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Chapter 14
February 16, 1999 - Mardi Gras
Lizzy arose early
and dressed in jeans and a t-shirt. Mrs. Breaux had a hot breakfast
on the stove cooking as she entered the kitchen. Mr. Breaux and
Chris were at the table already enjoying their coffee.
"Well, Lizzy,
how did you sleep? All right, I hope?" asked Mr. Breaux.
Assuring him that
she had rested comfortably, the conversation turned to the events
of the day.
"After breakfast,
I'll put on my costume and then we'll go over to the assembly
area. Once the capitaine determines that everyone has
arrived, us riders will take off for our first stop. You'll be
following in one of the trucks."
"I don't get
to ride?"
"Not in Mamou,
Lizzy. There are all-female courirs, but not here. Anyway,
the capitaine issues instructions and then leads us -
the Mardi Gras, as the participants are called - on the run.
Not all the Mardi Gras are on horses; some ride on flatbed
trailers pulled by trucks or tractors.
"When we arrive
at a farm house, the capitaine obtains permission to enter
private property, after which the riders may charge toward the
house, where we sing, dance, and beg until the owner offers us
an ingredient for the communal gumbo. That's the point to all
this. We gather the ingredients and bring them back to where
the feast will be prepared.
"Often, the
owner will throw a live chicken into the air that the Mardi
Gras will chase, like football players trying to recover
a fumble. Other riders will show off, by performing stunts while
on horseback."
"Does anyone
get hurt?"
Chris laughed. "Is
the Pope Polish? With the amount of beer consumed, it's a wonder
that more people aren't taken to the hospital. We usually finish
up about noon, when we get to the fairgrounds."
"Did you ride,
Mr. Breaux?"
"Ah, that was
long ago, Lizzy. These old bones o' mine can't take that no more.
The courir is for the young men. Me, I just sit and enjoy
my beer."
"And you do
a good job of that, I can tell you," teased Mrs. Breaux.
"Aii-eee, listen
to that! That woman would make you to think I'm a drunkard in
the street! Mas non! If she wasn't so good looking, I
would have throwed her out my house and got me a twenty-year-old."
Mrs. Breaux walked
over. "And what makes you think you can get a twenty-year-old,
old man?"
Mr. Breaux grinned
and pulled his wife into his lap. "You right - it would
be more trouble than it's worth. Have to break in a new wife
- aw no!"
Chris chuckled at
his parents usual antics while his mother swatted his father.
"Why'd I marry you, anyway?"
"'Cause I'm
the best dancer you ever saw." He grinned at Lizzy. "Dat's
where I met her, an' we fell in love doing the two-step."
"And they go
dancing most Saturday nights to this day," added Chris.
Lizzy looked at
the open happy faces of the Breauxs. Her own parents' marriage
was not nearly as affectionate.
~*~*~
A HISTORY OF MARDI GRAS
A series for the Loyola VOICE by Lizzy Boudreaux
We all know Mardi
Gras, or think we do. Standing on the side of the street, screaming
for beads, cheering on the bands, and drinking too much. And
all that is correct, for much of the Gulf Coast. Communities
from Texas to Florida, from Belle Chase to Shreveport, hold Mardi
Gras parades. Heck, cities as far north as St. Louis try to get
into the fun.
But there is nothing
like the Courir de Mardi Gras held in south central Louisiana.
Harking back to ancient Europe, when the peasants were permitted
one day a year to beg food from their masters, a hundred or more
riders scour the countryside to gather items for a communal fest.
I can't tell you
how much fun I had witnessing this in Mamou, Louisiana. I followed
along the twenty-mile route, the hundred-or-so costumed riders
leading the way. The capitaines wore capes and cowboy
hats - a curious combination, to be sure. The riders - the Mardi
Gras - wore costumes in the traditional colors of the season;
that is, purple, gold and green. Some, like my friend and guide,
Chris, wore the traditional high pointed conical hats called
capuchons, while others sported the droopy three-cornered
hat favored by jesters. We didn't gallop; instead we serenely
processed down the black-top roads in this rural area, the flat
fields of rice and sugar cane broken up by the occasional crawfish
pond.
We arrived at a
farm, and after the capitaines received the ceremonial
permission from the landowners, the fun began. The Mardi Gras
lined up in a field, and a dozen chickens were released. The
men dashed after the birds, dirt, mud, and feathers flying everywhere.
More mud than anything else - it had been raining earlier. Spectators
watched gleefully, some hanging from trees, as the birds were
finally caught one-by-one. All Chris caught was mud. Tasks completed,
and hearty merci beaucoup later, we were on our way to
our next destination. Hopefully, Chris will have better luck.
Along the way, the
group sang "La Chanson de Mardi Gras" while musicians
on the trucks played along.
"Capitaine,
Capitaine, voyage ton flag (Captain, Captain, wave your flag)
Allons se mettre dessus le chemin. (Let's take to the
road.)
Capitaine, Capitaine, voyage ton flag (Captain, Captain,
wave your flag)
Allons aller chez l'autre voisin. (Let's go to the other
neighbors.)"
I'm told that other
towns have either mixed courirs or all-female versions.
That's fine for the cause of equal rights, but keep Lizzy away
from horses, please. This flatbed truck is just fine…
~*~*~
Abe Weinberg opened
his front door to in response to the doorbell. There, waiting
for him, was a man in hospital garb, an over-sized plastic stethoscope
about his neck, sunglasses, and a sign on his chest.
"Oh, hi, George,"
greeted Abe nonchalantly, as if such characters showed up at
his door everyday. "C'mon in."
"Thanks, Abe,"
George Katz returned. "Everyone set for the big day?"
"You're the
first here. The girls are still upstairs. Hee…they had a
late night last night…"
Abe's voice trailed
off as he noticed George's attention was focused up the stairs.
Turning around, he saw Emma gliding down. She was in a blue halter
dress and heels, a short black wig and a beret. There was a white
stain on the upper part of the dress. Her smile was accented
with lips painted in a color of red so shocking it could be seen
a quarter-mile away.
"Hi, George,"
she said, pausing a couple of steps from the bottom and leaning
on the banister. "You like?"
"You wore Monica
Lewinski last year," he quipped, schooling his face not
to show how well he thought the tight dress looked on her.
"It's still
in the news." She wasn't fooled - she knew the top of the
dress showed off her assets to their best advantage. "And,
you're one to talk - 'Doctor of Love?'"
George grinned as
he glanced at the sign around his neck. "Oldie but goodie."
He turned to Abe. "You costuming?"
"Nah, that's
for you young people. I'm gonna be an old fart and sit in my
folding chair. You want some coffee?"
"Abe, I've
never turned down a cup of coffee in my life."
"Beer, either,"
added Emma as she joined them.
"Best kinda
beer's free beer, Em." He worked hard to stop his eyes from
wandering south - Emma's cleavage was breathtaking. He was very
glad his scrub trousers were loose fitting.
"Be back in
a sec," said Abe. "Y'all wait here for the others."
George turned back
to Emma and noticed something he had not seen before. "Nice
necklace. New?"
Emma's hand touched
the Star of David hanging from a gold chain. "It was my
mother's."
George looked deeply
into her eyes for a moment. "That's nice. She was a wonderful
lady."
"Thank you."
"You know something?"
"What?"
"I like you
with dark hair."
Emma's eyes opened
wide at the comment, but before she could respond, the doorbell
rang. It took her a second before she broke off the look she
was sharing with George to answer it.
"Hi, Chuck
- William! C'mon in!" Welcomes were exchanged as they moved
over to the living room. "Y'all aren't costuming today?
Spoilsports!"
The two were in
polo shirts and jeans. They just shrugged.
Emma turned to George.
"I'm glad somebody around here knows how to get into
the Mardi Gras spirit!"
George smiled to
hide his turbulent feelings. Emma looked so damn sexy and innocent
at the same time.
"Oh - here
they are!" Emma moved to the staircase. A moment later,
Marianne bounded down, a Catholic girl's school skirt rolled
an inch too short, knee socks and a white blouse tied around
her midriff. Her hair was in pigtails and there was black makeup
around one eye.
"I don't get
it," said Chuck.
"Britney Spears,
silly!"
William grinned.
"Aren't you taking 'Hit Me Baby One More Time' a bit far,
Mari?" He gestured at her black eye.
"Correct, Mr.
Darcy! You get a gold star!" Chuck groaned as he slapped
his forehead. He suddenly froze as another person came down the
stairs.
She was in a light-blue
leotard with white tights and tutu. White wings trimmed in silver
danced at her shoulders, while a silver halo floated above her
blonde hair. Peeking out from her tresses were two small red
horns.
Chuck's mouth fell
open.
Mari laughed. "We
spent all night making those wings! Doesn't Jane look great?"
Jane blushed as
she glanced at a transfixed Chuck Bingley. "Y…yeah,"
he finally managed before getting his second wind. "I like
it - a lot. You look great, Jane. You all look great," he
belatedly added.
William gave his
compliments as well, wondering if Chuck picked up the subtle
message in Jane's costume: there's a devil underneath those
wings, buddy. I think you've got the green light.
The doorbell rang
again. This time Raggedy Ann and her beau, Andy, were escorted
in.
"Cathy - I
LOVE those!" cried Mari.
"You look like
an idiot, Tilney," teased George. If Henry colored, no one
could tell from all the make-up.
"Nah,"
said Will, "he never looked better in his life. He certainly
has the hair color for it."
"You two cut
it out!" cried Emma. "At least somebody knows what
Carnival Day's all about!"
"And what am
I - chopped liver?" demanded George.
Emma just smiled.
No - definitely not chopped liver.
~*~*~
The group straggled
to their site along St. Charles Avenue for the parades of Mardi
Gras day. They were joined by John Waguespack and the other AIs.
It would still be at least an hour before Zulu would make it
to where they were waiting. Everyone was relaxing and watching
the various walking clubs going by, waiting for the most famous
of them, Pete Fountain's Half-Fast Marching Club.
Will was in conversation
with his friends when Cathy broke in. "Chuck, your sister's
here." The amused tone in her voice caught everyone's attention.
Chuck turned around and his jaw dropped open again.
Carrie was walking
hand-in-hand with a tall, dark-haired man in an LSU ball cap.
Both were wearing Mardi Gras rugby shirts and jeans.
"Who's that?"
asked Henry.
"He looks familiar,"
responded Will.
Jane smiled. "Isn't
he that solider Carrie was talking to Saturday?"
"No way,"
mumbled Chuck, "…could it?"
Carrie was more
than a little apprehensive as she and Buford joined the crowd,
and the look on her brother's face wasn't helping matters. She
made the introductions and stood back, observing the interaction
between her one-time obsession - Will Darcy - and her…whatever
the hell he was - John Buford.
Buford eyed his
erstwhile competition. He's tall - maybe he's got an inch
on me - and lean, probably cut. Played ball, obviously. Sharp
dresser - got money. I can see why Carrie was interested in him.
Buford stood a little taller. Well, you had your chance, loser
- she's mine.
Darcy could feel
the challenge emanating from the newcomer. He saw a tall, broadly
built man with a full face and light blue eyes. His body said
he was an athlete and his frank gaze spoke of his confidence
in his own abilities. His body language told him that he considered
Carrie his property. And you're welcome to her, partner.
Yet, Will's character would not allow him to back down to the
man, and he returned the gaze steadily.
Will shook Buford's
hand, their grips just a bit strong, proving themselves to each
other. "Welcome to the party, John."
"Thanks, Will."
There was a pause. "Play any ball?"
"Quarterback
and centerfield in high school. You?"
"Linebacker
and first base. Did some wrestling, too."
"Anything in
college?"
"Tried to walk-on
with the Tigers, but it didn't work out. Played golf, though."
Will smiled. "That's
where I know you. I was on the Tulane golf team."
Buford smiled in
return. "I know - you were damned good."
"I did all
right." The two, now relaxed, fell into a discussion over
Baton Rouge area golf courses, which brought in the other guys,
and everyone soon came to the general conclusion that The Bluffs
at Thomson's Creek was the best track in the Capital region.
Carrie stood on
the outer edges of the conversation, watching. She could not
help comparing the two men. Both were very good-looking and at
ease with themselves. Buford was the more gregarious of the two,
Darcy saying only a little bit more than what would be considered
polite at first. But as he warmed to his companions, he relaxed.
Still, he was more a listener than a talker. Darcy's eyes were
dark, while Buford's were light. Darcy's dimples were on either
side of his mouth, but were rarely seen. Buford's was right in
the middle of his chin, for the entire world to see.
Carrie was not an
especially intuitive person, but she had a revelation that morning.
Darcy was a BMW - finely built and honed, expensive but worth
the money, mysterious and deep, yet open to the person willing
to put forth the effort to learn how he worked. Buford was a
Corvette - plenty of power and polish, everything right in front
of you - no tricks, no drama. Take it or leave it.
And he likes
me - a lot, she realized.
I think it's time for me to drive domestic for awhile.
Later, after the
boys exhausted their discussion as to the quality of the local
golf establishments, Carrie had a quiet moment with Buford by
the ice chest. "You know," he said as he dug through
the offerings, "we should've brought some Cokes and beer.
Don't feel right just helpin' myself." He handed her a Diet
Coke.
Carrie shook her
head. "Emma would've had your head. Chuck was advised to
bring nothing - that's her way. She loves entertaining."
She changed the subject. "John, could we leave early, say
after Rex?"
"Sure,"
he said, his face concerned, "you feeling okay?"
"Mmm hmm, just
a little tired. It's time to go home." And see if this
thing can survive without the magic of Mardi Gras.
He smiled. "Yeah,
I wanna get you back on our home turf. How 'bout dinner Saturday
night?"
"I'd like that."
"Okay, it's
a date." Buford was taken aback at Carrie's bark of laughter.
"I say something funny?"
"Oh, John,"
she said, fighting between humor and mortification, "after
everything that's happened this weekend, it will be our first
date." She brought her hands to her face to wipe away the
tears that had appeared.
Buford wrapped an
arm around her dancer's waist. "The first of many, Carrie.
Remember, you're my girl."
She bit her lip.
"Promise?"
"I promise,"
he returned softy just before he kissed her.
Ten feet away, Jane
saw Chuck's mouth fall open yet again.
~*~*~
Zulu is supposed
to roll at eight a.m. sharp - but it's usually late. In earlier
years, it was intentional, as part of Zulu's mission is to parody
Mardi Gras itself. Now, as tradition-bound as any other krewe,
it just seemed a jinxed organization. It certainly had more than
its share of mechanical breakdowns and flat tires.
But Zulu was worth
the wait. As the Big Shot rolled into view, the waiting crowd
went nuts. Soon the floats and bands were upon them, and the
party really began.
All members of Zulu
are in blackface - jet-black makeup with exaggerated white lips.
It is an intentional jest, as almost all members of Zulu are
African-American. The politically correct need not apply.
Both Zulu and his
queen ride, usually on separate floats, followed by their faithful
Soulful Warriors and the rest of the all-male krewe. Zulu also
gets the lion share of the show bands, which really gets the
blood going. And of course, there are the coconuts. What everybody
wants and what hardly anybody gets. That doesn't stop everyone
from trying.
Unlike everyone
else, Will did not have his hands up, screaming for coconuts.
He was concentrating.
Sixth float,
left side. Sixth float, left side. Sixth float, left side.
After the fifth
float rolled by, Will worked his way to the curb. He bided his
time, waiting for a high school band to march by, his eyes never
leaving the approaching float. Finally, he took a step onto the
street and raised his arms. He scanned the riders in black face.
A minute passed
by before one of them, a plastic cigar between his teeth, shouted,
"WILL DARCY!"
Will waved harder.
"LEON?"
Leon Anderson, Vice
President of Marketing for DGS, pulled the cigar out of his mouth
before reaching down for something. A moment later he lowered
a black object wrapped in a plastic bag. As a teenager made a
grab for it, he jerked it up again. "NO, MAN - THAT'S FOR
MY BUD THERE!" He lowered the precious hand-made Zulu coconut,
the Holy Grail of Carnival, into Will's waiting hands.
"THANKS, LEON!"
Will cried as he saluted him.
Anderson smiled
wildly, his white teeth standing out from his make-up. "PARTY
ON, WILLIAM! MARDI GRAS!!" He waved before he began throwing
beads again.
Will was soon among
his friends again and received a few congratulatory slaps on
the back.
"Wow,"
smiled Jane, "a real Zulu coconut! May I see it?"
Will grinned, giving
a wink to Chuck. "I don't see why not." He handed the
prized object to the angel. "It's yours."
It took a moment
for Will's words to register. Jane, blinking, looked up in shock.
"Mine? You're giving this to me?"
Will attempted to
keep a serous expression. "We promised your sister we'd
show you a good time, Nurse Boudreaux. I hope we gave satisfaction."
However, his true demeanor was betrayed by the gleam in his eye.
Jane gave a most
un-Jane-like squeal and kissed Chuck. She then recalled who gave
her the coconut and gave Will a kiss, too - a much more sedate
one. "Thank you, Will! I…I don't know what to say!"
Will rubbed his
cheek. "I think you've just said it - don't you think so,
Chuck?"
Chuck just smiled
stupidly while Jane, realizing what she had done, blushed prettily.
Emma glanced at
George. "Am I good or what?" she demanded.
"You win, Em."
~*~*~
The highlight of
Mardi Gras day is the ride of Rex. Following the Captain of the
Rex Organization, the King of Carnival acknowledged his enthusiastic
subjects from his famous moving throne, waving his scepter. Rex
never throws - he leaves that to the two pages that ride with
him. The famous floats of Rex followed: the Boeuf Gras, the Royal
Barge, the Royal Bandwagon, the Calliope, the Streetcar Named
Desire, and the large number of floats that described that year's
theme.
John Waguespack
was on his best behavior, standing next to Mari and helping her
catch throws. And he was enjoying Mari's costume.
"The day turned
out pretty good, huh?" he shouted in her ear. "The
rain is still holding off."
Mari was talking
to him about one of the bands when John's cell phone rang. "Excuse
me a sec, babe." John moved off to the far side of the neutral
ground. "Greg?"
"Yeah. What
time does everything get started again?"
"The party
at the AI House starts after the truck parades, but it won't
get really cranked up 'til eight."
"Right."
John glanced around.
"You got the stuff?"
"Sure -
don't worry 'bout it. Got it covered. I should be there about
ten. Be cool, JW."
"I am cool."
"Sure you
are. Whatever you say."
"I owe you
for this, man."
"Hey - anything
for my main man. Later."
John pocketed the
cell phone. When he returned to Mari, she asked, "Who was
that?"
"Greg - checking
on when the party at the house gets started."
"He ought to
be out here."
"Not his thing,
babe."
"But he's missing
out on all the fun!"
John shrugged.
"I don't know
why you hang out with him - he's so gloomy."
John chuckled. "Greg's
the kind of guy that brings joy wherever he goes."
"Yeah, right."
"You'll see."
~*~*~
There were hordes
of media attending the Mamou Courir de Mardi Gras, and
Lizzy found herself sitting in one of the large tents next to
a long-haired young man sporting a goatee. "Hi, I'm Lizzy
Boudreaux." She extended her hand.
"Hello. My
name is Kurt Wanger," he said in a slight German accent
- the W came out like a V.
"Where're you
from, Kurt?"
"From Berlin.
I write freelance for newspapers there."
"Have you been
to America before?"
"Yes, but not
to Louisiana." He smiled. "Is very crazy, is it not?"
"Yes it is!
Are you enjoying yourself?"
"Yes! Food,
music - all very good. Beer - not so good." He held up a
Coors.
Lizzy laughed. "You
ought to know about that. So what do you think about all this?"
Kurt looked around.
"We have events in Germany that the whole town attends,
special festivals. But not like this. Riding horses, gathering
food from farmers. Chasing chickens," he laughed. "But
it makes little sense to me. Why? Why do this? But I have an
idea, now. The people were very poor long ago, yes?"
"Yes, that's
true."
"And these
French people received much prejudice from the English, yes?
So this is reenacting a time long ago when the people hid their
identities and stole food from the landlords to feed their villages.
A protest against the oligarchy, I think."
Lizzy was agog.
"A protest against the oligarchy? What are you talking about?
It's just a tradition - like Halloween. You know, trick-or-treating?"
"You mean when
American children dress up in costumes to extort candies from
their neighbors?"
Lizzy shook her
head. "That's not quite accurate. Look - have you ever participated
in a scavenger hunt?"
"I have heard
of this, yes."
She waved her hand
at the costumed riders. "That's what this is. They've gathered
food for a communal meal - a big pot of gumbo. Everybody's invited,
including the people who provided the food. Don't you know that
the capitaines get permission before stepping onto private
property? Everybody's in on it."
"I knew this…but…"
Lizzy cut him off.
"But you don't get it."
Kurt grinned. "It
is difficult."
She sighed. "Do
you speak French?"
"I have a little
French."
She indicated the
dancers. "Listen to them. Listen to the words of the song
the band is playing. Do you understand it?"
Kurt narrowed his
eyes in concentration. "It…it is hard. I do not understand
many of the words."
"It's Cajun
French. It's a dialect of French - corrupted over time. You have
to understand, we're not French, if what you mean by that is
that we have a loyalty to Paris and France and all things French.
We're Cajuns - the descendants of the French Acadians originally
from Normandy and Brittney who were forced out of Eastern Canada
two hundred years ago. We're proud of our French heritage, but
that's as far as it goes. We didn't return to France, because
France didn't want us! Most of the Acadians ended up here, and
here we formed our own heritage. Our own food and our own music.
Our own view of life, as well."
She looked at the
dancers moving about the floor. "They look happy, don't
they? But the words to the song are sad. Most Cajun music is
depressing ballads about lost loves, unfaithful spouses, and
hard luck."
"Like American
country music," suggested Kurt.
Lizzy laughed. "Right.
But Cajuns aren't sad. We're not cynics or stoics. We're a basically
happy people. But we aren't stupid. Our joie de vie is
real. We say laissez les le bon ton roule - let the good
times roll - because tomorrow we may die. All those people out
on the dance floor know that - that a storm could come and wipe
out all they own. That sickness may strike their families. That
the car could break down. That the bank loan may not come through.
So what! Enjoy today! Enjoy the now! You're here, your loved
ones are here - what could be better?
"People say
that Cajuns are insular, closed, guarded. That's true, but not
for the reasons you think. Family is all-important to us. Family
is EVERYTHING. Look around at the tables. All those groups are
people related to each other. We all have our friends, but we
hang out with our family. Marriage between distant cousins is
expected. Makes the holidays easier - you don't have to go to
more than one Thanksgiving dinner."
She gave the German
writer a look. "And before you say anything, just know that
marriage between first cousins is illegal in Louisiana - unlike
other states, say…New York," she finished with a grin.
~*~*~
After Rex was the
democratic expression of Mardi Gras in the Big Easy - the Elks
Orleans and Crescent City Truck Parades. Huge tractor-trailers
- three hundred or more - made their way down St. Charles Avenue,
the flat-bed trailers towing behind made up like floats. There
was a competition of sorts before the parade, and the winners
were placed at the beginning. Those trucks were as elaborate
as any super-krewe.
Most, however, were
definitely of the back-yard variety, which only added to their
charm. Families and friends built them and rode in them. Small
children tossed beads to teenagers and senior citizens as the
trucks rolled ponderously under the oaks. Air horns made their
own unique music. It was the mark of the true die-hard to watch
each and every one of them.
It would be mid-afternoon
before the last truck passed by and the avenue belonged to the
street-cleaning vehicles. A much-diminished group of revealers
made their way to the Weinberg house. Mari had returned to her
dorm, so besides the Weinbergs, only William, Chuck and George
joined Jane in the living room.
"Emma, I'm
going upstairs to change and pack," Jane told her host.
"I'll be down in a few minutes. Are you going to the party
at the AI House?"
"No, I don't
think so. But you go ahead."
"Okay, I'll
take my own car, then. Be right back!" The now-slightly
bedraggled angel made her way upstairs.
"You know,
I'm gonna change too," announced Emma. "Papa, can I
trust you to entertain these fine gents in the meantime?"
"I think I
can handle that, Princess."
"Oh, you can
handle it. I just want you to behave yourself." With a firm
look, she followed Jane out of the room.
"Man, I'm beat,"
complained George.
"Can't take
it anymore, old man?" asked Chuck. "Oh - sorry, Mr.
Weinberg!"
Abe eyed the sandy-haired
senior. "Your day is coming, young man, just wait."
"Abe, that's
enough. He's teasing, Chuck."
"'Course I
am. Like a strong young man like Chuck there can't take a little
teasing." He leaned close. "I am teasing, you
know."
"Thank you,
sir. Thank you for your hospitality."
Abe accepted the
thanks with good grace. I might have been a little hard on
Bingley, here. He's a good sort. Emma could've done worse.
He looked at George. Or better. He smiled.
~*~*~
Buford followed
Carrie back to Baton Rouge along I-10. They took the exit to
her subdivision and drove on the frontage road. When she parked
on the shoulder just before the entrance to the County Club of
Louisiana, he pulled in behind her. Carried lowered her window
as he walked up.
"Thank you
for a lovely weekend, John," she told him as he leaned on
the car.
Buford wasn't surprised
that she wanted to take her leave of him here - they had talked
of many things on Monday, including Carrie's complicated relationship
with her mother. "Dinner on Saturday - I'll call."
She nodded as they
kissed. "Just let me know where to meet you."
"Okay. Any
preferences?"
"I can't think
right now, John."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be."
Impulsively she added, "Kiss me." He did, and it was
more than the sweet peck the first one was. "John, I'm scared."
He smiled, but his
expression was earnest. "Don't be, Carrie - just trust me."
His smile widened. "Besides, you've got no choice. You're
doomed. So get the 'deer-in-the-headlights' look off your
face."
"How?"
she demanded. "How do you know?"
"Because…I'm
doomed, too." Another kiss - a quick one - and he returned
to his car. With a bit of gravel flying and a toot on the horn,
he pulled his Mustang back onto the frontage road towards the
nearby Interstate. Carrie watched him until he was out of sight.
A few minutes later,
Carrie had parked her Sentra in her driveway and went into the
house through the garage door. Her mother was on the couch in
the great room. "Carrie, is that you?"
"Yeah, Mom,
I'm back."
Catherine Bingley
rose and kissed her only daughter. "And did you have a nice
time?"
Carrie smiled to
herself. "I did, Mom."
"Oh, good.
I take it that William Darcy was there. Any movement on that
front?"
"It's the same,
Mom - no change."
The Widow Bingley
frowned. "Carrie, I'm not one to tell you how to run your
life, but for the life of me, I don't understand why you are
so hesitant in securing that Darcy boy. I know he's Chuck's best
friend and all that, but he won't be available forever. You have
to exert yourself if you want to get him…" She continued
for some time along this vein, and Carrie, with years of experience,
knew the best way to deal with it was to stand and pretend to
listen.
Finally, after exhausting
the subject, Catherine spoke of her son. "How is Chuck,
dear?"
It took Carrie a
moment to realize that her mother had changed the topic of her
inquisition. "He's fine, Mom."
"Is he happy,
or is he still moping over that Weinberg girl?"
Carrie thought back
to her last sight of her brother, laughing with Jane Boudreaux
on his shoulders crying out for beads. "He's good, Mom.
I think he's over Emma."
"Oh, good.
That was just a bad situation waiting for him, Carrie. I know
it's fashionable to be tolerant and all that, but mark my words,
mixed marriages never work, especially between our kind and Jews."
Carrie was almost
temped to ask what "our kind" was, but held her tongue,
knowing it would just lead to an argument. Carrie had not approved
of the relationship between Chuck and Emma, but not for the crude
reasons her mother had. She just didn't think they were right
enough for each other to withstand Catherine Bingley's disapproval.
Mrs. Bingley was
still holding court about interracial and inter-religious marriages
when Carrie's endurance for her mother's hypocrisy ran out. "Mom,
excuse me, but I'm awfully tired. I'm going to lie down for a
while."
Thus excused, Carrie
and her suitcase were soon in her bedroom. She lay down on her
bed, hugging a pillow. Her mother's ranting had dredged up her
most dreadful memory.
It was mid-morning
of a winter's day during her freshman year in high school. She
had gotten sick to her stomach and had gone to the nurse's office,
but there was no answer at home. Her father was on the road,
as usual, so he was out of pocket. Chuck got permission to drive
his sister home and return. As they lived on a corner lot in
their modest neighborhood, Chuck dropped off his sister at the
corner and hurried back to school. The street was deserted, save
for a Buick parked across the street from their three-bedroom
two-story house.
Carrie was puzzled
- the open garage door clearly showed her mother's car. Yet,
the front door was locked. Sighing, Carrie dug her key out of
her purse and let herself in. Once in the hallway, Carrie called
for her mother, announcing herself. She pulled off her coat and
placed her book bag in the dining room, her usual place to do
homework, and was about to go in search for her mother when she
heard a door slam. Catherine Bingley dashed down the stairs in
a bathrobe, hair in disarray, calling out for Carrie.
Carrie explained
she had come home sick from school, and said Chuck had to drive
as there was no answer at home. Mrs. Bingley told her that she
had laid down for a nap and had not heard the phone. Fully apologetic,
she escorted her daughter to her room and instructed her to lie
quietly and rest. She would check on her soon. She gave her a
kiss and closed the door.
Carrie got a
glass of water from the Jack-and-Jill bathroom she shared with
Chuck and sat down on her bed, drinking it. Her room was directly
over the front door, so she heard it close a minute later. She
would never know why she felt compelled to stand up and look
out her front window. She observed a man she had never seen before
walk quickly across the front lawn and across the street, climb
into the Buick and take off down the road.
Carrie stood
stock-still as the implications of what she had just seen became
apparent. She may have been just fourteen, but she knew about
such things - she knew what this meant.
Carrie barely
made it to the bathroom before throwing up the remains of her
breakfast into the toilet.
Carrie gripped the
pillow tightly to her chest as she tried to drive the images
from long ago out of her mind. She had told no one of what she
saw. Less than a month later, her world was turned upside down
again when her father was killed. Carrie had to be the strong
one, as Chuck was shocked into numbness and her mother fell to
pieces. It was on Carrie's shoulder that Catherine cried. For
three days, Carrie practically carried her mother through the
funeral procedures. Chuck was useless - he could barely function
himself.
Catherine soon recovered
and sued everybody in sight. She quit her job and moved the family
into their present house with the settlement money. Carrie never
saw the stranger again - it would be over a year before her mother
would date, and then only sporadically. Doctors, lawyers, businessmen,
but never that man. Her mother never remarried nor had
a steady boyfriend. It was as if, with the house, Catherine Bingley
got all she had ever desired.
Carrie became her
mother's confidante, very much against Carrie's wishes. It just
wasn't right to hear the things Catherine shared with her. She
never talked about her late husband, not directly, but…enough
was suggested to make Carrie very uncomfortable. A workaholic
- distant - unable to fulfill a spouse's needs; nothing blatant,
just implied. Her father was dead. Did her mother have to, even
slightly and obliquely, put him down?
Tears flowed down
Carrie's face as she considered her warring emotions about her
mother. How is it possible to love and loathe someone at the
same time?
Carrie got out of
bed and retrieved her purse. Pulling her cell phone and a business
card out of it, she dialed a number.
"John? It's
Carrie."
"Hey, pretty
lady! I was just thinking about you. What's up?"
"Nothing."
I just had an irresistible urge to hear your voice. "Are
you home yet?"
"Almost
- I've got a few blocks to go."
"I…I want
to thank you again for the weekend, and…and I'm looking
forward to Saturday."
There was a sight
pause. "Thank you, Carrie. I can't wait to see you."
Carrie felt a chill run through her as she picked up the desire
in his voice. "Decide where you want to go yet?"
"Any place
is fine."
"Japanese?"
"Oh, John,
I could just die for some sushi."
"That's
my girl. I'll make the reservations and call you later."
"Okay. Call
me on the cell phone, all right?"
"Right -
got it. 'Til later, babe."
"Bye, Johnny."
As she hung up, she smiled at herself. This must be serious
- I'm giving him nicknames, now.
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