The First Annual Grand Prairie Rabbit Festival (27 page)

Vicky stops, too. “What is it?”

I put a hand on my chest and shake my head clear. “Nothing. Let’s go eat some bunny.”

Of course, it’s not that easy. On one hand, it’s nice to be back with Vicky and Mark. Even though our little triumvirate is broken, we manage to play nice, largely through the efforts of Mark. On the other hand, I imagine this is what hell must be like—being so close to something that once seemed ideal, knowing that you’d reached too far and fucked it all up.

I’d like nothing more than to sneak off to the rectory and down half a bottle of whiskey, but I’m tapping reserves I didn’t know I had and resisting the temptation. I’ll have enough headaches this weekend. Adding a hangover to the mix isn’t going to help things any. If nothing else, I learn that ice-cold Dr Pepper pairs well with nine out of ten rabbit stew recipes.

By eleven o’clock, it’s all over.

What a strange sight, to see a carnival empty out. The families with small children are the first to go, the children asleep in their parents’ arms before reaching the parking lot. Next are the families with older children—the nine- and ten-year-olds hopped up on adrenaline and junk food, but exhausted all the same. Many of them have to be dragged screaming through the dust, “But I’m not ready to leeeeavvvvvve,” their common battle cry. Then the dancers, who scatter into the parking lot sweaty and happy as soon as the band stops. And then, finally, the teens, who hang on until ten thirty, when the rides and midway shut down. The taillights of their cars join the dragon’s tail of dust snaking out onto the highway.

Once they’re all gone, the carnival seems to let out a long, slow breath as a hush falls over the grounds and the lights and rides go dark.

Then noise again. The food vendors start to break down their equipment, and the carnies, who’d sat sullenly by their rides all night revving motors up and down, suddenly come to life, shouting at one another, laughing, cracking open their first beers.

I’m standing in the midway watching it all, distracted, when Vicky slides up next to me.

“We need to collect the cash and receipts,” she says, pulling her hair back from her face with both hands, leaving her elbows pointing out like the guns of a ball turret. She looks beat. She wears it well.

“Go home,” I say. “I’ll take care of it.”

She looks at me as if I’ve just promised to build a church by hand in three days. “Do you even know how to do this?”

“I’m sure it can’t be that hard,” I say. “You’ve done enough. It’s the least I can do. Just show me what to do.”

She walks with me to the “Boudin Ball” booth and talks me through the process. Look at their receipts, take our cut, write it down.

“When you get back to the rectory, just count it all to make sure it adds up.”

“Aye-aye, Cap’n.”

“You’re sure you can do this?”

“Vicky.”

“Okay, okay.”

Mark jogs up to us. “Hey, party people. Need help?”

“I got it,” I say.

“Yeah,” Vicky says, raising her eyebrows. “Apparently, Steve has it under control.”

Mark looks at me. “Really?”

“Oh, c’mon,” I protest. “I’m not retarded, you know.”

“I guess sometimes we forget,” Mark says, laughing at me. “Anyway, I’m going home with Vicky tonight. I have to get Chase and the rest of my stuff. I’ll bring it over tomorrow.”

“Sounds good. And yall try to sleep in. If anything needs doing here, I’ll take care of it.”

With that, they’re off. I walk the grounds, collect the cash, and return to the rectory to count it. One night of business has us three-fourths of the way to the break-even point. Satisfied with a job well done, I decide to walk the midway one last time before turning in.

It’s a cloudless night and now that the rides have shut down, I can see the stars above. Instead of chirping crickets, I hear machines cooling and settling, the beginnings of a party over in the circle of trailers across the highway where the carnies have set up.

I find myself in front of the elephant enclosure. It’s vacant. I’m not quite sure why. I haven’t had a chance to catch up to Blackfoot for more than a minute or two. I lean on the railing and consider the empty circle. I wonder if Miss Rita would have been disappointed. She’d seemed genuinely excited to see one. Hard to imagine living that long and never seeing an elephant up close. Then again, I’m sure she’d be quick to tell me she’d seen plenty—and an elephant wasn’t going to make or break her life either way.

She’d definitely be disappointed with the mess I’ve made for myself. She’d grab me by the collar, give me a good shaking, and tell me to quit my whining and get on.

“I’m trying,”
I’d say.

Then she’d reply,
“And you still need a woman.”

“She’ll be here tomorrow,” a man’s voice says.

I jump a little at the sound of it. It’s Blackfoot.

“What was that?”

“I said she’ll be here tomorrow.”

“Who?”

“The elephant,” he says, and laughs. “Who’d you think I was talking about?” He laughs again. “You got it real fuckin’ bad, don’t you?”

“What?” I counter.

“I don’t know what, exactly. But whatever it is, it’s got a tight hold on you.” He walks over and leans on the fence. “Been watching you all night. Walking around, doing your job like a man who knows what he’s doing.”

“Something wrong with that?”

“Wrong? Fuck no. But—and no offense—competence ain’t exactly the first fucking word that jumps to mind when I see you.”

“People can change, can’t they?”

“Depends on what you mean by change. I think they can become what they were supposed to be in the first place. Or they can deny whatever the fuck it is that’s bothering them in the first place—distract themselves with work or chasing money or some such.”

I’m a little freaked out. It’s like he’s crawled into my head and started peeking around. I don’t dare look directly at him, so I sneak my eyeballs over to the periphery. He’s done the same thing, his reptilian right eye nestled in the corner of its socket, considering me. A wicked little grin creeps across his face.

“So tell me, Father. How well is this little festival of yours keeping your mind off that woman? I imagine this evening you survived fine. But tonight? Ahhh, the fucking night. You’re more than a little afraid to go back to that room of yours. All that silence. Can’t fucking sleep, no matter how hard you try, no matter how dead tired. Tormented soul and all that.”

I back away from the fence slowly. “What are you? Satan or something?” I ask. God has never said a single word to me, but the devil is suddenly more than happy to oblige. And instead of offering something really cool in exchange for my soul, he’s content to scare the shit out of me.

Blackfoot starts to shudder. His shoulders pump up and down. He pounds the fence with a closed fist and his eyes are squeezed shut, tears rolling out of them. His breath comes out in quick little grunts. He looks like a bullfrog with something lodged in its throat. I figure he’s about to hurl a stream of bright green vomit or turn into a werewolf.

I’m just getting ready to run when he grabs the fence, steadies himself, catches a deep breath, and releases a high-pitched “Heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.” Then he starts shaking again, bends over, and puts one hand on his knee and another up toward me.

“Don’t,” he says. Then: “Heeeeee. Huh. Heeeeee.” He’s laughing. And trying to breathe. “Oh…Heeeee…Dear…Heeeeeee. Fucking. Lord!” He gets out the last two with a shout, shakes his head. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”

The fucks bring him back to himself. He straightens out and wipes the tears off his face.

“Fuck me, Father.” He pounds his chest, trying to dislodge the last few laughs. “Didn’t mean to make you shit yourself.”

“I wasn’t,” I start to say.

“Don’t get me started again, Father. Please.” He looks as if he’s just finished a marathon.

Fine. I’ll grant him that he scared me nearly shitless. “But how?” I want to know.

“If you asked my mother, she’d say it was ‘the gift.’ But it’s just carnival tricks is all. Or, if you go to a fancy fucking college, I guess you could call it something like deductive reasoning or psychology or something.”

I just look at him.

“It’s like this,” he continues. “I run a caravan. I’m judge and jury of this group. I watch. I listen. I pay attention. I also seen thousands of people march through my midways. I also watched my grandmother—may she rest in peace.” Here, he crosses himself and spits over his shoulder. “Watched her read palms and cards for fifteen or so years. People ain’t all that complicated, Father. It always boils down to the Four
F
s: fucking, fighting, family, and funding. That’s it. That’s people in a nutshell. And, man of the cloth or no, you’re still people. And you ain’t exactly hard to read.”

“Oh, really?”

“You’re a man. You live alone in the woods. You got no worries about funding. You got no family. So that leaves fucking and fighting. And those two almost always travel together. And despite your little poof of a friend there, I figure you bat for the right team. So a healthy young lad such as yourself needs to get laid something fucking awful. And the pinched way you carry yourself, I can tell it’s been a fuck of a long time since you’ve had a good roll in the hay.”

“You could say that about any priest,” I counter.

“Well, most of them—and I’ve seen a lot—aren’t spending half their time with single members of the opposite sex barking up their tree. Much easier to defy nature, Father, when you remove all the temptations.”

It’s like Miss Rita all over again. “You’re not the first person who’s beaten this dead horse.”

“Doesn’t surprise me any.”

“Besides, what am I supposed to do? I’m a priest. I’ve taken vows. I’m married to the Church.”

“Vows, huh? How are those treating you?”

“They’re not supposed to be easy. The sacrifice is the point.”

“Still sacrificing things to God, are we? I think a fucking goat would do just as well,” he says. “Certainly cause a lot less trouble. Where does that sacrifice for God get you, Father? Ever think of that? A sacrifice He didn’t ask for, mind you. All them other clowns in the Bible were married, had children. And yet here you are. How many fifteen-year-old boys were part and parcel of this sacrifice you people make?”

“That has nothing—”

He cuts me off. “Fine. Cheap fucking shot, that was. Sure. Your hands are clean. For now. But my point remains. Nothing fucking good ever came of denying nature.”

“We’re not animals,” I say. “We deny our nature all the time.”

“C’mon, Father. You know better than that. We channel it. That’s what the rules are for. Even in a caravan, you channel nature. You manage it. Now, when you try to deny it? Like you people do? That’s where the trouble starts.”

All my years of education and I’m having circles talked around me by a man who cheats kids out of their quarters with bent basketball rims, short-lived goldfish, and blunt-tipped darts.

“That’s all well and good,” I say. “But at the end of the day, I have to make my peace with God.”

“Ha!” he shouts. “Make peace with God? Really? Make peace with yourself, Father. The Good Lord sure as hell can take care of Himself. Besides, I think He’ll be a lot less forgiving if you finally snap and find yourself in a back room with one of them altar girls of yours. And if He don’t notice, for fuck sure her daddy will.”

There’s a glint in his eyes as he says this, but he’s not joking. I shudder to think of the things he’s seen in his years of running that caravan of his.

But all of this is beside the point, isn’t it?

“Fuck it,” I say, draping my arms over the elephant fence and putting my head down on the top crossbar. “It doesn’t matter anyway. Even if I were to throw all caution to the wind and risk my job, it doesn’t matter. It’s too far gone. She’s pissed. She hates me. She’s made that clear enough.”

Blackfoot walks over and pats me on the back. With a good-natured chuckle, he says, “You’re a goddamn fool, ain’t you? She’s giving you that much trouble, she ain’t fucking done with you yet.”

And with that, he walks off into the night, whistling.

I’m woken at an ungodly hour by a pounding on the door, a thumping so loud that it cuts through the fog of a medicated sleep. I took three Tylenol PMs last night, but fell asleep before they had time to kick in.

The pounding continues. I pull black pants over my black boxers and shuffle toward the door. From the weak light filtering through the windows, I can tell that dawn is just breaking.

“Coming,” I shout, thinking the drumming will stop. Instead, it’s joined by a voice.

“Get your ass out here, Father. She’s fucking here, ready and waiting.” Blackfoot. It’s a hell of a voice to wake up to. “Early bird catches the worm, Father. Get the fuck up. She’s not going to wait all day.”

“I’m up!” I yell back, and swing the door open to find Blackfoot and a three-ton elephant standing outside the rectory.

“Want a ride?” He smiles, revealing his tobacco-stained teeth.

The elephant expels a burst of air. It sounds like the sigh of a woman grown accustomed to her husband’s foolish ways.

“Right now?”

“Early bird catches the worm,” he says.

“Shouldn’t that thing be in a pen?”

His smile grows bigger. It’s approaching a leer, but it’s an infectious one. After all, there is an elephant in my yard, and Blackfoot and I seem to be the only two people on the planet awake.

“Where’s her driver?” I ask.

“He took the truck to get washed,” he says. “You got an hour all to your fuckin’ self.”

“What about you?”

“Me? I ain’t that selfless, Father. I already took her for a spin in the woods. Knocked a few trees over.”

“Really?”

“Fuckin’ A, she did.”

“Awesome,” is all I can think to say.

“Now you go get a proper shirt and shoes on,” he says. “You ain’t got all fuckin’ day.”

It takes me all of two minutes before I’m back outside and climbing a ladder to the box on the elephant’s back. Her real name is Gertie, he tells me. The signage and the contract call her Simba, but the name she answers to is Gertie.

“Nice to meet you, Gertie,” I say, scratching the top of her head. From my perch, I have a clear view of the rectory’s roof. There’s a Frisbee on it. “I only wish Miss Rita was here to meet you.”

“Who?”

“Old friend of mine,” I answer. “She passed a month ago.”

“Fuckin’ sorry to hear that,” he says.

But you wouldn’t know it. We’re both wearing goofy grins on our faces. I feel like a ten-year-old who’s just been given a flying car equipped with a flamethrower and rocket launchers.

“I’m sure you could think of someone else to share this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity with,” he says.

“I don’t know about that,” I laugh. “If I called her at this time of the day…”

“Who said anything about calling, ya fuckin’ sissy?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Well, first of all, an elephant on the highway,” I say, searching for excuses.

“Oh, don’t blame it on Gertie,” he says. “She’s walked through the Lincoln Tunnel in New York. I think she can handle herself on an empty road.”

That was all the excuse I had.

“Just do it, Father. Who fuckin’ knows? You get to her before she has her morning coffee, she won’t be awake enough to resist.”

“Well, aren’t you the optimist this morning?” I say.

“Maybe,” he says, climbing up the ladder. “Maybe. But let me show you how to steer, just in case you grow a pair of balls in the next thirty seconds.”

Five minutes later, I’m riding an elephant down the highway with the sun rising to my left. Gertie moves at a leisurely saunter, her breath the only sound on an incredibly still morning. I do wish Miss Rita were here to see this. I can hear her clapping her hands in delight. That would have been a more fitting end to her life—riding like a queen on the back of an elephant, looking down on everything around her. Maybe she could have just kept on riding, free of that home, with a couple of bottles of Crown Royal and a week’s worth of cracklin’s.

But the closer I get to Vicky’s, the harder it is to hang on to that vision. Instead, my chest tightens, my palms get clammy, and it feels like something’s stuck in my throat. Perhaps sensing that something is wrong, Gertie stops. Should I turn her around and head back home? Miss Rita’s voice comes to me:
“Quit acting like a sissy and get on over to that girl’s house.”

But—

“Don’t ‘but’ me, boy.”

“Okay, Gertie,” I say. “Let’s get a move on.” That’s all there is to it.

Gertie’s not the fastest mode of transportation. Fifteen minutes after leaving St. Pete’s, I’m only halfway to Vicky’s house when I hear the sound of clopping hooves. In the distance, heading toward me, is Lem Landry and his mule-drawn wagon. That figures. With the number of out-of-towners bound to come in for the festival, he would break out the wagon—whether to get attention or simply hold up traffic, I don’t know.

He slows as he draws up to Gertie and me, puts a hand over his brow to block out the sun.

“Lem,” I say.

“Father,” he says, looking up, down, and around. “That an elephant you got there?”

“It sure is, Lem.”

“Kee-yawwwwww!” he shouts, slapping his knee and smiling. “I done seen it all, me. Mais, watchoo doing with it?”

“Riding it, I guess.”

“I see. I see.”

This has got to be the most absurd conversation either one of us has ever had.

“Well, I’ll be seeing you, Lem.”

“Okay, Father,” he says, then puts a hand up. “Wait! Let me take a picture of yall.” With that, he takes out a cell phone and snaps a shot. “That’s a good one. I’ma have to e-mail that to you.”

“You do that, Lem,” I say, gently nudging Gertie into gear. Lem stays parked in the middle of the road. As I move away I hear him talking into his phone. “Mais, yall got to see this. Father Steve done got him an elephant and he’s marching it around town. No lie! Like I would lie about something like that.” He listens in silence for a bit. “Well, yall hurry up and come on. And call CaCa, tell him bring his horses.”

Ten minutes later, Gertie and I—and Lem and half the geriatric population of Grand Prairie, including CaCa and about twenty other men on horseback—arrive at Vicky’s house. I look over my shoulder at them and wave.

“Hey-hey!” shouts one of the old men, and the crowd erupts into applause and whistles. That brings Vicky to her door, coffee mug in hand.

“What’s going on, Steve?” she asks, her face stone stiff.

That’s a tough one to explain. “I guess I took Gertie for a ride and accidentally started a parade.”

“Gertie?”

“Yeah, this is Gertie,” I say, leaning over to scratch the top of her head.

“Isn’t that nice?” she says. “You got your elephant.”

I’m not going to get control of this conversation by myself, so I decide to play dirty. Loud enough for the gathered crowd to hear, I say, “Go get some jeans on, Vicky, and come for a ride on my elephant!”

The town folk erupt into cheers once again. “All right, Vicky!” someone shouts.

She waves, smiles, and closes the door.

My cell phone rings. It’s Mark. “Are you insane?” he says, glee in his voice. “You’re totally insane.”

“Maybe.”

“You look totally hot up there,” he says.

I scan the house and see him peering out from behind a curtain in the bathroom.

“Is she pissed?”

“Well, she’s stomping around and muttering to herself. I’m afraid to come out of the bathroom…. Oh, shit! There she goes. Bye.”

He hangs up just as Vicky opens the door. She walks up to Gertie and puts a hand on her gray flank. “How am I supposed to get up there?”

I look back at the crowd. “Go climb on top of Mr. Melancon’s truck. I’ll spin her around and pick you up.”

The crowd parts for Vicky, every one of them giving her a good morning or a tip of his hat. They part even wider to let Gertie through. Some of them reach out and tentatively touch her hide. “Just like a big ol’ horse,” somebody says.

After a few minutes of navigating and nudging, I’ve got Gertie nestled up to the side of the pickup.

“Where am I supposed to sit?” Vicky asks, all business.

I hadn’t thought of that. I’m going to be doing the steering, but I don’t want her behind me where she can easily smack me in the back of the head. “Sit up front. Blackfoot said that’s the safest way to do it,” I lie.

“Is that right?”

“Yes, Vicky. That’s right.”

She climbs on and sits down, her legs warm against mine. I close my arms around her, grabbing what passes for reins. Vicky’s tense, her back stiff, her head straight. But I’ve got this overwhelming feeling that I could melt into her right here. I can’t remember the last time I’ve touched a woman like this. I get lost for a moment.

“We going to move or what?” The edge in her voice brings me back to the moment.

I look down at the crowd. “All right, yall. Let’s get this parade started. Back to the church!”

They cheer again. Those in cars turn their radios to KBON and crank the Cajun music. Others work their cell phones. Within minutes, those who haven’t joined the parade are parked along the side of the road ahead, their children standing on top of the cars and screaming and pointing. The once-silent morning has given way to a rowdy celebration loud enough that they couldn’t possibly hear me talking to Vicky.

“So I was thinking,” I start. I’m nervous, but manage to keep a smile fixed on my face and one hand in the air, waving. Vicky does as well.

“How’s that working out for you?”

“You’re not going to make this easy, are you?”

“Make what easy, Steve? What, your whole life isn’t easy enough, with everyone doing everything for you?”

“I’m sorry. I’m trying here.”

“One night of collecting cash isn’t going to make up for it.”

“I know. I know. This isn’t about the damn festival anyway.”

“Then what’s it about?”

I wave and smile in silence for a minute before working up the courage. She knows what this is about. She just wants me to say it.

“Us,” I finally manage.

“Us?” she says. “Us? Ha! What about us?”

“C’mon, Vicky.”

“No. You c’mon. What about us?”

“There’s something here, isn’t there?”

“Define ‘something.’ Define ‘here.’ You don’t even know the first thing about me, Steve.”

“I know you’re lonely. I know you’ve been lonely out here. And you’re afraid of living your life like that.”

“Wow, you like to lead with charm, don’t you? Besides, sounds to me like you’re projecting.”

“That doesn’t make it any less true.”

She pauses for a bit. “And what? You’re going to solve that for me? Just because you’re horny, I’m supposed to throw caution to the wind for a six-month fling. Then twenty years later, I’m spending Saturday nights playing cards with the few old ladies who weren’t completely scandalized by my run-in with the priest. And you’re back in the arms of Jesus, pretending nothing happened?”

“I’m not your dad.”

“You got that right.”

“And this isn’t about sex.”

“No? Then what’s that poking me in the back? Or is that a banana in your pocket?”

“Jesus,” I say. I hadn’t even realized. For the first time in the conversation, I drop my waving hand. I adjust myself and scoot back a little. I haven’t felt this peculiar shame since fourth grade math class when I went through the rite of passage of being called to the blackboard in the midst of a Vanna White daydream. “Never mind that,” I say. “I’m not talking about sneaking around. I’m not talking about hiding.”

“Then what, pray tell, are you talking about?”

In need of a moment, I shout out to the crowd. “Good morning, Miss Robichaux! How yall doing, Mr. Deville?”

“Pathetic,” I hear Vicky mumble.

I take a deep breath. “I love you,” I say. “Now? You happy? I said it.”

She reaches into her pocket, pulls out the cell phone, and flips it open. “Hi.
Daily World
? I’ve got a front page story for you. Steve Sibille just told me he loves me. And, really, if I wasn’t on the back of an elephant right now, I’d fall down to my knees and sing praises to the Lord.” She closes the phone and puts it away. “Jackass,” she says.

If I didn’t have one hand on the reins and the other in the air waving, I’d choke her. But I remember what Blackfoot said, that she’s giving me this much trouble because she’s not done with me yet. I only hope he’s right.

“Go on, Vick. Keep that wall of sarcasm up. But I’m not going to stop. I’ve made up my mind. I don’t want to grow old alone. I want to grow old with you, even if it means losing my parish. Even if you are a royal pain in the ass. And I’m not giving up just because you’ve got a smart-ass answer for everything I say. The only thing that’s going to stop me now is a restraining order.”

For a few minutes, she says nothing. She simply waves at the crowd and tries to smile. My heart’s beating a hundred miles a minute and I feel completely naked.

“That’s real fucking romantic,” she says, shaking her head. “Real fucking romantic.” But as she says it, the tension goes out of her shoulders and neck, and she leans back into me. The scent of her shampoo—it’s medicinal, perhaps even dandruff-control, but certainly not apple or strawberry—nearly knocks me off my elephant.

When I wake up at three o’clock Monday morning for a drink of water and a trip to the bathroom, the rain has slowed considerably.

It remained clear and cool all weekend and the First Annual Rabbit Festival had pulled in a steady stream of visitors from Opelousas, Ville Platte, and beyond. But late Sunday afternoon, as the last band was setting up, a frontal system began to poke its thunderheads up over the horizon. It moved slowly and the band, Chris Ardoin and Double Clutchin’, seemed unconcerned. They played for half an hour while the storm inched its way in from the north, a growing wall of purple clouds lit from within by strobes of lightning. I felt at times like I was at a tennis match, my eyes zipping to the band one second, the clouds the next. Who was going to win? I was beginning to feel smug—God had blessed the entire festival, He was holding back the rain, allowing the band to finish while providing a natural fireworks show.

The air went still for ten minutes. The band played on. Then the wind picked up suddenly, leaves blowing through, the banners and pennants on the festival grounds whipping violently back and forth, dust coming in from the surrounding fields. The band looked up nervously; it kept playing. But when a bright flash of lightning struck—it was a couple of miles away, but looked and sounded like it had hit right behind the stage—Double Clutchin’ stopped in the middle of the song. Chris Ardoin leaned into the microphone. “Well, folks, I think the man upstairs trying to tell us something, and we not ones to say no to Him.”