Part 24 (2/2)
And in that moment everything was clear. His eyes grew cool.
”Just tell me. Just say it.”
She looked down at her lap, rubbed her hands against her knees. ”When you left, I thought my heart would stop. I needed something, somebody, and Michael was right there. I taught with him at school. I knew him before you, we'd gone out a few times. When you and I broke up, he called. Turns out he was just waiting for me. Sort of.”
She paused. ”You hadn't been gone that long when I found out my...condition. I told Michael. We'd only been going out a few weeks but he wanted to get married right away, raise my son-yes, it was a boy-as his own.”
Julian's heart fluttered, his breath quickening as she spoke.
She went on, the tempo of her speech slower, her voice breaking. ”But he...didn't make it.” She covered her eyes, paused, fighting tears. ”He was a little fighter, but he only lasted forty-two days. He never left the hospital. Michael was devastated; I was shaking for a week. We named him Michael Jr., on his last day.”
”He was born with a little hole in his heart.”
Julian looked at the ground, at his feet, anywhere but at Velmyra.
”Things fell apart between us after that. There just wasn't enough love there, if there was ever any at all. It was as if he'd only wanted to rescue me, be the hero. It seemed like there was no longer a reason for us to be together.”
Julian pinched his eyes shut, his brows furrowed, trying to understand. He, Julian Fortier, had been a father for forty-two days. A child of his, a boy, had been born, lived, then died; a whole life flashed by in seconds.
He cleared his throat. ”You should have told me. I would have...”
”Done the right thing? Oh, I'm sure you would have, which is why I didn't. It would have been OK for a while. But there would have been a day when you would have looked at me in a way I wouldn't have been able to stand. You had your life mapped out. You had plans, you were headed someplace. I didn't want to be the reason you didn't get there. I just couldn't carry that load with me.” She shrugged. ”Or at least that's what I thought at the time.
”So. You were talking about regrets,” she said, her eyes now gla.s.sy. ”I've had a few myself. Sometime, a while back, I would lay awake at night and wonder, what if I'd told you? What would our lives have been like?”
Julian held his head between his hands, closed his eyes to the pain between them. She should have told him. She should have told him. She should have told him. A flurry of emotions flashed before him like playing cards dealt from quick, nimble hands: sadness, anger, jealousy, resentment, confusion, and most of all, doubt. A flurry of emotions flashed before him like playing cards dealt from quick, nimble hands: sadness, anger, jealousy, resentment, confusion, and most of all, doubt.
What if she had told him? And what if the child had lived? Would he have, as she said, looked at her one day in a way she could not stand? He wanted to think not, but the other possibility blinded him like an inescapable, glaring light, and he wondered if maybe that tiny hole in his heart, the one he'd he'd been born with, had ever really closed. Wondered if that small defect might have leaked out some vital stream of selflessness that could have created in him the loving, willing father a child would need. For a fleeting moment, he hated the man who had so eagerly, so willingly stepped up in his place. been born with, had ever really closed. Wondered if that small defect might have leaked out some vital stream of selflessness that could have created in him the loving, willing father a child would need. For a fleeting moment, he hated the man who had so eagerly, so willingly stepped up in his place. If he'd only known If he'd only known...Maybe never knowing what he might have done was the price he'd paid for the life he chose.
There was no use in thinking about that now. He looked at Vel, whose reddened eyes mirrored the regret he now felt. But these weeks since the storm, and especially these last few days, had been a time of accepting what was, and dealing with it. Doing the next thing, even if that meant starting over. Old lives washed away, new ones begun-like it or not, ready or not.
If there was anything he'd learned since the storm, it was that even though some things could not be undone, they could be survived. They could be accepted. One could lay back and howl at the moon, or one could take whatever came, handle it, and then move on.
Julian was silent a while. Then he got up abruptly, and extended his hand to Velmyra. When she was on her feet, he circled his arms around her waist and drew her into him.
”You know, you've always had my heart,” he said. ”You know that.”
She leaned her head against his shoulder, tears flowing, as he stroked her back.
”G.o.d, I wish I'd told you. You had a right to know.”
When he pulled away from her, he took her hand.
”Walk with me,” he said.
”Where?”
”Down to the creek. I want to see it one more time.”
[image]
They walked a mile or so along the creek, then took off their shoes and waded in the clear shallows along the bank. They skipped rocks across the water, and stopped to study a heron basking in the sun on a floating branch, and tried to coax a turtle out of its sh.e.l.l with a stick. They wiped sweat from their faces with their sleeves, and, sitting on a rock, turned their faces to the sky to let the warming light of the sun glaze over their closed eyelids.
They did nothing at all for almost an hour. And when they returned from the creek, they inhaled the rich, spicy aroma of red beans that had wafted out to the yard and beyond.
The others were still sitting on the porch, this time their laps holding Genevieve's good china plates nearly running over with beans, rice, and andouille sausage, tumblers of sweet tea sitting on the floorboards next to their chairs. Julian and Velmyra piled their plates, pulled chairs from the kitchen onto the porch, and sat next to them.
The air was still. Except for the chirping of birds, the occasional rustling of the high gra.s.ses, and the rare breeze stirring the cypress and pecan trees, there was no sound as they all ate; as usual, eating a meal prepared by Simon Fortier was not to be interrupted with conversation.
But after the last fork was laid down, Pastor Jackson sat back, loosened his belt, and the usually quiet man issued a rare declaration: ”When I die, I hope St. Peter meets me at the gate with a plate of red beans as good as these, Simon.”
Kevin raised his gla.s.s and said, ”Hear, hear.”
Not looking up from his plate, Simon grunted. ”St. Peter don't have my recipe,” he said. ”And he ain't getting it.”
The laughter that followed, only mildly laced with liquor, was light-hearted and free-flowing. All were making an effort to keep the mood light and their spirits high, despite the veil of gloom that surrounded what was likely the end of their time at Silver Creek.
Pastor Jackson asked Simon about his journey through the storm, having missed the telling earlier. Simon decided to tell him the shorter version. He reached down to the floor and held up his Bible.
”This book goes back to my great-granddaddy, more than a hundred and fifty years ago,” he said. ”My daddy told me everything I would ever need was in this here book, and this is how I got through.”
”Yeah, you right,” Pastor Jackson said.
Kevin's eyes glinted with curiosity. ”You mind if I have a look at it?”
He opened the book, worn and yellow with a century's age. He looked at the first pages, where the family tree, complete with dates of births and deaths, was written.
”An old friend of mine, Professor LeClaire, told me sometimes folks would write down important stuff in Bibles. I was just checking to see if somebody wrote something down we could use. But I don't see anything here.”
”Can I have a look?” Julian reached a hand out for the book.
He opened it, fanning the pages. Nothing. Then, he took another look.
Like the cookbook, the first few pages were stuck together. After he separated them, he stared at one of the pages, then looked up. He pa.s.sed the book back to Kevin who looked at the separated pages and smiled, his blue eyes suddenly full of light.
”Folks,” he said, ”I think maybe we've got what we need.”
Two Years Later With wings spread wide and arcing low against the trees, an eagle dips, then soars high across the creek as an amber sun breaks the mauve-tinted morning sky. The bayou chorus wakes in full voice: a madrigal of morningbirds, the percussion of woodp.e.c.k.e.rs, the tremolo of water lapping rock. Magnolia blossoms scent the air, spoonbills nest in leafy beds of ancient oaks, and everywhere at Silver Creek life, willful and unstoppable, begins again.
Louisiana springs always arrive in a storm of color, scent, and sound-a lesson for the observant in the art of renewal-and for the Fortiers, the third spring after the Big One saw most of the hard work of renewal completed. On a spring morning two years after the flood, all the Fortiers gathered again at Silver Creek, their legacy intact, the spread of land handed down from generation to generation just as breathtaking as ever.
My daddy said everything I would ever need was in this book. Simon had held the century-old Bible up high, brandis.h.i.+ng it on the porch that October day, and he was right. On the first page, Jacob had scribbled the future of the Fortiers at Silver Creek. And though it was crudely written and barely visible, it was enough to satisfy a judge in Pointe Louree Parish that the land was intended for the Fortier clan, and no one else: Simon had held the century-old Bible up high, brandis.h.i.+ng it on the porch that October day, and he was right. On the first page, Jacob had scribbled the future of the Fortiers at Silver Creek. And though it was crudely written and barely visible, it was enough to satisfy a judge in Pointe Louree Parish that the land was intended for the Fortier clan, and no one else: To my son on the day of his berth: My 240 acres of land at Siver Creeke, shall be the property of my son Simon, and my neece Genevieve, and there chilren and there chilren's chilren, anod n.o.body else, until there are no more Fortiers left. To my son on the day of his berth: My 240 acres of land at Siver Creeke, shall be the property of my son Simon, and my neece Genevieve, and there chilren and there chilren's chilren, anod n.o.body else, until there are no more Fortiers left.Jacob Fortier July 8, 1932 An ”olographic” will, as Kevin had said, was as good as any in a Louisiana court of law. Nathan Larouchette protested mightily, pouring money and energy into getting the decision overturned, but to no avail. Judge H. Townsend Turner, a seventyish, bespectacled black man who'd grown up in the area and watched the landscape change for forty years, had no sympathy for good old boys with designs on black-owned land, and decided in favor of the Fortiers in fifteen minutes.
Meanwhile, a hundred miles downriver, the struggle for renewal went on. When Julian drove Simon back to New Orleans in late October to see his house, his mouth dropped open, then closed again and set defiantly. (After ”Oh, Lord Jesus,” his next words were, ”We got to get started fixing this.”) And as the whole city swarmed with hardworking volunteers from all over the country, Julian, Velmyra, Sylvia, a group of young law students from Penn State, and six Pentecostals from the Church of the Everlasting Light in Chicago gutted Simon's double shotgun. While they dismantled drywalls and sorted, piled, bagged, and hauled Simon's things, he shuttled back and forth between Sylvia's house and his newly inherited mansion, where he discovered, to his great delight, Parmenter's $5,000 restaurant-quality oven. In chef's heaven, he refined a tasty new recipe for crawfish and oyster souffle, and volunteered daily at Blessed Redeemer, preparing soup kitchen meals for returning New Orleanians working to piece back together their damaged houses and deconstructed lives.
The next two winters in New Orleans were hard. The dead had been buried, but the living struggled with survival and sanity while hospitals, schools, churches, apartment buildings, groceries, nursing homes, convenience stores, daycare centers, hotels, restaurants, and universities stood empty or nearly so. Block upon block of neighborhoods still lay dark and quiet, inhabited only by piles of sludge and debris, towering weeds, and the ghosts of promises unfulfilled. Four months after the flood, most of the city, save the areas barely touched by water, remained every bit as damaged as it had the days after the levees were breached.
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