Little Gale Gumbo (15 page)

“Josephine!” Camille turned slowly to her older daughter. “Is that true?”

Dahlia shrugged. “That's what they say.”

“That's not what I'm asking.”

Dahlia glared across the room at Josie. Camille saw the silent rage pass between her daughters and she folded her arms.

“Josephine,” she instructed firmly, “I left a load of wash downstairs that needs folding.”

Josie glanced quickly at Dahlia, knowing what her mother meant. “Yes, ma'am.” She moved to the door, keeping her eyes down as she stepped out into the hall and closed the door behind her.

Camille waited until she heard Josie's footsteps on the stairs before she began again.

“The truth now, Dahlia Rose. Is this how it is with you and these boys?”

Dahlia's eyes lifted to her mother's, the challenge so clear. Camille watched her older daughter in the silence that followed, feeling the sting of retribution. It wasn't so different from that afternoon in her own mother's house, when Roberta had tried to make Camille see that a man's affection wasn't nearly as almighty as Camille had believed. Now she was on the other side of that cloudy glass. No wonder Roberta had been so frantic, so afraid. But Camille wouldn't be such an easy adversary for her child.

“I know how it is to be wanted, sugar. I know how good it can feel. But it isn't everything.”

Dahlia sniffed. “I never said it was, Momma.”

“And you think these boys will love you because you do things or say things the other girls won't?”

“I don't want them to love me,” Dahlia said indignantly. “God, that's the last thing I want.”

“That's foolishness, baby,” Camille said gently. “Everybody wants to be loved.”

“Not me. Not like that.”

“What then?” said Camille. “Why else on earth would you want these boys thinking you don't have any respect for yourself?”

“I don't care what they think about me,” Dahlia said, turning back to the window. “They don't know me. They don't know the first thing about me, and I want to keep it that way.”

“But why?” Camille blinked at her daughter, confounded. “What's so wrong with someone knowing who you are? With letting someone—the
right
someone—care about you?”

“You wouldn't understand,” Dahlia said.

“Then explain it to me,” pleaded Camille.

But Dahlia's gaze remained fixed on the street. “It's my life, Momma.”

Camille's eyes narrowed. “It's your life, but it's
our
house,” she said firmly. “You may not think what you're doing is any big deal, but other people,
younger
people, in this house might not see it that way. Am I making myself clear?”

Dahlia answered without turning. “Yes, ma'am.”

Camille moved into the kitchen, set down a pair of onions on the cutting board, and began chopping. Dahlia walked into the bedroom and shut the door behind her.

 

“I always wondered what this place looked like inside,” Rowena Parker said a week later, watching Camille take candles down from the shelf. The nineteen-year-old sat at the table, her hands stuffed in her lap, working nervously at the buttons on her canvas coat. “I know we talked about how much, Mrs. Bergeron, but I don't have enough, so I hope you don't mind . . .”

The young woman reached into her coat pocket, withdrew two pairs of wool socks, and set them on the table. “My mother knits 'em for the Christmas fair. I thought maybe it could make up for the difference?”

Camille came to the table and took them up, admiring them. “They're lovely, Rowena.”

“And real warm too.”

“I'm sure they are.” Camille took a seat. “This will do just fine.”

Rowena smiled, revealing small, crooked teeth. “I know he loves me, Mrs. Bergeron,” she said quietly. “It ain't that.”

Camille nodded, calmly drawing the candles around them.

 

“Morning, Irene.”

Ben stepped into the Little Gale post office, glad for the burst of heat. Irene Thurlow, short and thick waisted, with black hair and sparkling blue eyes, waved to him from the other side of the counter. “Morning to you too, Ben. Got a big package for you. For your new tenant, actually. Be right back with it.”

“Great.” Ben pulled off his fogged glasses and stepped up to the counter. Margery Dunham stood waiting in a brown wool coat and matching hat, holding a stack of envelopes, her husband, Thomas, standing stiffly beside her.

“Hello, Ben,” she said. “Haven't seen much of you in the village lately.”

“I've been busy,” he said, knowing well enough what Margery was digging for.

“I suppose you must be
very
busy with your tenant. So strange how she arrived here, isn't it? And without the husband.”

Strange. Ben grinned down as he cleaned his lenses on the hem of his coat. “I wouldn't know, Margery,” he said patiently, settling his glasses back on his nose. “That's not really any of my business.”

“The hell it isn't.” Thomas Dunham stepped forward, old pipe smoke sour on his breath. “She's living under your roof, Ben. And from what I hear, taking in customers for some kind of Voodoo ritual things. Were you aware of this?”

Ben shrugged. “There's no law against enterprise.”

“Call it what you want,” Margery said, “but just this morning I heard Lorna Richardson say Florence Carlisle got one done for that unfortunate birthmark on her neck.”

“Really?” Ben looked calmly between the two of them. “Did it help?”

Thomas frowned at him. “Is that supposed to be funny?”

“Birthmarks are one thing, Ben,” Margery said gravely, pressing a gloved hand against her cheek. “But then there's this business of Arnold Parker's daughter getting pregnant not four days after letting that woman put some kind of hex on her. Now you can understand why people are concerned.”

“And then there's the older one,” Thomas added. “Darla.”

“Dahlia,” Ben corrected firmly.

“Well, there's already lots of talk about her and some of the boys at school. Boys with girlfriends. Nice boys who may not know what they're getting into. If you get my meaning.”

Ben sighed, his patience running thin. “No, Tom, I don't think I do.”

“Ben . . .” Margery stepped between them, her voice softening. “We all remember how hard things were for you and Matthew when Leslie left, how much help you needed getting on with things, and we were more than happy to help you, because that's what neighbors do for one another.” Margery paused, glancing nervously at her husband. “We'd hate to see you go through it all over again, that's all.”

“Here you are, Ben.” Irene Thurlow returned, hoisting a long, flat box onto the counter. “Got Fragile stamps all over it. I gave Donnie grief when he brought it off the truck, tossing the poor thing around like a bluefish. Lord.”

Ben took the box and turned it over before Margery could peek at the return address. “Thanks, Irene.”

But walking back out into the crisp morning air, Camille's box under his arm, he felt a brief but twisting shame creep out from under his indignation.

The Dunhams were right. The island had been incredibly kind to him and Matthew when Leslie had gone. For most of those early weeks of abandonment, Ben didn't know what he would have done without his neighbors.

 

“What is it?” asked Josie, eyes wide and hands clasped under her chin as Matthew and Ben stood at the table and pried open the thickly taped corners of the cumbersome package.

“Whatever it is, it's wrapped up like a mummy,” said Matthew.

“Easy, now,” Ben said. “We're getting close.”

They peeled and peeled until the layers of cardboard and felt thinned enough that it took only one gentle tear to reveal a telltale splash of turquoise.

Camille drew in a delighted gasp. “Oh, they didn't,” she whispered.

Ben helped her pull away the last of the covering and soon the canvas emerged, a vivid landscape of brightly colored cottages under an orange sky.

“It's that painting of the Quarter, Momma,” Josie said. “The one at Lionel and Roman's that you loved so much.”

Camille smiled, her eyes filling with tears. “They always promised it to me, but of course I never in a million years imagined they really would.”

Matthew frowned at the brightly colored painting. “Who are Lionel and Roman?”

“Friends of ours,” said Josie. “The most wonderful men ever.”

“We lived with them for a while,” said Dahlia.

“You mean they live
together
?” asked Matthew.

“Well, duh,” said Dahlia.

“Where shall we put it?” asked Camille, hands on her hips as she scanned the apartment.

But Josie had already rushed across the room, her small hands pointing toward the wall beside the dining table. “Here. Where we can always see it.”

Camille smiled. “Perfect.”

Ben went downstairs and returned a few minutes later with a hammer and a handful of nails. He and Matthew hung it, while Josie and Dahlia supervised. When it was level and secure, the five of them stood together, admiring it.

“It must be worth a great deal,” Ben said. “The label says it was insured for quite a bit of money.”

“It's a Perez,” said Camille. “He's quite famous in New Orleans.”

“What's the Quarter?” asked Matthew.

“The French Quarter,” said Dahlia.

“The Vieux Carré,” Camille said, the words fluttering off her tongue. “It's the oldest part of New Orleans.”

Josie smiled. “Isn't it magical?”

Later on, while they cleaned up the packaging, Camille moved close to Ben and said, “I'm sorry.”

Ben folded cardboard under his arm. “Sorry for what?”

“I overheard Maryanne Foster in the Laundromat talking about Rowena's pregnancy. I'm sorry to have caused you such embarrassment, Benjamin. I never imagined working a few spells would get so out of hand. I suppose I should have.”

Ben glanced to the kitchen, where the sisters and Matthew were digging into a fresh batch of pralines.

“You haven't caused me any embarrassment,” he said gently. “I don't give a fig what people say. I never have. I never will.”

Camille smiled. “You say that now. . . .”

“I'll say it then too.”

 

A week later, it was discovered that Rowena had lied about her pregnancy, but by then it was too late.

Camille would never again sell her spells on Little Gale Island.

Part Two

The holy trinity: peppers, onions, and celery

Thirteen

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Main Street was just waking up when Dahlia pulled her truck against the curb and darted under the café's purple awning, jiggling her key in the front door until the old lock gave way.

“Joze? You here?”

Coming inside, she found the jukebox playing Billie Holiday and the smell of chicory coffee thick and strong. The counter was lined with rows of bouquets, note cards sticking out of each one like tiny flags.

“She's in the back.”

Dahlia looked around the counter to place the disembodied male voice and found Danny Warner sitting at a corner table. She could still picture the policeman as a freshman in his KISS T-shirt, picking his nose and wiping it under the cafeteria bench when he thought no one was looking.