Snow on the Bayou

  But maybe his father hadn’t been a loser. He’d clearly had talent, and he had been trying to rise above his mistakes. Kids couldn’t see beyond their own wants and needs, but Cage was an adult now—he should be able to understand that people were human, and they didn’t always do the right thing.

  “You have ta understand, MawMaw, that I grew up believin’ I was from bad seed, and that I would never amount to anythin’.”

  She gasped. “Who tol’ ya such a thing?”

  Claude Guadet, for one. “Lots of folks. Sometimes ta mah face, but mostly behind mah back, loud enough fer me ta hear.”

  “Ignorant folks! Good Lord, boy, surely ya dint believe them.”

  He nodded his head. Yeah, he did.

  “If you was bad seed, what did that make me, or your grandfather? Do ya really think I’m a bad apple?”

  “Of course not.”

  “I’m glad ta hear that ’cause I’m gonna be meetin’ mah Maker soon, and I wouldn’t want ta be showing up as a bad apple.”

  It was a lousy joke, but Cage attempted to smile anyhow.

  “Justin, honey, we were all created by God. No one is born bad. Thass not the way the Lord works.” She shimmied herself off the bed and came over to the other bed, where he sat. Leaning down, she gave him a hug. “I need ya to make peace with yer daddy afore I kin go. Mebbe ya cain’t ever fergit the pain, but ya kin forgive. I hope so.”

  He read the rest of the letter before she left.

  I don’t want you and Papa to come visit me here anymore. I know you’ll argue with me about this, but it upsets you too much to see me here, and it upsets me, too. The best thing you can do for me is pray and be there for me when I come home.

  I like picturing you in the kitchen making my favorite red beans and rice and Papa out by the bayou catching us a mess of catfish for supper. And my little boy, Justin, standing on the back porch, waving at me with a big ol’ smile on his face. ’Course he’ll be fifteen by then, but he’ll always be my little boy. My heart and soul. I have so much to make up to him.

  It ain’t the big things I dream of anymore. Yeah, I’d like to make it in Nashville, but only for the things I can give my family, you, and Papa, and Justin. No, what I yearn for is to sit on the back porch some dusky evening, after a trip down to the Dairy Queen in Priscilla. The sound of whippoorwills and mourning doves in the air, the scent in the air of your Virgina Slims cigs and Papa’s pipe, Elvis playing on the stereo from inside, and Justin sitting next to me on the top step, real close.

  By the way, thank Tante Lulu for sending that packet of St. Jude stuff. They wouldn’t let me keep the medal or the plastic statue, but I have the laminated prayer, and I’ve been saying it at night when I’m feeling a little hopeless.

  Love you always.

  Your son, Beau

  As he finished reading aloud, his grandmother began to weep and walked slowly from the room, saying nothing. What could she say? Cage felt crushed, and he wasn’t sure why. Secrets and misunderstandings, that was what killed families.

  Now that he was alone, he stared around him with dismay at all the boxes to go through. He had to smile on seeing his father’s guitar case and in two other boxes an old cowboy hat and well-worn boots, which were incidentally his precise size twelve, because, of course, he was remembering Em’s fantasy. Did he dare? Hah! Did he dare not?

  There were boxes of clothing, which he put on a Goodwill pile, along with a collection of early Playboy magazines, which he figured Geek might be able to sell on eBay. Little boys throughout time had learned where to look for their first forays into the forbidden world of sex. His father’s hiding place had been under the floorboard beneath the bathroom sink. The skin mags brought a smile, too.

  Any paperwork, whether letters, or legal documents, or handwritten song lyrics, were set aside for later study. There was only so much of an emotional kick in the gut he could take in one day.

  By noon he had his Jeep packed to the roof with Goodwill items, some boxes put back in the attic, and only a few boxes left for him to handle. “I think I’m gonna go out and try my hand with Daddy’s ol’ rod and reel,” he told his grandmother, who was sitting on the couch reading the daily newspaper with Elvis crooning a soft ballad in the background and the scent of fresh-baked bread wafting from the kitchen. It was like time standing still. Could have been 1954 or 2014. What would happen to this house once his grandmother was gone? Oh, he knew that all her worldy goods, including the house, would go to him, but would he keep it or sell it? Hard decisions. He used to have a handle on his life. Now the handle was broken, and so was he. He felt lost and confused. Clearing his throat, he said, “I’ll see if I can catch us somethin’ good fer dinner.”

  “It’s kinda chilly. Better put on a jacket.”

  He grabbed a hoodie hanging on a peg near the door and went down under the house to the storage area where he’d seen his father’s old fishing supplies the day they’d cleaned the yard. He grabbed the rod and reel, along with a bait bucket. Soon he had minnows captured and one of them hooked on his line. Thad was sitting beside him on the bank, looking forlorn. “I’m workin’ on her fer ya, buddy,” he promised, and the dog actually appeared to nod its big head in thanks.

  Before he made his first cast, he could swear he heard his father say, “Look before ya cast, son. Keep yer eye on the target. No herky-jerky. Smooth and easy.” And then when he felt a nibble on his line, his father saying, “Jerk ta set the hook. Doan let that ol’ fishie get away. Thass the way, thass the way.”

  Fishing was a calming experience. He’d always known that, but the longer he fished, the more he remembered.

  “Life is lak fishin’, son. A season fer everythin’. Even the bad times. But storms are okay. Fish lak a little rain.

  “Be patient. Small acts kin have big consequences. Small ripples can produce big fish.

  “Plain poles catch jist as many fish as fancy ones.

  “Jist let it go, boy. Sometimes, thass all ya kin do. If ya catch a small fish, let it go. If someone hurts ya, jist let it go.”

  Mon Dieu! he thought, swiping at the tears that filled his eyes like a regular girly-girl. My father was a frickin’ philosopher. He’d bet his Budweiser, nickname for the precious SEAL pins, that when he finally got around to looking over all his father’s unpublished songs, he would find more of the same. A poor man’s philosophy of life. Well, that was what country music was all about anyhow, wasn’t it?

  Then, too, there were the times when his father played the guitar for him and MawMaw and PawPaw. Even there, his soul had spoken its own homespun message. “Sometimes the notes you don’t play, Son, are more important than the ones you do.”

  Tears continued to stream down his face now as he cast his line over and over, a repetitive, soothing exercise. He didn’t even try to stem the flow. By the time his line went tight for the first time, and he jerked back against the drag, he was already at peace with his father.

  He and MawMaw had a mess of catfish for dinner. Symbolic? Maybe.

  It wasn’t phone sex, but it came close…

  Emelie’s phone rang about 11 p.m. She’d already relaxed in a bubble bath and was lying in her bed with a glass of white wine and a paperback novel, planning an early night of sleeping. She knew without checking the caller ID who it would be.

  “Hi, Justin.”

  “Hey, sugar, sorry to call so late. It’s been one hellacious day.”

  “Same here. Thanks for the flowers. They’re beautiful.”

  “I wasn’t sure what color to order. Red seemed too harsh a color for you. And yellow too much like a friend, and yes, before you remind me, I know that I agreed to our being friends.” He paused. “Are you laughin’ at me?”

  “A little. Pink was perfect. I love them.”

  “Tell me about your day. What was so hellacious?”

  “Well, not hellacious, but very busy and interesting.” She told him about the offer from the Mardi Gras museum.

  “Em! Th
at’s wonderful. Congratulations.”

  “Thank you, but—”

  “But what?”

  “I’m not sure if it’s what I want to do at this time.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, time is the most important consideration. It would be a full-time job, and then some. I’m not sure I could handle it with the shop and all that entails. Plus other things might be taking up my time this year.”

  There was a pause, as if he hesitated to ask her what those things might be. But then he remarked, “Like your father?”

  And having a baby? And you? “Yes, there is that.”

  “Do you want my opinion?”

  “Of course. I wouldn’t have told you if I didn’t want your thoughts.”

  “Well, first of all, I think you’re right to take a few days to think things over. Don’t make a rash decision. Second, I’ll tell you what always works for me. Take two pieces of paper. On one of them, make a list of the reasons pro, and on the other, all the reasons con. For some reason, it always makes my reasoning more clear when I write things out longhand, rather than typing. Tape those two pages on a wallboard, or a cabinet, or whatever. For a few days, every time you pass, you’ll pause and read the lists over, probably make additions or deletions. And at the end of a week, voilà! A decision will be made.”

  “Does that always work for you?”

  “Not always, but a lot of the time.”

  She wanted to ask him if he’d made those lists on occasion when considering whether to return to Louisiana, or not, and the “not” had always won out? She wanted to ask what the “con” reasons might have been. But they were supposed to be just friends now, and that meant boundaries. So all she said was, “Thanks. I’ll try that.”

  “What else happened today?”

  Without giving him too many details, like the things her father had done relating to him and his family, Emelie told him about her conversations with Francine.

  “Sounds to me like a little tough love is in order.”

  “Exactly. And so far so good. Francine says he seems to have gotten the message. My father has done some awful things, but he’s still my dad, and I’ve got to find some way to forgive him. Like you, in some ways.” Well, not at all like Justin and his father. In many ways, what her father had done, despite being a sheriff, or perhaps because he’d been in law enforcement, was so much worse.

  “I don’t want to talk about your dad. I’m in a forgiving mood tonight, and I’m not ready to forgive your father for his interference in my life.”

  And you don’t have a notion of even half of what he’s done. “So who did you forgive today?”

  “I figured you must have guessed since you mentioned your father. My dad, that’s who I forgave today. Do you ever listen to country music, Em?”

  That question came to her out of the blue, unrelated to the question of fathers and forgiveness. Confused, she answered slowly, “Sometimes. A lot of country today is a blend with other types of music, like blues or rock.”

  “Have you ever heard of the song ‘Prison Is a State of Mind’?”

  “The Johnny Cash song?”

  “Yeah. It was also redone recently by Jason Aldean.”

  “And?”

  “My father wrote that song.”

  There was such pride in Justin’s voice that Emelie’s heart swelled in empathy for him. “Justin! That’s amazing. How did you find out?”

  He told her all about his father’s last letter and what his grandmother had told him about his professional songwriting.

  She was so happy for him. “I would love to look at some of the sheet music you mentioned.”

  “Come over one day, and we’ll go through the box together. It would probably mean more to you than me anyhow, with your musical background.”

  “That’s a deal.”

  “Besides, MawMaw would like to see you again. She mentioned today that there are some photographs of your mother in one of her old albums.”

  “Oh, my goodness! I would love to see those. My dad took so few, especially after her being sick for so long.” She paused, took a sip of wine, and said, “So news about your dad’s song… is that where your forgiveness for the day came in?”

  “Well, not exactly.” He elaborated about the letters, and royalties, and fishing.

  Even though it all came out jumbled, she understood. Having been with Justin at the height of all his pain over his father, she more than anyone understood how what he’d learned today could help him heal.

  “So I guess I’m not such a bad seed, after all.”

  “Oh, Justin! If you were here, I’d smack you silly for making such a statement.”

  “If I were there, you wouldn’t be smackin’ me.”

  “Oh, really?” she teased. “What would I be doing?”

  He chuckled. That was enough. But then he mentioned several things that were clearly meant to scandalize her.

  “Bad boy!” she said, but then she whispered what she’d rather be doing, and it was even more scandalous.

  “Bad girl!” he said, but she could tell that he loved it. “Hey, Em,” he added, and his voice was lower and huskier now, “remember those fantasies we were talking about?”

  Like she could ever forget! Justin had never made such sweet love to her as he had after she’d acted out his fantasy of singing the blues to him in the nude. Well, not totally in the nude, but close enough. “Yes,” she said hesitantly. “You haven’t come up with another one, have you?”

  “Oh, baby, I have lots of fantasies about you. Have I told you how much I appreciated the one you already fulfilled?”

  “You might have mentioned it a time or two.”

  “What I was referrin’ to was your fantasy.”

  Oh, boy, he was going to remind her about that. Her face got hot just thinking about what she’d had the nerve to tell him.

  “In case you’ve forgotten, you mentioned me playing the guitar wearing nothing but a cowboy hat and boots.” With a ta-da pause, he said, “Guess what I found in the attic today?”

  She laughed. “Could it be a guitar, cowboy hat, and boots?”

  “Bingo!”

  “Sounds like we have a date.”

  “Count on it, baby.”

  “I should go. I have a long day tomorrow,” she said then.

  “Same here.”

  “Call me tomorrow night?”

  “For sure.” There was a short silence before he began, “Em, I love…”

  Her heart seemed to stop.

  “… having you for a friend,” followed by a dial tone.

  She shouldn’t be disappointed, but she was.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Beware of old ladies with plans…

  Company arrived early the next morning.

  Mary Mae heard the soft knock on the door from her bedroom and came rushing out, or at least walking fast, but Cage, who wore only a pair of sleep pants, was already rising from his seat at the kitchen table, where he’d been sipping a cup of coffee and reading last night’s sport page.

  “Yoo-hoo!” someone said, opening the door a crack.

  He glanced at his wristwatch, and Mary Mae heard him mutter, “It’s only seven frickin’ a.m.”

  “Tante Lulu!” Mary Mae said. “Come in, you. I’m not ready yet.”

  “Ready? Ready for what?” Her grandson looked at Mary Mae and seemed to notice for the first time that she had dressed with special care today. She wore black slacks and low-heeled shoes with a two-piece, rose-colored sweater set. The curls of her newly shampooed hair looked soft and fluffy, and her face glowed with a small amount of makeup and lip gloss.

  Tante Lulu was dressed for the day, too. Her soft curls were gray, as well, but that was where the similarities ended. Her friend’s small body was encased in a long-sleeved, knee-length, zebra print, wraparound dress with a big red vinyl belt and matching red plastic, wedge-heeled shoes. The round circles of rouge on her cheeks and the pouty-outlined lips matched t
he red belt, too. Lordy, Lordy!

  “Um, you goin’ somewhere, MawMaw?” Justin asked.

  “Dint ya tell him we’s havin’ a Ladies’ Day t’day?” Tante Lulu asked her.

  “No chance yet,” she said, giving Cage a small smile of apology. “Tante Lulu and me and some of the girls are gonna have a day out.”

  “What girls?”

  Mary Mae didn’t like her grandson’s tone. Not one bit. She didn’t have to account for her every minute to the boy. Did she ask where he’d been all night Saturday?

  Recognizing that he might have overstepped himself, Justin said, “I mean, it’s nice that you’re goin’ out with ‘the girls.’ I actually have to meet with the guys today.”

  Mary Mae accepted his unspoken apology. “Me and Tante Lulu are gonna join up with Charmaine in her beauty shop in Houma. Some of Tante Lulu’s nephews’ wives might come with us on a shoppin’ trip ta N’awleans, where we’s gonna have lunch at Antoine’s.”

  “Are you sure you can handle that much walking?”

  “I know enough to sit down and rest if I get overtired.”

  “Don’t you have a doctor’s appointment this afternoon?”

  She’d moved her medical records from the cancer center in New Orleans to one in Houma to make it easier for her to get to appointments as her disease progressed. “I do, hon, but I canceled and rescheduled fer Friday. I was hopin’ ya could come with me, and we could stop by the lawyer’s office and the bank on the same day.”

  He nodded. “Sounds like you’ve been busy, MawMaw.”

  Was he upset that she’d done some things on her own initiative?

  “I ain’t dead yet, boy. If I cain’t take care of bizness on mah own, I might as well kick the bucket. And I doan mean one of those silly bucket lists. Ha, ha, ha!”

  “Have I fallen down the garden hole?” Justin asked.

  “Huh?” she said.

  “He means lak Alice in Wonderland,” Tante Lulu explained. “Folks are allus sayin’ that around me.”