Little Gale Gumbo (19 page)

“Oh, yeah. So who runs this place?”

Camille gave the girls a silencing look through the kitchen doorway.

“It's owner occupied, Charles. We don't know much about our landlord.”

“Well, shit, baby. I ain't askin' for blood type. Man or woman?”

“Man,” she admitted carefully.

“Man, huh? He come on to you yet?”

Their mother didn't respond. Charles grinned at Josephine as he pulled out a new cigarette from the crumpled pack and lit it. “Oh, I'm just kiddin' with your momma, ain't I, Julep?”

Josie shrugged lamely. Charles laughed.

“Now, listen up, 'cause I got news.” He sat forward. “Your daddy's got himself a steady gig. Gonna be makin' some
real
money now. Gonna be a salesman.”

“Selling what exactly?” said Dahlia, arms folded.

Josie gave her a quick look. Charles frowned. “What difference does it make?” he said. “Shit, I could sell a snowball to the devil if I had to.”

But Dahlia knew he wouldn't be selling snowballs, and from the tight smile on Camille's face, Dahlia could tell her mother knew it too. Only Josie seemed oblivious to their father's intended product.

“That's wonderful, Charles,” Camille said, handing him his biscuits.

“You bet your ass it's wonderful,” said Charles, beaming again. He slapped the cushion beside him, ordering her company. Camille obliged him, an unwelcome sense of familiarity coursing through her at the feel of his arm over her shoulder, his callused fingers tapping against her skin. “I was waitin' for y'all to celebrate, so tonight, we're gonna go get ourselves a proper meal,” he announced, snuffing out his cigarette and tearing into a biscuit.

Dahlia cleared her throat loudly. Camille nodded, understanding her signal. “Charles, tonight isn't a good night,” she said carefully. “The girls have a Valentine's Day dance to go to. The town puts it on for all the young people. They've been looking forward to it for weeks.”

“A dance?” Charles cackled, spraying biscuit crumbs all over Camille's folded hands. “No shit. Well, I guess you'd have to dance to keep warm in a place like this!” Charles reached down, stroking Camille's thigh. “Maybe you and me go with'em? Show these uptight Yankees how to really dance.”

Camille saw the look of panic cross both girls' faces. She patted Charles's hand, returned it to his own thigh. “The girls deserve their night. Besides, they'll have their friend Matthew with them.”

“Who's that?”

“He's our landlord's son,” Camille said. “He and the girls have grown close.”

“Shit, not
too
close, I hope.” Charles looked right at Josie. “Boys your age are filthy, nasty little pricks, Julep.” He grinned. “I should know.”

“Charles.”

“What?” He sat back. “It's true.”

“You girls go get changed now,” Camille instructed brightly. “Go on.”

Dahlia and Josie rose quickly, disappearing into their room.

Dahlia closed the door behind them. Josie collapsed on her bed, her head in her hands.

“Don't you dare cry,” Dahlia said, already pulling off her shirt and yanking her dress from the closet. “Ignore him and he'll go away. That's what I'm going to do.”

“Ignore him?” Josie said, looking up, bewildered behind her tears. “How are we supposed to do that? He's going to ruin everything.”

“Only if you let him.” Dahlia shrugged into her dress, tugging down the ruched shoulders. She crossed to the mirror and fixed her hair with a pair of combs. “Momma will be nice to him tonight; then tomorrow she'll tell him what's what. We just have to get through tonight, that's all.”

“How can you know that?” Josie whispered, wiping at her eyes. “She can't make him leave. He's her husband. He can stay here as long as he wants. Oh, God . . .” Her face crumpled at the thought. “What if he wants to
move
here?”

“Oh, please.” Dahlia threw Josie a flat look in the mirror as she tied a black velvet choker around her neck, centering the plastic cameo. “He wouldn't survive this place for ten minutes. I wouldn't be surprised if he hightails it out of here in the middle of the night.”

Josie sucked in a sob and nodded, hopeful.

“Now get dressed,” Dahlia said, reaching for her lip gloss. “Before he gets any more brilliant ideas.”

 

Charles hadn't moved from his station when they emerged from their bedroom; only the pile of bent butts in the chipped tea saucer had grown. Their mother remained seated beside him, looking at turns captive and compliant. Josie wondered how much longer their father would be content with just cigarettes and sweet tea. Soon he'd need something stronger, and she knew the only liquor Camille kept in the house was brandy for cooking.

“Well, look at you, Julep.” Charles sat up, shaking his head. “I hardly recognize you, you so beautiful.”

Camille gestured to the closet. “Wear your boots, girls. Ben said there could be snow later.”

“Ben?” Camille realized her error at once. Charles dragged his gaze around to her. “Barely know him, huh?” He considered Camille a moment, then stood up, tugging her to her feet with him. “Come on. I think I need to meet this landlord of yours.”

Camille felt a spark of panic. “Now?”

“Why not now?”

“Charles,” she pleaded, “you just can't show up at someone's door. This isn't New Orleans. People here like a little warning. . . .”

Charles reached down, tugged out his trumpet, and blasted out a short tune.

“How's that for warnin'?” he declared, laughing.

The sisters looked at their mother, mortified. Camille smiled patiently.

 

Ben was loading the washing machine when Matthew found him. “Pop, Mr. Bergeron's here. He wants to meet you.”

“Who?” Ben stopped, realizing at once. “Oh.” He dropped the top on the washer and wiped his hands on his seat. “Is he waiting in the living room?”

“Nope. He refused to come in. Said he just wanted to get a look at you.”

Ben frowned. “He said that?”

Matthew nodded nervously.

“All right then.”

They met Charles in the foyer, his arm draped over Camille's shoulder. Ben gave her a brief smile, seeing the flash of concern in her eyes.

“I'm Camille's husband,” Charles said, thrusting out his hand as if he were delivering a sucker punch instead of a handshake. “Charles Bergeron.”

Ben accepted warily. “Ben,” he said. “Ben Haskell.”

The men shook hands, considering each other.

“This is my son, Matthew.”

Charles extended his hand to Matthew, shaking it roughly. “Boy's got a firm grip,” Charles said. “That's real good. Tough guy, ain't ya?”

Matthew withdrew his hand, looking over at his father.

“I take it that was your work on the trumpet just now, Charles?”

“You take it right.” Charles lifted his chin. “I'm real well-known in New Orleans. I'm sure Camille's told y'all that.”

Ben glanced at Camille, but she kept her eyes fixed on Charles.

“Yes, she has,” Ben lied. “I was quite impressed.”

Camille delivered him a grateful smile.

“The girls are nearly ready, Matthew,” she said eagerly. “I'll go tell them you're ready too, all right?”

Matthew nodded. “Sounds good, Mrs. Bergeron.”

“Nice meeting you, Charles,” Ben said. “Maybe we'll see you again before you leave.”

Charles gave Ben a cool look. “Oh, you will,” he said. “Y'all gonna see a lot of me.”

The edge of challenge was clear and thick, but Ben chose to ignore it, even as a fierce worry gripped him the second they'd walked up the stairs and disappeared through the apartment door.

 

Heavy, wet snowflakes fell as Matthew and the sisters walked toward the elementary school, pressing into thick crescents around the toes of their galoshes.

“Your father's pretty loud,” Matthew said, walking between them.

“Don't call him our father,” Dahlia said, pulling stuck hair off her glossed lips. “His name is Charles. Or Asshole.”

“I don't want to talk about him,” Josie said, pulling her scarf tighter around her throat. “I just want to forget he's here.”

Matthew nodded, sliding his hand under Josie's elbow when she stumbled on a slick patch of sidewalk. She looked up at him, a grateful smile blooming on her pink cheeks. “You'll dance with me, won't you, Matty?” she asked.

“Of course I will. I'll dance with both of you.”

Dahlia exhaled, watching her breath plume. “I don't plan to do much dancing,” she said, searching the lines of fellow teens who filed up the front steps of the yellow clapboard building.

Josie smiled, slipping her arm through Matthew's.
Good
, she thought.

 

Streamers and balloons dangled from one side of the auditorium to the other, Christmas lights blinking shades of green and red and blue across the scuffed wood floor.

They hung their coats along the wall, peeled off their galoshes to reveal their shoes, and tossed them into the pile. It was a good turnout, Dahlia decided, looking around hopefully at the darkened clumps of students who wreathed the dance floor and crowded the two tables of refreshments.

“You look handsome,” Josie said, seeing Matthew without his coat and hat for the first time that night.

“Thanks.” He smiled distractedly, watching Dahlia make her way toward the punch table. “Do you want something to drink?”

“Sure.”

Polly Patrick, the town librarian, and Miles Barker, the town manager, stood together, surveying the students, whispering back and forth. Josie walked by them, keeping her eyes down, knowing Polly had been in Camille's kitchen the month before, waiting on a love potion, Miles Barker's wife coming in the week after. Josie didn't understand love at all.

The musicians gathered on the small stage at the end of the auditorium, band students in matching yellow sweatshirts. A Billy Joel song rang out, slow at first, then gaining in speed and meshing eventually. Couples took to the dance floor slowly, nervous pairings and a few brave singles shuffling to the erratic beat. Josie watched with envy, looking over the rim of her plastic punch glass. They'd managed to find Dahlia in the crush of students, and Matthew insisted on staying close, even as she made her way around the dance floor, eyes peeled.

“He's not here,” she murmured. “Shit.”

“Who?” asked Matthew.

“Nobody.” Dahlia tossed her empty cup into the trash. “I need to pee.”

“Let's dance, Matty,” Josie pleaded. “I love this song.”

Matthew let Josie lead him out onto the dance floor, settling them between Lawrence White and Olivia Peaco. Matthew moved stiffly, tugging at his tie knot to loosen it, feeling suddenly choked.

 

Ben heard the knock shortly after eight. Camille stood in the foyer looking distraught. “I'm sorry to bother you.”

“It's never a bother.” Ben glanced up the stairs. “Where's Charles?”

“That's why I'm here.” She sighed. “He went through my brandy—which wasn't much—and then he went into town for more. I insisted on going with him, but he wouldn't hear of it, and that was almost an hour ago. I'm worried.”

Ben nodded, knowing that it wasn't Charles's well-being that worried her. In their brief meeting, Ben had gleaned that Charles was not the sort of man who could be trusted unsupervised. Especially not out of his element.

“I'll go look for him,” he offered without waiting for her to ask.

“Thank you,” Camille said, relieved. “He can get a little . . . carried away.”

“I'm sure it will be fine,” Ben said, reaching for his coat. But he wasn't sure. Not one bit.

 

Dahlia was walking toward the water fountain when a pair of hot hands swept over her eyes; then a deep voice said in her ear: “I've been watching you.”

Dahlia swatted at the hands, spinning around to see Billy Forester's white smile gleaming at her. He tugged her around the corner and into the supply closet, kicking the door closed behind them. “I've been waiting for you to get here,” he mumbled.

“Yeah, I noticed.” Dahlia turned her head when he tried to kiss her. “You looked really impatient making out with Tracy just a few minutes ago in the hall.”

“What am I supposed to do? She's my girlfriend.” He dipped his head to kiss her, spreading lip gloss across her chin, kneading her breasts roughly.

“Easy,” Dahlia ordered, slowing his hands. “I'm not a lump of dough.”

“No kidding.” Billy kissed her again, deeper this time, tasting of chewing tobacco. The pointed collar of his polyester shirt scraped her neck. “I can only stay a sec,” he whispered. “Tracy's waiting by the punch. She thinks I'm taking a piss.”

Dahlia pulled away, turning to fix her loosened comb, adjust her dress. “Then go.”

“I can meet you later, you know. Tracy gets talking to her friends and she barely even notices when I'm gone.”

“Don't bother. I'm not staying much longer.”

She squeezed past him and pushed out the door, only to collide with someone waiting on the other side. Looking up, she paled.

“Oh, hey, Jack.” Billy arrived behind her, one hand shifting his crotch, the other nudging her out of the way. “Bummer about the game last night, man.”