Pamela Morsi (25 page)

The use of his given name said volumes about
the nature of the woman's relationship with Boudreau as well as her
current state of apprehension.

"No no," Orva said, waving assurance. "I have
only come for a visit. Mon fils, help me from the boat."

The children scrambled to the dock and Armand
hurried to assist the old woman. He then offered a hand to Aida and
the two of them followed the old woman up the ramp to the small
house.

In front of him the children chattered
together as if they were old friends.

"This bayou is so gloomy," Gaston commented
to Elsa.

The little girl shrugged without comment, but
her brother piped in a comment.

"Only since Oncle has gone away. We were all
so happy before," he said.

Armand cast a quick glance at Aida before the
two of them stepped inside.

Helga Shotz bustled around nervously,
apologizing for the state of her home. In fact, the little cabin
was scrupulously clean and the fragrance of fresh-baked bread
emanated from the row of big bowl-shaped loaves cooling upon the
shelf.

Her accent was heavy, forcing the listeners
to pay close attention to her words, but her understanding of the
language was estimable. The woman cast several surreptitious
glances at Aida. Armand wondered what she was thinking. How would a
plain, almost haggard-looking housewife regard the beautiful woman
who was to be her lover's bride?

Aida, in fact, appeared more uncomfortable
than Madame Shotz. She kept her body still and her eyes lowered as
if she were trying to make herself disappear.

"Would you like coffee?" Helga asked. "I am
afraid I do not make it so good, but I can make it."

Orva smiled broadly at her. "Do make us
coffee," she said. "And do not worry about the quality of it. If an
Acadian wants coffee he will drink any kind. And if he doesn't want
coffee, then he's probably drinking sazerac!"

The joking comment dispelled some of the
tension in the room.

As Helga busied herself brewing the aromatic
cafe noir, Orva chattered along in what sounded much like idle
conversation.

"I knew the man who built this house," she
said. "It was empty for years before your husband bought it. But I
knew the fellow who had it first."

"Really?" Helga's question was politeness
devoid of interest.

Orva took no notice. "He was a Spaniard, a
strange little man," she continued. "He lived alone here, needed no
one and talked to no one. He trapped in the back prairies for
thirty years before our people arrived."

"What happened to him?" Helga asked.

Orva shrugged. "No one knows. Some say he
moved on to less peopled hunting grounds. Some say he was killed in
a drunken brawl with a trader in Opelousas. Years back old
Arceneaux killed a gator and found a silver belt buckle in his
belly. It looked a whole lot like the one that Spaniard always
wore."

"Oh dear." Helga's eyes widened in shock.

"The syndic we had then." She pointed to
Armand. "The fellow who served as judge under the Spanish, he
finally had to simply declare the man dead."

Orva tutted almost to herself and shook her
head sadly.

"When a man has made a life where no one
knows or cares about him, often when he leaves it, there is not so
much as a ripple in the water to show his passing."

The coffee, when presented, was certainly
drinkable, and the strange German bread was surprising tasteful,
though a little coarse for their tastes.

Madame Landry kept up an unending stream of
conversation, seemingly in no direction at all. Armand waited
patiently for her to get to the point of their visit but the old
woman seemed content to just drink coffee and chat.

With Helga's admonition to Elsa to watch the
little ones, the children played together outside. Their loud
boisterous play belied the fact that they had never set eyes upon
each other before that morning.

The only disruption in what appeared to be an
amiable social call was the abrupt arrival of Karl Shotz, Helga's
oldest son. The burly twelve-year-old burst through the back door,
clearly believing that something was amiss. Then he glared
unhappily at the room full of strangers who had come for
coffee.

His mother introduced her guests and the
youngster offered polite greetings in a slightly belligerent
monotone.

Helga suggested that he help his sister
supervise the younger children. Instead he pulled up a chair and
seated himself between his mother and Madame Landry.

"Do you know who I am?" Orva asked him.

"You are the fortune teller," he
answered.

Madame Landry's eyebrows shot up.

"No, that is not quite correct," she told him
calmly. "I am a treater. I do what I can to aid the sick and
injured. For that job, I often have the help of voices and visions.
At times, it is true, I can tell a person what his future will
be."

He gave the old woman a slow, almost insolent
look.

"Then tell me my future," he demanded.

Armand was startled by the young man's
antagonism, but even more surprised by Orva's calm response. From
his own experience, Armand knew that

Madame Landry did not tolerate insolence or
disrespect. Yet she continued to talk to the boy as if she did not
notice the offensiveness of his tone.

"You have a very bright future," she said to
him. "But you think that it begins now. It does not."

The young boy's brow furrowed. "What does
that mean?" he asked.

Madame Landry smiled. "It means that it is
still time to leave the judgments of elders to elders." She reached
over and patted his arm. "Soon enough you will be such a one
yourself."

Karl angrily jerked his arm from her and
stormed out of the room.

Helga's face was flushed with humiliation. "I
must apologize," she said. "My son has been very short of temper
these days, but I cannot excuse his rudeness."

"Let it be," Orva said, waving away the
woman's concern. "It is a difficult time for your family. And a
difficult step in childhood."

"Yes, I suppose so," Helga agreed.

"A boy, especially at his age," Madame Landry
continued, "well, he needs a father. He needs a man to show him how
to do and be."

Helga's face paled visibly.

Armand shifted uncomfortably in his
chair.

"A mother must do her best," Orva stated.
"But a boy learns to be a man by watching a man."

Madame Shotz lowered her eyes guiltily.

Aida's were wide.

Armand wanted the floor to open and swallow
them up. Why was Madame Landry deliberately bringing up this most
painful of subjects?

The old woman continued. "It is up to a
mother to

ensure that the man he watches is the man
that she wishes her son to grow up to be."

"Sometimes that is not possible," Helga said
quietly.

Madame Landry shrugged and nodded. "Yes,
sometimes it is not," she agreed.

"Madame Landry is teaching me to be the
traiteur," Aida blurted out suddenly. They were virtually the first
words she had spoken. "Of course I cannot remember the cures and
charms so Monsieur Sonnier is writing it all down."

"That is wonderful," Helga said.

"I had never thought to be a person so
responsible as a treater," she said. "And I know that I am not
worthy, but it seems that it is what I shall be."

"How nice."

"Of course I have always loved to work with
herbs, but I am not very smart and I have a very bad memory."

Madame Landry chuckled. "Mademoiselle Gaudet
often sees her shortcomings, but fails to understand how they
benefit her."

The cryptic words caused a momentary pause,
but Aida had effectively rescued the conversation from the
uncomfortable direction in which it had been headed.

Within another quarter-hour the coffee was
finished and Madame Landry made to leave. Helga walked them to the
dock, calling to the formerly rowdy, now tired children.

She touched Aida on the arm, drawing her
aside. Her words were low but Armand could hear them.

"Thank you for coming by, mademoiselle,"
she

said. "Though perhaps we cannot be friends, I
do not wish to be your enemy."

"I would be happy to be your friend, Madame
Shotz," Aida answered with obvious sincerity.

Helga was flushed, obviously embarrassed by
the situation.

"Please give my regards to Monsieur Boudreau.
I will not be seeing him in the future."

"I may not see much of him, either," Aida
said. "I broke off our betrothal last Saturday."

Helga's eyes widened in shock at Aida's
words. "You broke it off?"

Aida nodded.

The children rushed upon them like a plague,
all laughing and pushing and talking at the same time. A plunge
from the dock by little Marie was barely averted.

Armand handed Aida into the boat and then the
two children after her. He turned to aid Madame Landry into the
pirogue, but the old woman ignored him, speaking to Helga Shotz
once more.

"Do you know what we call you? How we refer
to you?" she asked.

Helga blushed bright red and glanced
nervously at her children as if expecting a vulgar derisive
term.

"We call you the veuve allemande," she said.
"The German widow."

Helga's brow furrowed. "I have told no lies
about my marital status, Madame," she said defensively.

Orva nodded. "I know that you have not.
Actually, they got that from me. I was the first to call you
that."

She turned then to Armand. "Help me into the
pirogue," she said.

Once the old woman was settled, Elsa and
Jakob managed the rope and cast it to Armand as he pushed off.

"Monsieur," the little boy called out.
"Please tell Oncle to come and see me."

"He is gone away right now," Armand called
back. "I will speak to him when I see him."

"Where has he gone?" Jakob asked.

Armand shrugged, unknowing.

"To the German coast." The reply was called
out by Aida.

Armand was surprised at the answer. Madame
Shotz appeared stunned.

Chapter 13

Aida showed up as requested at Madame
Landry's home for another day of learning. She was rapidly becoming
accustomed to the idea. Certainly she still was not smart enough,
and she still had trouble remembering where she'd left her shoes,
her shawl, or her sunbonnet, but since the vision she was beginning
to believe that it was true that she should be the treater.

Only three days earlier, on that surprisingly
uneventful visit to Helga Shotz, she had stated with conviction
for the first time that she was to be the new treater. Her words
had been spoken only in an attempt to cover an awkward moment. Yet
she had felt a strange sense of confidence. The burden of
responsibility bolstered her in a way that her physical beauty
never had.

Of course, there was still Armand. He still
seemed less than convinced of her abilities, but while she valued
his opinion, it somehow did not matter as much as it once had. If
he thought her unsuited for the task—well, he was in many ways
correct. If he was not willing to believe that her vision was real,
well, in that he was wrong.

Aida stood alone with her thoughts inside the
quiet solemnity of Madame Landry's house. Alternately she watched
out the front door for Armand's arrival on the river, glanced at
the old woman alone in her garden, and eyed a large luscious
blueberry tart cooling on the table.

Madame Landry was in a strange mood that
morning, pale and almost listless; she requested to be left to
herself awhile.

Aida respected her wishes and therefore paced
alone in the house. She wondered if the old woman was communicating
with the voices. The idea was momentarily frightening to Aida. Then
she recalled the warm sense of calm and peace that had settled upon
her after the strange vision she'd experienced. Perhaps one could
become accustomed to such. Especially knowing that it was meant to
help people in the community, heal the sick, ward off disaster.

If only Armand had taken her more seriously.
Aida shook her head as the vivid memory of the field of shorn grain
troubled her once again. There was something important that Armand
must tell Laron. Somehow Armand was the key; he had the answer and
he could not see it.

Of course there was still time. Laron had not
yet returned from the German coast. Aida ruminated momentarily on
what business he might have there and then let the thought go by.
Laron would be back within days, undoubtedly. Maybe by that time
she could convince Armand to speak with him.

A low murmur of voices caught her attention.
Aida walked eagerly to the doorway to look out through the curtains
toward the bayou. Jean Baptiste Sonnier was poling the pirogue near
to shore. Armand adeptly jumped to the dock. He carried under his
arm the tools of his trade, a polished wooden box containing his
paper, ink, and plume. Safely on the bank, he turned to wave his
brother off.

Jean Baptiste waved back and then apparently
caught sight of Aida in the doorway. He doffed his hat and gave a
half-bow.

"As beautiful as always, Mademoiselle
Gaudet!" he called out.

Armand turned to look at her, his expression
black.

Aida's heart sank. Another bad mood day, she
thought. Could Armand Sonnier never just be happy?

He stomped up the porch steps and in through
the door.

"Where is Madame Landry?" he asked
grumpily.

"She's in the garden," Aida told him. "She
wanted to be alone for a while."

Armand's brow furrowed in momentary concern.
"Is she all right?"

"Yes I think so. Perhaps she is . . . well,
communing with the voices."

Armand looked askance. "Surely not," he said
firmly. "That certainly must only occur when she is alone or at
night or—"