Bayou Beginnings Page 2

  The faster the better, to Theo’s way of thinking, because he had plans. He loved his mama and daddy, but nothing set his teeth on edge worse than being stuck in a small place with a big number of relatives.

  With one kinfolk shy of a dozen, the old house overflowed.

  “Theo, you’ll be back in time for supper?”

  He turned to grin at his mother. Careworn yet wearing a smile, she stood in the doorway with a set of bed linens draped over one arm.

  “Oui, Mama,” he said. “I aim to see that place the reverend told me about, and then I’ll head on back home. Don’t ’spect it’ll take more’n a few hours unless I get a mind to catch a fish or two.”

  She shook her head and clutched the bleached white sheets to her chest. “Fishing, that’s a man’s excuse for sittin’ still. You tell the reverend he’s overdue for a gumbo supper, and I aim to set an extra place this evenin’. If he’s a mind t’join us, he knows he don’t need no engraved invitation.”

  “I will.” Mama wouldn’t know an engraved invitation if it slapped her upside the head, but she sure liked to use that term. “Theophile, you know you can come home any time you want. You don’t need no engraved invitation.” He’d asked her once if she had any idea what she was talking about. She’d responded with a comment about how sassy he’d become since he no longer lived under her roof, then stormed off.

  He’d hoped to talk her and Papa into visiting him in Houston, but it never happened. There was always something that kept them stuck here. Well, when he got himself a little place up in Canada, he’d send them all train tickets.

  Theo watched Mama climb the wooden steps leading from the front porch up into the attic space where the boys slept. Years ago, he’d offered to build an inside staircase. The old tax laws that forced the Acadians to get creative with their living spaces were no longer in force, making the outside stairway unnecessary. Still, Mama and Papa refused the change, preferring instead to go out on the porch in order to reach the upper half of the house.

  One more example of how things never seemed to change on the bayou.

  He turned east toward the Trahan place. Whatever the reverend had to show him, it ought to be more interesting than what went on around here.

  Tromping through the marsh, he fell into his habit of conversing with the Lord. Generally a one-sided conversation with him doing all the talking and God doing all the listening, the prayer this afternoon involved Theo merely asking a single question—when his time in Latagnier would be done—and then waiting in silence for an answer.

  This is your home. It will never be done, came the soft reply.

  Stopping short, Theo looked up toward the cornflower blue sky and squinted. “Lord, did I hear You right? I’m never leaving Latagnier? Well, I just don’t think I’m gonna believe that.”

  He stomped his boots to shake off the remains of yesterday’s walk through the muddy bayou’s edge, then shielded his eyes from the sun. If only he could shield them from the Son, as well. That, Theo knew, was useless. The Lord saw everything; He just acted like He didn’t sometimes.

  Like now. Couldn’t God see he wanted to be free of the life that broke his daddy’s spirit and sent him to carrying an old man’s load at a young man’s age?

  What if the load was not a burden?

  Again the Father’s voice teased his ears and pierced his heart. He’d never considered Papa might actually like the lot he’d been cast.

  “What if I mean for you to carry the same load?”

  “I won’t do it, I tell You,” he muttered. “I just can’t.”

  “That you, Theo?” The Reverend Broussard stood some hundred yards away, waving his arms.

  “Oui, c’est moi.” Theo returned the greeting and stomped toward him. Where did a man go for an appeal when the Creator of the universe handed down a verdict he didn’t like? Even the reverend wouldn’t have an answer to that one.

  He shook off the thought and plowed forward through the mucky ground until he hit the hard-packed earth. By that time, the reverend stood only a few yards away. “Bonjour, Reverend,” he said as he closed the distance between them. “Comment ça va?”

  “Things are going well, son. Thank you for asking.” The reverend adjusted his hat, then shook Theo’s hand. “Pleasure seeing you on a day besides Sunday. I’m glad you’ve chosen to stay here in Latagnier for a while.”

  This parson, different from others Theo had come across, had calluses that bore the signs of a workingman’s life. Like the rest of the men in Latagnier, he worked hard for his living, saving souls on Sunday and tilling the land the rest of the week.

  “Well, not me,” Theo said softly as he shoved his fists into his pockets and looked away.

  “Excuse me?” the reverend asked.

  Theo shook his head. “Nothing,” he said as he turned his attention to the ramshackle pile of boards and windows gathering leaves—and most likely snakes—beside the little cabin. Many years ago, the structure had been someone’s home, but now it sat empty and forgotten. “So this is the place you’re thinking of turning into a schoolhouse, eh?”

  The preacher nodded. “What do you think?”

  His carpenter’s eye told him there was hope in the little structure. His heart, however, said there was much more to life than staying as long as fixing up this place would take.

  Three

  Now don’t you go bothering the menfolks, Clothilde Trahan. You hear?” Tante Flo stood at the back door, tiny hands on narrow hips. Her frown spoke more than her warning. “I want you to promise me.”

  “I promise.” I won’t bother them. They’ll never know I’m around.

  “Some folks, they can’t help the way God made ’em. They just go on about their business without thinking what they’re doing might be their downfall.” Tante Flo shook her head. “Honey, I know you’re curious, but you’re also a lady, and a lady knows when to make herself scarce.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” As Cleo said the words, she knew she could offer no proof. On the other hand, Tante Flo had caught her spying too many times to count.

  Tante Flo placed her hand over Cleo’s. “Someday you’re gonna have a house full of young ’uns, and at least one of ’em’s gonna be just like you. More and more every day, you’re becoming like your mama, God rest her precious soul.”

  Cleo looked into the eyes of the dear woman who’d raised her. “I am?”

  “You are. Look just like her, too. If the fever hadn’t taken her and your papa, well. . .” Tante Flo looked away. For a moment she seemed lost in memories. Then she straightened her shoulders and clapped her hands. “Enough of this foolishness. You and me, we got work to do. Allons! Get me plenty of eggs then, chile. I’ve got to make pies enough for tomorrow’s church social and Sunday dinner, too.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Cleo slipped her arm through the handle of the egg basket and turned in the direction of the henhouse. Uncle Joe hadn’t exactly forbidden her to go out to the site where the men were meeting, and neither had Tante Flo. Her only promise had been the one she had just made, and to the best of her ability, she meant to keep her pledge.

  Buster, Uncle Joe’s ancient Catahoula cur hound, trotted over to wag his tail and sniff at the basket. “Nothing in here for you, Buster,” she said. “But I could use some company. Allons! Come on, and let’s go get Tante Flo some eggs for her pies.”

  Feeling her aunt’s watchful eyes boring into her back, Cleo headed for the chicken house with the dog on her heels. The basket swung from her elbow and slapped against her side as she traveled the short distance to reach the henhouse door. Casting a glance over her shoulder, she saw Tante Flo still standing in the doorway.

  “Well, I suppose I’m going to have to go inside,” she said under her breath. The hound, nose to the ground, headed off in pursuit of some unknown quarry.

  Cleo stepped inside the dank warmth of the henhouse and blinked to adjust her eyes to the dimness. The birds began to fuss and cluck as she w
ent about the business of collecting the day’s eggs as slowly as she could manage.

  When she’d gathered the last egg, she cautiously pushed the door open and peered outside. No one stood nearby. Even the dog had disappeared.

  She craned her neck to get a better look at the back door and the open windows along the back of the house. No sight of Tante Flo.

  Cleo set the egg basket on the floor of the henhouse and darted toward the stand of trees shielding the bayou from sight. Once she slipped into the shadows of the thicket, it was a simple matter to stroll casually along the bank. If anyone saw her, she’d easily make the excuse that she’d followed the bayou where the bayou led, taking the fresh air on her daily stroll.

  Funny how the bayou seemed to be leading right toward the prospective schoolhouse.

  “I don’t know, Reverend. It looks like we can save most of that wood if we. . .” The voice faded and disappeared as Cleo neared the site. The reverend and his carpenter friend must have gone inside the cabin to check things out.

  No matter. She could wait. But first, perhaps she should make sure they truly were inside.

  Cleo crept toward the cabin, being careful to keep out of sight of the lone window on the easternmost corner of the building. She moved slowly, a difficult thing for her, until she reached the side of the cabin. From that point, she began to make her way around the edge of the house, hoping to reach the front in time to see the men exit.

  “I see what you mean,” the reverend said from somewhere nearby. “What do you think, Joe?”

  The window. Cleo looked up to see she stood directly beneath it. She cowered against the side of the house and tried not to breathe, all the while willing the men to move so she could do the same.

  “Theo, if we were to take out that wall, would it hurt the integrity of the structure?”

  The carpenter’s rumbling voice answered in the affirmative. “But Joe, if you’ll look over here, I think it can be done this way. See what you think, eh?”

  “You know,” the reverend said, “I think Theo might just be on the right track.”

  All three voices moved away from the window and faded into silence. Leaning against the rough wood, Cleo expelled a long breath to still her racing heart.

  She’d been spared the humiliation of being caught listening, but with the sounds of the men’s voices drawing near once more, her reprieve was only a temporary solution. If she stayed in the clearing, she’d be found out for sure.

  “Let me show the window casing on the back of the house,” Uncle Joe said, his voice too near for comfort. “Vien ici.”

  Casting a glance over her shoulder, she realized the only way to leave was to go the same way she came. Saying a quick prayer, Cleo darted toward the thicket and dove into the stand of pines. She landed with a thud in a pile of pine needles, then rolled over and lay face down. Peering up, she held her breath while three sets of male legs filed past just a few yards away.

  A mosquito buzzed her ears, and no matter how hard she tried, Cleo couldn’t get rid of the pesky thing. Swatting it was out of the question—too loud—and enduring it for five more minutes was more than she could consider. Thankfully, none of the other bayou creatures had joined her—yet.

  As she watched the backs of the men, heads bent in conversation over a paper the reverend held, Cleo’s mind began to conjure up all the possibilities for animal and reptile companions. Behind her, the pine straw rustled, while overhead a black crow screeched, seemingly determined to give away her hiding space.

  She had to do something.

  Cleo inched closer to the clearing where the reverend stood side by side with the stranger. He was a tall man, this Acadian whom the reverend had chosen to do the cabin repairs. Dark arms emerged from beneath rolled-up shirtsleeves, proclaiming him a man who’d spent time in the sun.

  Uncle Joe said he was a Breaux, the oldest of the bunch and the only one who no longer lived on the bayou. Cleo closed her eyes, trying to remember him, then opened them quickly when the mosquito struck again.

  From her hiding place in the thicket, she could barely make out the top of the fellow’s dark head as he disappeared behind the structure with the pastor on his heels.

  “Hey there, Joe,” she heard the reverend call. A muted response drifted her way. So did a familiar bark.

  Oh no.

  Suppressing a groan, Cleo gathered her skirts around her legs and crouched lower. She tried to force herself to breathe slowly, but the effort made her dizzy. If Uncle Joe caught her eavesdropping again, she’d surely end up riling him. The last thing she needed in her campaign to be chosen as the first teacher of the new school was to upset one of the men who would be doing the choosing.

  Another bark, this one closer.

  Buster.

  Cleo suppressed a groan and gathered her skirt and apron close beneath her. Wouldn’t you know the dog with the greatest tracking sense in the parish would show up now?

  Uncle Joe called the hound by name, then knelt as the Catahoula cur bounded into the clearing. Unfortunately, Buster did not head toward Uncle Joe, but rather stopped abruptly a few yards away, then turned in her direction.

  Nose to the ground, he made short work of crossing the distance to where Cleo cowered in the thicket. “Go away,” she whispered. “Allons! Get out of here.”

  “What you got there, Buster?” Uncle Joe called, his voice coming closer. “You got a rabbit?”

  “A nosey rabbit. Now go on,” she said under her breath as she slid farther back into her hiding place and laid her head on the blanket of pine needles. Again, the mosquito buzzed her ear, but she dared not swat it.

  The dog continued to press his way through the thick branches to bury his wet nose in the top of Cleo’s head. His whimper turned into a full-fledged bark.

  “Here now, Buster,” Uncle Joe called. “Vien ici. Leave that little rabbit alone.”

  Buster hesitated and barked once more. Cleo lifted her head and swatted his nose, sending him running. She inched forward a bit to watch him launch himself at Uncle Joe.

  “Did it get you, boy?” Uncle Joe knelt to ruffle the dog’s ears. “You want me to go catch him and put him in the stew pot?”

  Cleo sucked in a deep breath and held it until Uncle Joe stood and turned away. In one quick motion, she let out her breath and swatted the mosquito.

  Uncle Joe stopped in his tracks and whirled around. He peered in the direction of Cleo’s hiding place, then shook his head and motioned to Buster. “Allons, hound dog. You and me got some work to do back at the house. You coming, men?”

  The reverend nodded and joined Uncle Joe, but the Breaux fellow motioned them away. “I believe I’ll stay here a bit longer if you don’t mind.”

  Uncle Joe smiled. “All right, but before we go, I need to know if you’ll change your mind about taking payment for this, Theo. It’s not right you doing all that work for nothing.”

  The Breaux fellow stepped into Cleo’s view. Oh my. He did turn out to be quite handsome. And tall, too. When he looked over in the direction of the thicket, her heart skipped, only in part from fear of being discovered.

  The carpenter said something, then turned and headed back toward the cabin, disappearing inside. Cleo plucked a piece of pine straw from her hair and wished for a comb. “What am I thinking? I won’t be meeting him today. He can’t know I’ve been spying.”

  Did she say spying? Well, actually she’d been. . .the truth was, she’d actually wanted to. . .see, she just needed to know. . . .

  Cleo sighed. She’d been spying, all right. The reverend was right. God loved a busy body but not a busybody.

  She sat back in her hiding space and tucked her knees beneath her chin, wrapping her arms around her legs. A big ugly water bug skittered past and disappeared into the straw, and she kicked at it with the toe of her shoe. Right at that moment, Cleo felt like that ugly bug.

  Stretching out her legs, she leaned back against the rough bark of the nearby pine. She closed her eyes, he
r heart heavy.

  I’m sorry, Lord. Please forgive me for snooping again. Teach me to keep my nose in my own business. I’m ready to accept the consequences, but be gentle while I learn.

  Before she could say “amen,” she felt something cool and heavy slither across her legs. The operative word was slither. When she opened her eyes, a big old cottonmouth lay across her ankles.

  The snake looked almost as unhappy to see her as she was to see him.

  Four

  Theo climbed onto an abandoned kitchen chair and studied the old building’s rafters. Joe was right when he said the place stood as sturdy as the day it was built. Planed smooth and straight by hands long stilled in death, the wood held true and plumb. A job well done. Only the cobwebs that hung like Spanish moss in the corners gave away its age.

  He stretched to reach the nearest cypress beam, then ran his hand over the aged timber. Nothing felt more permanent than a piece of wood well crafted.

  “Help! Snake!”

  The chair tumbled from beneath him as Theo tried to right himself. He landed with a crash and hit the ground running. As he careened off the porch, he grabbed the shovel off the top of the lumber pile.

  “Where are you?”

  “Over here!”

  Following the sound, Theo crossed the clearing and bounded into the thicket only to stop short when he saw the woman—and the woman’s predicament. A rather small-sized female had attracted a big old snake. It sat on the hem of her skirt, mad as a hornet and perched to strike.

  Theo smacked the ground with the shovel, and the black monster turned his attention away from the young lady. As soon as the snake moved, so did the woman. Using the tip of the shovel, Theo made short work of the cottonmouth. With a flick of his wrist, he sent the head flying into the thicket and watched it land, then bounce into the black water of the bayou.

  When he glanced back at the terrified woman, he had to suppress a groan. She stared down at the twitching body of the snake as if she’d never seen one. The only thing worse than a riled-up cottonmouth was a riled-up woman.