Queen of the Mardi Gras Ball Page 15

  “My ice cream is melting.”

  “For heaven’s sake, Henri, listen to the doctor! I’m going to put this back in the icebox until he’s finished with you.” Loretta seized the bowl from Roz and marched down the stairs. The telephone rang in the hallway. They heard Loretta pick up and explain that she was staying home with a sick child this afternoon and would have to miss bridge club.

  Pierre inserted the thermometer under Henri’s tongue. Roz positioned herself on the other side of the sick bed. She might as well say it. “I shot Buster when he tried to keep me locked up. That’s why I’m here—waiting for the scandal to die down. We’ll file for separation in January. I’ll be free next year.”

  Henri’s eyes went wide and his mouth around the thermometer formed a tight little O. His head swung from his Cousin Roz to the doctor and back again.

  “Since you still have to go through the legal steps, I assume Buster is alive, no?”

  “Yes.”

  Dr. Landry took the thermometer from the boy’s mouth. The words, “You shot a man, Cousin Roz?” came out along with it. Pierre deftly inserted a red lollipop.

  “Suck on that for a while, son.”

  Loretta rushed to the bedside, and Roz stepped back. “Is it pneumonia or scarlet fever?”

  “No, Mrs. St. Rochelle. His lungs are clear, and there’s no rash, but those tonsils will have to come out. Let’s say seven tomorrow morning at the clinic before I start office hours. Henri can spend a few days in the hospital, miss a tee-tiny bit of school, and be up and running for Christmas.”

  “Tonsils, only tonsils. I’m so relieved.”

  “When he comes home, feed him soft food for a while—and all the ice cream, junket, and Jell-O he cares to eat, but nothing after eight this evening before the surgery.”

  Henri appeared supremely happy. No school, tons of dessert, and a cousin who was a gun moll, what more could a boy want? Wait until he ran into Tubbs and Boozoo again.

  “See, Ma, it wasn’t because I ran in the rain with Cousin Roz,” he felt compelled to say around the lollipop.

  “Oh, so you went running in the rain with Roz. Lucky boy.” The doctor closed his bag and prepared to leave. He smiled at Rosamond across the room.

  “I hear we’re due for more rain, much more rain,” Roz answered, never taking her gaze from his mouth.

  They only talked about the weather, and still Loretta hadn’t felt such frissons since, well, since she and André were courting. Her own girls had been properly chaperoned and courted in a seemly manner. They had, in turn, married a lawyer, the son of the owner of the largest department store in Lafayette, and a promising assistant at André’s bank. Perhaps, she had been too strict with them. Flushing at the thought of what her daughters might have missed, Loretta said, “Let me show you out, Doctor. I appreciate your coming so quickly.”

  “I’ll show him out. I know you want to be with Henri.” Roz moved to the bedroom door, but they didn’t say a word as they passed down the staircase and out the front door.

  “I know you have other patients to visit, but could you stay and talk for just a few moments—on the side porch?” Roz added. A Model T splashed by on the wet roadway.

  Pierre nodded. They walked toward the more secluded area. He took a seat in one of the rattan chairs and picked up the two library books Roz had carelessly left out in the damp that morning.

  “The Great Gatsby and The Sun Also Rises. Are you enjoying them?” he asked.

  “Not very much. Daisy is so vain and self-centered. She’ll destroy Gatsby,” she answered—as if she really wanted to discuss literature.

  “A silly, city flapper with more dollars than sense.”

  “That sounds like a quote.”

  “From my mother, only she said it in French.”

  “Oh.” Roz looked down at the books in his hands.

  “Are people being unkind to you, Roz? Chapelle is a small town with gossip as a major form of recreation. It’s easier to hide in a city.”

  “I’m not in hiding. It’s more as if I’m in voluntary exile—like Hemingway. I’m not worried if folks think I’m like Daisy. What bothers me is that I might become Lady Brett, empty and unable to fill myself with what I really desire.”

  “Give yourself some time. Let people get to know you.”

  “Sure. But you look tired.” She reached out a hand to touch his cheek, and he drew back.

  “Don’t. Don’t give them more to talk about. You’re still married to Buster, and I won’t make an adulteress of you. He could have spies watching you to get more evidence for the divorce, to get more money from your family.”

  “I don’t give a care!”

  “Well, I do. For your sake, I do. Doc Spivey spent two days going over his cases with me when I arrived. Then, he hopped a train for Phoenix saying he was going to bask in the sun with the tuberculosis patients. He’ll be coming back after he recuperates, but in the meantime, there is enough work for three doctors. I live in an apartment on the third floor of the clinic where Doc used to stay when he had patients in the ward on the second floor. I barely have time to eat or sleep, and that’s how I’ve gotten through not knowing what became of you. Did you recover? Did you really go back to that bastard? And now, here you are, well and as beautiful as ever.”

  “Yes, here I am. What are you going to do about it?”

  “Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Because now you are in my hometown where I’ll make my living for the rest of my life.”

  “And a divorced woman would ruin that for you? Do you truly want to stay here for the rest of your life? You could practice medicine in the city.”

  “Roz, this is what I trained for. The city has a hundred doctors. Here, there is only me. If I hadn’t been here last week, Arno Bourque would have died of a burst appendix. Mrs. Tauriac and her baby would be dead because I wasn’t here to do an emergency section, and the Babin brothers would still be spreading TB up and down the bayou instead of getting treatment at the state sanatorium. This is where I belong, but I’m not sure the fun-loving, city girl I knew in New Orleans could tolerate Chapelle for very long.”

  “I don’t think that girl exists anymore, Pierre.”

  “Going from Buster to me isn’t going to mend what’s broken inside you, Roz. That’s something I can’t fix. You must heal yourself, but I will help in any way I can. I must go now.”

  “Do, then.” She stood up very straight. Even though she ached where her ribs had knitted and felt the emptiness of her womb and wondered why her heart didn’t stop beating right this moment, Roz offered him her hand very briefly. He barely touched her fingertips.

  “Au revoir, Dr. Landry. Au revoir.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  By Christmas Eve, Loretta’s home overflowed with people. Her three youngest girls came home on holiday from the Academy, and her married daughters returned to the nest with their prosperous husbands and six assorted grandchildren for the celebration. Henri was, as promised, up and running. All but the youngest noticed that Cousin Roz slipped out quietly for the Methodist service and hymn sing at eight and remained at the house during midnight Mass.

  A few family members raised eyebrows when Roz wore her newly dyed crimson dress at Christmas dinner, but on the whole everyone remained pleasant and convivial with the exception of two cranky babies whom Roz took a turn at rocking. She gave pairs of movie passes to the younger sisters, doled out four more to the grandchildren old enough to attend a flicker, and gave the last two to Ethel and Willie. In return, she received the last minute gifts of the unexpected guest—cruciform lace bookmarks tatted by the nuns at the Academy, a box of good but plain stationary, and from Loretta’s eldest daughter, a beautifully and sometimes gruesomely illustrated Lives of the Saints because she’d heard Roz liked to read.

  After a filling meal, Cousin André took his box of cigars and his sons-in-law out to the porch. Loretta thanked Roz again and again for the lovely scarf, running it through her fingers, and saying “all
the way from Paris” as if it were that long ago ball gown she’d worn to Mardi Gras. Henri was happy with his marbles but hinted that a knife to play mumbletypeg with would have been even more welcome, and he did have a birthday coming up at the end of January. The boy rose up on his tiptoes and pecked his cousin on the cheek.

  “Why, thank you, Henri.”

  He pulled Roz’s head down near his mouth and whispered, “When I asked him what you’d like Dr. Landry said you needed a kiss for Christmas. It don’t cost nothing, but would mean a lot. I think he’s sweet on you. Oh, and I’m sorry that Whitman’s Sampler I got you had some of the chocolates missing. See, I met Tubbs and Boozoo on my way home, and you know how it goes. You can’t stiff your pals.” Henri kissed her cheek again.

  Roz went smiling up to her room to get two packages from New Orleans still wrapped in their brown paper and string. Roxie hadn’t sent a gift, but somehow, having Henri around made up for that. Had that small kiss really been sent by Pierre to soften his harsh words, or was she making of it what she wanted? Still clinging to that little sign of affection, Roz heard the voices coming from the bedroom next to hers and recognized the sharp, cultured tone of Loretta’s eldest, Janelle.

  “How could you give her my room, Mama!”

  “Dearest, you’ve been married and living in Lafayette for six years. You’re the mother of two. It really isn’t your room anymore.”

  “Everyone knows Cousin Roz is as scarlet as that dress she has on, and I don’t like her sleeping in my old bed or being around Henri and your grandchildren.”

  “Janelle, who is everyone?”

  “I heard some of the women gossiping after Mass. You know she’s gone over to the Methodists, too.”

  “Well, shame on women who gossip after Mass. The girl reads, mopes some, and plays with Henri. She could be more formal with the servants and less interested in—never mind all that. Except for taking Henri out in the rain without an umbrella, she’s been good company for him.”

  “Mama, women who are getting divorced are always on the lookout for another husband. What if she goes after mine or Lois’ husband or even Daddy because he has some money?”

  “Believe me, Roz is not interested in your father or any of your husbands. She—Oh, here she is, out in the hallway. Roz, dear, I have a special favor to ask of you. The Harkriders are having a New Year’s Eve party, and I wondered if you would mind staying home with Henri. You’re so good with him, and I really do trust you with his care.”

  “Sorry, Loretta. I believe I’ll be out looking for my next husband. After all, if a girl already has a certain kind of reputation, she might as well enjoy it. Oh, and I’ll try to find another place to stay after the holidays.”

  Roz turned on her heel, went into Janelle’s old room, and shut the door. Did Pierre think that, too—that she was so weak and helpless she needed another man to take care of her? She buried her face in her hands.

  “See what you’ve done! I promised Emmaline I’d watch out for her, and now things will be worse than ever,” Loretta moaned in a voice that could be heard clear through the keyhole.

  ****

  Roz stayed in her room, or rather Janelle’s room, for most of the week between Christmas and New Year’s Eve. She worked the large tablet of crossword puzzles her mother had sent to pass the time, using the little wrist dictionary that came with them to look up clues she couldn’t solve. She returned the Hemingway and Fitzgerald and checked out more murder mysteries that suited her mood. She ate chocolates using the guide on the lid to avoid flavors she didn’t like and shared them with Henri when he was sent to coax her downstairs.

  “Know what, Cousin Roz?” he told her on the last day of the year 1926. “I’m going out to Tubbs’ grandma’s place to spend the night. We’ll be able to hear the music from the Barn and watch the fireworks old man Broussard is going to set off at midnight in his field. Well, it probably won’t be him setting them off ’cause he’s so fat, but some of Tubbs’ uncles will do it. Ma didn’t want to let me go, but when I told her Leroy Mouton was going, she couldn’t say no. His daddy is on the Police Jury. We call Leroy “Lamb” because Mouton means ‘pretty lamb,’ and he hates that. Boozoo is coming, too, but don’t tell Mama. She always wants me to play with Mayor DeVille’s kids, and they’re no fun. Where are you going tonight?”

  Henri knuckled some marbles across the hardwood floor of the bedroom and managed to hit two others and knock them under the bed where he had to wriggle to get them back. Setting her makeup case on the night table, Roz sat applying a little more rouge to her cheeks than usual. She checked to see that her red lacquered nails matched her lips and the scarlet wedding dress laid out on the bed. Slipping on the brow band, she turned the vermilion plume downward to frame one side of her face. After all, why not look the part of the scarlet woman?

  “What’s the hottest place in town, Henri? That’s where I’ll be.”

  “Broussard’s Barn. Like I said, there will be fireworks and a really hot jazz band. Mama says Mr. Broussard puts all his ill-gotten gains in Daddy’s bank, so we have to be nice to him. She still doesn’t like when I go over there.”

  “Thanks for the information, pal. Maybe I’ll see you there.”

  “Naw, I can’t go in ’cause there’s hooch and bad women. You aren’t a bad woman are you, Cousin Roz?”

  “Time will tell, Henri.”

  Loretta came looking for her son. “There you are, Henri Phillipe St. Rochelle. Get your overnight bag and toothbrush. Sammy will drop you off first at Mrs. Broussard’s place before he takes your father and me to the Harkriders.”

  “I don’t need a bag or a toothbrush, Ma. We’re going to stay up all night and eat wieners we cook outside for breakfast.”

  “Go get your bag and toothbrush, or you stay home, Henri.”

  The boy gathered up his marbles and went dragging his feet to his room. Frowning at the red dress, Loretta sat on the edge of the bed. “I still can’t believe you dyed this lovely gown that awful color. Well, that’s neither here nor there. Roz, please stay home tonight. Making a scene in public won’t help matters. Just ignore what Janelle said. I’m afraid I’ve raised her to be somewhat of a snob.”

  “How about sanctimonious and judgmental, too? I’m a married woman, and my husband is not around to tell me what to do, thank heaven. I’m not your responsibility. As I said, I’ll be moving out as soon as I can find a place. Right this moment, I want to have some fun before I go mad.”

  Loretta rose and put her hands on Roz’s shoulders. She placed a gentle kiss on her forehead just below the platinum blonde spit curl. “Take care, dear child. Take care.”

  ****

  Loretta hadn’t left her any transportation, but Roz didn’t worry about that. She sat on the front porch steps, her sheer-hosed legs stretched out before her, the streetlight glimmering off her patent leather shoes. Roz threw the black Spanish shawl over her shoulders to keep off the damp of the misty evening and took another drink from the silver hip flask with her name engraved on the side. Filled with Cousin André’s secret stash of brandy, the flask was just another way of shaking off the cold. The house faced the main drag of Chapelle, and she’d watched the restless youth of the small town troll it in their jalopies every weekend she’d been here. Someone would come along. If Pierre did not want her, some fella would.

  Not ten minutes passed before a red convertible ornamented with raccoon tails and overstuffed with young men pulled up in front of her. “Hey, pretty lady, all dressed up and nowhere to go?”

  Roz capped her flask, raised her skirt to the sound of wolf whistles, and replaced it in her garter. “I’m Roz, and I’m going where you’re going.”

  “I’m Dennison DeVille. Call me Denny. Home from Yale for the holidays. Bobby, you get up on the back and make room for Miss Roz here. We’re going to Broussard’s Barn where the liquor flows, the band is hot, and all the women are fast.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Walet Broussard sat beh
ind the counter of the country store his daddy built way back in the last century. The good part of owning a store was you never went hungry. The bad part was it didn’t make you rich. When his daddy had gotten out of farming, the barn behind the store sat empty for a while until a much younger Walet had come up with the idea of holding dances there on Friday and Saturday nights featuring cheap local chank-a-chank bands. The dances made modest money with the ladies sipping soft drinks inside, and the gentlemen stepping outside to take a sip of Wally Broussard’s fine White Mule. Yes sir, it had quite a kick.

  Then, Prohibition came along, and Wally’s White Mule manufacturing went from a hobby to an industry. He had so much money coming in that he’d expanded his enterprises to include a row of cribs behind the barn where hookers, white and high yeller, could ply their trade for a cut of the profits. They’d tie off a man’s arm and give him a little taste of heroin or mellow out the band members with the marijuana Wally provided for a price. His three grown sons pimped, bounced, and tended bar.

  The legitimate businesses did well, too—the post office franchise for that end of the parish and the justice of the peace services. Why, Wally Broussard could deliver your mail or marry runaway couples of opposing religions, slipping them a forged health certificate and selling them a cheap ring besides. He’d marry the high and the drunk, and brag that his record of happy unions scored better than that of the Church.

  Hell, Wally Broussard owned more than half the politicians on the Police Jury and all of the law enforcement in the parish, which was damn good for business because he could guarantee there wouldn’t be any raids on Broussard’s Barn tonight. Someday, the Walet Broussard family would run the entire parish. Meanwhile, he sat behind the counter of the old general store like the fat Buddha of happiness doling out earthly pleasures, and here came some more pleasure seekers now.