Iron Lace (14 page)

“I will tell Maman that we’re going to help Tante Grace in the kitchen, and we will, for a little while.” Minette measured an inch with her thumb and forefinger. “Then we’ll tell Tante Grace that we are taking the last of the cakes back to the house, and we will…but we’ll store them by the cistern first, until we’ve seen the fight.”

“And no one will suspect?”

“Not even if they talk to each other about it. We will have done exactly what we said, with just a little lie in the middle.”

Aurore knew that Clothilde would be loudly unhappy if she discovered what was planned. But Minette added a further enticement.

“I think Étienne Terrebonne will fight,” she whispered, so softly that Aurore had to strain to hear her. “There is a man outside who once vowed to punish Étienne’s father for a slight. Faustin isn’t here, but his son is.”

“How do you know all this?”

Minette’s eyes widened. “Me, I listen.”

Minette’s plan went exactly as described. Fifteen minutes later, Aurore found herself skulking quietly through the cool evening mist toward the stable where the horses and the mule were kept. The cakes, lavishly iced and studded with pecans, were safely hidden on a covered ledge of the cistern.

The cockfight was easy to find. There was flickering light from a campfire to guide their way, along with muffled shouts and curses. Minette had agreed that they wouldn’t get close enough to be seen. Instead, they would stay in the shadows, behind the willows that provided shade for the stableyard.

They picked their way silently through the darkness until they had moved as close as they dared. From this distance they could make out the faces nearest the flames. The crowd was small, and most of the men were unfamiliar to Aurore. No more than ten stood around a sawdust-layered ring to watch the birds fight. Their stance was relaxed, and their cheers were good-natured. If the birds hadn’t been slaughtering each other in the midst of them, Aurore would have thought it was just another example of Acadian men passing a good time together.

She found Étienne at the edge of the circle, standing
slightly apart from the others. He seemed uninterested in the spectacle in front of him, but Aurore imagined that he, like the others, had wagered on the outcome of the fight. She swallowed as the shrieking of the birds grew louder, then squeezed her eyes shut as one of the men stepped forward to lift a dying bird from the ground and hold it up for the others to see.

There were more cheers than curses now; apparently most of the men knew how to judge a winner. But one man wasn’t pleased that his bird had lost. He took off his hat and beat it against his leg. In the moonlight, his bald head gleamed like polished marble as he stepped forward to grab the rooster from the man’s hands and fling it into the surrounding crowd.

The rooster landed at Étienne’s feet.

“Ah, Vic.
Quoi y’a?
You still haven’t learned to lose?” Étienne asked. “
Ça c’est malheureux.
You lose so often, too.”

The men grew silent. Aurore judged that Étienne was only a few years older than she, but here on Lafourche he was considered a man. No one would rise to his defense.

“What’s you doing here, ’Tienne?” Vic asked. He was a tall man, but not as tall as Étienne. As he moved closer, his shadow fell across Étienne’s feet. “This is a sport for Acadians. You…you was found in the marshes, where the loup-garou prowls. And your papa, he’s another loup-garou. He plows his land by day, and at night he does his hoodoo when the moon is full, like tonight. That’s why he’s not here. Either that, or him, he’s afraid to come, afraid of me!”

Étienne stood nonchalantly as Vic beat his chest in a parody of victory. “My papa is afraid he’ll hurt you, Vic,” he said, when Vic had finished. “Like he did last time. You can’t risk
more scars, can you? Too many scars and there won’t be any real skin holding you together.”

The men laughed. Vic visibly bristled. “You afraid like your papa, ’Tienne?” He sent his hat sailing to the edge of the ring where the roosters had fought. “Me, I’m a man. And you?” He pulled a large handkerchief out of his pocket and waved it in Étienne’s face.

“Grand rond!”
one of the men shouted.

“What’s going on?” Aurore whispered as the men circled Étienne and Vic. She turned. Minette looked as properly awed as a Creole maiden at her first opera.

“It’s the
bataille au mouchoir.
They each have to hold a corner of the handkerchief and fight until one of them drops it.”

As a child, Aurore had played far less deadly games with handkerchiefs. “How can they fight and hold it, too?”

“They’ll fight with knives.”

“Knives!”

“Shhhh…”

Aurore stepped forward, forgetful now that she was supposed to remain in the shadows. She couldn’t believe that the men would really use such a small excuse to hack each other to bits. But as she watched, metal flashed in the firelight. Crouching in a fighter’s stance, Étienne grabbed a corner of the handkerchief with his left hand. He flipped his knife into the air and gripped the handle with a flourish as it fell toward the earth.

“I’m ready,
mon ami,
” he said.

Aurore wanted to scream. Nothing had ever seemed more absurd. A man called another a name, and suddenly they were about to kill each other. The cockfight had been civilized by comparison. The cocks had been bred for nothing less.

Vic seemed to reconsider; then, without warning, he
shifted his weight and sprang. Étienne was ready. He twisted and easily dodged the lunge. As Vic fought to regain his footing, Étienne pricked his shoulder. “You bleed like a pig in a
boucherie!
”

“He could have injured him more.” Minette tried to pull Aurore back into the shadows, but Aurore refused to move. “He’s trying not to kill him.”

Aurore was hardly reassured. Even if what Minette said was true, Vic seemed to have no such reservations. Clearly, he was bent on murder. He lunged again, and again Étienne dodged. This time he gouged Vic’s forearm. “Be careful you don’t end up on a spit like that pig,” Étienne said.

Vic spun and came at Étienne from a different angle. As if he had easily anticipated this new attack, Étienne blocked Vic’s arm with his own. Then, with his knife aimed at Vic’s chest, he drove it home, slashing off the buttons of Vic’s shirt. With an angry cry, Vic fell against him, but each time he tried to wound Étienne, Étienne was somewhere else. Étienne took a swipe at Vic’s sleeve, and the fabric hung by threads. He took another, and blood flowed from a long cut along Vic’s neck.

Vic screamed in fury and lunged again, this time catching Étienne’s arm. Cloth ripped, but no blood appeared. Aurore covered her mouth in horror.

Étienne stepped to one side, as if to avoid another clash with Vic’s knife. In triumph, Vic bent toward him, his knife raised, but Étienne easily dodged his blow. This time Vic fell to the ground, still clutching the handkerchief’s corner, and his knife flew out of his hand. He rolled onto his back and saw that Étienne was leaning over him, his knife poised over his heart.

Étienne crouched low, bringing the knife closer and
closer. Vic stared his hatred at Étienne, but he didn’t drop the handkerchief.

Étienne drew the blade across the cloth, severing the handkerchief from end to end, so that each man was left holding a piece. “You have courage, Vic. I don’t kill a brave man.”

There was a murmur from the circle. Heads nodded; one man gave a weak cheer. Vic looked at the cloth in his hand, then at Étienne’s face. Slowly he stuffed what was left of his handkerchief back in his pocket.

Étienne straightened and looked directly at Aurore, who had continued to stand in plain view. He smiled a little and gave a slight bow, but even from a distance, even with only the flickering firelight to illuminate his face, she knew he felt no triumph.

A
urore Le Danois was gone. That morning, amid a flurry of goodbyes, she had boarded the merchant’s battered flat-bottomed steamer and disappeared up the bayou. Disappeared from Côte Boudreaux, perhaps, but not, Étienne vowed, from his life.

Étienne drove his last nail into the last board of the room he had agreed to build for Valcour’s neighbor. Nestor Johnson had been kind to him. He was old, with married sons who saw no need for another room on their father’s house, so Nestor had hired Étienne. He needed a room, a quiet room away from the family that still lived at home, the garrulous wife, the son who wasn’t right in his head, the two daughters who had yet to marry. A room to think in. Did Étienne understand?

Étienne understood. Sometimes thinking was all a man had.

The basic structure was finished now. It still needed a roof, but Nestor thought his son could manage that. Shingles on a roof, one laid over another in rows, this was simple enough.

Étienne put away his tools. Nestor was on the gallery, re
pairing a fishing net on a bench in the shade. As always, when Étienne saw someone at this simple task—one he himself had done many times—his insides knotted strangely.

“I’m done now.” He climbed the steps. “It’s all finished.”

“Even faster than I hoped.” Nestor jerked his head to the side. “The money’s in that can over there.”

Étienne went to the corner, picked out a layer of fishing weights on the top and pocketed the amount they had agreed on. Then he buried the rest under the fishing weights again and set the can on the floor. “Where’d you get all this money, Nestor?”

“My wife’s egg money. I take a little here, a little there, she don’ notice. She’s the reason I need the room.” Étienne held out his hand, and Nestor stood to shake it. “You going back home now, ’Tienne?”

“Going down the bayou first.”

“Far?”

“Far as I can go.”

“What’s to do down there? Nothing there anymore.”

“I was from there once. From the
chénière.
”

“Nobody much left. Nobody but ghosts on the
chénière.
”

“Maybe I’ll talk to those ghosts, find out some things.”

“You can take my skiff, you want.”

Étienne considered the offer. He had his pirogue, hewn from a single cypress log. But Nestor’s skiff would get him to his destination quicker, before he could change his mind. “You sure?” he asked.

“What do I need with it? I’ve got a room now. Don’ need to go out on the water when I get tired of talk.”

“A room without a roof,” Étienne reminded.

“It’s got a door and a lock?” Nestor asked.

“Yeah.”

“And windows?”

“No windows.”

Nestor sat down again and picked up his net. “Like I tol’ you, ’Tienne—me, I’ve got everything a man needs.”

The sun had started to sink before Étienne reached his destination. The long trip had been tiring, even for a man used to navigating Lafourche’s waters.

The house he had come to see was smaller than he remembered. Where once it had been flanked by oaks, now it stood alone except for the tangled brush hiding the gallery foundation. Creeper edged along windows that had once been outlined by green shutters.

He remembered the shutters well. He remembered that they had been drawn the last time he stood in the shadows and stared at the house. It was strange, the things he remembered. Twisted oaks, green shutters and the face of a man. An angry face.

The house appeared to be deserted. The door hung from one hinge. A section of the roof was missing; Étienne wondered what storm had sent it sailing. The storm that had killed his family? Or one of those that had come later, one of those that had driven more of the coastal residents up into the bayous? It hardly mattered. Whatever storm had torn at the house, uprooted its trees and taken its roof, that storm had done its job well enough.

Like the rest of the
chénière,
like the barren land that stretched to the water, this house was inhabited only by ghosts.

“Qui c’est là?”
Étienne had just turned away when the voice called after him. He whirled and faced the house again.
A man stood on the gallery—not a tall man, though he had seemed that way to a small boy.
“Fous le camp!”

Étienne wondered if he should do as the man insisted, go away and never return. He could feel his future balanced between the choices expected of him and the choices he expected of himself. The man walked to the edge of the gallery and shaded his eyes with his hand. He was dressed in worn trousers. His hair, curly and streaked with silver, needed cutting.

“Are you Auguste Cantrelle?” Étienne asked.

Auguste jumped off the gallery—the steps were missing. He approached Étienne warily. “And if I am?”

“I’ve traveled from Lafourche just to find you.”

“So? For what purpose?”

“To send you to hell.”

Auguste stopped several yards away. “Who are you?”

“Don’t you know?”

“Whoever you are, go away. I want no company.”

“Not even that of your nephew?”

Auguste swallowed visibly, as if his throat had suddenly closed, but when he spoke, his voice betrayed no emotion. “I have no nephew,” he said. “I’m a man without family.”

“You’re a man who could have sheltered your family in this house. Instead, you left them to die.”

“I have no family! I had no family. I’m a man alone.”

“Non, Nonc Auguste. You are the same man who came to the swamps, who stood over a child’s bed when he was sick with fever. You’re the same man who told Faustin and Zelma Terrebonne that the child was Étienne Lafont, and that you had buried his family after the storm, buried them with your own hands.”

Auguste narrowed his eyes. He moved closer, but he moved
slowly, carefully, the way a man moves during a fight. “So, you are Étienne Lafont. Oui, I buried your family. All but you. You and I have only that in common. Nothing more.”

Étienne reached for his knife. He held it in front of him; then, without taking his eyes off Auguste, he touched it to his wrist without flinching. He could feel the blood flowing, warm and sticky against his skin. He held up his arm. “We have this in common,
nonc.
”

“Go back from where you came, boy! There’s nothing here, no one here for you.”

“Why did you tell the Terrebonnes that I was Étienne? Were you certain that he wouldn’t float in from some raft on the Gulf, like me? Did you bury him, too, Nonc Auguste?”

“You are Étienne Lafont!”

“I am Raphael Cantrelle!” The words freed something inside him, something as powerful as hatred or love, something that resonated so sharply that for a moment he couldn’t breathe.

“Non! Raphael Cantrelle died in the hurricane. He was buried beside his mother and sister. I saw their grave with my own eyes before it was covered. A stranger from New Orleans buried my sister and her children, the man she flaunted before all the villagers like the whore she was!”

Raphael advanced slowly. For the first time since the storm, he could think of himself as Raphael, and for the first time he let himself feel the blood of his mother, his sister, flowing through his veins as surely as it flowed down his arm. “I have heard stories about you,
nonc,
even in Lafourche. You made my mother a whore, when you killed my father and left her with nothing!”

Auguste retreated. “Go back to the bayous! You are Étienne Lafont. Raphael Cantrelle was the child of a whore and her
lover. You are Étienne Lafont, an orphan from a good family. The past matters not. Remember who you’ve become.”

“I have become a man without a soul.” Raphael advanced, the knife still carefully balanced in his hand. “Perhaps we have that in common, too?”

“I would not want to fight you. I would not want to kill you!”

“
Non?
It was easy to kill my father, wasn’t it? And easy to sentence my mother and sister to death? I escaped your sentence once, but only by the grace of
le bon Dieu.
Now I’ve returned, Nonc Auguste.”

Auguste gave up all pretense. “Imbécile! When I learned that the Terrebonnes had found a boy that matched your description, I went to their camp to see for myself if you were still alive. The boy that was buried with your mother, there was no way to truly identify him. Others were sure, but I was not. When I saw you were still alive, I could have brought you back here and ended your life myself. But I didn’t. I told the Terrebonnes you were someone else, someone I was sure had died. I gave you new life!”

“But you see,
nonc,
unfortunately, I long for my old one.”

“
Non!
Do you know what you are? You don’t, do you?” Auguste halted his retreat. Despite the knife in Raphael’s hand, he spat on the ground at his feet. “You are the bastard son of a mulatto, a man who believed he was good enough to bed my sister! You’re a quadroon, and the truth is written on your features for anyone who looks hard enough for it. You’ve only passed for white because I gave you a name that no one would question. No one would dare accuse the Lafonts of having tainted blood.”

But they had accused him. Raphael remembered too well. There had been taunts as he grew up with the bayou children,
insults and innuendos. Ah, Étienne, your skin is so dark, one would think you got tanned in the womb. Ah, Étienne, your hair is so curly, it’s like the wool of that old nigger down on Cross Bayou.

“Does my blood look tainted to you?” Raphael asked. He thrust his arm in his uncle’s face. “Your blood, nonc, does it look any different than mine?”

“Why did you come here?”

“Why did you let me live?”

Auguste drew in a breath. Raphael could hear it wheeze through his lungs. Sweat dotted Auguste’s brow, even though evening was coming and, with it, cooler air. Raphael listened to him fight for another breath, then another. Up close he could see that his uncle’s skin had an unhealthy golden tinge. “Because there had been too much death,” Auguste said.

“Such grand sentiment.” Raphael gripped the knife harder.

“I will fight you,” Auguste said. “No matter what you see now, or think you see, I will fight you if you come closer.”

Raphael didn’t move. “Do you dream of Marcelite sometimes? Do you dream of your sister? Do you wonder if God is waiting for you to die so that he can punish you for your sins against her?”

“I have no dreams! The sin was not mine!”

Raphael looked deep in Auguste’s eyes and knew he lied. “Your dreams are full of her!” The knife was warm in his hand, slippery because his palm was sweating. “Which is worse, do you suppose, death or dreams?”

“Go home, Raphael. Be Étienne Lafont and make a life for yourself. That was the best I could give your mother.”

“It was nothing!” Raphael stepped back. “Because I am not Étienne Lafont. I am Raphael Cantrelle, the son of good
parents, and the nephew of a man who will burn in hell for all eternity.”

Sweat dripped from Auguste’s brow. “Leave me in peace. I am a sick man. Leave me to die in peace.”

“Pray God it will be long and slow, so you will have time for a million prayers. Pray God the first things you see after you finally close your eyes are the smiling faces of my mother and father.”

Raphael took one step backward, then another, but his gaze never left Auguste’s. Finally, when Auguste’s gaze wavered, Raphael Cantrelle turned and walked away.

The marsh where Juan’s hut had stood twelve years before was deserted. Latanier and other brush grew in ragged clumps, obscuring any signs that the area had ever been inhabited. Raphael looked in vain for Juan’s well or the foundation of his mud oven. But the hurricane had destroyed all landmarks, and the memories of a seven-year-old boy could hardly be trusted.

He had brought corn bread and cold beans with him, and he settled down at the marsh’s edge to eat. Soon the mosquitoes would come, and although he had brought a mosquito bar, canvas and blankets, he knew the night would be a long one.

When the stars came out, he was still wide-awake. He had made a small fire, as much to drive away ghosts as insects and marsh creatures. The wind moaned through the three-cornered grass, and somewhere not far away a bull alligator called for a mate. The marsh was alive with melodious croaking, with the hoots of screech owls and the rustling of nocturnal predators.

The marsh was alive, but the
chénière
was dead. Only a few structures remained, and most of the valiant survivors who
had tried to build again had finally gone away for good. He had visited the cemetery. The hurricane victims had been buried in mass graves, graves in a land where water lapped at bodies in the earth until one day the remains washed away. There had been no markers to tell where his mother and sister lay. He had knelt in the cemetery, even knowing that they were somewhere else, and choked out a prayer, because he knew that his mother would have wished it. But he had no faith that God had heard his voice.

Now he closed his eyes. He saw a woman’s face, but not his mother’s. The woman was younger, her hair the sleek, soft hue of a fox’s pelt, and her eyes were the lavender-blue of the water hyacinth. She smiled gently at him as he fell asleep, and it was Aurore’s face he saw again just before he awoke in the morning.

As the sun turned the
chénière
a rosy gold, he continued his search for signs of Juan’s hut. He ranged the marsh’s edge, aware that the tide could have changed the ground into marsh itself. Finally he pulled on the boots that he used when picking moss and waded at the water’s edge.

He almost missed the well. It had been built above the ground, a structure made from timber, mud and moss. The mud and moss had disintegrated with time, but a rotted timber crunched against his boots as he waded. He stooped and parted the grasses. The outline of the well was just visible. He calculated the position of Juan’s hut. It had been somewhere to his left, and behind it was the watery path to the ridge.

He was much taller now, but the water was still deeper than he remembered. He guessed where the house had been. Finally he gazed in the direction where the moss-draped oaks had once stood, and saw a nearly empty horizon. But the ridge, now almost level with the water, was still there. Shrubs
that needed solid ground at their roots peeked above the sedge, and something—the broken trunk of a tree, perhaps—rose against the sky.