonnie Breaux pulled on the white cardigan sweater hanging on the back of her chair, told Suzanne what a pleasure it was to have met her, and departed.

George emerged from his inner sanctum a few minutes later. Before she could present him with the pie, he said, “Did you do something to your hair this afternoon? It looks all fluffy.”

Her mother always said it was a high compliment and a minor miracle when a man noticed a change in a woman’s appearance. At the moment, Suzanne disagreed. The pie was
so
handy, but the impulse to lob it in his face passed. Really, he seemed clueless and completely sincere.

“I got caught in the rain this afternoon. My hair does this when it’s wet—without conditioner—instant frizz. But, I did meet the nicest woman who took me in and dried me off, Mrs. Odette St. Julien. She sent you this pie and said you were to return the plate in person.”

Since she held his favorite treat, she expected some expression of delight or gratitude. Instead, she received a minor explosion. “You went walking in Coon Hollow alone!” He stared at her rumpled clothes as if they were evidence of an assault.

“I was trying to get the feel of the town, and I thought St. Julien Street might have a family connection.”

“It does. That’s where Victoir St. Julien’s settled his former slaves. Don’t do that again.”

“You go there,” she retorted.

“I’m a man.”

She looked him up and down as if she doubted his statement. Hmmm, his eyes turned a darker, stormy gray when angry, and George’s shoulders filled out his suit very well when he pulled himself up to his full height instead of slumping forward.

“This is incredibly Old South of you, George, ah—Mr. St. Julien. Look, nothing happened. I met a lovely woman. We had tea. I came here. Okay?”

“Listen to me. Those dives at the bottom of the hill are hangouts for dopers, crackheads, and petty thieves. People like that would snatch the purse of a stranger in a minute, do worse if they were high on something. Heaven knows, they prey on their own, Suzanne—Miss Hudson. Being a Yankee you wouldn’t understand,” he said as if this constituted an apology.

“Mr. St. Julien, I’ve spent the last several years living in Philadelphia where, I can assure you, we have crackheads and purse snatchers in abundance. Racial relations there are probably a thousand times worse than in Port Jefferson. We even have a serial killer of young women on the loose, and see—” She had craned her neck back to stare him in the eyes and started to feel the strain. Lowering her gaze, Suzanne twirled around with her arms spread wide. The pie, forgotten her moment of anger, nearly slid to the floor. She caught it in both hands.

“See, I’m still in one piece.”

“More than I can say for that pie.”

“Here. Enjoy!” She thrust the pie at him.

George seized it in his large hands. He raised the aluminum foil covering. The filling had split and slumped to one side of the crust. He took a deep breath that strained the buttons of his jacket.

“I asked you to call me George. Suzanne, if you want to visit Mrs. St. Julien again, it would be my pleasure to take you. If you need to do research in the Hollow, I would like come along. I would be happy to escort you anywhere in Port Jefferson.”

She suspected this speech to be some kind of southern bullshit meant to undermine the autonomy of women, but she seized the opportunity anyhow.

“There is a place you could take me—Joe’s Lounge on Saturday night. The music is supposed to be great.” Suzanne definitely did not want him to think she had designs on his body, though he was broader through the chest than she’d first thought. His height disguised its breadth.

“I guess it is if you like Cajun and country. I can’t take you. I won’t be around much this weekend.”

“Some other time, then,” she answered curtly. She’d find someone else to take her.

“Shall we go?” He held the door to the office open for her despite juggling the pie and his briefcase.

The silence deafened all the way back to the Hill. She noticed for the first time the road leading to Magnolia Hill was named Jefferson Street. A few premature, paper white narcissus bloomed in a sheltered spot, but she did not bother to point out any of these observations to George. One minute he was a geek accountant, the next, a MCP, male chauvinist pig. Her mother taught her that term. Still plenty of them in the world, Mom said. Then, he put on the Southern gentleman act. She really did not care much for George St. Julien—even if Birdie and Odette thought he’d hung the moon over this tiny town.

She took her dinner in her room that night, despite the fact that Birdie set two places in the formal dining room. Best to put her relationship with George back on the professional track and establish some distance. Now that she’d cooled off, she gave him points for forbearance and manners. As her employer, he could have told her to catch the next plane north.

When Suzanne came downstairs in the morning, all of the yam pie had vanished. She’d wanted to try a piece never having any since in Philly cheesecake ruled. Birdie, a little miffed, too, said Mr. Georgie had passed over her nice, hot dinner in favor of the pie and a whole quart of milk. He could have saved pieces for her and his houseguest. Suzanne added greed to the side of the list of things she did not like about George St. Julien.

Chapter Four

Suzanne’s story

What a totally boring weekend. George was gone as much he had said he would be. Suzanne saw him briefly Saturday morning when she stood in the kitchen scrambling some eggs. Trying to mend fences, she offered to do the same for him. Looking surprisingly scruffy and masculine in old jeans and a stained, gray university sweatshirt, he turned her down and left the house. He came back after midnight. Hoping he noticed she was still up and working, she clacked away on her computer, entering his mother’s inventory.

She swore she could smell beer fumes emanating from his room when she went down the hall the next morning. Sunday, George slept in until eleven, and then took off again more neatly dressed. He said he had been invited for Sunday dinner at a friend’s house. Suzanne thought this a strange lack of the southern hospitality that she hadn’t been invited, too. So, she ate Birdie’s leftovers, not too shabby, out of the refrigerator and sent messages home to pass the time.

She gave Dr. Dumont a dry, academic overview of what the house contained. Since her mentor would want to know, she added that George St. Julien bore very little resemblance to his fiery father and mostly took after his mother, except for his dark hair. Unfair of course with George being more quiet than cold. If he wasn’t the master of Magnolia Hill she had envisioned, not his fault. Mentioning George’s affair ten or more years ago with a black girl, now a married mother of twins, would have been entirely out of line.

For her mother, she gushed over the Belter settee and the Wooten desk. Converting her interest to the Victorian era had brought them closer. Instead of lurking in galleries displaying art beyond her mother’s comprehension and definitely not to her taste, they’d begun spending weekends haunting antique shops together. If she did not experience the same thrill as Mom over finding a mother-of-pearl handled fish fork in a New Hope tourist trap, she did begin to develop an eye for the flawed and the fake as she compared the goods on sale to the real items she’d been allowed to touch at Winterthur or tout during her duties as a guide.

She told Mom about the “lovely” magnolias that had given the house its name and about the “charming” basket maker in his shop on Main Street, hardly believing she used those words. At the moment, the trees seemed like black growths on a dead lawn sweeping down to the brown bayou, and the basket maker a prime example of rural poverty. Before her mood could infect the upbeat tone of the letter, she signed it off with a “Love, Suzanne.”

She’d considered adding a note about George, his quaint manners and protectiveness, the temper he had so quickly subdued, but didn’t want to get Mom started on another man. Mom still asked about Paul, the steady fellow with the good job. Right now, her mother was probably online selling some of her antique finds on eBay, her mailbox open. No, Mom would get too inquisitive about her boss if they started to chat. She didn’t feel like talking about George at the moment. After all, Suzanne Hudson was a twenty-first century woman who does not need a man on a white horse to rescue her, a castle to live in, or even someone to open doors for her—but the last was sort of nice along with Magnolia Hill.

Instead, she scribbled off a few picture postcards of the Hill she’d found at the pharmacy to friends so they could see where she’d landed. She debated whether to send Paul a conciliatory e-mail note saying something like “you are a nice guy; it just wasn’t meant to be,” but doubted if the note would do any more than make him angry again in that red-faced, snarling way.

The cards written, she turned back to the computer and contacted her brother, asking Blake if he had ever heard of a basketball star named Linc St. Julien or an old college player called George St. Julien, because she was living right in their hometown where nearly everything except the town itself seemed to carry their name. In the short time she’d been offline, a message from Mom had popped up beneath the half dozen from Paul she hadn’t opened or answered. Suzanne did not open any of them now, either.

The afternoon wore on. Somehow, she rebelled against working on her project. Sunday, a day of rest, a day off even for non-churchgoers—she loathed Sundays featuring the stuffiness of a church service followed by a big meal and a boring afternoon when most of the more interesting non-mall shops and galleries stayed closed. Wondering what the people of Port Jefferson did on a Sunday afternoon, she found the telephone book and called Willie’s Taxi Service. Willie knew how to get to Magnolia Hill, good because she doubted if he could have heard directions over the background noise of the television set and the clamor of dogs and children in his house. Willie said he would be right over, and forty-five minutes later, he arrived.

“Had a little trouble gettin’ up the hill, ma’am,” he explained, “but we can coast back down. I never been up here befo’, but I sure know where it at.”

She studied Willie’s vehicle, a ’56 Chevy Bel Air spray-painted a bright yellow to resemble city cabs. The upholstery appeared to be the original blue plaid, she discovered when he opened the back door. By sliding to the center of the seat, she avoided snagging her slacks on any protruding springs. Willie gunned his engine. It responded with a series of pops.

“Where to?” he said in the best tradition of cabbies.

“What’s open on Sunday?”

“Here in Port Jefferson, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“Dairy Queen out by the highway and the museum about all. I could take you into the city to see a show for forty bucks.”

“Let’s try the museum.”

The cab stalled on the way downhill, but Willie popped the clutch and had it going again by the time they got to the traffic light where, fortunately, they did not have to stop. Main Street sat deserted except for a few cars at the Methodist Church. Willie swung up in front of the Port Jefferson Museum without mishap.

“How much?” Suzanne asked. The cab had no meter.

“Six dollar,” said Willie sizing her up, a smile on his shining black face.

She paid and threw in a dollar tip even though she suspected just having paid the out-of-town stranger rate. Coming from a city where simply turning on the cab came to more than a dollar, she wasn’t appalled. Maybe, Willie could save up for new brakes.

“Thank you, ma’am. You jus’ call when you ready to go back, now.”

“Sure,” she answered and went through the gate in the rickety sticks of
pieux
fencing. The hollow sound of her steps on the broad boards of the porch must have awakened the guide.

The woman suddenly straightened from a position of nodding over the table containing the guestbook and a Plexiglas box with “donations” stenciled on the side. She wore a red volunteer button stuck on the chest of her yellow gingham costume. The sunbonnet shoved back from her badly dyed or unfortunately natural orange hair slid off of the guide’s head and dangled by the strings. The volunteer wrung her hands in her white apron and began. “My name is Evelyn Patout, and I am your guide,” she announced, coming to attention but avoiding her visitor’s eyes.