My Juliet (20 page)

The eternal path through the crape myrtles, the columns as big around as he is, the Boston ferns pinwheeling in the breeze. As always, Sonny runs a hand through his hair to make sure he's proper. Then he uses the knocker.

“Well, I'll be,” says Anna Huey, pulling the door open wide to let him in. “I thought they'd gone and kidnapped you. Where've you been hiding, sugar?”

Sonny steps inside but doesn't go past the foyer, which for some reason is the limit he's posted in his head. What's not right about the hallway? What has been changed? At last he discovers it: the grandfather clock is missing. Now in its place there is a plant stand holding a ceramic jardiniere.

“Why don't you come in and have a seat, Sonny. I can run and get Miss Marcelle.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Huey. But I don't have time. Juliet's waiting out in the truck.”

“Don't tell me. You came for her check.” Anna Huey studies him over her reading glasses with a tired, dissatisfied expression. “Sonny, don't you want to say hello to Miss Marcelle first?”

“I can't now, Mrs. Huey.” After a moment he adds, “You know how Juliet is.”

She starts for the rear of the house but then thinks better of it and turns back around. “Listen, sugar, I know you mean well. But why don't you let Juliet come for the money herself? While she's here she can talk to Miss Marcelle. Miss Marcelle has something to tell her.”

“Mrs. Huey, obviously this is none of my business but can't Miss Marcelle talk to Juliet later? Juliet's been staying downtown at the Lé Dale Hotel. You can have Miss Marcelle call her there.”

“Sugar, I can't believe this.”

“I can't either,” he says. “It's ridiculous.”

Anna Huey looks past him in the direction of the avenue. “Sonny, I may be overstepping my bounds by saying this but I really think you need to be careful running around with that girl.”

“I haven't exactly been running around with her,” he says.

“Sonny, you should know what Juliet's all about by now.”

“Probably better than anyone. And that's why I'm here today, Mrs. Huey. I'm only trying to prevent another fight between her and her mother.”

“That girl thrives on chaos. She's dangerous, sugar.”

Now it's his turn to look back at the truck. “Are you going to get the check, Mrs. Huey?”

“No, I'm not.” Anna Huey's look of fatigue gives way to one of warmth and she reaches out and places a hand on Sonny's cheek. “Sonny, be careful.”

Sonny is walking back to the truck when Juliet appears on the path up ahead, striding toward him with her arms swinging wildly, a look of mad determination on her face. She bumps past him without a word.

“Juliet, where the hell are you going?
Juliet!
Juliet, don't do this . . .”

“Anna Huey! Anna Huey, why don't you make yourself useful for a change and go get my goddamn money.” She's standing at the open door now, hands wrapped around her mouth. “It's the Beauvais Mansion, Mother. The
Beauvais
, do you hear?”

Sonny grabs her by the arm and tries to pull her away but Juliet gives him a shove and breaks free. “I'm tired of being intimidated by these people,” she says.

“I think you've got that turned around, Julie.”

From the rear of the house Miss Marcelle comes stalking toward them, moving with such urgency that the color has drained from her face.

“You're a Lavergne,” Juliet says in a plain voice. “Admit to me you're a Lavergne.”

“That I'm a Lavergne?”

“Say to me you're a Lavergne. Say it, Mother.”

“I'm a Lavergne,” answers Miss Marcelle. “But you need to remember something, darling: you're a Lavergne, too. Or half of one.”

“I'm no Lavergne,” Juliet says.

“You're equal parts Lavergne and Beauvais. And I'm equal parts Lavergne and Doucet. My people weren't fancy, I admit this. But some Lavergnes are. The de la Vergnes in town like to think of themselves as important. I guess that little
de
in the front of their name is what does it. Wish I'd have grown up with that. Give me that
de
and my only child might halfway respect me. Might love me, even.” Miss Marcelle steps up closer, moving past Anna Huey to within a few feet of Juliet. “Hello, Sonny. And how are you, baby?”

“Hello, Miss Marcelle. I'm fine, thank you. But I have to tell you, I'm really sorry about this. I feel like it's partly my fault. We shouldn't be here.”

“Sonny, what are you?”

“Ma'am?”

“What is LaMott? That's a French name, isn't it?”

Sonny has to think about it. “I'm almost certain it's French. But to be honest I never got around to finding out for sure. I think
la
means
the
, but it's anybody's guess what a
mott
is.”

“And you!” Juliet is talking to her mother. “Shall I tell everyone who you are?”

“Please do,” answers Miss Marcelle, seeming truly interested.

“Only two months into her marriage,” Juliet begins, “some of Mother's people were threatening to leave their tractors in the fields and hitchhike to the big city for Carnival. Mother pulled my father aside and asked him—and
pleaded
with him, I should say—not to say anything about being a Creole, as Daddy was known to be quite proud. When he asked why, she said she was afraid they'd think she'd married a Negro.”

“Now, Juliet, that isn't how it—”

“Don't even try to deny it, Mother. Daddy told me the whole story. You didn't even know what a Creole was.”

Miss Marcelle brings a finger to her chin, as if trying to come up with a definition.

“How could you have told him that?”

“All right, Julie,” Sonny says. “Enough.”

Miss Marcelle seems to be trying to understand something. “Where I come from,” she says, “the Creoles were colored people. I'm sorry if that sounds racist to you, but they were all like Anna Huey here. They were light-skinned blacks and they had French names. Huey is a French name, isn't it, Anna Huey?”

“Yes, it is, Miss Marcelle. So is Arceneaux, my maiden name. They're both French—as French as Beauvais, as a matter of fact.”

“Not that French,” Juliet says.

“In 1953 when Johnny and I were married,” Miss Marcelle continues, “people tolerated race-mixing far less than they do today. I loved the man, and I didn't care if he was a white Creole, a black Creole or a polka-dot Creole. I just didn't want my family asking questions that might offend him. I was trying to spare
him
that, not myself.”

“Spare him that,” Juliet repeats. “Spare him that just like you spared him that drowning in Lake Pontchartrain, right, Mother?”

“What did you say?” Miss Marcelle steps out onto the welcome mat.

“What do you think I'm saying? You killed him—you killed my daddy!”

From Anna Huey comes a rough gasp, and Sonny adds another as he steps up and grabs Juliet by the arm. But Miss Marcelle hardly seems bothered. She shakes her head and waits until Juliet looks at her. “You're mistaken, darling. That isn't how it happened at all.”

“You killed him, Mother.”

“Juliet, your father drowned. You know this.”

“Killed
him.”

“Sonny?” It is Anna Huey. “Sonny, you two need to be going.”

“Come on, Julie,” he says. “Let's go.”

He places his hands on her shoulders and guides her to the street. She tries to push him away again but without success. Sonny is holding on so tightly now that his fingers turn white from the effort. “Let me go, you bastard.”

“Settle down, Julie.”

He lets her in on the driver's side but not before she's hurled a final invective in the direction of the house: “You want the proof, Mother? I've got the proof!”

Sonny drives toward the French Quarter, pushing the truck harder than he has in years. After hurtling through the intersection at North Rampart Street he finally glances over at Juliet, expecting to confront a tearful face, lips pale and quivering. He sees neither.

“Still didn't get my check,” she says, now the picture of composure.

Somewhere on Dauphine Street Juliet removes her shoe and “The Proof” from under the insole. She unfolds the slip of paper and lays it on the seat between them.

“Sonny, you got something to write with?”

He checks his shirt pocket. “Look in the glove compartment.”

Under old receipts and tubes of paint she finds a ballpoint. She tries to write but pokes a hole in the paper. She gathers together a couple of road maps and places them on the seat, then she puts “The Proof” on top and tries again.
“And to complete the picture you have bad hair. I don't know which is worse: having to look at that rat's nest or smell your coffee breath. Pee-you!”

“Julie, what are you doing?”

“Giving proof why I'm in my rights to hate her.”

Sonny takes the paper and holds it flat against the steering wheel. He glances down at the list, then up at the road ahead, then down at the list again. Something that might be a smile comes to his face. “Is it writing? What is this?”

“Proof for when they try to pin it on me.”

He's squinting, his face filled with disbelief. “It doesn't make sense. You can't read it, the writing's just a bunch of squiggles. Is it a code? If that is writing, Julie . . .”

She shakes her head. “I know what it says.”

“You can read this?” He seems frightened by it. Or maybe it's Juliet who scares him. “Better put it away,” he says, then drops the paper on the seat. “And don't let anybody else see it. Shit, Julie, they'll really think you're crazy.”

She folds the paper and puts it back in her shoe, then she slumps in the seat, lifts her feet up and spreads them wide apart on the dashboard. She's wearing a short skirt and the air from the open windows gives some relief. “Sonny, it feels like my pussy's on fire.”

He looks at her the same way he did when he tried to read “The Proof.” “Juliet, is there anything you won't say or do? Is there anything?”

“I'm on my period. And my pussy burns today for some reason.”

“You want me to stop and get you something?”

She closes her eyes and slips farther down in the seat. “Why can't men say a word like Kotex or tampon without being embarrassed? It's men who started calling them feminine napkins, you know?” When he doesn't respond, she says, “Say Kotex for me. Say the word.”

“I won't.”

“Kotex. Come on, Sonny. Let me hear it.”

“Look, I'm trying to drive, all right?”

“Since when can't you drive and talk at the same time? Say tampon, baby. If you say tampon I'll give you a blow job.” She claps her hands together. “Let me hear it.”

“Juliet, what the hell is wrong with you?”

“Ever wonder how they thought up that word? To my ears it sounds almost Chinese. I bet they stayed up all night thinking up that one. Bunch of guys in a room with their sleeves rolled up. You still won't say it, will you?”

“Tampon,” he says suddenly, then faces her with a smile.

“Bunch of guys with their sleeves rolled up.” And she nods, certain now that this is how it happened. “Cigar smoke everywhere. Big bellies wanting to pop their shirts open. Sansabelt slacks all thin where their thighs have rubbed together. Can't you see it, Sonny?”

“I see something.”

“Grease stains on their shirts . . .”

She doesn't burn as much downstairs, although now that general area does seem to have its own private pulse. She wishes she were soaking in a tub of hot water, enjoying its powerful healing effects. She fiddles with the radio knobs and finds a jazz station, someone playing a mournful piano.

“They've had Chinese delivered,” she continues. “Egg rolls, Kung Pao chicken, moo goo gai pan, fried wontons. They're so tired they can't think straight. Guy with rolled-up sleeves says, ‘Pass me the tampons.' He's so exhausted, you see, he's got the names of the dishes mixed up. Everybody's eyes pop open.
‘Yes!' ”

Sonny keeps driving. He's smiling the whole time, shaking his head, rubbing his jaw. “Tampon,” he says again.

She reaches down to the floor at her feet and comes up with Louis's club. “What is this?”

“That?”

She grips the handle and acts as if she's going to hit him. “It's a club, isn't it? What in heavens are you doing with this club in your truck, Sonny LaMott?”

“I used it one day to whack an old man on the neutral ground.”

“You did that?”

“Actually I pretended to do it. I wasn't really hitting him. I did it to satisfy a debt I owed a friend of mine who was watching nearby.”

“What kind of debt?”

“The old man killed my friend's cat.”