The Devil in Canaan Parish (20 page)

“NO!” she shouted.
 
“No, Bram, you will NOT take this away from me!
 
Melee WILL stay and I WILL have this child!”
 
Her hands were shaking in fury.
 
I stood motionless for a moment, and then shook my head.

“I can’t allow that, Sally,” I sighed.

“No, Bram.
 
You WILL allow it,” she growled, “Or you can go straight to hell!
 
I will expose you for the worthless bastard you are! Everyone in this town will know what you’ve done to her!
 
What you’ve done to me, and how long you have kept me a prisoner in my own house!
 
I don’t care if I have to live with my parents.
 
You will get nothing from me, and you will go back to the way that I found you, a homeless nobody without two pennies to scratch together!” She spit out her words.
 
I could see that she was determined.
 
She was right.
 
There was nothing I could do to stop her without losing everything.

“Sally,” I whispered, “how are we going to do this? People will know.
 
They’ll see that you’re not really pregnant.”

“I know what I’m doing, Bram,” she laughed angrily, “Melee will stay here, hidden.
 
Her clothes will be enough to hide things until she’s near the end of her term, and I can easily create an illusion. I won’t be like stupid Peg Blanchard, flaunting myself in front of everyone like that.
 
A lady shouldn’t be seen in public during her final months, anyway.”

I opened my mouth to speak, but then closed it. There was nothing I could say. I had to surrender.

Chapter Fourteen

The months passed, and it seemed that Sally’s scheme was working.
 
Apart from church on Sundays, she attended only the major social functions, making appearances for Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year’s, wearing maternity clothes borrowed from Peg and complaining appropriately about her swollen feet, her aching back, nausea and fatigue.
 
She deflected questions from Doc Collins, saying that she was seeing a specialist in Lafayette because of the extreme delicacy of her pregnancy.
 
Peg finally gave birth to her sixth child, another baby girl, and Sally and I dutifully appeared at the Christening.
 

I played the role of excited father-to-be, beginning renovations to convert part of the attic into a nursery.
 
Gifts began to arrive for the baby, wrapped in pastel colors with tiny rattles attached to the ribbons. As soon as Peg was able, she planned a shower for Sally that was held at our home.
 
The ladies insisted on seeing the progress in the nursery and gushed over the crib, the hand-made layettes and the tiny shoes.
 

All the while, Melee stayed hidden. She no longer did any of the housework, and spent most of her time in Sally’s bedroom or the screened-in porch.
 
Sally took on the cooking and cleaning, and waited on Melee like a servant, rubbing her feet, massaging her shoulders and coaxing her to eat.
 
The two were closer than ever, and Sally banished me to the spare room in the attic, bringing Melee’s things to her bedroom, and sending me upstairs with mine.
 
I never touched Melee again after that.
 
I hardly spoke to her, so fiercely protective had Sally become that she would often not even let me in the same room with Melee.
 
Melee’s only outside visitor was Gabriel, who would come and speak to her through the porch screen from time to time.
 

I had returned to my perpetual state of loneliness.
 
My life at the store was no better, my life at home was worse.
 
I no longer had the diversion that Melee had given me. I spent my nights alone and restless, listening to the muffled giggles and chatter of Melee and Sally below me as I curled up in the tiny bedroom in the attic. By the time Mardi Gras came, I was desperate for some kind of human companionship.
 
I now looked forward to the festivities that I normally dreaded.

The day of the big Mardi Gras parade, the entire town shut down and the town square was decorated with gaudy streamers, balloons and banners.
 
Vendors lined the streets selling food and drink, and bands came in from all over the parish to play music. As the day wore on, the reveling got louder and rowdier,
 
and people began dancing in the streets, the anticipation for the big parade escalating to a frenzy.
 

In years past, Sally had always participated in the Mardi Gras parade, decorating a float with the Ladies Auxiliary, which they would ride in the parade, tossing beads and chocolate coins to the excited crowds. This year, of course, Sally stayed home with Melee.
 
As I searched for a good vantage point, Warren Blanchard caught my eye and gave me a nod.
 

His daughter Mary-Alice saw me and squealed, “Uncle Bram! Uncle Bram!” Though Peg and Sally were cousins, Peg had always insisted that her children call her “Auntie Sally” and thus I became Uncle Bram by default.
 
Mary-Alice ran to me. A tiny version of Peg, she was bubbly and frivolous, traits that were irritating coming from the mother, but quite charming in the child. The bouncy little thing grabbed my hand and dragged me toward her father who was waiting with his other children for the parade to begin.

“Come and watch with us, Uncle Bram!” She shouted.
 
“Daddy won’t let me up on his shoulders, a ‘cause of his bad back, can I ride on your shoulders Uncle Bram?
 
Can I?”

I smiled in agreement, catching the little girl under her arms and swinging her high up over my head.
 
She erupted into shouts of glee, and sat proudly on her high perch, digging her little hands into my hair.

“Look at me, Daddy!” she crowed.
 
“Now I can see, huh Daddy?”

“Yes, yes, now you can see you little rascal,” Blanchard smiled in spite of himself,
 
“Hey Palmer, how you doing?”

“Fine, fine,” I answered, turning to crane my neck up the road to see if the parade was about to begin.

“And Sally?
 
How is she?” he asked.

“Oh, she’s fine too.
 
Tired these days, but that’s to be expected, I guess.”

“Hmm,” he grunted in agreement.

I was saved from further inquiries as to the health and well-being of my wife when a gun shot went off, announcing the start of the parade.

“Here it comes! Here it comes!” screamed Mary-Alice, beside herself with excitement.
 

There was nothing except the excited chatter of the crowd at first, and then we could hear the beating of drums and horns blowing in the distance.
 
More than likely, the local Catholic high school band was doing the honors of leading the parade through town.
 
The crowd grew louder and louder as the parade got closer, and Mary-Alice pulled my hair and screamed for joy. The high school band marched by in smart new uniforms, flowers festooning their hats and lapels.
 
Then the various Krewes’ floats began making their way by – mostly silly decorated pick up trucks and trailers – with Krewe members dressed in elaborate costumes, throwing beads and chocolate candy to the crowd.

“There’s Momma!
 
There’s Momma!” Mary-Alice screamed again, hopping up and down and pointing at the float drawing near.
 

The Ladies Auxiliary club’s float was decorated almost entirely of flowers.
 
In years past, Sally had donated most of the roses for the float.
 
It had been a source of pride for her, but this year she did not want to participate.
 
In fact, her garden had been seriously neglected this year – Melee had taken up most of her time. I could see Peg Blanchard standing amongst a group of women all dressed as birds with feathery costumes and masks.
 
Peg was hard to miss.
 
Her costume was bright red with yellow trim and she was jumping about like a poodle, laughing, waving and throwing beads to the crowd.
 
When she saw us, she leaned way over the side of the float and dumped a shower of beads at us.

“Catch it, baby!” she yelled, “catch it!”

Mary-Alice leaned her little hands out and grabbed at the beads falling like green, yellow and purple raindrops.
 

“I got one, Momma! I got one!”
 
She was holding a fistful of shiny purple beads in triumph.
 
Then another woman in the float dumped a load of chocolate coins on the ground, and Mary-Alice demanded to be let down so that she could join the scramble below.
 
I pulled her off my shoulders and set her down gently in front of me.
 
I was turning back toward the parade when I felt a heavy hand on my shoulder.

“Well, well, if it isn’t Palmer!” slurred Sheriff Boyle.
 
His breath reeked of whiskey. “Boyle.” I nodded.

“Junior, my old friend, how are you, boy?” called Boyle.

“Sheriff,” Blanchard grunted.
 
I was surprised to see that he didn’t seem pleased by the sudden appearance of his old friend.
 
In fact his face hardened and he crossed his arms across his chest.

“How’s your wife, there Palmer?” asked Boyle, turning his attention back toward me.

“She’s just fine, Boyle.”

“Mmm hmm, yes,
 
she sure spends a lot of time with your hired girl,
 
uh,
 
what’s her name?” he asked,
 
putting his arm around my shoulders.
 
It repulsed me, and I had to force myself not to shrink away from him.

“Melee. Her name’s Melee,
 
and yes, she takes care of Sally these days.”

“Yeah,
 
Melee. . .that’s right,” he laughed.
 
“Boy, she’s a pretty little minx, ain’t she?
 
Man sure would have a hard time keepin’ himself together with her around.”

I was beginning to feel the sweat bead up on my lip.
 
What did Boyle know? I prayed that my face did not betray the fear I was feeling.
 
Another float went by and I took a moment to collect my thoughts.

“Course, Junior there,
 
he wouldn’t have any problems, you know,
 
being faithful to Sally, now would you, Junior?”

Blanchard stiffened up and glared at Boyle.

“You’re drunk, Sheriff. Maybe you ought to go home.”

“I’ll do nothin’ of the sort!” shouted Boyle in mock outrage.
 
“This here is Mardi Gras, ain’t it?
 
Folks are supposed to be havin’ fun, right Palmer?” he smiled, tightening his grip around my shoulder.

“You get any leads on who stole that necklace from Meyer’s?” I asked, trying to change the subject.

“Ah, yes,” said Boyle, patting me on the back,
 
“now, that’s a good question. Yes, I suppose you might be interested in that.” He paused for a long while, his eyes rolling up into his head.
 
I wondered for a moment if he might fall over.

“Junior!” he yelled, suddenly, “Do we know anything about Meyer’s necklace?”

Blanchard ignored him, turning his back to us and picking up Mary-Alice in his arms.

“I guess not,” shrugged Boyle, “but I got a feeling I know who did it.
 
Same ol’ boy who’s been lurking around town for the past six months.”

“What? You mean Vernon Johnson?”

“Yes, indeed,” he winked at me.
 
Then seeing my troubled expression added, “what, didn’t little Izzy tell you his long lost daddy’s been comin’ around?”

“Well yes, just the once, but I hadn’t heard about it in awhile.”
 
Come to think of it, I had not spoken to Izzy in months, not really, anyway.
 
So much of my thoughts had been taken up with Melee and Sally.
 

“Yeah, the old devil’s been haunting these parts for awhile.
 
Regular apparition he is. I never can quite seem to catch ‘em at it.”

“Excuse me, what did you call him?” I stammered, suddenly remembering something.
 

“An apparition?”

“No, no, before that, you called him an old devil, right? It reminded me of something that Melee said to me. She said she’d been seeing the devil, you know, watching her near our house. God, I thought it was just her imagination – one of those old Cajun tales. What if she was right? What if Vernon Johnson’s been hiding out around our house?”

Boyle became quite serious. I could tell he was trying to shake off the whiskey fog that was clouding his thoughts.

“Hmm.
 
Maybe so. I guess I’d better start driving by your house when I make my rounds at night. Hell, I’m already driving Annie home from Blanchard’s most evenings. Guess I can swing by your place too on my way home. Pretty soon, hunting for Vernon Johnson’s going to be a full-time job.”

“Well I would appreciate that Sheriff, you know with Sally in the condition she’s in I just don’t want to take any chances.”

The Sheriff grunted his reply and then yelled over to Blanchard, “Hear that Junior? Palmer here wants me to start checking up on Sally for him.
 
You don’t mind now, do you?” And then to my extreme confusion, Boyle erupted into howls of laughter.

Blanchard glared over in our direction for a moment and then, setting Mary-Alice down, marched over to us. The fury in his face startled me, and I backed up a step.

“Boyle!” he seethed through gritted teeth, “like I said before, you are drunk and you need to go home.”

“And like I said before, this here is a party, and I intend to enjoy myself.” Boyle gathered himself up and stumbled off into the crowd. I shook my head, amazed that the town’s only real law enforcement was completely inebriated. Blanchard stood staring after him for a moment, and then turned toward me.