The Devil in Canaan Parish (10 page)

“Hello, Mr. Bram,” he smiled.

“Ah, Gabriel,” I answered, “how are you?
 
How’s your mother?”

We exchanged pleasantries for a few minutes.
 
Gabriel was Izzy’s older brother.
 
At sixteen, Gabriel was a tall, lean, strong young man.
 
He’d been working for us since he was Izzy’s age:
 
mowing the yard, trimming the bushes, performing odd jobs around the house – things that I couldn’t do, since my time was taken up at the drugstore.
 
He was a good kid – smart and funny – and he wanted to go to trade school one day and become a carpenter.
 
Like Izzy, he was pleased to be able to help out his mother at home.

Gabriel’s father was a sadistic alcoholic.
 
He no longer lived at home and spent most of his time wandering from place to place, trying to earn just enough here and there to keep himself drunk.
 
When he did live at home, he would beat Gabriel and his mother almost every day, until one day he beat his wife unconscious and almost succeeded in strangling Gabriel.
 
Izzy came running into the drugstore.
 
It was lunchtime and he was crying. Six years old, he came in crying and begging for help.
 
I saw myself in his face – the panic and fear – it was the same panic I had felt the day my mother sent me for a doctor for Gracie. I can’t imagine the courage it took for Izzy to do it, but he ran up to Sheriff Boyle who was eating his lunch at the counter, and pulled on his sleeve:

“Please Mr. Sheriff,” he said, trying to fight back his tears, “please sir, please come to my house, my daddy’s going to kill my momma and my brother Gabriel.”

Boyle had stiffened and took another sip of his coffee, “well now,” he said, barely acknowledging the boy, “I guess some folks just ain’t got no manners. I’m trying to eat my lunch right now.”

Izzy was desperate.
 
He was trying so hard not to cry, trying to be a man when he was only a little boy.
 
“Please sir,” he tried again, “I’m sorry to ask you, sir, but my daddy’s going to kill my mama.
 
He done knocked her to the floor, and he’s choking my brother.”

Boyle turned and studied him out of the corner of his eye.
 
“Well, alright,” he said, “I guess I can go down there and take a look, soon as I finish my lunch.”

I was watching him and little Izzy, whose face fell.
 
I saw the hope destroyed.
 
It made my stomach lurch and churn.
 
At that moment, I took the Sheriff’s plate and coffee cup, turned and stacked them in the sink.

“Lunch counter’s closed.” I said, folding my arms.

Boyle glared at me.
 
Grabbing his hat, he crammed it on his head and then stormed out the door with Izzy following close behind.
 
Perhaps it was his rage at me that made Boyle decide to throw Vernon Johnson out of town that day.
 
After he’d done it, he proudly recounted how he’d marched into that shotgun house, stepped over Annie Johnson’s beaten body and slammed Vernon on the back of the head with the butt of his gun.
 
The blow knocked Vernon to the floor, and in doing so, made him release Gabriel’s throat.
 
The boy was purple and gasping for breath.
 
Boyle grabbed Vernon by the hair and dragged him back outside.
 
By that time, a crowd of neighbors had gathered in the front yard, stunned and speechless no doubt, to see a white Sheriff intervening in what was usually considered a colored matter. Boyle threw Vernon into the back of his cruiser and then drove him out past the town limits and dumped him there.
 

“I kicked that son of a bitch in the stomach a few times,” said Boyle proudly, “and then I told him I better never see his mangy nigger ass in my town again!”

It had been five years, and Vernon Johnson had not been seen in Techeville.

After the incident, I did what I could to help Annie Johnson and her boys.
 
I started Gabriel cutting my grass and doing odd jobs and soon he was doing the same for our neighbors and friends.
 
When Izzy was old enough, I gave him the delivery job at the store.
 
I paid them both from my own meager salary.
 
Sally told me I was ridiculous to do so, saying that nothing would change and eventually Gabriel would end up just like his daddy.
 
I didn’t care.
 

Gabriel had just finished mowing the lawn and was starting to sweep the sidewalks. He was hot and the sweat ran down his face and neck.
 
At that moment, the back door opened and Melee appeared, holding a tall glass of lemonade.
 
When she saw me, she seemed confused and almost a little afraid.
 
She stood for a moment at the top of the steps, and then made her way down.

“Ah, Gabriel, this is Melee, our new house girl,” I stammered, noticing that I was staring at her longer than necessary.

“Oh, yes sir,” smiled Gabriel, “I, uh, met Miss Melee earlier today.
 
When I got here,” he fumbled a little with the handkerchief he had pulled from his pocket and wiped the sweat off his forehead.

Melee cautiously handed Gabriel the lemonade, “It’s so hot,” she murmured, “I thought you might like something.”

Gabriel grinned and nodded, “Thank you kindly. I do appreciate it.”

She watched him as he drained the drink all at once, and then took back the empty glass.

“Lunch is almost ready,” she smiled at me briefly, and then turned and walked back to the house.

I waved at Gabriel, who was picking up a broom and beginning to sweep the sidewalk, and followed Melee into the house.
 
The screen door creaked loudly.

“Hey Gabe,” I shouted over my shoulder, “give this door a grease, would you?” Gabriel smiled and returned my wave, and then went back to his sweeping.

Walking in the door, I was hit by an aroma I hadn’t smelled since I was a boy: red beans simmering on the stove.
 
My mother used to make them all the time, mostly because they were so cheap and easy to come by.
 
Nevertheless, she took pride in making them:
 
soaking them overnight, sautéing a little celery, onion and green bell pepper and then adding the beans and simmering them for hours, until they were creamy and tender.
 
The smell would fill the house and cling to my clothes, maddening me to the point where I would have to go outside and wait patiently for dinnertime, when she would call me in after my father returned home.
 

“Gloria, I would rather eat your beans and rice than a steak dinner any day!” my father would croon.
 
I had to agree.
 
Those precious few evenings I would go to bed with a full stomach and a happy heart.
 

I stood in the kitchen, remembering my mother standing at the stove, stirring the beans.
 
I watched Melee as she opened the oven door and removed a steaming pan of corn bread.
 
When she turned around, her face was red and wet with perspiration.
 
She set the pan down on the counter and began to cut carefully around the edges, releasing the corn bread from the pan and then dumping thick square slices into a breadbasket lined with a red and white checked napkin.
 
She noticed I was staring at her, and self-consciously tucked a stray hair behind her ear.

“I can serve this up if you’re ready,” she smiled, waiting for a movement from me, which did not come.
 
“You can go sit down now.”

I pulled myself away from staring at her and went through the swinging door to the dining room.
 
Sally was already seated.
 
She was sipping at a glass of water and staring directly in front of her.
 
I sat down across from her, noticing that she did not seem to blink.
 
Her gaze went through me, focused somewhere on the wall behind.

“Smells, good, huh?” I attempted at small talk.

Sally did not respond.
 
Melee came in with a large bowl of rice.
 
The steam from the rice slowly began to fog up the large gilt-framed mirror directly behind Sally’s head.
 
In it, I watched Melee bending toward me as she spooned the rice into my bowl, her breasts swaying slightly underneath her blue dress, the same faded dress she had worn the day before, it must have dried over night.
 
I realized that she was wearing neither a girdle nor a brassiere -- those stiff undergarments that most women of my wife’s generation wore like armor. As she leaned over me, her breathing quickened.
 
I looked up and saw the little hollow at the base of her neck. In the shadow there glistened a hint of the silver necklace I’d seen her wearing last night.

“My, my,” Sally interrupted my thoughts, “I guess it must never get hot down in those cool backwoods swamps, now does it?” Her tone was harsh and penetrating.

“Pardon me, ma’am?” asked Melee, her hands beginning to shake.

“Well now,” said Sally, smiling like a shark, “I just meant it certainly is strange to be making hot beans and rice in the middle of this July heat!
 
But I suppose, that doesn’t bother you, uh, Cajun people, right?”

Melee was confused and terrified.
 
She didn’t speak for a moment.
 
I glanced across the table and saw the victory in Sally’s eyes.
 

“Oh, no, sorry ma’am,” Melee stuttered, “I uh, I mean, der wasn’t anything to cook, you know? All I could find was some cornmeal, some rice and some dried beans in the pantry.”

“That’s quite alright.” I smiled, reassuringly.
 
“I’m sure it’s just fine.”

Defeated, Melee trudged back to the kitchen and returned momentarily with the beans and cornbread.
 
As she was spooning the beans for Sally, I watched her shake nervously, the serving spoon clanging against Sally’s bowl.
 
Her silver necklace fell out from the top of her dress.
 
I watched her quickly stuff it back.
 

“Pretty little necklace,” remarked Sally, the edge of sarcasm cutting her voice.
 
“Don’t see too many of those in the swamp, now do you?”
 

“Yes, tank you,” whispered Melee, “it was my mother’s.
 
She gave it to me, when she died.”

Sally dropped her eyes.
 
I could see the color come to her cheeks and knew that she was embarrassed for being uncivil.
 
Melee finished serving and then left us alone in the dining room.

Chapter Seven

I didn’t try to speak to Sally for the rest of the meal.
 
I had a hard time swallowing down my food, even though it tasted delicious.
 
Sally disgusted me. As soon as I took my last bite, I stood up and pushed my chair away from the table.
 

“Bram,” she started, gazing up at me, I could see a softness in her eyes that I hadn’t seen in a while.
 
At one time it would have melted me.
 
Today, it only made me feel more disgusted.

“Damn it, Sally,” I sneered, “you can live out your days being a shriveled up, bitter old woman, but don’t you dare hate that girl just cause she’s got a little life left in her.”

For a moment, I was stunned at myself, hardly recognizing my own voice.
 
It was the harshest I had ever spoken to Sally.
 
I did not dare see its impact on her face, fearing that her expression would soften my resolve.
 
Instead, I stormed out of the house.
 
Melee was nowhere around.
 
Gabriel was still there, getting a drink of water from the garden hose.
 

“I greased up that hinge for you, Mr. Bram,” he said.
 

“Yeah, yeah, thank you Gabe,” I answered, distracted.
 

“Miss Melee’s real nice,” he said.
 
I shot a quick glance at him, surprised that he seemed to guess my thoughts.

“Yeah, uh, I guess so,” I hedged, trying to sound nonchalant.
 
“Well, I’d best get back to the store.”

“Yes sir,” he smiled, “I’ll see you Monday.”

I took one last look around for Melee, and then jumped in my car to head back to town.

 
I spent the rest of my day thinking about her.
 
When I returned to the house to collect Sally, she had regained her steely composure.
 
Whatever her feelings about what I had said to her that day, she didn’t show it.
 

We drove in silence to the Blanchards’.
 
Warren R. Blanchard, Jr. was a third generation district attorney.
 
His father, Warren Senior, and his grandfather, Royce Blanchard had both been district attorneys for Canaan parish.
 
There had been a Blanchard in the office for so long that voters simply checked the name on the ballot automatically.
 
Junior, as Warren was called by most of his family and friends, fully expected his son, Warren R. Blanchard, III, or Trey as he was called, to take up the family business one day as well.
 
I sometimes chuckled to myself at the Blanchards’ attempts to emulate royalty.
 
If Trey had a son, he would undoubtedly be named Warren R. Blanchard, IV.
 
I secretly wondered what his nickname would be.
 

Sally was the only one who called Junior by his first name.
 
They were friends growing up and high school sweethearts, and everyone thought that they would marry, but Sally insisted on going to college.
 
Blanchard, like Sally, was not used to waiting for anything he wanted.
 
After Sally left, he settled on Peg Landry, Sally’s closest cousin.
 
Peg and Sally were the same age, and had been debutantes together, but where Sally was a stately and graceful magnolia, Peg was more like a Louisiana iris, growing wild and free along fences, around mailboxes and in road-side ditches from Alexandria to New Orleans.
 
Junior and Peg drank and partied together at honky tonks, and Junior took out his longing and frustration on Peg in the backseat of his car. Their hasty marriage raised more than a few eyebrows in Canaan parish and Trey was born six months later.
 
Once they were married, Peg settled down to the task of all good Catholic wives:
 
having lots of children.
 
Trey was now eleven, and three-year-old Mary-Alice was the youngest of five.
 
Peg was heavily pregnant with their sixth.