The Waking (25 page)

“
That’s none of your business.”

Mrs. Broussard smiles. “I take it she was, and that explains it.”

My face is getting hot. “She’s wasn’t a prostitute.”

“
Emmanuel, if your father was a true Cajun, he would not have left the bayou.”

“
The what?”

“
The swamps of Louisiana.” She shakes her head slowly. “You really don’t know anything about him, do you?”

“
Just what my aunt told me.”

“
True Cajuns live in swamps, shooting ducks, being Catholic, drinking, eating mudbugs—”

“
Huh?”

“
Crawfish, the staple food of the Cajun man. Oh yes, and there’s plenty of shrimp, okra, and rice to go along with them. Dreadful stuff. They make it so spicy that you can’t taste how truly dreadful it is. And the music? Backwoods and intolerably happy.
Laissez les bon temps rouler.
”

“
What?”

“
It’s French for ‘Let the good times roll.’ Cajun men need no special occasion to get drunk.” She sucks hard on her cigarette. “And the way they talk on the bayou … Imagine deep South English with a mumbling French accent. It sounds something like … I figger dey people don there won say nuttin you can unnerstand.”

I understood her perfectly. It almost sounds like Pittsburgh where “down” sounds like “dawn.”

“
They are common, Emmanuel, and they intermarry only with themselves, although,” she stubs out another cigarette, “there are some Houma around.”

“
Houma?”

“
Swamp Indians. You may have some Houma in you, you never know.” She looks at my face, as if appraising a painting or something. “You might. You have very distinctive features.” She lights yet another cigarette.

And I thought that
I
was a junkie.

“
Other people are like food to Cajuns. They cut off a hunk, take a bite, chew it up for a while, swallow what tastes good, and vomit the rest.”

And this is starting to tick me off. My daddy vomited my mama and me? “So what’s your story, Mrs. Broussard. Do you come on this boat to nibble?”

She laughs. “I like you. You are so direct.”

“
Have you chewed me up and spit me out yet?”

She laughs harder. “I have made you angry. I am sorry.”

I turn to go.

“
No, wait, I am truly sorry.”

I turn back.

“
This is what I think happened, Emmanuel. Your father was in oil, not steel, and he was up in Pittsburgh securing steel for his pipeline or his oil derricks. He came up, impregnated your mother without knowing he had, and went home to his wife, a bitter woman like me who will not leave him because of the security and money he gives her. He probably has children, and he may even be rich by now or be in politics. I would not be surprised if I know this man—or know
of
him.”

This regal, sophisticated lady is so … common. She’s living in a dream world. My mama might, just
might,
have sold her body for heroin. What would a rich guy want with her? Unless she started using heroin after he left her. It
had
to be that way. I was born with no problems, no defects, no addictions. So
he
turned her into a junkie? I have to ask Auntie June more about Mama.

“
Why have you not spoken to your mother about this?” she asks.

I look down. “She died when I was four.”

“
Really? Hmm. How did she die?”

“
She was … she was murdered.”

“
I’m sorry. Was the killer caught?”

I doubt you’re sorry. “No.”

“
Perhaps your mother tried to get money from your father, maybe threatened to tell his wife, present you as proof of the liaison.”

She’s crazy.

“
Cajun men value their marriages over their wives. He would not care of the devastation caused to his wife, but to his marriage … That is a different story.”

And that’s what all of this is. It’s a bitter story told by a bitter woman. “Do you have any children, Mrs. Broussard?”

“
No. I was not a good Cajun woman squirting children into the bayou.”

“
I see.” Time to leave. “Does your husband have any children?”

She seems to stop breathing for a moment, her eyes little black dots. “Get out.”

I smile. “That answered my question. I’ll be going now.”

Mrs. Broussard didn’t teach me a thing. I think my daddy was really was a steel worker, not some rich guy in oil. I think he hooked up with my mama several times, and he might have even dated her. Then she got pregnant with me, so my daddy had to be around a lot. Auntie June should know more. My daddy was a hard-working man like I’ve become … who my mama might have even loved … who might have ruined her so badly when he left that she turned to heroin in her despair. This is giving me a headache.

After leaving Mrs. Broussard, I ask Penny if I can borrow the new cell phone she picked up in Louisville. “It’s one of those pre-paid phones, and it doesn’t have much time left on it,” she tells me, “so talk quick.”

“
Who have you been talking to?” I ask.

“
My grandma.”

I offer her ten dollars, but she won’t take it. “Are you sure?”

“
I can always buy more time.”

I wish that were true about everything in life.

I find a fairly private spot on the observation deck and dial Auntie June’s number.

“
Hello?”

“
Hey, Auntie June, it’s Emmanuel again.”

Silence.

“
I sent off a check for a hundred this morning with some pictures.”

More silence.

“
And when I get paid next, I’ll send you five hundred.”

“
You will?”

“
Sure. You could call around to get your furnace fixed or replaced. The prices ought to be lower in the summer.”

“
I could use a window air-conditioner,” Auntie June says quickly. “It’s supposed to be really hot this summer.”

“
I thought you liked the heat.”

“
I did when I was younger.”

At least her voice is softer than the other time I called. “Auntie June, did Mama ever tell you my daddy’s name?”

“
No.”

“
No? Not even a first name?”

“
No.”

“
Did she talk about him?”

“
Only to tell me about him taking her to St. Benedict’s for church and that he was a Cajun.”

My daddy was Catholic? “He took her to St. Benedict’s?”

“
You can see one reason why I don’t like Catholics now. That man ruined your mama.”

“
Let me get this straight. They … dated?”

“
Yes. I thought you knew that.
She just hadn’
t outgrown all that free love nonsense from the seventies.
But Emmanuel, there
isn’t anything free about love. Love always has some strings attached. Anyway, why do you want to know all of this now?”

“
Well, I’ll be in New Orleans in a few days, and if I had a name, I could look him up.”

“
What for?”

“
So I can meet him.”

“
What for?”

“
To talk to him, to let him know that I’m his son.”

“
What for?”

Skip that broken record, Auntie June. “I want to know who my daddy is.”

“
Emmanuel, he has to be going on fifty, maybe even sixty, and he won’t know you from Adam.”

“
I
will
introduce myself first.”

“
What if he has a wife and family? What if he denies it? Do you want to be denied to your face?”

I haven’t thought of that happening. “No, of course not, Auntie June, I just … Can you ask around?”

“
Ask who?”

“
Ask any of mama’s old friends at Ebenezer maybe.”

“
Don’t you blaspheme.”

“
Come on, not all of mama’s friends were like her. I mean, ask women she would have known back then. They could have been friends of yours, too, right?”

“
None of my friends were friendly with any of her friends. They were too wild.”

This is so frustrating. “Ask around anyway, okay? Maybe somebody knows somebody who knows, you know?”

“
You lost me.”

I think I just lost myself, too. “Just ask around. And don’t you have my birth certificate?”

“
It’s somewhere in this place.”

“
Could you find it for me?”

“
Right now?”

“
Please. I won’t be in New Orleans long. We’ll be arriving in the evening and pulling out in the morning.”

“
All right, all right. Call me back in an hour or two.”

“
It’ll take that long?”

“
No,” she whispers. “There’s someone at the door. Call me back. Good-bye.”

Who would be calling on Auntie June at this time of day? On a whim, I dial Mary’s number.

“
Hello?”

“
Mary?”

“
No, this is her mama. Who’s this?”

I almost hang up. “Mrs. Moore, this is Emmanuel.”

“
What do
you
want?”

This is starting so well. “Is Mary there?”

“
No.”

She has to be lying. Where else would Mary be? “Did she get my first check?”

“
What’s she supposed to do with fifty bucks? Her last doctor’s appointment cost a hundred twenty.”

Ouch. “It’s a start, Mrs. Moore. I’m sending a check for six hundred when I get paid again.”

“
You’re lying. Where are you getting all this money?”

“
Like the letter said, I’m working on a boat.”

“
Like a cruise ship?”

“
Sort of, only it goes up and down the river.”

“
Oh, so it’s one of those floating casinos I heard about.”

“
No ma’am. It’s a passenger ship.” And the only people who gamble bet with change in the Gentleman’s Card Room. “Anyway, I’ll be down in New Orleans in a couple days, and—”

“
Yeah?” she interrupts. “Mardi Gras and all that?”

“
I don’t know about that. I’m on break and can’t talk long. Tell her I called, okay?”

Silence.

“
Mrs. Moore?”

“
I
might
tell her. Goodbye.”

I smile. That was the nicest Mary’s mama has ever been to me.

I give Penny her cell phone back and wash a few dishes, and I can’t help but do some humming and some stomping.

“
You seem happy,” Rose says, “though you seem to be avoiding work today.”

I grin. “My future mother-in-law didn’t hang up on me.”

“
She didn’t?”

“
No.”

“
Well, that’s cause for celebration. We gonna get jazzy tonight down in the Big Easy.”

Two hours of pots and pans later, I call Auntie June. “Did you find it?”

“
Yes, but there’s no father’s name listed on it.”

I’m denied a mother by an unnamed monster and denied knowing who my father is by a piece of paper.

“
And there’s one more thing: Your probation officer, Mr. Pasquale, just made a visit.”

I sigh.

“
That was him at the door earlier. Manpower called him and told him you weren’t coming to work, so he just dropped by. He left his card and everything.”

I don’t need this! “What did you tell him?”

“
I told him that you were out, and that I didn’t know exactly where. Which is the truth, right? I didn’t lie.”

“
Did you tell him about the
American
Queen
?”

“
No, but only because he didn’t ask. What do I do if he comes by or calls again?”

“
Just keep telling the truth.” So if I were to show up on the Hill tomorrow, I’d get picked up for violating my probation. Isn’t this great? “Have you seen or talked to Mary?”

“
No. It’s been raining to beat the band for a week now. You know I don’t go out when it rains.”

“
You should try it, Auntie June.” It worked for me. “Listen, I gotta go. I’ll talk to you soon, and don’t tear up that next check.”

“
Oh, I won’t, Emmanuel. You take care of yourself.”

“
I will.”

If the police don’t take care of me first.

We are far behind schedule when we finally land in New Orleans because of flooding, major debris in the water, and a regular traffic jam of barges and boats, including a barge full of RV’s with people still
in
the RV’s. Maybe they were rescued from a flooded-out campsite. Either that or they are
extremely
lazy.