Little Gale Gumbo (21 page)

Marsha's nose wrinkled as she feathered back her wings. “That's so gross. No wonder that apartment smelled so weird. Here I always thought it was from all that Voodoo stuff, and turns out it was just BO.”

Josie tugged Dahlia forward. “Let's just go, Dahl.
Please
.”

But Dahlia had waited too long for this confrontation. She left Josie at the door and walked back to the sinks with a level stare.

“Don't let her touch you,” Peggy warned, grinning. “She'll put a curse on you.”

Tracy Jenkins giggled, but it was a nervous sound. Dahlia snatched the hairbrush from Marsha's hand and calmly yanked out a handful of hair from the bristles.

Marsha gasped. “What are you doing?”

Dahlia held up a fistful of the girl's blond hair with a proud smile. “You can do almost anything with someone's hair,” she said, her eyes narrowing. “I'd start buying more zit cream if I were you.
Lots
more.”

Tracy and Peggy looked at each other nervously. Marsha cried, “You
bitch
!”

Dahlia just tossed the hairbrush into the sink, then turned and walked out, pulling Josie with her.

Charles managed to bear the cold for nearly three days before he announced he had to return to New Orleans for a while, that he had “business commitments” he had to see to, but that he would return as soon as he could and they should plan to be ready to move back with him when he did.

It was the declaration the sisters had been dreading, but their mother listened with great patience, letting him drain the last of his coffee before she said calmly, “This is our home now, Charles. You're welcome to come back, but I can't uproot the girls again. Not now that they've just settled into a new school.”

Dahlia and Josie stood at their bedroom door, waiting for the outburst, but it never came. Perhaps their father saw the change in their mother, the new determination, and perhaps out of New Orleans he felt less powerful, his control over her diminished. Dahlia suspected that in future visits Charles could maintain some degree of ownership of them. That he was smart enough to know that it was the best he was going to get.

“I ain't happy with this—I'll be honest with ya,” Charles said when Camille walked him to the door with his suitcase and trumpet. “This ain't your home, Camille. It ain't never gonna be home. These folks here don't understand our kind.”

“There are some good people here, Charles,” she defended carefully. “You hardly gave them a chance.” He snickered, prompting her to add quickly, “And you said yourself, you have
commitments
.”

Charles pushed his tongue against his cheek, considering his options. After a moment, he sighed wearily but his eyes flashed with indignation.

“It's not right, y'all not comin' to see me off,” he said sulkily, tugging on his coat.

“We would if we could, Charles. But the girls have to get ready for school, and it's so cold.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He frowned, still pouting. “Just makin' sure it ain't 'cause y'all embarrassed to be seen with me.”

Camille glanced briefly at the girls. “Don't be ridiculous.”

There was the rage, Dahlia thought, watching her father narrow his eyes, unconvinced of their loyalty. The anger, raw and cold. She'd known it would come out again eventually.

“Y'all come here, then,” Charles demanded, arms spread. “Come give your daddy a hug for the road. We gonna make peace. Come on, now.”

The girls walked reluctantly across the room. Dahlia allowed him a brief but stiff embrace, though his arms were tighter around Josie, his hold longer, so long in fact that Camille eased his hands off her younger daughter and handed him a bag packed with biscuits and slices of baked ham for the bus.

Charles reached around and flattened his palm over her buttock, gripping her flesh possessively through her robe. He tipped her face up to his. “You're still my wife, Camille, and you belong to me. That ain't never gonna change. You know that, don't ya?” She nodded, motioning for the girls to depart, which they did at once, disappearing into their room. They remained there, hearts racing, until they heard the closing of the door and the thumping of feet on the stairs; then they rushed to the turret window to make sure that Charles had disappeared down the street.

When they came out, Camille was moving around the living room, neatening the piles Charles had left behind.

Josie walked to the window, carefully parting the curtains to look out. Dahlia stormed across the room and fell onto the sofa, fuming. “This is horseshit. We came all this way to get away from him and you tell him he can come back anytime?”

“Don't you raise your voice at me, young lady,” Camille said firmly, her eyes shifting between them. “That isn't at all what I meant.”

“Does he know that? What if he gets the idea to move here?” Dahlia said, the mere suggestion draining the color from Josie's face. “What if he comes back for good next time?”

“He won't.” Camille picked up an overflowing ashtray and carried it into the kitchen. “He couldn't bear living here. The snow alone would kill him.”

But Dahlia wasn't convinced. Glancing at Josie, still at the window, she could see her younger sister wasn't convinced either. Josie began to weep softly. Camille dumped the cigarette butts into the trash and returned to the living room, clapping ash off her hands. She pointed to the table. “Sit down. Both of you.”

When they'd taken their seats, Camille joined them, making a chain of their hands around the table.

“Now you listen to me,” she said. “No matter how many times he comes here, no matter what trouble he starts, this is our home. Not his.
Ours
. You both understand me?”

The sisters nodded. Camille looked at Josie, her brow arching suggestively. “Josephine.”

Josie rose at once, knowing what her mother wanted. She walked to the kitchen and returned with Camille's box of gris-gris and a pair of white candles.

As soon as she set them down on the table, Dahlia stood up.

“Count me out,” she said.

Camille snapped her fingers. “You'll keep your seat, Dahlia Rose.”

Dahlia sighed, sitting back down.

Camille opened the box, releasing the smoky scent of patchouli into the air. “This is one spell you won't want to miss.”

 

That night Camille carried a dish of bread pudding downstairs, filling the foyer with the sweet steam of warm vanilla and orange zest. She walked into the parlor and found Ben just returned from his woodshop, brushing sawdust off his sleeves.

“For you,” she said simply. “For being so understanding.”

“You didn't have to do that.” He gestured to the kitchen. “Join me for some? I can make coffee.”

“I can't. I've got something on the stove.” She turned to go, then stopped, her eyes still lowered as she said, “I was so young when I met Charles. I was so afraid of the world, and he wasn't afraid of anything. That abandon was irresistible.”

Ben nodded, understanding. Camille smiled.

“I owe him so much, Benjamin. So much of who I am is because of him. My love of music, my beautiful daughters, my passion . . .”

She paused, tears glistening when she looked up at him at last.

“It's a strange thing,” she whispered. “To be so grateful to someone, and wish they'd never been born.”

Part Three

Add stock and bring to a boil.

Seventeen

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

They took Dahlia's truck to the mainland, the three of them squeezed together in the pickup's front like a trio of teenagers cutting school for a day at the beach, though they couldn't have felt older. The short ride across the bay brought with it many memories for Matthew: sea-sprayed benches that had been blocks of ice in their winter commutes; heavy doors that led to the cabin, where they'd finished homework on their laps; even the coffee, as weak and tasteless as ever. Driving up Commercial Street, they pointed and chuckled, even laughed, to see landmarks of their shared youth. The city had changed and yet Matthew still recognized plenty.

It was only when they reached the hospital and stepped out of the elevator into the ICU that the pleasant flooding of memories finally stopped, the torrent ceasing as abruptly as a faucet turned off.

“Wait here.” Matthew moved to the reception desk.

Dahlia glanced down the hall, seeing a police officer reading a magazine. “What's a cop doing here?”

Josie shrugged. “I'm sure it's just routine. Probably to keep out any reporters.”

Dahlia clamped a hand over her forehead, suddenly sure she was running a fever, but her skin was cool. She swallowed. “I can't do this, Joze.”

“Do what?”

“This.” Dahlia swept her arm around the lobby, her expression strained. “Be here. See him in there like that.”

“Don't be ridiculous,” Josie said firmly. “What's the matter with you?”

“Nothing. I just don't like hospitals, that's all.”

“I'll bet Ben doesn't like hospitals much either, you know. God, first Wayne and now you.”

“I think I'm going to throw up—”

“Shh. He's coming back.”

Josie reached for Dahlia's hand and tugged her forward. They followed Matthew down the corridor and all joined hands in the doorway before stepping into the room.

“Oh, God,” Dahlia whispered, seeing Ben at last.

Josie sucked in a pained breath.

“It's okay,” Matthew said. “Come on.”

He draped his arms around the sisters and steered them gently to the bed. He reached down and touched his father's hand, the skin around the IV almost translucent.

“Pop, it's me. Dahlia and Josie are here too. We're all here, Pop.”

“Can he hear us?” Josie whispered.

“He looks so cold,” Dahlia said, reaching out to tug Ben's blankets closer to his shoulders.

“He's okay,” Matthew said, easing her hands back. “You don't want to move the tubes.”

Josie dug through her purse and pulled out a lump of waxed paper.

Dahlia frowned. “What is that?”

“What does it look like?” Josie asked, sniffling as she unpeeled the paper to reveal a glossy praline. She set it on the nightstand. “I read that it's a good idea to stimulate patients with things that are familiar to them. The book said music and reading, but I don't see why the smell of a fresh praline isn't just as good.”