The Devil in Canaan Parish (11 page)

When we arrived at the Blanchard home, Peg waddled out the front door to greet us.
 
She worshipped Sally and didn’t seem to mind that her husband still ogled her cousin with a schoolboy’s crush. To Peg, Junior was rightfully Sally’s and it was only by the grace of God that she had somehow managed to end up Mrs. Warren R. Blanchard, Jr.
 
Instead of jealousy, Peg seemed guilty to have the life she led, and constantly tried to compensate.
 
She had made Sally her maid of honor, godmother to two of her children, and her closest confidant and friend. She rarely made a decision without asking Sally’s opinion first, and she was never happier than when Sally was sitting beside her.
 

“Sally, darlin’!” Peg cooed, holding out her arms wide and catching my wife in a long hug.
 
“I declare, you look more beautiful every time I see you, don’t she look beautiful, Junior?” Peg called over her shoulder to Blanchard, who was standing in his doorway.
 
I could see that it wasn’t difficult for him to agree. I, on the other hand, had become immune to my wife’s beauty and charm.
 
For me, they were simply the mask she wore to hide the years of resentment and bitterness at the unfortunate life she had chosen.
 

“Come on, Sally,” Peg beamed, “I want you to see these swatches I got, I’m trying to pick out some new curtains for the master bedroom.” Sally and Peg walked arm and arm into the house and I followed behind.

“Evenin’ Bram,” grunted Blanchard.
 

“Evenin’ Junior,” I nodded back.

He led me into the sitting room, where a card table was set up and a buffet laden with much more food than necessary for the four of us.
 
It was the usual fare: cold cut sandwiches, party mix, and potato salad.

“Martini, Bram?” asked Blanchard.
 
I nodded in assent and took a seat in one of the two white damask armchairs.
 
Blanchard took a moment to shake a couple of martinis and then brought me a glass.
 
I slowly sucked the olive off the toothpick and then used it to stir the liquid around a bit.
 
Blanchard and I sat in silence.
 
Both of us accepted the charade that our wives forced us to play every Saturday night.
 
After ten years, we had nothing left to say, but quietly tolerated each other’s presence for the sake of Peg and Sally.
 

“Junior!” gasped Peg in mock horror, “my, my, where are our manners, you haven’t offered our guest any food yet?” she was flushed with pleasure, having secured Sally’s advice on the important choice of curtain for her bedroom.

“I just knew you’d choose the country floral, didn’t I tell you she’d choose the country floral?” Peg chattered away.
 
She didn’t wait for her husband to respond. “Well, that settles it, and I want them in Priscillas, right Sal?” she fretted.
 
Sally nodded.
 
It amused me to think that Peg could not even say what she wanted without Sally’s confirmation.

Peg shooed all of us over to the buffet table.
 
We grabbed plates and began serving ourselves.
 
Blanchard made two more martinis for Peg and Sally and the four of us sat down around the coffee table, plates on our knees.
 
Sally and Peg sat side by side on the divan, and Blanchard and I faced each other in the two white armchairs.
 
We were about to settle in to our meal, when there was a quiet knock at the sitting room doors.

The door was opened by a small-framed colored woman wearing a maid’s uniform. It was Annie Johnson.

“Annie!” gushed Peg, “are the children ready for bed, then?” she asked.

“Yes ma’am,” answered Annie, “all bathed and ready for Sunday mass,” she smiled. “The children would like to say goodnight to y’all if that’s alright.”

“Of course! Come in, darlins,” Peg called.

The five Blanchard children trooped in like little soldiers, oldest to youngest, all with slightly damp hair, wearing their pajamas, robes and slippers: Trey, Sarah Beth, Landry and Jimmy.
 
Mary-Alice, the youngest, was carrying her teddy bear.
 
Each child walked around to each of us, giving us a kiss on the cheek and saying good night.
 
It was equal parts charming and nauseating. When it was Mary-Alice’s turn, Blanchard scooped her up onto his lap and tickled her.
 
She started giggling uncontrollably.

“Junior, stop it!” Peg scolded, “You’ll get her all riled up and she won’t be able to sleep!”
 

“No he won’t, momma!” cried little Mary-Alice, still giggling, clearly delighted by the special attention.

“Ok then, girl,” sighed Blanchard, “You listen to your momma.
 
Off to bed you go!”
 
He set her down and then gave her a gentle pat on the bottom. She jutted out her lower lip and followed her siblings out the door.

“I declare, that little girl is the apple of her daddy’s eye!” giggled Peg.
 
“I don’t know what she’ll do if this one is another girl,” she patted her huge pregnant belly. “She may not be the little princess any more.
 
Oh, and Sal, if it is another girl, I think we’ll name her Charlotte, for Grandma Landry, what do you think?”

Before Sally could answer, there was a quiet cough from Annie.

“Excuse me, Miss Peg,” she murmured, “I think I’ll go after I put the children to bed, if that’s alright with you.”

“Of course!” answered Peg.
 
“We’ll see you Monday morning. Oh, and happy birthday, dear.”

We all joined in wishing Annie a happy birthday.
 
She smiled and nodded and then quietly closed the doors.
 
I thought about her long walk back to the Bottoms.
 
She would not be home before nine o’clock, and she would be back by six in the morning on Monday.
 
Annie Johnson had come to work for the Blanchards not long after her sadistic husband had been run out of town.
 
She acted as cook, maid and nanny to them Monday through Saturday, only taking Sunday off to be at home.
 
Izzy had only been six when his mother started working, and the Blanchard children had spent more time with her than he had in the past five years.

“I declare, I don’t know what we’d do without Annie,” sighed Peg. “Sal, did you find a new maid?”
 

Sally glanced from Peg to me and then back to Peg.
 
I saw Blanchard stiffen.
 

“Well, Bram brought someone home with him yesterday,” she mumbled, studying her cards. “A Cajun girl.”

Peg raised her eyes in surprise.
 
“A Cajun girl?
 
My, my, that’s different.
 
Are you sure about that, Bram? I mean, can you trust her?”

“She’s given me no reason not to,” I grumbled, feeling a little irritated.

“Did you get any references?” Peg asked, “I mean who is she?” She was clearly shocked.

“Her name is Melee Mouton,” I replied, “and she made some mighty fine beans and rice for us today.”

“No, she’s got no references,” Sally spoke up.
 
“Bram wants to see how things go for a while.”

Blanchard chuckled.
 
“That’s a new one, eh Palmer?” he sneered.
 
“I try my best not to mess with the affairs of women, and choosing the help is certainly one of them.
 
I guess they don’t give you enough to do at the drug store.”
 
He laughed and took another sip of his drink.

“Beans and rice!” cried Peg marveling at the novelty, “Sal, be careful of that Cajun food, those spices aren’t good for one’s constitution, if you know what I mean,” she giggled nervously, but stopped when she saw the redness growing in Sally’s cheeks.

“Well, I suppose it’s none of our business,” she frowned.

After we’d finished our meal, the four of us took our places at the card table. Sally and Blanchard always played as partners, as did Peg and I. Peg’s bridge play was terrible, and we inevitably lost.
 
She frequently drank too much and was far too distracted trying to chat with Sally to really pay attention. This evening Peg was on her fourth martini by the third auction.

“Junior,” she slurred, taking a drag of her cigarette, “tell Sal and Bram about Meyer’s!” she tapped Sally on the elbow to get her attention, pleased she had remembered a titillating topic of conversation.

“Margaret Landry Blanchard,” sighed her husband, shaking his head, “You know I can’t discuss my cases.”

“Oh come on, honey!” she whined, poking out her lower lip.
 
“Sally wants to know, don’t you, Sal!”

Sally shifted in her chair, “Warren, you don’t have to tell us if it’s confidential.”

“Well, I suppose I could,” he smiled.
 
“Long as we keep it in the family, right Palmer?” he slapped me on the back much harder than necessary.

Blanchard launched into the story of the robbery at Meyer’s jewelry store to the delight of Peg and obvious interest of Sally.

“Who do you think did it, Warren?” asked Sally, her eyes wide.

“Don’t have a clue,” he answered, adjusting the cards in his hand. “Whoever it was, they had to be a small person.”

“How so?” I found myself asking. The mysterious tone in Blanchard’s voice had caught my attention.

“They broke into a side window, no more than a foot tall and two feet wide. But you know, the strangest part was this window is about seven feet off the ground.
 
It was too high for someone to climb into themselves.
 
They must’ve had a boost to get in.”

We all sat in silence for a moment, thinking about this scenario.

“What did they take, Warren?” whispered Sally.

“A platinum necklace!” Peg chimed in, pleased to be able to add to the conversation.

Blanchard sighed again.
 
“Yeah, it was a platinum necklace that was in the window display.
 
It had a Saint Anne pendant on it.
 
It was quite valuable, according to Ira. It’ll be a felony if we ever try the thief.”

I watched Sally as she sat pondering this.
 
I thought I saw a flicker of recognition move across her face.

By ten o’clock we were all heavy lidded, and Peg was beginning to nod off.

“I think it’s time we left,” Sally turned toward me.
 
I agreed, only too ready to end the evening, and moved to stand up.

“Oh, no, no,” pleaded Peg, willing herself awake.

“You need to get some rest, in your condition,” soothed Sally.
 
She gave Peg a kiss on the cheek.

The Blanchards walked us out.
 
Peg covered Sally in sloppy hugs and kisses.
 
Junior shook my hand, squeezing for just a moment longer than I liked, his heavy gold class ring crushing my knuckles.
 

“You’re keeping Sally happy, right Palmer?” he muttered under his breath, the smile frozen on his face.

“Yeah, sure,” I stammered, a little taken aback, “I try my best.”

“Well maybe you’d better try a little harder.”
 
The malice in his voice was unmistakable.
 
I looked into his face and pulled my hand out of his.
 
He winked at me and slapped me on the back.
 
Again I felt the painful thump of his ring.

I thought about what he had said as I drove us home.
 
Blanchard had made it clear to me on many occasions that he did not find me worthy of Sally.
 
I was an outsider, a gentile in the Old Testament sense of the word.
 
Blanchard did not like to lose. He had an undefeated record as a prosecutor, helped largely by the understanding he shared with Sheriff Boyle.
 
If Blanchard wanted a conviction, Boyle made sure the evidence was there to provide it.
 
It was only my covenant with Sally that protected me, and Blanchard reminded me of that every chance he got.

Sally stared out her open window into the night.
 
The bullfrogs’ loud croaking accompanied us along the way.
 
The sound was hypnotic and numbing. It filled the night with an unseen menace. As soon as we got home, Sally went straight to bed without a word.
 
I knew that she’d be taking a valium or two.
 
I was too keyed up to go to sleep, and so I went out to the screened-in back porch, sat down in one of the wicker chairs, pulled out a cigarette and lit it up.

I had just finished smoking and was leaning back in my chair when the kitchen screen door opened.
 
It was Melee.
 
She walked out onto the back porch and stood staring up at the moon.
 
She did not see me, and I guessed that she must have assumed I had gone to bed.
 
Her dark hair was hanging long and loose around her face.
 
She was wearing that old bulky nightshirt again.
 
The moon reflected strangely off her bare arms and legs, as though the light came from inside her. I struggled to regulate my breath that was now coming harder and faster from my chest.

Melee stretched and yawned, her arms reaching up over her head, lifting the bottom of her nightgown high enough that I could see a hint of her milky thigh.
 
She finally sat down in the old creaky rocking chair near the kitchen door and began to hum softly to herself, the groan of the rocking chair keeping time with her song. Soon she was murmuring words I didn’t recognize.
 
I strained to hear, and realized that she was singing in French.
 
For a moment I was surprised, and then remembered again that this was language she had been taught from infancy. It was not often one heard Cajun French spoken.
 
The Cajuns kept mostly to themselves, retreating from the hostility that the English-speaking world had assailed them with since their ancestors had been chased out of Canada.
 
I didn’t know much of their painful history, except that it had driven them far back into the swampy woods and forgotten backwash of the Mississippi river, too wild and uncivilized for the genteel tastes of the cultured, but a refuge for these pilgrims who wanted nothing more than to live in quiet tranquility.
 
The years of persecution had made them shy in the English-speaking world, reluctant to betray their heavy accents that left them so often open to ridicule. Those who attempted to assimilate were even worse off.
 
Cajun children who attended schools were forbidden to speak French, even to each other, and were punished severely if caught doing so.