The Devil in Canaan Parish (8 page)

I wanted to pick my little sister up and carry her out of there.
 
I wanted to take her to the picture show.
 
I was sure that if she knew we were going to see Shirley Temple she would wake up and throw her arms around my neck and smile.
 
But my mother turned around and saw me,

“Get out!” she screamed.
 
“Get him out of here!”

And I felt the arms of Mrs. Wilson around my shoulders,
 
pulling me backwards,
 
pulling me back into the kitchen and trying to shush me, to let me know it was alright.

“It’s the polio, honey, she couldn’t breathe any more,” she said, her voice cracking. “You can’t be in there, honey,” she soothed, “you don’t want to get sick too.”
 
Mrs. Wilson shut the door, cutting off my view.
 
It was the last time I ever saw my sister.

I felt myself easing back, the tears blinding me again, and then I ran out of the house and stayed away all night.
 
When I returned the next morning, there was no trace of Gracie.
 
Mrs. Wilson was scrubbing the back steps with bleach.
 
There would be no breakfast, not until the house was sanitized.
 
My mother was sitting on the back porch swing wearing her hat and gloves.
 
Our suitcases were packed and arranged next to her feet, all except Gracie’s.
 
When she saw me, she stood up and grabbed our things, and I followed her out of the yard and down the road to the bus station.
 
We got on the bus to Atlanta to find my father.
 

During the long, long hours of that bus ride, my mother and I did not speak.
 
I kept glancing at her face, hoping to see some sign of emotion there, but she stared ahead of her, her face expressionless and vacant.
 
Only now and then would she sniff and raise the edge of her handkerchief, gripped tightly in her gloved fist, to the edge of her eyes, sigh deeply, and continue gazing straight ahead. I wanted to scream and cry and bury my head in my mother’s chest and have her arms around me.
 
Instead I choked back my grief until it was a burning lump in my chest that made it painful to breathe.
 

Lying in my bed, I could still feel that burning sensation, and I rolled over, pressing my fist into my chest and taking a gasp of air. The sound of a frying pan clanging on the stove made me open my eyes.
 
Sally wasn’t there.
 
I was relieved.
 
I knew she was most likely dressing in the bathroom.
 
She did not like anyone to see her after a valium night until she had washed her face and put on make up.
 
I sat up and threw on a bathrobe and then made my way to the kitchen. Melee had her back to me, stirring grits in a pot on the stove. The table was set for two with my wife’s white porcelain “everyday” plates and coffee cups.
 
I sat down and turned my coffee cup over.
 

Without a backward glance, Melee picked up the heavy coffee pot and carried it over to me. She paused for a moment, and I raised my cup.
 
Her eyes did not meet mine as she poured the coffee, steaming hot and a deep rich brown.
 
I am always impressed by the many different colors of coffee, from maple to mahogany; the tones and hues as rich and varied as the faces of the colored people who lived down in the Bottoms.
 
So many different colors, and yet little noticed by most of the men I encountered from day to day who read the world like a newspaper and always took their coffee black.

I put the cup to my lips and breathed in deeply, allowing the steam to open up my sinuses, clearing the sleep from my mind.
 
Melee had returned to the stove and was now bringing a frying pan with scrambled eggs over to me.
 
She spooned some onto my plate, and then placed a basket of hot biscuits and a bowl of grits on the table.
 
When she had put the bacon tray down, she stood back and wiped the grease from her fingers onto her apron.
 
I could see the color of her hair better in the morning light.
 
It was the color of molasses, with a hint of red, and she wore it soft and wavy down to her shoulders.
 

“Did you sleep well?” I asked her.

“Yes, tank you.
 
Very good.” She said.
 
“You like de food?
 
It tastes good?”

“Yes,” I said, and smiled, taking a big bite of eggs. “Very good.”

She seemed pleased and relieved, and began to collect the pans and rinse them in the sink.

At that moment, Sally entered the room.
 
I saw her taking in the scene:
 
the breakfast table set, Melee rinsing the pans, me dipping a biscuit into my coffee, unshaven and still in my bathrobe.
 
I saw her eyes narrow and her chin raise.
 
She cleared her throat.
 
Melee turned abruptly.
 
She turned off the water and wheeled around, her back to the sink.

“Melee, is it?”
 
asked Sally.

Melee nodded.
 
“Yes, ma’am, dat’s right.”

“Melee, if you’re going to be working here with us, there are a few things you need to understand.
 
First, you do not serve Mr. Palmer and me in the kitchen.
 
We do not eat any meals in the kitchen; that is where you eat.
 
We will be taking our meals in the dining room.”
 

I shifted uncomfortably in my chair, suddenly feeling conscientious. Melee glanced from Sally to me and then back again. I could see the confusion on her face for a moment, and then watched it replaced by an understanding.
 
Sally was clearly the one in charge.

“Breakfast is at eight o’clock; dinner is at two, when Mr. Palmer comes home for his midday break; and supper is at seven.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Melee agreed.

“Second,” Sally continued, “you will dress properly.
 
You will pull your hair back away from your face, and you will wear a uniform.
 
Our last girl left hers hanging on the back of the pantry door. You may wash it today, but I expect to see you wearing it tomorrow.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Melee bit her bottom lip and tugged at her hair. I could see her trying to pull it back, but it was not cooperating.
 
“But, um,
 
tomorrow ma’am,” she began, “tomorrow is Sunday.”

“Yes yes,” Sally stammered, “so tomorrow you shall have the day off – I declare, starting work on a Saturday of all things – you may have Sunday off of course, but I shall expect you to wear a uniform on Monday,” said Sally,
 
flustered.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Each morning I will leave a list of chores for you to do,” Sally continued, regaining her composure, “you can read, right?”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Melee, her shoulders stiffening.

“For today, you may wash the linens and polish the silver set in the dining room.
 
The supplies are under the sink. I will be riding with Mr. Palmer to town to do some shopping.
 
We’ll be back this afternoon.”

With that, Sally marched out the back door to wait for me.
 
I knew she was still angry, but to speak to her would be kicking the hornet’s nest.
 
With Sally it was better to let her simmer on her own.
 
Eventually her carefully cultivated civility would kick in.

  
I finished my breakfast and then shaved and dressed for work.
 
When I returned to the kitchen, it was clean.
 
The dishes had been done and put away, and the Formica table and countertops were sparkling.
 
I walked to the back door, still doing up my tie and saw Melee through the screen. She was filling the washtub from the garden hose by the garage, preparing to scrub clean the ridiculous maid’s uniform and white apron my wife insisted she wear.

Sally was fussing over one of her rose bushes, the sweat beading up on the back of her neck and dampening her bleached blond hair.
 
It was a typical July day in South Louisiana, already ninety degrees at nine o’clock in the morning.

“You’re late for work, dear,” said Sally over her shoulder, shearing a thorny branch off with a loud snap. “Daddy won’t be pleased.”
 
I hummed in reply and pecked her lightly on the cheek.

“Don’t be late tonight.
 
We’re supposed to play bridge with Peg and Warren.” I hummed again, and then headed for the garage to get the car. Peg Blanchard was Sally’s cousin.
 
Her husband Warren was the District Attorney for Canaan Parish. We played bridge with them every Thursday night, and always at their home.
 
Sally was too ashamed to host them at ours.

For the first time in many years I did not dread my ride to the drugstore.
 
I turned on the radio to a rock-n-roll station and was pleased to hear Jerry Lee Lewis banging on the piano.
 
The shy was a brilliant blue, and the air felt a little cleaner after last night’s rain.
 
The water had collected in the potholes, and they were filled with little sparrows splashing in and out.
 
I passed a snowy egret walking on the levee, his gullet full from a morning of fishing in the bayou.
 
I slowed down as a sandpiper darted across the road.
 
The Cajuns called them
papabottes
for the sounds they made, and claimed that eating them gave a person extraordinary amorous prowess --
 
a belief that had at one time nearly caused the bird’s extinction, and perhaps explained the frantic way in which this one seemed to be running for cover from me, as if he knew what I was thinking.

I dropped Sally off in front of the grocery store and then drove over to Bordelon’s. When I arrived, little Izzy Johnson was standing at the back door, hopping from foot to foot, a huge smile across his shiny brown face.
 
Izzy was our delivery boy.
 
At eleven years old, he reminded me of myself as a boy, happy to be busy, to be earning even a few pennies to take back to his mother down in the Bottoms.
 
Izzy was proud of his second-hand bike with the large basket in the front.
 
He would spend hours behind the store, polishing that bike and waiting for the next delivery.
   

“Mr. Bram, Mr. Bram!” he shouted as I walked up.

“Mr. Bram, did you get stuck in that storm last night?
 
Ooo-eee that was a big one!”
 
His eyes were wide with excitement.
 

“Yeah, Izzy, it was quite a storm.”

“Yes sir, yes sir it was,” said Izzy.
 
“You got any deliveries for me today sir?” he asked.

“Well, now,” I said, “let’s go inside and see, alright?”
 

Izzy was visibly thrilled as I opened the door and motioned for him to come in. He waited near the lunch counter as I hung up my hat, put on my apron and walked to the front of the store to unlock the door and flip over the open sign. Mrs. Connolly was already there, waiting.

“Bout time you opened, don’t you think?” she snapped, bustling past me faster than it was probably safe for any ninety year old to go.
 

“Indeed it is, eh Palmer?” said my father-in-law, appearing from his office with the cash drawer in hand. He glared at me, and then his face broke into an enormous smile as he greeted Mrs. Connolly. She pulled him into a discussion about the best solution for an upset stomach, which had evidently kept her up all night. I smiled to myself, thinking that it was more likely she was upset by the thunderstorm than anything, but I was grateful for the distraction she provided my father-in-law.
 
It would delay the browbeating I was sure to get.

I went behind the register and pulled out the ledger we kept for delivery orders.
 
There were three standing orders on Saturdays, in addition to anything that might be called in.
 
I prepared the orders in brown paper bags and then gave them over to Izzy.
 
It was not necessary to explain them to him.
 
Although he couldn’t read, he had memorized all our standing orders for the week and could tell whose was whose by the size and weight of the bag.
 
He also had the delivery route committed to memory.
 
The day’s order would take him on a five-mile journey from the store north to the Savoy’s rice farm, down to a couple of addresses in the Bottoms and then back to the store again. He would be back by lunchtime, and would then start on his afternoon route to deliver anything that had been called in that morning.

Once Izzy had gone, I went back to the storeroom to get started on some inventory work. It wasn’t long before Bordelon found me and began his daily verbal assault.

“So, Palmer,” he sneered, “how long was it before Sally sent that little Cajun bitch back home?”

I was always shocked at the crudity with which my father-in-law spoke with me.
 
It was a complete change from the polite gentility with which he addressed all his customers, neighbors, family and friends.
 

“Charlie,” I said, watching Bordelon stiffen.
 
After ten years of marriage to his daughter, the man still hated it when I called him anything other than ‘Mr. Bordelon.’
 
“Sally was fine.”

“Fine? What do you mean fine?” he barked, the smile suddenly fading from his lips.

“I mean that Sally was fine with it.
 
She’s going to give the girl a trial period.”
 

Bordelon squinted his eyes and cocked his head at me.
 
The predictable way in which he behaved had never been more amusing to me.