Saturday, June 24, 2017

An Interview with Modina Pipe

The inspiration for Modena Pipe (last name pronounced "Peep") is my mother, who had all her teeth pulled in her late thirties and donned a set of false teeth, and a Vietnamese student I had in my college writing class in the 80s, who biggest desire was to read and write American. My mother suffered dearly for a couple of weeks, but she loved her new teeth. My student passed my developmental writing class and during summer break, sent me a post card of a beautiful woman in a bikini standing on Pensacola Beach, Florida. On the back of the card, he wrote, "Am taking in sun and sights and reading book you told me about, Madame Bovary. It is hard to read, and many words I do not understand, but I am looking them up in dictionary. Thank you for teaching me American."
Here's Modina.
Me: Tell us a little about yourself, Modena.
Modena: When I was a little girl, my daddy didn't want me to go to school because he said the teachers would corrupt me, so I never learned américain. We didn't have a television, and I was sixteen when I saw my first one. I could not figure out how those small people could live out their lives in a box like that. My mother tried to explain to me what a television was, but I didn't understand much of what she told me. For me, the little people in the box were special, and the language they spoke was some sort of secret tongue that only very special people could understand. When I met my husband, Jonel, he spoke the same language as the box people, and I thought he had to be special too. But it didn't turn out that way. He used it to keep me in the dark.

My teeth started rotting when I was a young girl, around fifteen or sixteen. My daddy would not take me to the dentist because neither he or my momma had their real teeth, so he didn't figure it was important enough to spend money fixing them. By the time I married Jonel, they were pretty much all rotted. Whenever I had a quiet moment to myself, I dreamed of speaking américain, and having new teeth. When Alain Babineaux got killed, and Jonel had to be gone most days to help solve the case, I asked my mother if she would help me realize my dreams.

Me: What was so important about speaking American?
Modina: At first, I wanted to be special like the people in the box. I wanted to understand what they were saying. Later, I wanted to show Jonel that I was just as good as he was. The more I learned, though, the more I realized that it was not just about learning to speak américain. It was learning more about how the world looks different when you see it through a new language.

Me: How about teeth? Did your old teeth hurt?
Modina: No. All they did was rot without pain. Jonel was like my father. He didn't want to spend the money since they didn't hurt me, but every time I looked in the mirror, I saw an old lady, and I was not. The first time I put the false teeth in my mouth, I was young again. I could laugh again and smile again. Like the new language, the new teeth were life-changing.

Me: Do you have other dreams or aspirations?
Modina: No. (Pause). Maybe. Sometimes, I would watch how men treated the women on the television, and I dreamed of being treated like that. You know, like you're special. Jonel never treated me like that. In fact, he treated that old cow of his better than he did me.

Me: Is there anything else you'd like to say?
ModinaWhen Peter gave me Madame Bovary to practice reading, it felt as heavy as an anvil, but the more I read—the more I learned—the lighter it became. Peter told me I was breaking it down, but I didn't see it that way. The way I saw it was that my brain was doing all the lifting as I learned to read it.

Saturday, June 17, 2017

An Interview with Pete LaSache

My new novel, La Valse du Bayou Serpent (The Bayou Serpent Waltz) is nearly done. I hope for a June 29th launch—my birthday. One of the tricks I employ when writing longer works, and sometimes shorter works, is to interview the characters. This gives me background on them—most of the information I gleam, I won't use in the story, but it is crucial to how the character thinks and acts. One of the most interesting character in my book is Pete LaSache. Those of you who have read my short stories will already have met Pete. I've used him often before. Pete is a black man who has never learned to read and write, but his stories reflect a knowledge and sophistication well beyond his education. Well, let me allow him to tell you himself.

Me: Mr. LaSache, tell me a little about yourself. How did you become a storyteller?

Pete: My great grandfather was a slave for a plantation owner over by Franklin, Louisiana by the name of Henri LaSache. When the Civil War ended, my great grandfather packed up what little belongings he had and made his way to Serpentville, Louisiana, taking only one thing from the man, his name, 'cause that was his as much as him. The family been there since. My granddaddy and my daddy were both tenant farmers, meaning they lived in a shack, worked their butts off, and barely made a living. I never went to school. As soon as I could walk, I was working in the cotton fields. When I turned seventeen, I asked Mr. Hank Fontenot if I could tenant farm for him. He gave me a couple of acres with a beat-up cypress shack on them, and told me that three-quarters of what I earned was his. One-quarter was mine. One day, I had the great good fortune to meet this beautiful young woman waiting for a book mobile, one of those traveling libraries in Ellison Parish, and we hit it off. She read to me about all these Greeks gods, and those characters she found in her books. She tried to teach me to read, but it wouldn't stick. Anyway, after a while, we hitched up and had this wonderful little boy. I knew that as a tenant farmer, I wasn't offering him much of a chance, so I told Monsieur Hank that I wanted to work in his cotton gin, and it just so happened, he needed somebody, so he said yes, and that's where I am.

Me: But how did you become a storyteller?

Pete: Well, that goes all the way back to Africa, the Xanekwe people, but I ain't telling none of that to you. You can read 'bout that in the book. I'll tell you this, though. White folks tend not to listen to Black folks. They tend to look through us or get mean if we say what we think, so I found a way to say what I thought through those stories. If they listen, real careful, they'll get what I mean. If not, then it's just a story. I started telling stories after my daddy died. It just seemed natural-like.

Me: Tell me a little more about how you met your wife.

Pete: Rowena? She was working on her daddy's small farm off the Isaacton gravel road. She had to quit school to help out the family, you know, but she had a mighty thirst for learning. She flagged down the book mobile bus and demanded they let her check out some books. Blacks weren't allowed to do that then. At first, they told her no, but Rowena is hard-headed sometimes, even at that young age. She made a deal with the librarian. She would check out books and write a book report for every book she read. That way, she got to read and practice her schooling. I was leading this old mule out to Monsieur Roza's field when I met her coming out of that book mobile with a stack of books. She was fifteen and the most beautiful girl I had ever seen before—tall, almost as tall as me, pretty, eyes so black you could see yourself reflected in them, long slender fingers, smooth chocolate-colored skin, and a head of black hair that shot out every which way. I knew I was gonna marry her the minute I laid eyes on her. She knew it too. I never regretted a moment of my life with her.

Me: What are your beliefs?

Pete: If you mean religion, I ain't big on church-going. I mean, Jesus didn't have no roof over his head when he preached. He didn't wait for the folks to come to him. He went to where they were—in the fields, in the streets, wherever—and he didn't discriminate. Black, white, tan, rich, poor, man, woman, kid, it didn't matter to him. All he saw was the red of their hearts and the gray of their brain. Jesus was a great man, but he wasn't the only one, you know. There were lots of great men and women throughout history. Was he the son of God? That he surely was. Of course, if you think on it, we are all the children of God. We all have the greatness of God in us, you know, but not too many of us let it shine through. That's what I believe.

Me: Anything you want to add?

Pete: Not too long ago there was a Cajun man, a good man, who loved to stand out in the middle of his cotton field and marvel at how simple and wonderful his life was. Every morning, he woke up, drank his coffee, went out in his field, and worked his crops. At night, tired and happy, he would spend time with his family. It was a good life, a life he wrapped around himself like one of those cocoons caterpillars wrap around themselves before they become butterflies, but he never made it to the butterfly stage. Pretty soon, all the farms around him sold out to the big farmers—those with machines to do the work that mules and men used to do—and the man, the good man, realized that the world was changing around him, and if his family was to have a chance in life, he had to do something, so he packed up, sold his farm, moved to town, and got a job. But he couldn't forget the life he left, the simplicity, the wonder, you know. He died, a shriveled little man, the cancer inside him eating away at his body and his dreams.

Me: Is there a moral to your story?

Pete: A moral? Nah, it's just a story about a man who lost the will to live. The end.

Saturday, June 10, 2017

Prologue: Serpentville Today

Kids today do not talk Cajun anymore. Times have changed—had to. Otherwise, the Cajuns would be living in a vacuum while the rest of the world revolved around it. It was bound to change. First, radio came in and brought American Rock n Roll and country western music. We had to learn American to understand it. Then television brought in the rest of the world. The news was in American, and we had to learn the language just to find out what was going on around us. Even the local television news was in American. There were a few Cajun holdouts, mostly delegated to early morning talk shows and news programs. The daytime and nighttime shows were in American, and during the daytime, stay-at-home women especially, watched the soap operas.
We saw in those stories a life so much more exciting than what we were living. There was nothing like this in our lives. Oh, there was church gossip, talk about who was seeing whom and possibly sleeping with whom, but none of those characters could compare with the ones on the television screen. The Cajun women were nowhere as glamorous, innocent, or evil as the American women on the screen were. I read Gustave Flaubert's Madame Bovary once, about a woman from the farm who marries a man from the town because she thought life in town would be exciting. She reads romantic novels, Flaubert's version of the soap opera, and begins to think that they are what life should be like. They made her life, her perfectly normal, exciting, and interesting life, seem boring. The more her eyes took in, the more she wanted what she saw.
That wasn't the main problem with Madame Bovary, though. The main problem was that she did not understand that what she was reading was only a reflection of the real world as the mirror reflects it, only inverted. This was what happened to the Cajuns. Television brought in all sorts of new images: The Vietnam War, the racial problems, and the soap operas. We understood that the Vietnam War was happening, but the news about it was sandwiched between "The Edge of Night" and "The Lawman," so it didn't seem real. After all, the people there did not look like us, so we watched the good guys chase the bad guys and paid little attention otherwise. It wasn't until Jeremy Rozas got killed there, the only boy from Serpentville to die in Vietnam, that it became real. It was the same with the civil rights marches. They were happening in big cities like Birmingham or Los Angeles. Then Joe shot that black man for walking into the front of his saloon, and before you knew it, everybody parked themselves in front of their television screens. Racial problems had become real.
The soaps were different, though. People fought and loved on the television screen, and it never seemed to reach us. This is what life should be like, we thought. This is love and hate and living with passion. The women did not have rotten teeth or sagging breasts. The men did not have leather skin from fighting the sun and mosquitoes. Our lives were like the waters of Bayou Serpent, muddy, slow, and constant. The soap opera lives were like the waters of the Atchafalaya River—fast, furious, mysterious, and dangerous. We were waltzing, and the rest of the world was two-stepping, jitterbugging, or whatever the dance craze was then. We wanted the soaps to touch us in some way—to become real for us.
Then Pete LaSache found Alain Babineaux shot to death next to Joe's Saloon and life in Serpentville and Ellison Parish suddenly turned fast, furious, and mysterious. We found ourselves living a real-life soap opera. That's when the story starts. Alain Babineaux's death caused the outside world to rush into Serpentville like floodwaters, and it changed just about every life it touched.

Friday, June 2, 2017

With Heart in Hand

The worst thing that’s ever happened to me was losing my mother.

My father died when I was only seven. Coming home on LA 665, a drunken teenager swerved into his lane and ran him off the road. Dad’s old red pickup rolled several times, wrapped itself around a telephone pole, and exploded into a ball of flame. The driver of the other car skidded to a stop in the middle of the road and passed out at the wheel. She had no idea how many lives she’d ruined until the next day when she woke up in an Ellison Parish jail cell.

Mom mourned my father’s death for nearly a year before she started drinking. The first time she came home drunk, she cried and promised she would never do it again. The second time she cried but made no promises. After a while, she stopped crying, and I accepted the fact that she was going to drink herself to sleep every night.

Then she started seeing men. At first, it was only occasionally. A stranger would show up at the front door, and Momma would invite him in. They sat on the old green couch that Daddy used to fall asleep on. I watched television while they drank, and in the morning, I would wake up to the sound of my mother making coffee.

After a while, I guess she figured I was old enough to stay alone because she started going out with the men. A man would drive up, he and Momma would share a few beers, and then they’d drive off. I wouldn’t see her again until the next morning—she would be making coffee, eyes puffy, clothes disheveled.

She said very little about where she went or spent the night, and I did not ask. I suppose I didn’t want to know.

But of course, I would have to know sooner or later.

My Uncle Oramel enlightened me when I was fourteen. He pulled up in front of Nat Manuel’s store, where I stood around with my friends, and motioned me to his old Studebaker. I stuck my head through the opened passenger’s window and asked him what he wanted.

“Get in,” he said without looking at me. I shrugged and pulled open the car door. Uncle Oramel said nothing. He threw the car in gear and drove me just out of town to a dirt lane that connected the Ellisonville blacktop with the Issacton graveled road. He drove about fifty feet down the lane and parked the car on the shoulder. He turned slightly and faced me.

“I don’t like what I got to do,” he said. “But if I don’t do it, I don’t know who will.”

It wasn’t like Uncle Oramel to be so mysterious.  He wasn’t a Baptist minister, but he lived his life in such a way that qualified him to be. He did not drink, smoke, or curse.

"Drink and Sex are the most serious problems corrupting the morals of the people of our country," he would tell anyone who would listen, and even those who didn't.

He reached over me, pulled on the door handle, and pushed my door open.

“I want you to look in that ditch there,” he said. “Tell me what you see."

I stepped out of the car and did as he told me. The lane was a favorite parking spot for high school kids. I knew that. They would park along the lane, drink beer, smoke cigarettes, and do all sorts of things of which I was sure Uncle Oramel didn’t approve. The ditch was dry; it hadn’t rained in weeks. I saw several beer cans, some candy wrappers and a few empty cigarette packs. I also saw something else that looked a little like clear deflated balloons. At fourteen, I had never seen a used prophylactic, but I guessed that's what they were. There were several of them scattered in among the other assorted trash. I turned back to ask my uncle what exactly he wanted me to see.

He stood by the front of the car and leaned on the hood. He didn’t look at me. 

“Know what those are?”

“The balloons?”

Uncle Oramel almost smiled, caught himself, and then scowled.

“They’re rubbers.”

“Okay, Uncle Oramel.”

“Men put those on their things before having sex.” He almost whispered the word.  “Do you understand, now?”

“Yessir, I know what they are." A long silence passed between us as I waited for him to explain why he had brought me out here to show me used prophylactics.

“Sometimes,” he said finally. “I drive out here and scare a few of those kids. I shine a flashlight in their eyes and tell them that I’m going to tell their parents. I do it too, you know.” He paused and fingered a small pimple just below his left ear. “I came here last night.” Again, he paused.

I waited for a long while.

“Uncle Oramel?”

He turned, and leaned toward me. His eyes burned into mine. A small drop of spittle formed at the corner of his mouth. “Do you know where your momma was last night?”

“I don’t know, Uncle Oramel. She went out. Why?”

He straightened and fixed his gaze up the lane.

“Your momma is a whore,” he said softly.

“What, Uncle Oramel?” He had spoken so softly that I wasn’t sure I had heard him correctly.

He whirled on me.

“A whore. Your momma is a no-good drunken whore.”

I was shocked. I didn’t know what to say to him and gaped at him open-mouthed.

“You heard me?” he asked in a more reasonable tone.

“Yessir,” I blurted out and tried to collect my thoughts.

“You know who your momma was with last night?”

“Yessir. His name is Sam, or that’s what she called him.”

“What kind of car does he drive?”

“A blue and white Chevrolet,” I said. “An old one.”

“The first car I come to last night, parked exactly where we are standing, was a 1952 blue and white Chevrolet. Your momma and that man you call Sam were in the back seat.” Uncle Oramel frowned as if what he was remembering hurt him too much to recall. “Your momma’s dress was pulled up over her head and that man was up on top of her.”

I didn’t want to hear any more. I couldn’t understand why my uncle was telling me all this. I wanted to defend my mother, but I didn’t know how, for deep down, I knew that every word of what he told me was true. I didn’t want the picture in my head; I had worked too hard to keep it out.

“Shut up,” I finally shouted, tears of anger burning my eyes. I swept a forearm over them. “Shut up, shut up, shut up. You don’t know a goddamn thing about it. What do you know about it?” I ran back toward town.

My uncle did not follow me.

My mother lay on the couch in a semi-sober state when I ran in. She looked at me, saw the condition I was in, and must have guessed what had happened. She hid her face in her hands and cried.


I left home as soon as I graduated from high school. I joined the navy, and they sent me overseas to Spain. I was so far away that I did not have to think about my mother; she did not exist anymore. The new mother I created for myself was sober and obsequious. After my first tour in Europe, I volunteered for another, and the navy sent me to a ship home-ported in Italy. They offered me Stateside leave, but I refused and took a train trip through France and caught my ship in Toulon. I enjoyed myself in Italy, sailing around the Mediterranean, hopping from port to port and coming to rest in my homeport until the next excursion. I rented an apartment, not far from the water. I bought a few pieces of furniture and a stereo system.

Life was going along smoothly for me, and then I received a message from the ship’s chaplain to visit him. Lieutenant Commander Barnes was a short little man with dark hair and dark, nervous eyes. He offered me a chair across from his desk.

“Sit down, Seaman,” he said waving at the chair. “Sit down.” I waited. I had never been to a chaplain before, even for Sunday services. LTCDR Barnes came right to the point.

 “When is the last time you went home, Seaman—uh, back to the States?”

“Three years ago,” I said. “Four if you're asking about Serpentville, my home town.”

He nodded, thoughtfully. He picked up a sheet of paper from his desk. I saw an envelope stapled to it with an address scrawled across the front of it in pencil. I could not make out the handwriting.

“I have here a letter from your uncle.”

“Uncle Oramel?”

“Yes, Oramel Beauvais.” He stumbled over the pronunciation of the last name.

“What does he want?” I had not talked to my uncle since that day on the lane.

“Uh, he didn’t know how to get in touch with you. He finally went to the Red Cross, and they forwarded his letter to me.”

“Yessir?” I wanted him to get on with whatever it was he had to tell me.

“Uh, when is the last time you saw or heard from your mother?”

I thought about it.

“About four years ago, Mr. Barnes. The day I left for boot camp.”

“Did you and your mother have problems, son?”

“No, sir. We didn’t have any problems.”

“Then why didn’t you communicate with her?”

“No offense, Mr. Barnes, but my relationship with my mother is personal.”

“None taken, Seaman.” He paused and stared at the paper in his hand. “Uh, perhaps the best thing for me to do is give you this.” He slid the paper across his desk toward me. I leaned forward and took it from him. There were two sheets of paper. The first one was addressed to the Red Cross office in Ellisonville.

Dear Red Cross, it read in my uncle’s childish chicken scratch. My nephew Armand Beauvais Manuel is a navy sailor, but I don’t know where he is. I need to tell him that his momma is dead. Can you do that for me? He didn’t even bother to sign it.

I tried to stand, but my legs felt weak, as if I had been running for miles, and they couldn’t hold me up anymore. I sat back down again. Momma dead? How could that be?

“Can I help you, Seaman?” LTCDR Barnes asked nervously. “Can I get you anything?”

“No, sir,” I whispered. I flipped the letter I’d just read and turned to my uncle’s other letter written in the same chicken scratch, but addressed to me.

Armand, it read. Your momma finally drank herself to death. God bless her miserable soul. I have a couple of boxes of her things for you. He did not sign this one either.

I slid the letters across the desk to LTCDR Barnes.

“You can keep them,” he said. “They’re yours.” He slid them back toward me, but I shook my head.

“I don’t want them,” I said. “I know what they say.” I stood to leave.

“Uh, Seaman Manuel?”


“If you want to go home, I can arrange emergency leave for you.”

“Thank you, sir, but I don’t see the necessity for that. My mother is already dead and buried, for a while now, it seems.”

“Still, as the nearest living relative, isn’t there some business you need to take care of?”

“She has a brother who is capable of doing that, sir.”

I walked out and figured the incident was over, but I hadn’t anticipated the chaplain talking to my division commander, who insisted I go home to take care of business. I argued some, but the commander wanted none of it. I locked up my new apartment and boarded a plane stateside.


Serpentville had not changed perceptibly in the four years I had been away. It was the same little farm community: the same pickups parked in front of Joe’s Saloon; the same types of kids hung out in front of Nat’s store; the same tired houses lined the streets that defined the town. I drove my rental car to the last house Momma lived in, a “rent” house owned by Hank Fontenot. The place was no more than a shack really, rusted tin on the roof, tarpaper siding, a sagging front porch. The place was hot in the summer and cold in the winter. It had running water but no indoor bathroom. The outhouse was in the back.

An old white-haired black woman came out on the porch and eyed me suspiciously, so I drove off.

My uncle lived in a new brick home on the outskirts of town along the Issacton gravel road. I parked in his driveway next to his Studebaker. I knocked on the storm door, and my Aunt Chee answered. She recovered quickly from the shock of seeing me and invited me in. She gave me a perfunctory hug and a kiss on the cheek. She didn’t have her teeth in her mouth, and her face looked caved in. She smelled liked bleach and washing powder.

“Praise the Lord. It sure is good to see you, Armand.” She wiped her hands on a dishtowel. Then she removed her apron and placed it and the towel on a small couch.

“Thank you, Aunt Chee.”

There was a moment of awkward silence. Aunt Chee picked up the towel again and twisted it in her hands. “I suppose you want to see your uncle. He’s in the study, reading from the bible, praise the Lord. Normally, he doesn’t like to be bothered, but I’m sure he wouldn’t mind too much in this case.” She turned, took two steps, and then turned back to me. “I’m sorry about your momma, Armand.”

“Thank you, Aunt Chee.”

“The Lord’s ways are mysterious, and we must not question what He does. Surely she is a much happier woman now that she is in the presence of her master, praise the Lord.”

“She’s dead, Aunt Chee. The lord’s people didn’t much care for her when she was alive. I’m sure they’re not going to let her invade their little community up there.”

Aunt Chee frowned and disappeared through a door that led to the back of the house. A few minutes later, my uncle appeared. He looked older than I remembered him. He wasn’t wearing his familiar ball cap, and a wisp of fine white hairs danced on his nearly baldhead. His eyes were deep-set and dark. He spoke first.

“You came for your momma’s things?”

I nodded.

“There isn’t much. What’s left is in a couple of cardboard boxes in my garage.” He nodded toward a door to his left. “She had a couple of pieces of furniture: an armoire, a dresser, and that table of hers. I gave them to Hank Fontenot to pay her back rent. She hadn’t paid him in a while.”

I nodded again. Momma’s table had been a monstrous affair, made of red oak. It had belonged to my grandmother, my father’s mother. Hank Fontenot was getting a good deal.

“I suppose you want to see your momma’s things, then?”

I nodded, and he led me to the garage where he pointed out two cardboard boxes in a corner.

The first box I opened contained some of Momma’s clothes—a few faded and patched dresses, some bras, a few stained under things, and the dress she married my father in, musty and moth-eaten. I pushed that box to the side and opened the other. I found a few pieces of cheap jewelry in it, a notebook or two with some of her scribbling, a bible, the framed photograph of my father that she had placed on his coffin during his wake, a framed photograph of her and my father just after their wedding, a framed photograph of me at ten years old, several books that she must have read, and three envelopes tied together with a red ribbon. She had numbered the envelopes from one through three and addressed them to me. I opened envelope number one and pulled out a sheet of cheap stationery. It smelled slightly of stale beer and cigarette smoke.

Dear Son, the letter began in Momma’s careful print. I’m sorry. I stopped, refolded the letter, and placed it back in the envelope. I passed a forearm across my eyes.

“Everything okay?” my uncle asked. I had forgotten that he stood in the doorway watching me.

“Everything is perfect, Uncle Oramel. Just perfect.” I stood and faced him. I stuffed the envelopes in my back pocket. “Would you do me a favor and get rid of this stuff?”

“You don’t want none of it?”

“No, I don’t.” I walked through the garage and to my rental car.

My uncle followed me and leaned against the front fender of the Studebaker. I sat behind the steering wheel of the rental car and waited.

“She’s better off, Armand.”

“She’s dead, Uncle Oramel. She’s cold and buried under six feet of dirt. She is not better off. She’s dead.”

“She was miserable in this life.”

“Tell me, Uncle Oramel. In your opinion, is Momma going to heaven?”

He shook his head slowly.

“You sanctimonious son-of-a-bitch,” I spat and drove off.

I returned to my ship and life returned to normal for a while, but I knew I wasn’t going to make the navy a career. For reasons, I could not voice, I had to get back to Louisiana, so I left the navy at the end of my tour and enrolled in the university in Lafayette under the GI Bill.

I had been in Lafayette for about a year when Aunt Chee called.

“Hello,” I said into the phone.


“Yes?” She was the last person I expected to call me.

“This is your Aunt Chee. Your Uncle Oramel is dying. He’s got the cancer, and he wants to see you before he goes.”

I frowned at the phone.

“I don’t know, Aunt Chee. Last time we met, we didn’t exactly part on friendly terms.”

“He’s dying.” She softened the word. “He’s dying. You can’t refuse a dying man’s request.”

“What can he and I possibly have to talk about?”

“It doesn’t matter what he wants to talk about, Armand. He’s your uncle, and he’s dying, and you’re going to talk to him, or I’ll go out there to Lafayette and fetch you myself. Is that clear?”

“Yes, ma’am.  I’ll drive over tomorrow.”

It took me about an hour to drive to Serpentville. Uncle Oramel’s old Studebaker still stood in his driveway; one of the back tires was flat. Aunt Chee answered my knock. She frowned at me and ushered me in. She was cooking lunch. I could smell sausage and onions.

“He’s in the back,” she said without preamble. “Through the kitchen.”

I followed her to a room just off the kitchen. The door stood opened. Aunt Chee leaned against the frame a moment.

“It’s Armand,” she said and returned to her cooking.

The room smelled like death. The smell of body odor, urine, and feces was strong, but I could smell something else, and I was sure it was the smell of rotting flesh. His hair was all gone, his face ashen, attenuated. His skin was stretched tight, and I could see the bones working whenever he moved. He pointed with a bony finger to a chair next to the bed.

“Sit down,” he said in a voice that was little more than a whisper.

I tried to hide the shock in my face.

He grinned, an unbelievably horrible grin.

“From the expression on your face, I don’t guess I look so good.”

I could only nod.

“When you left last time.” He stopped to cough softly. “When you left last time, it wasn’t exactly how I wanted us to separate. You know what I mean?”

I nodded again. Uncle Oramel’s sunken eyes searched mine.

“I was wrong about a lot of things before.” He reached out with a cadaverous arm and placed a gaunt hand on my knee.

I fought back my urge to recoil.

“I was wrong about your momma.”

He searched my face and pulled back his hand. He dropped it to his side and sighed with the effort.

“Her daddy, my daddy was a hard man. There was always a little wildness in your momma.” He smiled, perhaps remembering something in his past, and for a moment his face was transformed; he was the old Uncle Oramel again. Then the smile disappeared. “Daddy was bound and determined to stamp that wildness out of her. He only made it worse. When your momma met your daddy, she snatched him up so fast, it made our heads spin. She wasn’t going to stay under Daddy’s roof one minute longer than she had to.” Uncle Oramel coughed. “She made a good choice, or maybe she was lucky, because Alcee was a good man. He worked hard and took care of her and of you. When he died, your momma didn’t have no one to take care of her. You were too young and I...” He paused. He stared at the wall and then at a picture hanging at the foot of his bed. It was a picture of Christ, holding his heart in his hand and offering it to the viewer. The look on his face was one of profound sorrow, as if he already knew the offer was made in vain. “I guess I was too busy with my own life to help her out. My own sister.” His eyes watered and he wiped them with the edge of the sheet. “I had plenty time to think lying here on this bed and what I saw,” he turned to me, “what I saw in my head was that your moma was not a whore like I told you long ago. She was just a lonely person looking for someone to care for her. She needed me, Armand. Just like you needed me, and I let you both down.” His eyes watered again. He tried to lift his hand but after a moment let it drop. “Please forgive me,” he said through the tears. “I was so busy looking for sin that I forgot to see the good.”

It was too little, too late. My mother was dead. She would never hear his apology, nor mine. How could I forgive him? He forced me to see the ugly side of a woman whose only fault was that she could find no other way to deal with the circumstances she was forced into. Here he was, my uncle, judge, and accuser coming to the end of a life of regret. He wanted me to understand. I understood too well.

I didn’t reach out and take his emaciated hand.

I only nodded.

Uncle Oramel turned away from me and stared at the ceiling. He seemed to shrink into his bed. I knew that eventually he would disappear in there.

“I understand, Uncle Oramel,” I said and stood to leave.

He only nodded, his eyes dry.

Aunt Chee glanced in the room and followed me to the front door. “You could have told him what he wanted to hear,” she accused. “He’s dying, Armand.”

“Oh, Aunt Chee. We’re all dying, for Christ’s sake.”

Uncle Oramel lived for four more weeks before finally succumbing to his disease. Aunt Chee called me in the middle of the night.

“He’s dead,” she said without identifying herself. I knew who she was and whom she meant.

I drove to Serpentville for the funeral, but I didn’t cry. I couldn’t. After the pall bearers placed him in the ground, I drove back to Lafayette.

I had not thought about the letters from my mother for a long time. As I sunk into my couch with a bottle of beer, I stared at the envelope marked number one for a long time before I decided to open it. I pulled out the letter and carefully smoothed it out on the edge of the coffee table. Then I placed it down, face up, and took a long drink of my beer before I began reading it.

Dear Son, it read. I’m sorry. I was never the momma you wanted or needed, but after your daddy died, I didn’t know what to do anymore. You were just a young boy, and your daddy was a good man, but he wasn’t rich, and he didn’t leave me much money for you and me to live on. I tried to find some work around Serpentville, but this is a small town, and there just wasn’t much for me to do. Madam Fontenot let me clean her house every Wednesday, and I got to do some ironing for a few people, but you know all that. I asked your Uncle Oramel for help, but he and your Aunt Chee had their own problems with money. I started drinking because when I was drunk I didn’t think about all those things I couldn’t do for you. When I was drunk, I wasn’t a bad mother—I wasn’t a mother at all. I’m sorry, son.

She signed the letter and dated it a month before she died.

I finished my beer and opened another. Then I pulled out the second letter. It was dated a week after the first one.

Dear Son: There is just so much I have to tell you, and it all rushes to my poor head like a blush. At first, I was just looking for a man who would take care of me and you, but what man wants a drunk for a wife, so I tried the only weapon I had left; I tried to get pregnant. I figured that if I was pregnant, then the man would have to marry me, but of course, it didn’t work that way. It never does when you want something bad enough. I guess I was too old, or too drunk, or too something. Anyway, it didn’t work, and all I got for my efforts was to see your face when you found out I was a loose woman. I’m sorry, son. I’m really and truly sorry.

Again, she signed the letter and dated it.

The last letter was dated the night of her death.

Dear Son: Your Uncle Oramel visited yesterday. He said that he was tired of hearing stories about my loose ways everywhere he goes. He said that I was nothing but a drunken whore. That’s not true. I have not been with a man since that day you came home and looked at me with those accusing eyes. I drink because that is the only way I can sleep at night. I told Ora that he sounded just like our daddy used to sound and that I always hated my daddy, and now I was beginning to hate Ora. He told me that the only reason I wasn’t hearing from you was because I had hurt you—that you didn’t want to come back to be the son of a whore. That hurt me, son. That hurt me more so than the death of your daddy. I’m sorry, son. I’m sorry for what I have done to you and for what I am going to do. I’m sorry I can’t be what you and Ora want me to be. I can only offer you what is in my heart and hope that after I’m gone, you can forgive me.

I held the letter in my hand for a long time, until the weight of the words was too heavy to hold and the letter slowly fluttered to the floor.


With Heart in Hand” first appeared in The Fiction Writer, Vol. 1, Issue 5, February 2000

Friday, May 26, 2017

Sonic Boom

I lie on my back in Monsieur Alcide’s pasture. A wispy breeze rustles the grass around me. Butch, my Catahoula dog, sleeps next to me, his legs twitching in sleep. A group of dragonflies swarm about six feet above me, the sun glistening through their diaphanous wings. In the distance, I watch my daddy sitting ramrod-straight on his International Harvester chugging their way up a row of young cotton plants, a thick cloud of dust trailing behind them like smoke. When he gets to the far end of the field, he and the tractor become one, a red slash against the horizon. In the house, my mother stands before the stove and cooks lunch. When she is done, she will hang a white rag on the back door, and my father will come in, the tractor in high gear, bouncing him up and down in the seat.
The sky is clear, a brittle azure blue that seems eternal. I feel that if I gaze at it long and hard enough, I will see heaven. I stare so hard that my eyes ache. I think that heaven might just be blue and God might be the white of the clouds. However, there are no clouds in the sky, and I think that God is taking the day off, reclining in his heaven and gazing down at the greenness of earth. I remove the blade of grass I had been chewing from my mouth and smile up at him just in case. I do not want to offend God. My mother told me once that God knew all and saw all. “Notre Dieu,” she said in that solemn voice she adopted whenever she talked about God or Jesus. “Il sais tout et voit tout.” My father, who is part Native American, part Irish and all Cajun told me that God’s spirit was in everything.
A passenger plane inches its way across the sky, smoke trailing behind it in a thin stream that expands and disappears the further it travels. I imagine what it might be like to be in that plane sitting in a comfortable seat, drinking a Coca Cola, and eating ice cream. I wonder if God is on the plane.
A mosquito hawk glides on the updrafts, his sharp eyes focused on the green world below him. Like God, I think. Suddenly, he folds his wings, and dives downward, the wind shrieking around his aerodynamic body. When he opens them again, he shoots back up to continue scrutinizing the world below for insects. I try to imagine what it would feel like to have wings—to feel the rush of air as I dive downward and shoot back up at the last moment before striking the earth. I try to imagine, but I cannot. The nearest I can come to it is running down the dirt lane that leads to our house, the wind blowing my hair back, my legs pumping, my heart racing, my chest heaving, my mind whirling with the strength I feel in me. It is close, but I am still earthbound—always one foot on the ground.
My mother hangs out the white rag calling my father in for lunch. His back is to the house, and he will not see it until he comes up another row.
I hear the plane before I see it. It is coming from the direction of the field my father works, and is flying much lower than the passenger plane. It emits a low growl that grows louder as it nears me. When it is directly over me, the air explodes, so loud that I can feel it, as thunder will sometimes rumble inside of me during storms. A white halo encircles the plane just behind the wings, and I think that’s God’s plane. I place my hands over my ears and watch it disappear just as quickly as it appeared leaving behind the roar of the engine and the booming echoes of the explosion. Butch jumps up and runs home. The dragonflies disappear, as does the mosquito hawk. My father stops the tractor, stands up, and surveys the sky. My mother sticks her head out of the back door and does likewise. God is angry, I think, and look up, expecting the azure sky to break apart sending down blue shards like rain from the heavens, leaving behind it a sky so black that it is impossible to pierce, and I wonder what we have done to anger God.


As a young boy, I heard my first sonic boom while sitting in my father's cotton field, much like this character, and it frightened me to death. I remember thinking that it sounded like thunder in a cloudless sky and being confused at the unnaturalness of the experience. The thought occurred to me then, that it might be an act of God. Several years went by before I learned about the science behind it, and I was both awed by the information and disappointed.  

Friday, May 19, 2017

A Ten-Dollar Shoeshine

      When I first arrived in Rota, Spain in the early seventies, I had never been out of the United States. In fact, I had never been out of the Southern United States. Although the base in Rota was Americanized, it was still significantly different from the base in Pensacola I had just left. For one, all the workers spoke Spanish, and the few television sets around the air terminal played Spanish programs. That evening, several newbies and I decided to go off base and hit a few of the bars. What follows is a scene from a work in progress that probably will never see the light of day and accurately captures some of the pitfalls and excitement of our first night in a foreign navy town. The characters have just left Perry's Madrid Bar, after being proposition by some rather grimy prostitutes. By the way, although an incident like this did happen my first night out in Rota, the characters, as well as the incident, are fictional.
      I followed J.C. and Ernesto outside. It had started raining again, a cold misty drizzle. Randy stood on the sidewalk shaking his head. The taxi driver sped off, his tires squishing loudly on the wet cobblestone street.
      "How much did you end up paying him, Randy?" J. C. asked.
      "Well, I gave him a ten-dollar bill, and he was supposed to give me change, but he didn't. He drove away with my money."
       We laughed at him until he reminded us about our promise to share the cost of the taxi.
       "How much do we owe you?" I asked.
       "Two dollars and fifty cents apiece." We gave him our share and walked through the drizzle to the Red Door Bar, whose door was painted black.
      The place was lively, and the music American. Van Morrison's "Brown-eyed Girl" played on the jukebox when we walked in. Unlike Perry's Madrid Bar, the girls, three of them, stood behind the bar instead of in front of it. They served drinks and talked to the customers seated on the stools across from them. The place held six billiard tables placed in a neat row from the front of the building to the back. All six were taken. Small, fragile-looking tables surrounded by two or three chairs dotted the room. Most of them were covered with beer bottles, but no one sat at them, except for one at the rear left corner of the room, where a dark-haired girl and a sailor occupied it. They held hands over the tabletop and seemed to be having an earnest and serious conversation.
      I strode over to the bar and a blond girl with dark blue eye makeup and red lipstick waited on me.
      "What'll be?" she asked in a strong British accent.
      "You're not Spanish," I said, a little surprised.
      "I should bloody hope not," she said smiling, revealing slightly stained teeth. "I'll sit and tell you my life story some other night, when I'm not so busy. What'll you have?"
     "Four beers," I said holding up four fingers.
     "Spanish, American, German, or Danish/"
     "Which one's better?"
     "Neither, in my opinion. I don't drink the stuff."
     "What do you drink?"
     "Rum and Kas."
     "What's that?"
     "A rum and lemon drink."
     "I'll have three American beers and a rum and Kas."
     "Good choice, Yank."
     She walked off to get the drinks. Just then, two kids, who couldn't have been more than nine or ten, walked in, carrying shoeshine boxes over their shoulders. They looked around the room a bit and zeroed right in on Randy. One kid kneeled and placed one of Randy's feet on the box. Randy pulled his foot down, and the kid grabbed the other foot and placed it on the box. While this was going on, another kid was pulling on Randy's sleeve and yelling up at him.
     "Shoe shine, GI? Good shoeshine. See face. Like mirror." Randy tried to tell the one kid no, while keeping the other one from his shoe, but already his shoes had shoe black on them and the kid was buffing.
     "Here are your drinks," the barmaid told me. "If you don't shoo them away, they'll pester you all evening."
     "Thanks," I said and turned to Randy. "You want a shoeshine or not?"
     "Obviously not, but how do I get rid of these mad urchins?"
     I leaned over and tapped the kid at Randy's feet on the shoulder. He turned to me, his rag ready to buff. I pointed to my shoe.
     "I'm going shove this thing right up your rear end if you don't get the hell out of here." I pointed to the door. "Go, now."
     "Okay, pal," the kid said.  "No rough stuff.  First, he pay me for shoeshine." He held an opened hand out to Randy.
     "How much?" Randy asked reaching into his pocket for money.
     "You're crazy?" J.C. said. "You're going to pay this guy for a shoeshine you didn't want in the first place?"
     "Well, he did shine my shoes."
     "Mil Pesetas," the kid said.
     "A thousand pesetas? That's more than ten dollars."
     "Mil Pesetas, firm."
     "That's robbery. I'm not about to pay that much for a shoeshine."
     "I call shore patrol. I send my pal to get him." He said something in Spanish to his friend. I looked at Ernesto, but he shrugged his shoulders indicating he didn't understand.
      "You just do that," Randy told the kid. "I'd like to see you explain a ten-dollar shoeshine to shore patrol." Randy crossed his arms. He was standing tough.
      The kid said something else to his friend. This time we caught the words Gaurdia Civil.
Randy uncrossed his arms and shuffled his freshly shined shoes.
     "We see," the kid said. "My pal gone get Gaurdia Civil. We see."
     We had been warned about Gaurdia Civil, Franco's personal police force. American or not, if you were on Spanish soil, you were subject to Spanish law, and the Civil Guards were vigilante in their enforcement.
      Randy surrendered. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a ten-dollar bill. He held it out to the kid.
      "Gracias,' the kid said and snatched the bill from Randy's hand. He and his friend walked around the building once and left. Nobody else wanted a shoeshine.
     Randy didn't even finish his beer. He told us all goodbye and walked out after the kids. Apparently, he did not stop walking until he reached Barracks 39.
     I stayed in the Red Door until it closed, around one in the morning. I played a few games of pool with J.C. and Ernesto, but mostly, I tried to sell the blond barmaid a ten-dollar shoeshine.

Friday, May 12, 2017

Accordion Heaven

There lived a Cajun man
who couldn’t read or write,
but he could make an accordion sing.
He’d sit on his front gallery,
prop his chair back, and pump that squeezebox
until sun gave way to dusk, to moon.
He was not a lonely man;
although, he never met a woman who could sing
as beautiful as his old Monarch.
The sound left him as breathless
as airless bellows.

When he died, an old man asleep in his bed,
the accordion lay by his side.
The parish buried him in an unmarked grave
in a corner of the Catholic cemetery.
Someone placed the scratched and arthritic
instrument in the cheap pine coffin with him.
In the evening, when moon and sun
share the heavens, you can hear
his accordion melodies float over the conflux
of earthborn souls.

I heard the melody, one Moon-filled evening,
borne upon a warm summer breeze,
weaving among the freshly white-washed tombstones.
I felt its uplifting seduction, and I knew that not only did God exist, 
he was Cajun.


I wrote this several years ago after reading an article on Nathan Abshire, "Mr. Accordion." I had also watched "The Good Times are Killing Me," a documentary on Cajun culture in which Abshire is featured. I grew up listening to Mr. Abshire's music. He was well known in Evangeline Parish. A copy of the documentary is available here. It's slow to start, but it does after a few seconds. 

Saturday, May 6, 2017

Sailing on the Chinaball Tree

In the spring, when the lilac-colored flowers covered the Chinaball tree like wispy purplish-blue hair, Daddy picked bouquets to perfume the house. In the summer, when the Louisiana heat was heavy and hot, Daddy sat under the tree's thick canopy and luxuriated in the coolness listening as I jumped from branch to branch among the green foliage pretending to sail the high seas. He always wore a thoughtful, faraway look on his face as if he sailed with me. In the autumn, when the leaves lost some of their luster, the green balls turned yellow and fell to the ground. Daddy and I sat on the front porch and laughed as the chickens and birds staggered from eating too many of the narcotic fruits. In the winter, when all around was either dormant or dead, the tree clung to life, defiantly resisting the evolutionary urge to change, until even it had to succumb to the icy northern winds.

One day, the Chinaball tree died. Suddenly, without warning, the leaves turned a brilliant yellow, then a brittle brown. Daddy got the passe partout, his two-man saw, from the shed out back, and together, we cut it down. He saved a part of the trunk and sat it on the front porch, its heartwood bleeding a deep reddish-brown. The rest he burned in the fireplace.

Not long after, Daddy developed cancer, and as the malignant cells ate away at his body, he sat on his Chinaball stump and stared at the horizon, a pensive, distant look on his face, and I knew he was sailing without me.

Daddy finally succumbed. Weak and emaciated, his skin turned the same shriveled yellow of the Chinaball fruit just before it falls. One day he closed his eyes, drunk on the promise of death, and died.

Years later, I have my own problems facing the responsibilities I have assigned myself. I am educated now–not a tenant farmer like my father was. I load Daddy's Chinaball stump, worn smooth by time and use, into my old pickup truck and drive to his gravesite. I sit and imagine that I am sailing high above the cemetery through an ocean of clouds. Daddy sails with me. I tell him about the book I read, which states that the Chinaball, Melia Azedarach—the "Pride of India"—belongs to the mahogany family. They are a one-of-a-kind tree that grow fast, but do not live long; it is in their nature.

“Like people,” I say, but the words sound brittle like brown leaves off a dead tree.


Growing up, we had a large Chinaball tree (also called Chinaberry tree) in the front yard, and like the above story states, I spent hours upon hours playing in its canopy. Momma used the dried berries to create Christmas decorations and play jewelry for my sister. I would use the green berries as ammunition for my rubber tire slingshot. When in bloom, the tree was spectacular and the heavenly scent of the flowers would fill the air. The slice of life above is a work of fiction. Yes, there was a Chinaball tree in the front yard of our farmhouse. Yes, my father died of cancer. However, he did not die in the house that featured the Chinaball tree. Hope you enjoy it.

Sunday, April 30, 2017

He Danced with Accordion Lungs

He Danced with Accordion Lungs
                                   for N’onc Moi upon his passing 9/1/00

He danced with accordion lungs--
pumped la musique cadienne through his body
until black notes oozed from the pores,
a capella,
and danced about like saucy cayenne.
The acrid aroma seared the nose hairs,
tasted like drunken Cajuns
waltzing to “Jolie Blonde.”
No, more like jitterbugging
to The Mamou Playboys.
When the hurricane came to Louisiana
the trees tico tico’d to and fro
in a wind that decimated the Gulf coast.
Mais, mon p’tit,” my uncle loved to say
in cases like these.  “If it wasn’t for
hurricanes the trees would never dance.”
When the aerophone gale of blackness
swept through Chataignier like a can can,
kicking up my uncle’s shiny black dancing shoes,
he flew through the air after them like Terpsichore.
Little June tried to catch his N’onc Moi,
but could not snatch the airy spirit
from the watery washboard sky.
Il voyage tout partout, mais il reste a sa maison en terre.
The accordion whispers, “Don’t drop the potato”
but only in Cajun. The music notes rise
up and up, abbandono, but my uncle’s
lungs sing no more.


  I have always felt that my  Uncle Moise Brasseaux was the quintessential Cajun. He loved good food, good times, good music, and the Cajun culture. This is for all the Brasseauxs who are now gone: Tante Not, N'onc Moi, Melissa, Darrell, Russell. May you all dance together with accordion lungs. A version of this poem first appeared in the Southern Indiana Review.

Friday, April 21, 2017

Ȃmes en Peine

Loy saw her in the cemetery just outside of Serpentville, and the sight of her stirred his soul.
Dressed in his clean khakis, his brogues, polished to a mirror shine, and his fedora, which he wore, turned down and cocked at an angle, he was on his way to town for a few of Joe's cold beers. When he saw the girl, he stopped and stared. He had not planned on cutting through the cemetery, but now it seemed like a good idea.
The girl helped an age-splotched old man whitewash a tomb. Loy weaved around the graves until he could read the tombstone they worked on: ETHEL ROZAS, nee juin 13, 1892, morte novembre 13, 1950: femme, mere, grandmere, personne. The girl kneeled in the grass next to the tombstone and scrubbed out the letters with a small brush. Her light brown hair, pulled back into a bun at the base of her neck, gleamed in the sunlight. The lime mixture she used streaked her face and arms white. The old man busied himself pulling weeds from around the slab.
Loy inched closer and stood off to the side a bit, about three graves removed and watched. She blew at a loose lock of hair that had fallen across her eyes and looked up, right at Loy. Startled, she blinked and then stared right back into his eyes, a question in the look. She nodded and returned to her job. The old man, who caught the direction of her gaze, looked up at Loy. He stood, using the tombstone for support, and brushed dirt from his knees.
"Puis-je vous aider?" he questioned, using the formal Cajun.
Loy took his eyes off the girl and met the old man's gaze. It was an honest gaze, no fear, or distrust.
"Non, merci vous,” Loy answered using formal Cajun in return. "I was just amazed at how devoted you are toward your jobs. Most people see cleaning graves as a chore." Loy had no one, dead or alive, that he cared for enough to work so diligently. He did not understand why people cleaned the graves. The dead would never appreciate it. Unless, of course, people cleaned the graves for the living—a status symbol of sorts. I am better than you are because my dead rest in cleaner, whiter graves than yours.
The girl looked up then as if she could read his mind. She frowned. He noticed that she had the strangest colored eyes, grayish-green.
"That's where my wife lies, bless her soul," the old man said, laying an age-splotched hand tenderly on the tomb's face. "She was a good woman—a good wife and mother."
"And a good person." Loy added, unable to control himself. The old man frowned and looked at the girl as if he needed a translation, but she was staring at Loy.
"You forgot, grandmother," she said in American. Her voice was musical, her tone mocking. The old man frowned.
"What did you say?"
"I said he forgot to say Memere was a good grandmother." She talked to the old man, but she looked at Loy, before nodding at the tombstone.
"Yes, she was," the old man said softly.
An awkward silence followed. Loy glanced up at the sky, so clear and blue that it seemed to go on forever—straight into the heavens—a beautiful day, perfect for being outdoors. The cemetery backed up to a cotton field. In the distance, he could see a group of pickers slowly bend and straighten over the mature plants as if they were performing some sort of ritualistic dance. A blue jay chattered loudly in one of the cottonwoods that lined either side of the cemetery. Then he was silent. A small breeze rustled the dry cotton plants, and he heard the clatter of the empty bolls sounding like the rattle of bones. He looked down at the girl; she was staring at him.
"Une âme en peine," she said. "A lost soul wandering around the cemetery."
"They say that these sudden breezes are troubled souls looking for a place to settle. They say if you breathe in during one of those breezes that the soul enters your body and settles there. They take over your soul." She paused. "Did you breathe in?"
"Who are they?"
"They are the old and the wise, like Granpere, here." She nodded at the old man, and a wisp of her brown hair fell across her forehead. She swept it away with the back of her lime-coated hand that left another white streak across her cheek. She had delicate hands with long tapered fingers that looked ghostly covered in white as they were.
The old man grinned at his granddaughter.
"Ah," he said. "You're making fun of me, are you Enna?" He grinned wider, exposing a set of stained false teeth. Enna shook her head.
"Don't you deny it," the old man joked. "I can tell." He reached down, placed a hand on her head, and gently shoved. She ducked and laughed.
"I would never make fun of you, Granpere. You are too special." Her eyes sparkled.
The old man turned to Loy.
"She's just like her grandmother, her—gives with one hand and takes with the other—the only two people who could ever do that to me." The old man bent slowly and sat down on the slab next to his granddaughter. An old pickup truck entered the cemetery and a group of people poured out next to a dirty gray tomb. The clang of tools and buckets sounded loud as they began their work.
"I remember once," the old man continued. "When I'd just met Ethel—I was working in the sweet potato fields then, crating them. She was doing the same about three rows away from me. Her and this colored girl were singing." The old man paused and stared up into the blue sky. "I still remember the song: an old spiritual called 'Dry Bones.'"
"I remember that song," Enna broke in. She used to sing it with me all the time:
'The toe bone's connected to the foot bone,
the foot bone's connected to the anklebone,
the ankle bone's connected to the leg bone,
the leg bone's connected to the knee bone,
the knee bone's connected to the thighbone.
Rise up and hear the word of the Lord.'"
"That's it," the old man said. "That's what her and that colored girl were doing, singing and being playful, making up words like lip bones and ear bones and heart bones to make up this story about a guy who placed his lip bones to this woman's lip bones, and they kept connecting bones until they connect the hip bones. This old colored man suddenly jumps up in the middle of the field and starts yelling and screaming. I still remember his words: 'Lord, bring down your wrath on these two sinful women. They've taken a song of the Lord and sullied it. May the holy wrath of God strike them where they stand.' The old preacher—that's what he was, a preacher—raised his two arms up to the heavens, and damn if we didn't get a couple of dust tornadoes go off at that very moment all around us. Scared the hell out of everybody in that field, especially Ethel and that colored girl. They fell to their knees, clasped their hands together, and started praying for all they were worth." The old man gently placed his age-splotched hand on the tombstone.
"I had been on my knees sorting potatoes, so I stood up, taller than that old preacher and went stand next to Ethel and that other girl. 'Ladies,' I said in a loud voice, trying to sound like that preacher fellow. 'The Lord is not a weak man. The Lord is not an insensitive man. The Lord is not a dumb man. The Lord,' I said, looking straight into Ethel's gray-green eyes, 'has got a sense of humor, ladies. The Lord knows how to laugh.' Then Ethel did something that touched my heart. Even today, when I think about it, it touches my heart. She gave me her hand—a small hand, kind of dirty, stained black with potato milk. She put it in mine, and I helped her stand. She glanced at the preacher fellow, and then looked up into that blue sky. 'Thank you, Lord,' she said just loud enough for the group of workers gathered around us to hear. 'Thank you, Lord, for sending me this handsome savior.' She squeezed my hand and fell on her knees—right back to sorting potatoes. The rest of the workers in the field did the same, even the old preacher." The old man looked over at his granddaughter. "That's how she was, though. Always handing out and taking away. I knew that day that I was going to marry her. I knew it for sure because she had taken away my heart and, in return, she gave me the most fantastic feeling I had ever experienced. And years later, after we had been married for some time, she told me that she knew it that day, too. She knew that she was going to marry me, and she knew that I knew it, too."
The girl placed her white hand in her grandfather's and smiled at him.
Loy felt awkward. He took a couple of steps back. He felt as if he were not part of the scene anymore—as if he were outside somewhere peeping into someone's window. He heard a far-off shout and was surprised to see the cotton pickers already on the cemetery side of the field. He took another step back.
"Where are you going?" Enna asked.
Loy thought she was still talking to the old man, so he didn't answer her, and she repeated the question, her grayish-green eyes staring straight into his.
"I…I don't know," he stuttered. He had cut through the cemetery because he had seen this beautiful girl, and now, he could not even remember where he had been headed.
"Well, if you're not headed anywhere, and you're not afraid to get a little whitewash on your clothes and hands, you can help us out here. We still have two more to do after we finish Granmere's grave."
"Enna," the old man reproached. "Maybe the man has some place he needs to be."
"Then let him be someplace, Granpere. I'm only asking for his help if he is free to give it."
"Still and all, Enna."
"It's okay," Loy said, and they both looked up at him. "I would be happy to help you."
"Excuse me, sir,” the old man said. "We don't know your name even."
"Loy. Loy Lafleur," he said, taking off his Fedora and bowing in their direction. A wisp of his heavily oiled hair broke free and fell across his forehead, and he quickly tucked it back up and replaced his hat. The girl smiled at him.
The old man extended his dirt-stained hand.
"How do you do, Monsieur Lafleur? My name is Estus Rozas, and this is my granddaughter, Enna Bontemps." Enna extended a small white hand; Loy shook it. Her hand was warm and soft to the touch, but her handshake was firm and authoritative. After she released his hand, Loy looked down at his own, stained white where hers had been. Enna grinned, pulled a clean brush from a brown grocery sack, and handed it to him.
"Here you go," she said, her grayish-green eyes sparkling. She nodded at a tin bucket sitting next to the grave filled with a thick broth of lime and water. "And there's the bucket. I'm almost done with the front of the tombstone. You can start whitewashing the back while I finish up."
Loy took the brush and the bucket and kneeled behind the tombstone. As he worked, he occasionally glanced at the girl. He estimated her age at 19 or 20, maybe less; he wasn't sure. She worked easily, carefully as if what she was doing was of the utmost importance. He studied her. He was reminded of something from his past, but he couldn't quite place it. He searched his mind as he worked.
Loy was an orphan, born and abandoned as an infant in New York City. Then the orphanage sent him and a trainload of other orphans to Louisiana for placement in good Catholic homes. The man, Pierre Lafleur, who adopted Loy, treated him like a work animal. Pierre fed, clothed, and gave him medicine when he was sick, but he would have done the same for any of the animals that contributed to the farm. Pierre believed that everything on the farm had a purpose, and what didn't was disposed of. One foggy morning he systematically killed a brood of puppies with a ballpeen hammer. When Loy asked why, Pierre said that one dog on the farm was all that he needed. Anymore would take away from the farm rather than add to it. Loy had been six years old then.
Three years later, Loy was a contributor to the farm--he plowed, planted, and harvested the cotton. He did the same work as Pierre and the other boys in the family. For his efforts, he received food, clothing, and shelter—no love, no respect, no comfort.
One morning, about two months after his ninth birthday, Loy escaped. He ran until, exhausted, he fell asleep in an empty drainage ditch next to a cotton field. The next morning, he kept walking, following the dusty graveled and dirt roads that crisscrossed the South Louisiana countryside. That evening, he stopped outside a large whitewashed farmhouse. The sun had just disappeared behind a pecan grove near the house, and a single lighted window faced the road on which he stood. A woman sat in a straight-backed chair before a mirror and slowly, lovingly, ran a brush through her long black hair. Loy had never seen hair that long in his entire nine years of living. He stood, rooted to the spot, and could not have moved even if he had too. He never heard the man who grabbed him.
"Ah, hah," the man said holding on tight as Loy kicked and squirmed. "Damn if I didn't catch me a peeping tom."
"I'm not peeping. I'm just walking on the road. That's all,"
"I'm going to let you go in a second or two if you stop squirming. Now, I got a shotgun about two steps away, leaning on that fence post right there." He turned Loy's body a little, so he could see the shotgun right where he said it was. "If you run, I'll shoot you. I won't try to kill you, but who knows what'll happen. The choice is yours." He slowly released his grip on Loy. "Now tell me, what are you doing out here staring at my wife?"
"I wasn't staring," Loy said, facing his abductor for the first time. He was a small wiry man, about forty or fifty years old; it was impossible to tell just looking at him. The man had a face the color of leather and probably just as tough, as far as Loy could tell. The face was wrinkled and bewhiskered. It seemed like an honest face. "Okay, I was staring, but only because I've never seen hair that long before."
The man gazed at the window. His face softened.
"She does have long hair at that." He turned and faced Loy. "What you doing for supper? Got any plans?"
"No, sir."
"Then why don't you join us?"
Loy ate supper with them, and before the evening was done, he had told them all about his adopted father and the abuse he received from him. The man, Hinclay Hebert and his wife, Francis Marie, opened up their home to him, and they became more family to him than his adopted family—more family to him than his real family, which had abandoned him nine years before. Although Hinclay was very careful to treat him as a farmhand, Loy understood that underneath it all there was tenderness, maybe even love. At night, after working all day in Hinclay's cotton fields, Loy would bath in the washtub and sit down to Francis Marie's dinner. After dinner, he and Hinclay would watch her comb her hair. It was a performance. First, she would slowly uncoil it from the top of her head and let it fall back behind her, draping the back of the chair. Then she would take both hands and slowly, lovingly, run her fingers through every inch of hair; she did this fifteen times, every time. Then she would pick up the soft-bristled brush Hinclay had given her for their third anniversary, and she would brush until the hair shone raven black and rippled against the brush like water against a shore. She worked as if what she was doing was of the utmost importance. At bedtime, she coiled the hair atop her head again.
Francis Marie died when Loy was 20; her dark hair had turned shiny silver almost overnight, it seemed. One evening, she sat before the mirror brushing her hair, and she fell face forward. The doctor said she had a stroke. Three weeks later, Hinclay took his own life; he hung himself from a rafter in the barn. A son showed up from somewhere up north, sold the farm, and disappeared. 
Loy felt betrayed.
"A penny for your thoughts," Enna said, stirring him out of his revelry.
"I was just remembering a woman I knew a long time ago. You remind me of her a little, the way you clean the letters on the tombstone."
"Is she special to you?"
Loy thought a few moments before answering.
"She died fourteen years ago. She was a good person."
A breeze rustled the cottonwoods.
"Don't breathe," Enna said.
"You said there were two more graves to do?"
'What's the matter? Are you tired already? You haven't even begun."
Loy smiled.
"Which two?"
"Those two just behind Granpere. My mother and my father."
"I'm sorry."
"They died when I was just two."
"Why? How?"
Loy noticed that the old man had stopped what he was doing and was staring at his granddaughter.
"Granpere and Granmere told me that they died in a horrible accident. But that was only to spare me. As soon as I could read, I found an old copy of the Ellisonville Gazette that dated back to the day my parents died. The article said that the deaths were murder/suicide. My mother shot my father and then killed herself."
 "Mon Cher," the old man said, his voice soft and concerned. "It was so long ago."
"Yes, Granpere. It was so long ago."
Loy told her about being abandoned; about being adopted and abused; about the disappointment he felt when he realized that he didn't mean enough to Hinclay to prevent his death. He didn't understand why he told her all this, but she listened intently, frozen with her hand on the tombstone.
In the alley between the cotton field and the cemetery, a woman dragged her heavy cotton sack and broke into song:
"Sometimes I feel like a motherless child
Sometimes I feel like a motherless child 
Sometimes I feel like a motherless child
Far, far away from home."
All three of them stared at the woman as she alternately sang a line and hauled on her heavy burlap sack. When she situated herself in her row, she stopped singing. Everything turned quiet again.
"After I found out the truth about what happened to my parents," Enna said breaking the silence. "I was depressed for days. One day, Granmere called me into the sitting room. 'What she did,' she said speaking of my mother, 'hadn't a thing to do with you. She was sick, honey. She saw a problem, and this was her solution. We look back on it and say, how can it be? Why did it have to be that way? But we're asking those questions with our hearts—not with our minds. She wasn't asking questions, Enna. She was saying this is the only way it can be.' I asked Granmere why Momma didn't kill me, too. 'Because you were with me,' she answered. 'Only because you were with me, honey.'" Enna stood and dropped the little brush she'd been working with in the grocery bag. The group who had been working on the grave on the other side of the cemetery threw their tools into the back of the pickup and piled in afterward. They circled the cemetery leaving a trail of white dust in their wake.
"Look at us," Enna said. "We sound like we're at a funeral wake for heavens sake."
"We are with the dead, so we remember," the old man said. "There is nothing wrong with that."
"Why don't we remember the nice times, Granpere? Like the time you and Granmere took me to the fair in Ellisonville."
The old man grinned as he recalled.
"The band played…it was the Ellisonville Playboys. They played 'Jolie Blonde' and you danced round and round and round tracing little circles in the dust with your bare feet."
"And then Granmere joined me and took my hand, and we spun round and round and round until we couldn't stand up anymore, we were so dizzy, and we both fell sitting down in the dust. Remember that, Granpere? You thought we were crazy."
"Yes, I remember. Your granmere put out her hand, I took it, and she pulled me down between you two. I was so mad, for a second, until I looked into her eyes, and I saw the playfulness there. And we all laughed for a long time while the people danced around us kicking up dust in our faces. How old were you?"
"I was ten, Granpere. When we left the fair, we were white as ghosts from being covered with dust." The old man and the girl grinned knowingly at each other. Again, Loy felt as if he were on the outside watching a slice of life through a lighted window. As if reading his mind, Enna turned to him. "Do you have a moment like that?"
"No, I'm not much of a dancer."
"It doesn't have to be dancing—a moment of pure abandonment—of pure happiness."
Loy thought for a moment. He looked up into the sky. Far off, over the cotton field he watched as a huge white cloud slowly transformed itself. It looked a lot like a man, but the arms were slowly disappearing into what could have been a body. He wasn't sure what it would turn out to be, but he knew it was changing. It had no choice; it was subject to the wind. A long black car whipped into the cemetery and pulled up about ten graves away. The dust rose behind the car, clouded up, and slowly drifted down, covering car and graves. Loy smelled the dust in the air. A man in a business suit climbed out, stumped cowboy boots on the ground, and strode over to a large marble grave. A small woman dressed in a short blue skirt and blouse, climbed out of the passenger side carrying a vase filled with flowers. She placed the flowers at the head of the grave next to the tall marble tombstone. The man stood at the foot of the grave and watched solemnly.
"Once," Loy said, "Frances Marie, my boss's wife, asked me if I would like to feel her hair—she had the longest hair I've ever seen. I ran my fingers through it." Loy closed his eyes as he remembered. "It felt like corn silk, but alive. It smelled like flowers, perfume, and bedrooms. I wanted to throw it up in the air and crawl under it and let it cover me, so I would be lost in its softness and its smell." Loy opened his eyes and blushed through his suntan when he saw the girl and her grandfather staring at him intently.
"How old were you?" Enna asked.
Two more cars pulled into the cemetery. Loy recognized one of the occupants as Mrs. Drucilla Broussard, who lived about two miles from his shack. Mrs. Drucilla loved to bake bread, and it was a rare moment when Loy walked past her house without smelling fresh baked bread. Both cars stayed at the far end of the cemetery near the blacktop road.
"We're never going to finish these if we don't stop talking and start working," the old man said. He stood, pulled a hoe from the back of the old pickup truck parked on the edge of the dirt road, and began edging the two graves next to his dead wife's. Loy gave the front of the tombstone a coat of lime and started on the slab.
"Have you ever been very scared, Monsieur Lafleur?" Enna asked.
"Loy. Yes. Once, when I was walking through Johnson's Cemetery at night."
"The abandoned one."
"Uh-huh. I was walking through it, and I'm afraid I had been drinking a little, and I saw something white moving through the trees."
"Yes. So I ducked behind a grave, watched, and listened carefully. There was a whole line of them weaving in and out of the trees. I thought I had stumbled on some kind of ghost celebration. I knew I was in for it."
"What did you do?"
"What could I do? I stayed right where I was. I could hear them crashing through the trees, and it occurred to me that ghosts wouldn't be so noisy. So I crept forward until I could see fairly clearly through the little moonlight that filtered into the woods. My ghosts were of the four-footed variety. They were cows—Hank Miller's Holstein herd."
"I bet you were happy."
"Happy? Yeah, I was. In fact, I was so happy to be alive that I never heard the barn owl until it swooped down just above my head—probably after some mouse or something the cows had scared up. I fell to the ground and curled up in the fetal position and asked God to make it quick whatever it was he was going to do."
Enna laughed—a small musical explosion of joy.
"Did he?"
"You mean God? Yeah, he pounded some sense into my head and made me aware of how foolish I was. I stood up and ran out of that cemetery as fast as I could. I didn't stop until I reached home, breathing so fast and furious that I probably inhaled a truckload of your lost souls."
Several cars and trucks pulled into the cemetery, and Loy could see little groups of people busily cleaning and painting graves throughout the graveyard. He, the old man, and the girl intensified their efforts and fifteen minutes later, were putting up the tools.
The old man shook Loy's hand.
"Thank you, Monsieur Lafleur. Your help was really appreciated."
"I enjoyed the company, sir." Loy glanced at Enna. She blushed and turned away.
"Perhaps," the old man began, looking directly at his granddaughter. "Perhaps we could offer Monsieur Lafleur a meal for his efforts, Enna."
"Yes, of course. What a wonderful idea, Granpere." She turned to Loy. "How about it, Monsieur Lafleur? Would you be free for supper on Sunday?"
"Loy, and I would never pass up a free home cooked meal."
"Why don't you come early—sometime after mass? That way you can visit before we eat."
"I would love to."
They shook hands all around. Enna and her grandfather climbed into the pickup and left in a cloud of dust. Loy watched the pickup until it disappeared around a curve on the blacktop. Then he slowly made his way through the cemetery until he reached the edge, under the shade of the cottonwoods. He sat on a slab and stared out over the cotton field. The wind had broken the cloud up, and now it looked like one long string of small clouds.
"Sort of reminds me of your hair, Madame Francis." Loy gently patted the gray slab he sat on. The tombstone read, Francis Marie Hebert: nee 1897 morte 1955: La lumière qui allume la nuit. What do you think of Enna?" Loy watched the workers in the field empty their cotton sacks into a trailer. A man wearing a straw hat and overalls, weighed, and emptied the fat sacks and gave them back to the owners to start all over again.
"She's a good person Madame Francis. I feel it. I'm probably going to marry her." A breeze stirred the cottonwoods and Loy inhaled deeply.
"Sometimes, I feel just like those cotton pickers, Madame Francis, first up one row and down another until the load gets too heavy to carry. Then I got to empty it or get someone to help me carry the load. I think she and I can help each other. I think she and I were made to help each other." Loy stood and gazed at the tombstone a moment.
"That day I felt your hair, Madame Francis, was the closest I've been to anyone except maybe today. Remember afterwards, you took my hand in yours and squeezed it. You thanked me. It made my legs weak to think you got pleasure from the touch of my hand." Loy looked up into the sky again. The clouds had all but disappeared leaving behind it a clear blue that seemed to burn the eyes with its clarity.

"You know what," Loy said. "I think I'll go to town and pick up a little lime and a bucket. I bet you'd appreciate it if I cleaned up your grave a bit—spend some time on it, so I can remember."


My parents met in a cemetery while cleaning graves for All Souls Day. They loved telling the story to whomever would listen. I don't remember when I got the idea to write the story down. This is a fiction based on a true story. I hope you enjoy it. A version of this story appeared in The Journal of Kentucky Studies.

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