Postmark Bayou Chene
Read Postmark Bayou Chene Online
Authors: Gwen Roland
POSTMARK
BAYOU CHENE
BAYOU
CHENE
A NOVEL
GWEN ROLAND
LOUISIANA STATE UNIVERSITY PRESS
BATON ROUGE
Published with the assistance of the Borne Fund
Published by Louisiana State University Press
Copyright © 2015 by Gwen Roland
All rights reserved
Manufactured in the United States of America
First printing
Designer: Laura Roubique Gleason
Typefaces: Whitman, text; Brandon Printed, display
Printer and binder: Maple Press
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Roland, Gwen, 1948â
  Postmark Bayou Chene : a novel / Gwen Roland.
      pages; cm
 Â
ISBN
978-0-8071-6144-9 (hardcover : acid-free paper) â
ISBN
978-0-8071-6145-6 (pdf) â
ISBN
978-0-8071-6146-3 (epub) â
ISBN
978-0-8071-6147-0 (mobi) 1. Atchafalaya River Valley (La.) âSocial life and customsâFiction. 2. Atchafalaya River Delta (La.) âSocial life and customsâFiction. 3. LouisianaâSocial life and customsâFiction I. Title.
  PS3618.O5375P67 2016
  813'.6âdc23
2015006258
The paper in this book meets the guidelines for permanence and durability of the Committee on Production Guidelines for Book Longevity of the Council on Library Resources.
In memory of Maggie,
the lab-beagle whose courage and loyalty inspired
the character Drifter.
And for the old Bayou Cheners,
who knew that we never die as long as someone,
somewhere, is telling our stories
.
Ancient network of bayous around Bayou Chene, based on Abbot map (1863). Inset showing approximate channel of Atchafalaya River today. Illustration by Preston Roland.
AUTHOR'S NOTE
Bayou Chene (pronounced
Shane
) means “Oak Bayou” in French. Named for the live oaks that once lined its banks, Bayou Chene is a natural distributary of the Atchafalaya River in South Louisiana. The name also refers to a village site located along the network of bayous in that area and inhabited from ancient times until the mid-twentieth century.
The people of Bayou Chene didn't tell stories to transfer information so much as to expand themselves, capture their listeners, take the floor, pass the time of day, give themselves to their audience. They most often found that audience at the Bayou Chene Post Office, which doubled as a general store (or saloon, depending on who's telling the story), located at different homesteads through the generations.
While its characters and events are loosely based on anecdotes, rumors, myths, gossip, outright lies, and a few facts handed down through proud descendants of Bayou Chene, this book is a work of fiction meant to celebrate the independent spirit and resourcefulness of what has been called the last frontier community in the United States.
POSTMARK
BAYOU CHENE
1
April 3, 1907, kicked off a fracas around Bayou Chene. They all agreed on that much. What they never could agree on was what started it all in the first place.
Fate Landry said:
It all started with that empty skiff, if you ask me. Oh, I'd a noticed it right off because of the colors, even if it hadn't come floating around the bend empty. Unless, of course, you counted the dog, which I did. Wasn't in the skiff so much as floating alongside, towed by the bowline around its neck.
Wasn't good daylight yet. April mornings take their time waking up in South Louisiana. You know how it is. Come August, now, it's a different story. That summer sun rouses up so quick and strong, it's like it never went to bed at all but just stepped behind the trees and come out on the other side.
But back to that empty skiff. I was bailing rainwater out of my boat when here it comes looking like an alligator gone blind. It bumped into Ron Theriot's log dock like it was looking for something and then poked its nose into a mat of willow roots on the bank. That's when the current caught the stern around, the willows let go of the bow, and that dog's body swung out just as graceful as a cast net. That's when I saw it was a skiff not built around here. Blue and black, at that!
Out here on the Chene our skiffs flare out on the sides so they float high like an acorn cap; it makes them quick to steer with an extra push on one oar or the other. This skiff floated deep and straight like a water trough or a coffin.
It was big in every wayâlonger, wider, and higher than anything we use around here. How it didn't get hung up coming around some of those tight bends, I couldn't tell. Wouldn't have made it in low water, that's for sure. The more I studied that setup, the dog seemed the most normal-looking thing about it.
It didn't take nothing for me to snag that blue and black oddity with my paddle as it went past. I always keep a knife handy for the day a line's gonna wrap around my leg just when I toss a net or anchor overboard. It happens to every fisherman at least once, and I know my time's coming. Could be what happened to the owner of that skiff.
That morning I used it to saw through the line towing that dog. Then I lifted her out of the water and laid her on my seat. All four legs still there, a miracle considering the number of gators paddling these waters. That meant the body hadn't been overboard long, probably just a few hours.
Black and stocky she was, with a square, broad head. Her muzzle was white and freckled like a bird dog, and there was bayou water puddled in the flap. Sharp white teeth, so she was young. Patch of white fur run across the chest and down her stomach. Sturdy black legs ending in white feet, kind of webbed between the toes. Never saw such before. She would've been a strong swimmer, probably kept up with the boat longer than most dogs.
A wedge of ear flopped down over one eye. Don't ask me why, but I moved it. That very second her eyelid quivered like the tail of a squirrel trying to decide whether to run or not. I pushed my hand flat against her chest, right under the front leg. It was cold as death and dripping, but way down deep I felt the faintest beat tapping against my hand.
“Lafayette Landry, what you got down there!”
It was my cousin Loyce Snellgrove on the porch of the Bayou Chene Post Office and General Store. I could smell coffee and wood smoke drifting down with her voice. She uses my whole name when she's feeling testy, which is most of the time if you ask me. I was named for my daddy, but he went by Lauf, and they call me Fate.