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Visiting her Aunt Louanne’s house had always been a learning experience for Marge. There was always something new to discover. Located in a remote area of the cypress swamp, along a tributary of Sinful Bayou, a visit was guaranteed to include a close encounter with a gator or wild boar, a spotting of a bird she’d never seen before, or an exotic plant her aunt was growing in her greenhouse. Or perhaps a raised eyebrow or two.
The female mannequin, dressed identically to her aunt in a pair of culottes and an orange crepe blouse, was seated on the chair opposite the three girls. This would definitely fall into the eyebrow-raising category.
Aunt Louanne entered the living room from the kitchen, carrying a tray with four glasses of sweet tea, as well as a plate of cookies.
“How are my girls?” she asked as she set the tray on the coffee table.
She’d been described by many of Sinful’s women as the town oddball, never shy about speaking her mind, while most of the men in town focused on her raven hair, sparkling blue/green eyes and Marilyn Monroe curves. At 43, she was still a bombshell.
“Come on, stand up, stand up.” As they did, Aunt Louanne swooped in and gave them all a hug, spending a bit more time squeezing the life out of Ida Belle, for whom she always reserved an extra-long hug. Marge had always thought that if Aunt Louanne could have withstood Ida Belle’s dad, she would have married him just to give her friend a mother. Ida Belle squirmed out of the hug. As she always did.
Aunt Louanne casually lifted the mannequin and set her on a side rocking chair.
“She’s for a photo project I’m working on,” Aunt Louanne explained, picking up her glass of tea.
“I bet she is,” Gertie said, casting a side glance at Marge. The three girls had had numerous discussions regarding the mysteriousness of Marge’s aunt, who would hire Marge and her mother to help in the shop when she needed to tend to “other” business. Then there were the weeks she’d jet around the world to lead photo safaris for wealthy individuals. At least, that’s what she said she was doing. Her aunt was always tight-lipped about her travels when she’d return to Sinful. Yes, she was a mystery, but none of that dampened Marge’s love for her.
Aunt Louanne raised her glass. “To the Women’s Army Corps.” The three echoed her sentiments and toasted to their new lives.
“Have you girls given any thought as to what types of jobs you’d like to pursue in the Army?”
Gertie answered first. “I want to be a driver or a motorboat operator.”
“Lord help us,” Ida Belle muttered. Marge held in a laugh.
“One time. One time I ran into a stop sign and that’s all you can think about.” Gertie looked at Aunt Louanne. “It was the Widow Jones’s fault. Barreling at me with that ancient DeSoto of hers. She refuses to wear her glasses. If it were up to me, nobody over fifty would be allowed to drive.”
“I want to be a photographer,” Marge said. “Like you were in the Army.” Her aunt had been assigned as clerical help for the intelligence department of the Army, until a colonel had seen some of her photography and she was transferred, spending the rest of her Army years as a photographer for recruitment purposes. At least, that’s what she’d always said. When Louanne had left active duty and returned to Sinful to open her photo store, she’d bought Marge a camera and taught her everything she knew.
Aunt Louanne winked at Marge and cast her gaze on Ida Belle.
“What I’d like to do they won’t let me do,” Ida Belle said. “Let’s face it, they don’t let women do the exciting jobs.”
Aunt Louanne leaned in toward her. “But what if they did let you do something more exciting? What if you could do anything, even what a man does? Then what?”
Ida Belle smiled. “That’s easy.”
“She’d boss people around is what she’d do,” Gertie said before taking a sip of tea.
Ida Belle shot her a look. Marge snorted, because she knew Gertie was right. Ida Belle was a natural born leader. Polite for bossy. “I’d be in intelligence,” she said, shooting a dirty look Marge’s way as well. “Maybe surveillance. Analyze maps, intercept code, plan missions. That type of thing. Turn those spy games of yours into reality.”
Marge didn’t have to think hard. “I’d still be a photographer, but I’d go behind enemy lines and shoot surveillance photos.”
Gertie shrugged. “I’d drive a tank.”
“But none of that is going to happen because we’re girls,” Marge said to her aunt. “But that’s not why we’re here.”
Aunt Louanne’s hand shot up to her mouth when Gertie told her the news about Barbara being engaged to Harvey Chicoron. A string of curse words then shot from her mouth, followed by an apology to Jesus, when Marge told her about Granny Boudreaux’s car getting ticketed due to Celia’s prank. Then they laid out their plan of attack to her. How Gertie would entice Harvey to her family land across from Loppinot Island, then get him plastered. How Gertie would excuse herself and Ida Belle would wander into the scene posing as Celia and get him into a compromising situation. How Marge would photograph it all.
“Sweet Jesus.” Aunt Louanne wiped the tear that had escaped her eye. A huge grin broke out on her face. “I’m just so proud of you girls.”
“For a minute there I thought you disapproved,” said Marge.
“Are you kidding?” Aunt Louanne said. “Getting the better of two shits like Harvey and Celia? You’re doing the Lord’s work.”
“Here’s where we need your help,” Gertie said. “To pull this off we’re going to have to get Harvey really smashed. And under our control. And quickly. I don’t want to spend more time with him than I have to. Have you brewed something strong like that lately?”
Louanne placed a hand to her chest. “Are you talking about moonshine? I’m a respected business owner. I’m in the choir at Sinful Baptist. What gave you the idea I make moonshine?”
Ida Belle shrugged. “We followed you out to your still one night. We have the pictures to prove it.”
At first Aunt Louanne’s face registered shock, but then it gave way to a smile. “I see I’ve taught you well. Okay, I admit, I dabble.” Her face beamed. “Okay, I confess, I manufacture the strongest hooch around. I have a blend that would make even Pastor Ray do things he’d be sorry for the next day. I call it, Divorce Court in a Bottle.”
“Then that’s the one we want,” Ida Belle said.
“Do you have one of Celia’s dresses?”
Marge shrugged. “Why?”
“Ida Belle might be able to look like Celia from the back, but every other girl in Sinful is sporting a helmet head these days. It would help sell it that the girl in the photo was Celia if Ida Belle wore one of Celia’s dresses. Celia always embroiders her name on the back of her dresses for all the world to see. And I think tomorrow is their family wash day.”
Louanne got up from the sofa and crossed to a bookshelf, pulling out a leather-bound notebook. Flipping it open, she scanned several pages before she stopped and placed her finger on the page. “Yes. Every Thursday this summer Celia has been out there hanging up the family laundry. After she’s finished, she takes her mother to her weekly hair appointment and then meets a man along the highway just outside of town for a quickie before picking her mother up. A man who is NOT her boyfriend, Pike.”
Gertie leaned into Marge and said in a low voice. “Your aunt takes busybody to a whole new level.”
“I heard that,” Louanne said, looking up from the notebook. “Busybodies are little old ladies who have nothing better to do than gossip. Gossip is the passing of juicy tidbits that may or may not be true. I observe and record facts. Now, do you want to benefit from my observations and know when Celia will leave so you can steal the dress, or would you rather go unprepared and be caught?”
“We’d rather be smart,” Ida Belle said.
“All right, then. Celia hangs laundry at ten. Her mom’s hair appointment is for 10:45. No one will be home between 10:30 and noon. Just be on the lookout for their dog, Killer. Sometimes they leave him in the house, sometimes out.” Aunt Louanne absently leaned down and rubbed her ankle. “Trust me. The dog will bite.” She put the notebook back in the bookshelf. “Okay, let’s get you some Divorce Court in a Bottle.”
“And I’d like the use of one of your cameras with a long telephoto lens,” Marge said. “And if you don’t mind, we’ll need your darkroom to print the pictures.”
Louanne shrugged. “Well, of course, what’s the point of taking pictures of a man making a fool of himself if you can’t print them and tack them up around town?” She moved to another bookshelf located next to a closet door, removing it of knickknacks and books and piling them on a chair. “Help me move this would you, Margie?” She asked.
Marge gave a shrug to Ida Belle and Gertie, who looked just as puzzled as she was about her aunt’s request. Together they moved the bookshelf to the right several feet, revealing a three-foot high, narrow pocket door built into the wall. In all the many times Marge had visited her aunt, she’d never seen this door. Aunt Louanne slid it to the side.
“You have a hidden room?” Marge asked.
“I closed off a portion of my closet. For a few things I’d rather keep a little private.”
Louanne got on her knees and scooted inside. Marge dropped to her knees as well and looked inside the secret space. It was incredible. Shelves filled with jars of hooch, and a rack of costumes and assorted clothing for men and for women. Uniforms of all kinds. Some she recognized from when they played Undercover when she was younger. But the real surprise came when Marge turned to her right and looked further into the secret closet. Weapons of all kinds. Rifles, pistols, knives. It took her breath away. She definitely was getting one of these secret closets when she had her own place. She whistled. “That’s some weapons collection you have, Aunt Louanne.”
“Well,” her aunt said, “the gators around here are a tough bunch. You never know what will work.”
“Is that a grenade?”
“Don’t touch that!” Aunt Louanne said. “Back up, Margie, I’m coming out.”
Marge backed out of the secret room, followed by her aunt, who dragged a box of moonshine-filled bottles. Some clear, some golden, some a weird color in between.
Louanne brought the box to the coffee table and set it down. She picked up one of the bottles of amber-colored hooch. “This one’s pretty good, too. I call it, Fool’s Dance. Just one finger of this stuff and you’re on the dance floor. But I suppose you don’t want a dancing Harvey. You want an even dumber, subdued Harvey.” She returned that bottle to the box and pulled out one of the bottles of clear liquid, gazing at it as if it were the love of her life. “‘Divorce Court’ it is.”
She set it down on the coffee table. “You’re in luck. Harvey will be in the shop tomorrow when it opens to collect rent for his father. You can ‘accidentally’ show up around then.” She peeked at Gertie’s chest before quickly looking away. “You might want to come prepared.”
“The General Store is having a two-for-one sale on toilet paper,” said Gertie. “We’re going there after we leave.”
Louanne nodded. “Wise investment.”
Before leaving with the hooch, Louanne stopped them at the door with a question. “So what’s your group code name?”
Ida Belle cocked an eyebrow. “Group code name?”
“For the three of you. Your secret handle.”
“Gator Girls?” Gertie asked. “I like that.”
“Makes us sound like cheerleaders,” Ida Belle said, cringing.
“Misty Marvels,” Marge said. “Like the mist rising from the swamps.”
Gertie shook her head. “Makes me think of Misty Malveaux.”
Now Marge cringed. “Misty the Mono Queen” as she was known, had been behind the Great Kissing Disease Panic of 1958. Three years later Misty’s name was still being invoked in Sinful High sex ed classes.
Ida Belle rubbed her chin. “What about... Swamp Team Three?”
Louanne nodded. “I like that.”
Gertie began clapping. “Swamp Team Three, that’s who we are.”
With a team name and the most powerful hooch ever brewed, the newly minted Swamp Team 3 hopped in the boat to head home.
“I could ask my mom to knit us some team swimsuits,” Gertie said as she sat on the bench, cradling the bottle of shine.
Marge and Ida Belle shared a look. Marge pictured the swim suits Gertie’s mom had crocheted for her children several years back. Mrs. Hebert had many talents but crocheting swim suits that kept everything private wasn’t one of them. Poor Gertie and her brother had some things poking through that should have stayed inside their suits. And in Sinful, the wrong thing poking through your swimsuit could get you arrested.
“I’m satisfied with my swim suit,” Ida Belle said.
“I love mine,” added Marge.
Ida Belle was about to start the motor when Marge heard a noise by the brush and stopped her. Was that a man? She shouted toward the brush, “Hey, you! What are you doing there?”
“Who are you talking to?” Ida Belle asked.
“Over there,” she whispered. “In the brush.” Marge pulled the pistol from her holster, the one she always brought when going deep into gator territory. “I swear I saw a man hiding there. I think he had a camera.”
“What did he look like?” Gertie asked.
“Kinda scruffy looking. With a beard and a floppy hat. When I yelled, he disappeared.”
“He was probably some birder from New Orleans,” Ida Belle said. “We get those kooks from time to time lurking around our house looking for birds to photograph. I read that Sinful Bayou has more types of herons than anywhere in the state.”
“Maybe,” Marge said. “But we’re not birds, and he was aiming right at us.” Marge hopped out of the boat and went in the direction of the brush. Ida Belle told Gertie to keep the hooch safe, then joined Marge, shotgun at the ready, but after several minutes of searching, they found nothing.
“Birder,” Ida Belle concluded, relaxing her grip on her shotgun.
“But why was he taking our picture?”
Ida Belle shrugged. “Could be there was a bird he wanted to shoot in a tree near us. Or maybe he was taking our picture because he thought we were cute.”
Marge could feel herself blushing. “You and Gertie, maybe. Not me. Nobody would want to take my picture.”
Ida Belle stared at her. “You’re cute. Don’t you ever look at yourself in the mirror?”
“Not if I can help it.”
Ida Belle snickered. “Marge, you make me laugh.”
It was a lie, but Marge really didn’t want to admit just how much she did look at a mirror. Years of staring at herself and wondering why she could never get a hairband to look right, or make her hair look poufy and fancy like all the other girls. She’d shed many a tear wondering if she had a hand/brain disconnect that made it impossible for her hands to do something her brain was begging of them. She didn’t care how out of date her pixie cut was becoming. She had to face facts long ago. There were just some womanly skills that eluded her. A rifle she could handle. Hunting knife? Easy. But looking at herself in a mirror and teasing and spraying and putting on eye shadow without ending up looking like a raccoon that stuck its tongue in a light socket? Impossible.
“You girls okay?”
Startled, both Ida Belle and Marge jumped back. Aunt Louanne always had a way of sneaking up on them.
“We thought we saw a man taking our picture,” said Marge, her heart still racing.
“Probably a birder.”
“That’s what I said.” Ida Belle tried to sound cool, but her heavy breathing gave her away. Aunt Louanne had scared the crap out of her too.
“I’m going out to shoot some birds myself,” Aunt Louanne said, holding her camera up. “If I see a strange man, I’ll report back.”
Ida Belle and Marge said their goodbyes and headed back to the boat.
––––––––
Louanne Boudreaux watched her niece and Ida Belle make their way down the path to the dock. She’d seen the man as well, having had a sense of him around the property an hour before the girls had even arrived, which prompted her to drag her mannequin from her closet and prop it up on a chair. And it worked, too. Louanne had managed to circle around and snap a photo of the man when he snuck up to her living room window and took what he thought was a photo of her sitting in her chair watching TV.
Louanne smiled. She’d been expecting him.