Mardi Gras Madness Page 3

“Ooh, dat T-Bob is some hunk. Too bad about him.” Miss Lola paused, waiting for an invitation to gossip.

  Laura could not see a thing wrong with T-Bob—except she didn’t care for swarthy men—or men who “ma’amed” her as if she were ninety years old—or men who were not David. With no response coming from Laura, Miss Lola shrugged and asked, “What can I get you, cher?”

  “I heard you had good boudin, but I couldn’t stand anything hot today. How about a New Orleans style muffuletta?” Laura smiled confidently, not at all sure what she had ordered, but she saw no other menu than a small chalk board listing Today’s Special as the catfish po-boy with potato salad and drink, $5.95.

  “Coming right up. You not from around here?” The waitress vigorously plied a slicing machine. Thin shavings of cheese, ham and salami accumulated quickly into a large mound.

  “No, I’m from Pennsylvania. I’ve come for a job interview.”

  “You dat new librarian. Lilliane LeBlanc told me to watch out for a young Yankee gal. I’m Lola Domengeaux. Dat’s said ‘DiMaggio’ like dat baseball player, but he don’t spell it right.” Mrs. Domengeaux split an immense circular bun with her knife and deftly heaped on the cold cuts.

  “I haven’t gotten the job yet.”

  “Oh, you will, cher heart. Not too many will even come for an interview in a small place like Chapelle, and your qualifications are real good.” She sloshed crushed olive salad over the wheel of the sandwich, replaced the top and severed Laura’s lunch neatly in half. “Anyt’ing else, cher?”

  “A large cold drink. My air conditioner broke on the way here.”

  “Take your pick.” Miss Lola pointed to the coolers.

  Laura selected a tall Coke in a plastic bottle. Chapelle was certainly not what she’d had in mind when she had sent her resume to the State Library of Louisiana—so much for a nice reference position in a New Orleans university. Laura fought the impulse to tell the motherly Mrs. Domengeaux all.

  “Here or to go, hon?”

  “To go. I think I’ll have a picnic over by the church,” the Yankee gal answered, feeling awkward with the robust woman who had probably read her resume. She also believed if she sat at one of the tables, Miss Lola would extract her entire life story and tell her T-Bob’s in the next thirty minutes.

  “Now, if a skinny little girl like you can eat all dis sandwich, you deserve some lagniappe. Dat’s a little extra, you understand? Here’s a praline for dessert. I make my own. Best in da parish for absolutely free.”

  As Mrs. Domengeaux handed over the big sack containing the muffuletta wrapped in white waxed paper and one praline in a small plastic bag, Laura selected a tourist guide from the overburdened racks on the counter.

  “I might as well learn a little about the town while I’m here.”

  “You be back, cher heart. Now da library is down left of da church along da bayou, dat old Barras place. Miss Barras left dat house to the parish for a library, you see. Come on back now, you hear?”

  Laura backed out of the door, hands burdened by sack, drink and book, and into the glaring sunlight. Up and down Main Street, no one stirred except for one aged black woman warding off the sun with a huge red umbrella. This lone companion soon disappeared into Hebert’s Penny Saver Grocery.

  Alone again, thought Laura, and then reprimanded herself to cancel the pity party and eat her lunch.

  She crossed the green to the side of the church where the shade seemed thickest and found a small grotto nestled in the angles of the cruciform building. There stood a statue of St. Francis with his feet entangled in ivy and ferns; his hands offered a bowl of water to a stone dove, but the saint’s kindly eyes invited Laura to a seat on a mossy bench by his side.

  Knowing she had ordered too much, Laura removed one hunk of the muffuletta from the sack and grasped it in two hands. Olive oil dribbled from the bottom and made a thin track down the front of her jacket. Great, one more mark against her—that and being a Yankee. She mopped her chest with a paper napkin and mostly smeared the oil around. Damn.

  Her appetite came on strong, complete with a growling stomach. She wadded the napkin under the base of the sandwich and took a bite—salty and meaty, a taste of New Orleans that made her ravenous for more. She was going in for another mouthful when the ferns at the base of the church rustled furtively. Something black streaked from a fist-sized hole in the foundation. Snake!

  Laura jerked her feet up on the stone bench. Her sandwich went flying into the ivy. Everyone knew Louisiana teemed with water moccasins. A nest of vipers probably lived beneath the raised floor of the church. The ivy parted and a coal black kitten went to work claiming its half of the fallen muffuletta. The tiny tongue scraped away the first layer of ham and went after the second.

  Laura swung her feet to the ground “Okay, you take that half. I didn’t want it anyway.” The small cat responded to her invitation by pausing to rub against Laura’s calf. The kitten returned to its lunch after two quick passes.

  “I’ll tell you what, little guy. If I get this job, and you’re still camping out here when I return, I’ll give you a home. Deal?” She glanced at Saint Francis who wore a look of benign agreement. “I’m not even Catholic, and here I am looking for favors from saints.”

  She finished her half of the muffuletta and drank the Coke, which had already lost its chill. The kitten sprang up the concrete robes of the statue and lapped water from the saint’s bowl. Laura let a bit of the sweet, brown sugar praline dissolve on her tongue while she thumbed the tourist guide of Saint Jeanne d’Arc Parish. The town had more historical landmarks than Laura’s free hour could accommodate.

  She paged to the section on the church. A short walking tour began by the bronze figure on the green. Laura gathered her purse and the sandwich wrappings and stepped out of the shaded grotto. The kitten bounced by her side, then discouraged by the heat and lulled by a full stomach, retreated into the cool darkness beyond the hole in the church wall. Laura positioned herself at Point One of the walking tour and read the guidebook.

  “This spot offers a lovely view of the church of Saint Jeanne d’Arc, oldest structure of its kind in Louisiana. The church rests on the site of an older chapel founded by French priests during their conversion of the local Indian tribes. The first chapel gave the town its name of Chapelle. The current edifice, built in 1810 of native cypress, has resisted the ravages of time. The entire structure was recently restored to its original state with funds from the National Trust for Historic Preservation. The church contains many historical and artistic treasures, among them the birth and death records of the original settlers and their descendants.

  “Point Two. A statue of Saint Joan stands directly in front of the church. Created, cast, and donated by Emile Devereaux in 1812, the statue was the artist’s thank offering for his escape from the devastations of the French Revolution. Devereaux, a court artist, arrived in Chapelle in 1802 with a large group of French emigres. It is also believed that the statue served as an advertisement of Devereaux’s skills. He earned his livelihood sculpting busts of local planters and creating ornate tombs for the wealthy. Many of his works may be seen in the Cemetery of Saint Jeanne d’Arc across from the church.”

  Laura paused to look closely at Saint Joan. She approved of the classical folds of the drapery and the clean ascetic lines of the face. The eyes of the statue were lifted toward heaven, but her fine nostrils flared and her mouth set grimly as if she could smell the first wisps of smoke from the bronze bonfire at her feet. Clearly, Emile Devereaux had been an excellent artist whom fate had delivered to Chapelle to die in obscurity. Laura glanced at the somnolent town slumbering toward its three-hundredth birthday and laughed to think of both herself and Devereaux “buried alive,” as her mother would say, in Chapelle, Louisiana.

  Shaking off the grim humor, Laura strolled toward the church, Point Three in the guide. She pushed the wrought iron latch on the heavy wooden door and stepped into the sunny interior so unlike the dark and incense-burdene
d stone cathedrals of the north. Perhaps, the honey-colored cypress planks and pews gave the church its lightness. The founders, being short on glassmakers, had rimmed only the outer edges of the windows in red and blue stained glass. The sun pierced to the heart of the structure and rebounded off the gold altarpieces and the gilt ornamentation rimming the walls. Above, a turquoise vaulted ceiling held the painted stars of heaven and several brass chandeliers now filled with electric candles. In the right arm of the church, a plain brown niche contained the usual plaster Saint Joseph, but the Mary altar to the left was much more striking.

  Laura walked down the aisle to get a better view. The left wing held a gothic altar. Entirely of wood, the carvings of the altarpiece twisted and writhed like souls in hell. Among its contortions sat a statue of the Virgin carved of tawny cypress. With complete serenity, she stood straight against the convoluted background and gazed out at her worshipers. Brown hands clasped in prayer above a slight bulge in her white painted tunic as if she still carried the Christ Child in her womb. Black curls escaped from beneath her veil of sky blue, and her dark eyes looked with understanding and compassion on Laura Dickinson. Strewn about her tiny sandaled feet were plaques of marble and granite reading “Merci” or “Thanks” depending on the origin of the giver. One elaborate heart-shaped offering of pink marble bore the inscription “Merci Beaucoup-1830.”

  Laura scanned the guidebook, which went into great detail on all of the fixtures of the church and finally came to Point Thirteen—Mary Altar. “Carved by a free person of color, Celestin Segura, the altar was commissioned by Aurelien LeBlanc to commemorate the birth of his son and heir in 1830. The large, pink marble heart was placed on the altar by his wife, Camille. Segura also carved the statue of the Virgin.”

  Short shrift to give a work of art as fine as the statue of Saint Joan on the green, thought Laura. More than one good artist had languished in Chapelle. Footsteps sounded hollowly on the cypress planks of the old church. A priest dressed in an old style cassock like a long black dress came toward Laura with a greeting on his lips.

  “I’m Father Ardoin. Please let me answer any questions you might have about the church. We are very proud of its restoration.”

  “I was wondering about the statue of the Virgin. The figure is very moving, but there is so little information in the guide.”

  “I can tell you a great deal more. I’ve made a study of the history of this church and did much of the research for the restoration. Please, sit down.” They sat side by side on a cypress pew pitted with use.

  “Celestin Segura was a free person of color. In the early days of the colony, wellborn wives were hard to find. A Spanish nobleman, Don Juan Segura, held a large land grant in this area. A childless widower, he came without family to this country. As might be expected, he soon craved a female companion and purchased a mulatto slave named Alma from one of his new neighbors. She kept his house and on the birth of their first son, Antoine, he freed her. Like most men of his status and time, Segura acknowledged his bastards and gave them his name. If you have the time, I can show you the actual records of the baptism of Antoine Segura, f.p.c., in this church.”

  “F.P.C.?” Laura asked.

  “A Free Person of Color. The child took the status of the mother.” The priest continued, “Celestin, a second son, was born three years later and also baptized here. Shortly after his birth, one of the planters died, leaving an eligible widow with a large estate. The local priest brought pressure on Don Juan to marry the widow in the church even though she was older than Alma and barren. Alma was given a cottage and land on the edge of the Segura estate. She owned a few slaves to farm for her, and her sons eventually were apprenticed to a cabinetmaker.

  “Both boys had amazing talent. Their armoires are still cherished by antique collectors. Celestin, however, was a true artist. He must have been fifteen when his mother gave birth to a daughter, Marie, also fathered by Segura. Despite the scandal, Don Juan acknowledged this child too. I believe his marriage, though blessed by the church, did not make him happy and few blamed him for returning to the comfort Alma offered. Juan Segura died in the same year as his wife. They are buried over in the cemetery on opposite sides of the same Devereaux monument. His grave faces the colored cemetery where Alma lies.”

  Laura shifted on the hard pew and stole a glance at her watch. The priest showed no sign of running out of information.

  “Now, I see Alma as a practical woman. Segura’s land passed to a nephew of the same name, and Alma, envied by black and white alike for her prosperous farm and her thriving cabinet shop, was left without protection of the right kind. Too old to attract another lover, Alma still had her daughter, Marie, a beauty of sixteen by then. Alma condoned a liaison between her quadroon daughter and Aurelien LeBlanc.”

  “The LeBlanc of the altar?” Laura interrupted for the first time.

  “Exactly. Celestin Segura, the artist, did not have his mother’s worldly outlook. He was enraged at her and LeBlanc for placing Marie into slavery of another sort, though it is said that LeBlanc was kind and generous to the girl. However, Marie died in childbirth at the age of eighteen, her stillborn son buried with her. We have those records here, also.”

  “At precisely the same time, LeBlanc’s wife gave birth to his heir after many unsuccessful pregnancies. LeBlanc wanted a suitable monument for the event and commissioned Celestin to build the altar for the church. Segura was the only local artisan at the time skilled enough to undertake the carving. I am certain that LeBlanc was unaware of the depth of Celestin’s feelings against him, or surely he would have sent to New Orleans for another workman.”

  “The plot thickens.” Laura gave the priest a small smile he took for encouragement.

  “When the altar was complete, Celestin placed the statue of the Virgin Mary himself and covered it with a cloth. On the day of the dedication in front of the entire congregation, white and black, because the slaves worshiped in the church loft, he unveiled the statue. Without a doubt, the Virgin portrayed young Marie Segura, pregnant with LeBlanc’s child.”

  “Aha.” Laura nodded, checked her watch again.

  “Aha, indeed! Keep in mind that we are out of the colonial era now and well into Victorian times. People were no longer as tolerant of the mixing of the races though, of course, this still went on. It is said Camille LeBlanc refused to place the pink granite heart until the statue was removed. A parishioner ran home and brought a poor substitute of a plaster statue to sit on the altar. They placed the beautiful carving outside the door of the church until the ceremony ended. Camille and the white community were appeased. By then, the statue carved by Celestin had been spirited off, no one dared ask where. And that night, Celestin Segura hung himself from the rafters of his shop. Since he could not be interred in the holy ground, no one knows his burial site, though I suspect he lies somewhere on Alma Segura’s land.” Father Ardoin ended his long narrative not even winded. The romance of by-gone days lighted his pale blue eyes and misted his gold-framed spectacles.

  “An interesting story. How was the statue returned?” How idiotic to ask! She would be late for her appointment if she couldn’t shake loose soon.

  “I see you share my enthusiasm for history.” Father Ardoin laughed pleasantly. He was a short, slight and balding priest, but his kind blue eyes did remind her of David. “An ancient colored woman brought the statue to me during the renovations. She is called Tante Lu, the oldest member of the black Seguras and quite an institution around here. She told me the story and said the Virgin belonged here.

  “Obviously, the statue was the work of Celestin and matched the altar. Mrs. Domengeaux happily took the other statue for her own shrine. I was able to corroborate the names and dates in the story from the church records and even found an old newspaper account of the dedication of the altar. The incident was glossed over in the article, saying that due to an unfortunate accident, a plaster statue had to be placed on the altar. The editor was sure that Mr. LeBlanc would la
ter provide a finer substitute, but as far as I know, he did not. I still feel I must be careful to whom I tell this story. It would be a tragedy to have the statue displaced again by irate parishioners—but you aren’t from around here, of course.”

  “I’ve enjoyed our talk, Father. I wish I could spend a week here, but I’m almost late for a job interview.” She rose and grabbed her handbag, not wanting to go into her origins again.

  “Ah yes, the new librarian.”

  “Not yet!” replied Laura, slightly annoyed to be caught again.

  “Listen, my dear child. When I was transferred to this parish from New Orleans, I thought they had sent me to the ends of the earth to preach to the savages. Not true. Here in this small town are the same currents of history, of passion and love, of life and violence we find in the Old Testament. You can find whatever you want here, too.”

  Someone had been stationed in Chapelle too long, Laura guessed. She thanked the priest and hurried out by the side door, past the Virgin’s altar and under the compassionate dark eyes of Celestin Segura’s sister.

  Chapter Three

  The pendulum clock over the circulation desk ticked away the few remaining minutes until two o’clock. The words “hurry up and wait” came to mind as the hands had long since passed the one-thirty appointment time. Laura thumbed her guidebook at a table directly in front of the timepiece. Her perspiring fingers left small damp marks on the corners of each page. She looked at the clock again and caught the eye of the middle-aged clerk who arranged returned books on a cart for shelving. They exchanged reassuring smiles.

  “Miss LeBlanc be back from lunch soon now,” the clerk repeated for the third time. The words were softened and slowed by a black cadence still a revelation to Laura. She had assumed when first approaching the clerk that she addressed a person as white as Mrs. Domengeaux. True, Ruby Senegal’s lips were a trifle thicker than average and her nose a bit broader, but her black hair curled loosely around the pale ears pierced with ruby studs and the first liver spots of impending old age showed clearly on the backs of her white hands. Those hands went back to sorting.