Part 29 (1/2)

The rains were heavy, and it was a nasty wintry day at the tail end of January. T.O. was grateful for the protection of his everyday fedora. As a boy he had run these same woods, but the groves were thicker then, the trees so close together that they kept out the light and either dampened some of summer's oppressive heat or provided shelter from the worst of winter's downpours. The pines had been thinned since those days.

His pace was unhurried but deliberate, and he sorted through plausible explanations for why he was in this part of the woods at this time of the afternoon. He could say he was taking a shortcut to his mother's or uncle's house for early supper, or running an errand to borrow a blade for Mr. Ephrom over to the sawmill, or on his way to pick up a sack of salt. Now and then on his visits he came across men on foot or on horseback, usually his father's renters or men otherwise in Joseph Billes's employ. Some were friendly enough, stopping to make small talk, happy to run into another soul in the backcountry, and some just pa.s.sed without speaking. It was a small community, and most knew who he was, as he knew them. There were times when he heard someone approach and hid until they pa.s.sed, but more often than not he didn't see anyone, coming or going.

Theodore (T.O.) Billes.

When he had first started the visits, his fear of discovery had been strong. Now T.O. didn't worry about this part of the journey. He knew these woods as well as he knew the habits of the catfish in the river. Still, it wouldn't do to be caught this far into Joseph Billes's property without a reason ready to his tongue.

The rhythm of the visits had settled into a familiar pattern, always starting with a vague feeling of restlessness, just beyond his grasp, as if something deep inside were fighting to be given its due. As though he were trying to remember some important promise made to a friend that kept sliding away because the doing had been left off for too long. That feeling could last for hours or it could last for days, until the sharp jolt of anxiety and panic gripped him and would not allow him to sit still. The need to take action pained him in a physical way, in the twisting of his stomach or the pounding of his head. When the pattern first started, he hadn't known how to help himself. By now he understood that whatever else he had been doing would have to wait, no matter whether it was day or night, storm or clear, winter or summer, convenient or no.

He needed to start on the path out to his father's house for the visit.

As soon as he rounded the last bend and saw the roof of the house, his heart sped. The house had power over him, fear, anger, and antic.i.p.ation all balled up in a knot with each breath he took. His reaction was the same every time, as if it were the first.

T.O. tasted that knot as it rose from deep in his belly up into his throat and threatened to choke him. What kind of life was this for a twenty-six-year-old man? For two years now he had spied on his father and his father's wife. The urgency started from the first week Joseph had told him not to come to his house on Billes Landing anymore, that he and the others were no longer welcome there.

Ten years had come and gone since Joseph had brought his wife from St. John the Baptist Catholic Church in Cloutierville across the river to the house on Billes Landing. Direct from the wedding ceremony to the house that had been T.O.'s home just the day before.

T.O. decided to take his position behind the chicken house, his favorite site when the weather was wet. He could use the eaves to keep the rain off and still have an un.o.bstructed view of the screen-enclosed gallery. T.O. knew all of the comfortable places to hide around the perimeter of the house on Billes Landing, each giving him a different vantage point of the grounds.

When he had first been pulled to Billes Landing, T.O. sometimes kept to his position for almost an entire day, just for the possibility of a momentary glance of Joseph or Lola. Now it was enough to know that the house entwined them both in unhappiness with each other. Their sorrow was his tonic. Sometimes it took only a few minutes for the weight of the house to take hold, for him to feel soothed and strong enough to take his life back, and he could head back home without so much as s.h.i.+fting out of his original crouchlike stance. He never stayed more than a few hours anymore.

Joseph often left early in the morning and stayed away late into the night. Sometimes he came home for dinner or supper, but many times he did not, and they had few visitors. In the last two years, since the banishment, Lola had also made clear that Joseph's society-marginal friends were no longer welcome in the house. When his old acquaintances needed work, gossip, or favors, they intercepted Joseph elsewhere or called out from the gate to see if anybody was home without entering the front yard or climbing the steps.

Even as T.O. approached the chicken house, he heard voices from the gallery. It was Antoine and Joseph, arguing. T.O. quickly hid himself deeper in the shadows, but he could still hear.

”Be reasonable.” Antoine's voice was honey. ”I am your closest relative here. Two thousand acres cannot fall into hands incapable of overseeing it properly.”

”My children are my closest relatives,” Joseph said.

”They cannot inherit.”

”How is it you have come to be so familiar with the law?”

”It is common knowledge, your foolishness about the inheritance.” Antoine did not keep the disapproval from his voice. ”I would administer it on their behalf.”

T.O. lost a few words when Joseph lowered his voice, but he picked up the thread again.

”We won't do any more business together, Antoine. There's no use working with a man you can't trust. I was the one who made it possible for you and your family to come to this country, and this is how you repay me?”

”Some would say it was money owing,” Antoine said, but now his voice was strained and harsh. ”You talk trust? People in town want to do business with me now, it's me they trust. You insist on turning your back on your own kind, even now. It's not decent.”

”Do not ever dare come back to my house,” Joseph said.

T.O. heard Antoine mount his horse and ride away to the east and then the bang of the screened door as Joseph retreated into the house.

T.O. thought about Antoine Morat for most of his walk back to Cornfine Bayou. Since he was a small boy, whenever white men frightened him, it was Antoine Morat's face attached to the menace. Antoine was part of a blurry memory T.O. carried of his grandfather Narcisse pus.h.i.+ng him out of his lap in the cool of an evening long ago, before his father went away to New Orleans. Antoine was one of the men who had moved them out of the house on Billes Landing twelve years before. All of the colored in the area knew Antoine could be mean and high-handed, and he was one of the white men in town calling for a cleaner separation between Joseph and Emily.

But it was A. J. Morat, Antoine's son, whom T.O. hated. Five years younger than T.O. and born to a life of white privilege T.O. could only dream of, A.J. was away at medical school while T.O. picked up odd jobs at the sawmill. Joseph had always been conspicuous in his affection and admiration for the boy and lavish in his desire to provide him opportunities in life.

T.O. sometimes felt as if his very life were being stolen away. As if every time he tried to draw fresh air into his lungs, something tightened its grip around his body, like a snake slowly crus.h.i.+ng its prey. They took their toll, the menial tasks at the sawmill, the spying that only confirmed the contempt people harbored for his family, his corrosive longing for other people's lives, the unquenchable need for his father. And he was drawn to the same cycle again and again. The jitteriness, the pull, the walk, the pounding heart, bitterness confronted, the numbing calm, and the long walk home.

He remembered happier times, when they all lived in their house together and his mother would laugh and clap and dance to the tunes his father played on his mandolin. How they would all sing together. But he also remembered his father's absences and his mother taking on the backbreaking work. It was like hitching up a b.u.t.terfly to pull a plow.

By the time T.O. reached halfway between the house on Billes Landing and Cornfine Bayou, he was calm enough to think about how to break the cycle of the visits. Joseph and Lola were still miserable together, and Antoine had been dismissed from his father's business. The next time the nervousness beckoned he would fight the urge and get on with his life, the way other people managed to do. He would find a good woman and marry. They would settle down and have children. There were jobs at the sawmill or the railroad, enough to support a family. He would begin his life again on his own terms. It all seemed possible.

There was almost a lightness in his step by the time he set foot on Cornfine Bayou. Maybe he had taken his last visit. The pressure in his stomach was relieved, and his head was full of the possibility that evil could be punished, that good things could unfold for him, too.

Soon after He [ Narcisse ] and others incourged Joe Billis to Marrie awhite Woman, they wasn't as happy as they all thought they would be.--Cousin Gurtie Fredieu, written family history, 1975

Two weeks later T.O. was pulled back to Billes Landing, the cycle unbroken. From his position behind the chicken house he had a partial view when Joseph appeared at the front door of the main house midmorning, walking his old-man shuffle. He made for the barn, saddled his horse, and rode off in the direction of the sawmill. Only minutes later, as if they were waiting, Antoine Morat rode onto the property with another man T.O. didn't recognize. The unknown man had a professional air about him. When he took off his hat, a great shock of black hair curled around his face, thick as a horse's mane, setting off little gold-framed gla.s.ses that perched at the bridge of his thin nose. He had on a dark jacket and matching trousers, a suit that looked as if it couldn't carry the weight of an honest day's work, and thin-soled shoes. With a confident gesture the man pulled a sheaf of papers from his jacket pocket and tapped them against Antoine's sleeve before Lola let them inside.

Something was seriously wrong. Wrong enough that he needed to tell someone what he had seen. T.O. was sure these men were up to no good.

40.

E mily was the last awake, the last one up for the night, in a slow, restless prowl around the house when she heard the disturbance from the front gallery. It was no doubt Joseph, his high-strung disposition stretched to breaking. He drank too much of late, she thought, the liquor making him absent and vague, but it took him beyond the sting his life had become. He often didn't come into the house, just sitting out on her gallery into the night, and she usually let him be; his behavior was so erratic that even she couldn't calm him some of the time. mily was the last awake, the last one up for the night, in a slow, restless prowl around the house when she heard the disturbance from the front gallery. It was no doubt Joseph, his high-strung disposition stretched to breaking. He drank too much of late, she thought, the liquor making him absent and vague, but it took him beyond the sting his life had become. He often didn't come into the house, just sitting out on her gallery into the night, and she usually let him be; his behavior was so erratic that even she couldn't calm him some of the time.

The screen door creaked in protest as she went outside. Joseph was sprawled in the rocking chair, his hand tightened around a piece of paper. He slept heavily, the sleep of the willfully numbed, or he had pa.s.sed out. She would find out soon enough. Emily a.s.sumed he had suffered another disappointing trip to the lawyer.

She gently s.h.i.+mmied the creased page from his grip, a note written in his own cramped hand. The moonlight was too dim, so she left Joseph where he was and went back inside to light the kerosene lamp, letting the wick up high to make out the script on the page. The writing was alternately pinched and sprawling.

January 29, 1907Billes LandingIf I kill myself it will be for the trouble that my wife has given me for 10 years. Bury me in my garden near the asparagus plants. I am tired of hearing her quarrels and abuses of me. I have worked hard and deprived myself to gain what I have, and today see that it has all become misfortune. I cannot understand for what reason she does not want my children to be around me, or come to see me. I have no more life nor hope, so I might as well die or take my life. Without the children, I have nothing left in this world-not relatives nor friends. Those who I thought were friends have turned against me. Those who I thought would help me for my children's sake have banded together to refuse my wishes.My wife has been lost to me for several years. She has treated me lower than a Negro, which has caused my trouble until today, all because my children were colored, but I hope that the law will give them justice notwithstanding their color. I have not been able so far to guarantee their future as I had hoped. My wife knew that I had these children before I married her. She does not eat with me at the table, and does not show any affection or understanding. She always has some excuse to give, and it is for this reason that I give up the fight, to end this life. It is better to have it end.Joseph Billes Emily exhaled softly. Once more, to this.

She went to the kitchen and set a pot of strong coffee to drip, and while waiting for the coffee to brew, she checked to make sure everyone else in the house was asleep, looking into their rooms as if they were still her little children to watch over. Mary, the youngest at seventeen, shared the bed with Josephine, twenty-two, like two parts of a whole, even in sleep. T.O. and Joe had both spent a full day at the sawmill and slept the deep sleep of exhaustion at the back of the house, on the closed-in porch that served as their room. Her mother and grandmother shared the back bedroom, both snoring, one a soft whistle, the other a train straining uphill. Her family. The aroma of the coffee pulled her back to the kitchen. Emily tasted the hot, bitter brew, satisfied it was strong enough.

Joseph Billes's suicide note, entered into evidence, Louisiana Supreme Court records.

She poured the coffee in two oversize mugs, sweetened them heavily with sugar, and took them out to the gallery. She set down the mugs, brought another chair from the house, and pushed at Joseph until he crossed to wakefulness. She stroked his grayed hair where it was thinnest. He leaned in to her touch, as grateful as one of her cats. Finally he opened his eyes, and they sat and drank the strong brew in silence for a time.

”I saw the letter,” Emily said gently.

”It's just my first copy,” Joseph said, swirling the coffee slowly in the mug. ”I'm really going to do it this time, 't.i.te, but I couldn't without telling you first. I brought you more money.” He pulled a thick packet wrapped in canvas from inside his jacket and handed it to her. His skin gave off a combination of stale tobacco, coffee, and liquor.

”This is from my account in New Orleans,” he continued. ”No one here has any idea of how much I keep down there. I opened it separate from the business. I don't trust the Colfax bank. They've shown they're against me. And you.”

Emily took the package, setting the bundle in her lap as Joseph leaned back in the chair, closing his eyes against the dark. ”Joseph, what possible good comes from the things you talk about in this letter?”

”They can make me marry, but they can't make me live,” Joseph said, eyes still closed. ”It all turns to dust anyway.”