Family ties are sometimes cruel...
“That’s her. That’s the bitch.”
Andrea Fletcher cowered in the bedroom closet of her Atlanta, Georgia, home, listening to the railing voice of her stepfather, George Allison. It was always best to hide when he was on a rant...or when he was into the booze. He wasn’t an alcoholic, exactly, but he did go on his binges.
As usual, her mother, Ruth Allison, said nothing to stand up to his tyranny, except to insert the occasional, “Oh, George!” Hard as it was to fathom, even after ten years, her mother thought George walked on water. The only saving grace for Andrea was that George was a sales rep for a pharmaceutical company and was often on the road—and the fact that she’d recently graduated from high school and could leave home. Of course, George had spent her college fund, given to her in her adoptive father’s will, which George had considered his due. After all, he’d “allowed” her to stay in his house. Now she’d be forced to live at home and attend the local community college, or leave home and get a job with no skills.
“How do you know it’s Andrea’s mother?”
Andrea straightened, her eyes going wide with shock. “Because I saw those adoption documents you keep hidden, that’s how. Grace O’Brien was her mother’s name. That’s her, all right. The bitch who gave her kid away. Look at the picture in this newspaper, dammit. Same red hair. Same green eyes. They look alike, ferchrissake!”
Andrea’s heart was beating so fast she could hardly hear what was being said in the bedroom next door.
“Where did you get this newspaper, honey?”
“New Orleans. When I was passing through last week.”
Andrea had known since she was five years old that she was adopted, and until her adoptive father died when she was eight, life had been good. But then her “mother” had remarried, and a day didn’t go by without George complaining about all the money her upkeep was costing, how she didn’t do enough work around the house, how her grades weren’t good enough, how she dressed like a tramp, how she could damn well get a job and start paying rent now that she was out of school or, better yet, move out so they could have some blessed privacy.
Ruth had always told her that her birth mother had no interest whatsoever in her “mistake.” That she’d been a slut who couldn’t even say for sure who the father was. She would have had an abortion, except she’d waited too long. Otherwise, Andrea would have done a search for her on the Internet. In the past, she’d always thought there was no point, unless she wanted to tell her what she thought of her. Which was sounding better and better by the minute.
In her own sad way, Ruth loved Andrea, but she loved George more. Sometimes—no, all the time—Andrea wondered why she’d ever been adopted in the first place. Weren’t adopted kids supposed to be special, the chosen ones? Hah!
“Well, I’ll tell you one thing, Ruth. The bitch is gonna pay. Grace O’Brien is loaded, and believe you me, she’s gonna share the wealth.”
“What...what do you mean?”
“I asked some folks in the hotel lobby, and they told me the people in this picture just started a foundation. The LeDeux and the Starr families are millionaires, they said.”
“But you said Grace O’Brien.”
“Don’t matter. If she’s associating with the jet-setters, she’s got cash, too. Guaranteed.”
“Oh, George! What are you going to do?”
“Have a little talk with the lady.” Andrea could hear the greedy smirk in her stepfather’s voice. “If she wants to keep her good name, she’ll pay.”
“But that’s blackmail, honey.”
“No. It’s payment for all I’ve done for her girl. Meanwhile, you make sure Andrea sticks close to home. I’ll put a hold on her college bank account tomorrow, and—”
You mean the bank account that now has a total of fifty dollars in it?
“—and don’t you be givin’ her any money. Whatever you do, don’t tell her about her bitch mother—not yet. Or she’ll be runnin’ off to the arms of Mommy dearest.”
Not likely! Oh, I’m gonna find her, all right, but not to give her a big hug. No, I’m gonna give her a piece of my mind.
Fat tears slipped out of her welling eyes. Not the first time she’d cried over a mother who hadn’t wanted her.
If you’re not a lesbian, then what are you?...
Grace and Lionel were sitting at the table in Grace’s cottage transcribing Tante Lulu’s traiteur notes onto a laptop, while Lena was in the bedroom resting.
The computer-savvy boy, whose interest in medicine was stimulated by the herbal remedies, had developed a wonderful program to record the lifelong recipes and observations that clearly had historical value. The software not only indexed the various herbs, but cross-referenced them with their varied uses.
Best of all were Tante Lulu’s remarks on the people she’d healed and their life stories, related to each of the remedies. It was a living history, not only of the bayou, its people, its medicinal plants, but of an incredible lady who’d lived an interesting and full life. Grace didn’t consider herself competent enough to write a book about Louise Rivard, but someone should.
“Some of this stuff is really weird. Do you think it works?” Lionel looked up from the keyboard and took a sip of sweet tea, a staple here in the South.
“Probably. Every time I scoff, she proves me wrong. Like this ‘smoking the baby’ business. Really, it sounds awful, but in the end, it’s just a primitive way of clearing an infant’s lungs. Almost like a vaporizer.”
Lionel quirked an eyebrow. “I dunno.”
“I read an article in a magazine recently about how alligator blood might be used as a possible human antibiotic. It has something to do with the gators dating back to the stone age, when they had to survive all kinds of mangling and maiming, so their bodies built up these immunities. She may not know all this history, but I’ll bet Tante Lulu already knows that alligator blood has its uses.”
Lionel’s pierced eyebrow was still raised in disbelief.
“I’ll take you with us tomorrow when Tante Lulu makes her weekly rounds. She’s crazy as a loon sometimes, but believe me when I say she knows what she’s doing.”
“I like her.”
“So do I.”
“The only thing she hasn’t been able to cure is my thumbnail biting.” She laughed and showed him her right thumb with the nail bitten down to the quick. “And believe me, she has tried putting some yucky goop on it. To no avail.”
“What’s that juju tea she keeps pushing on you?” He pointed to the “Gotta Love a Cajun” mug filled to the brim with a lavender-colored liquid.
Grace laughed. “Juju tea. She claims it’s a love potion, but it’s just a nice mellow tea, in my opinion. Harmless.”
“Are you lookin’ for love?” Lionel teased her.
“Hardly. I just humor her.”
“Besides you don’t need a love potion to get Angel, right?”
“Angel! Why would you say that?”
“Are you kiddin’? When you’re not looking, he stares at you like you’re eye candy and he needs a sugar fix.”
For some reason, a thrill of pleasure rippled through her body. Suddenly, she gave the juju tea a narrow-eyed study, then decided, No way! “You’re mistaken. Angel doesn’t look at me like that. Oh, there was a time when he felt that way about me, or thought he did, but not anymore. Now, we’re just...friends.”
Lionel grunted his disagreement, then grinned at her. “Maybe I’ll get me a jar of that juju tea. There’s this girl at school—”
“Forget the tea. You’re a good-looking guy.” In fact, Lionel was six foot tall and still growing, with a lean, teenage-buff body. Sometimes he resembled a lighter-skinned Samuel L. Jackson. Aside from the numerous piercings and the leather jacket that might just have been glued on, that is. Actually, the piercings were probably a turn-on to teenage girls.
Which made Grace think of the piercing that Angel might or might not still have. Don’t go there, girl!
“Just ask her for a date,” she concluded.
“Hard to go on dates when we’re hiding out here.”
“It won’t be forever.”
“Feels like it.”
“Angel already has the house framed out. The electricians and plumbers will be there today, and the LeDeuxs will be putting up drywall this weekend. It’s taking a bit longer than originally planned, but I predict you’ll be in your new house within two weeks.”
“Do you really think I’ll be able to go to college?”
She nodded. “If that’s what you want, Tante Lulu will find a way to make it happen.”
“We owe her a lot, don’t we?”
“A lot, but she doesn’t do it for the kudos. She genuinely likes to help people. The best way you can show your thanks is by doing the best you can to be good people. Adopting St. Jude as your favorite saint helps, too.”
Ella ran in then and yelled, “Holy crawfish! Tante Lulu says fer you two ta hurry up. The dilly willy mushrooms are bloomin’ t’day, and we gotta go pick ’em lickety-split. They’re the bestest thing fer zits and goiters.”
Grace and Lionel grinned at each other. The old lady’s colorful language was wearing off on all of them.
“And pack a picnic lunch, too,” Ella told Grace. “And doan fergit the leftover shrimp hushpuppies and okra salad and a mess of them greens from the garden.”
Yep, a definite Tante Lulu influence.
A short time later, Grace was paddling a pirogue down the bayou, heat shimmering off the coffee-colored water, with Tante Lulu in front of her, while Lionel and Miles rowed the second one, with Ella in the middle. A disgruntled Lena was ordered to stay indoors to study for her GED and not to answer if anyone came knocking.
Before they’d taken off, Tante Lulu advised the kids, “Put on long pants and shoes jist in case ya get bit by a snake. That way the fangs won’t break the skin.”
It was a sign of how accustomed they were all becoming to the old lady’s ways that no one had even flinched at the mention of snakes. Actually, Grace wished Miles would flinch or say something. He was way too quiet for a ten-year-old boy. If he’d had his way he’d have stayed back at the cottage with Lena, glued to her side.
“And doan be givin’ me that Hannah Banana bizness, either,” Tante Lulu had advised Ella. “Her clothes is too sexy fer a mite like you.”
Ella, who had been wearing a Hannah Montana bandanna, a “Girls Rock” camisole, and too-short shorts, had made a huffing sound of indignation that anyone would criticize Saint Hannah, the idol of adolescent girls and boys. “It’s Hannah Montana, not banana.”
“Montana, Banana, Fofana, same thing,” Tante Lulu had said.
Now, as they skimmed through the tranquil waters in their low-riding pirogue, Tante Lulu, sitting behind Grace, said, “Kin I ask ya somethin’, Gracie?”
Oh, boy! Tante Lulu never asked permission to speak. This ought to be good. “Sure.”
“You a virgin?”
Grace burst out with a laugh. “Good heavens, no. What made you ask that?”
“Well, I knowed ya a few years now, and I ain’t seen ya with any boyfriends.”
“There haven’t been many lately, but take my word for it, I’m not a virgin.” In fact, I’m a mother.
“Ya ever been in love?”
“I thought I was once, but it turned out to be puppy love. I was only a teenager.”
“Don’tcha think it’s time fer love? Ya already lost one good man. Angel. Yer not a young chicken anymore, bless yer heart. Well, yer a young chicken compared ta me, but iffen yer fixin’ ta have any chillen, ya best be findin’ a man ta marry.”
Grace was beginning to learn that in the South you could toss out any kind of insult as long as you attached “bless his or her heart” to it. Like, “Jolie had a baby when she was only seven months pregnant, bless her heart, and the baby weighed twelve pounds.” Grace also knew she would never be considered a true southerner, best explained by that famous saying, “I’m a southerner born and a southerner bred, and when I die, I’ll be a southerner dead.”
But that was neither here nor there. “Tante Lulu, I won’t ever marry or have children.”
“Fer goodness sake, why not?”
“It’s something I don’t discuss. Sorry.”
“Don’tcha like babies?” Tante Lulu persisted.
“Of course I like babies.”
“Is it ’cause you were a nun? I mean, didja take a vow or sumpin’?”
Grace smiled. “No.”
“Mebbe ya oughta dye yer hair blonde.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Red ain’t done much fer ya so far. Besides, they say blondes have more fun.”
“I’m having plenty of fun.”
“Hah! Hangin’ around with an eighty-year-old woman is yer idea of fun?”
Grace smiled. Tante Lulu hadn’t seen eighty for a number of years, but who was Grace to correct a woman lying about her age? It was an age-old, God-given right. Eve probably lied about her age to Adam.
“An’ ya oughta buy sexier clothes. I’ll go clothes shoppin’ with ya, iffen ya want. Another thing—ya oughta have Charmaine give ya some of them sculptured nails, too. Ones what are strong as cement and cain’t be bitten down.”
“Do they make nails that hard?”
“Iffen they don’t, we could come up with a concoction.” In the middle of her discourse to Grace, she yelled out to the other pirogue, riding beside them, “Miles, stop draggin’ yer fingers in the water lessen ya want a gator ta bite ’em off.”
The boy immediately shot upright, hands folded over his lap. His little face reddened with embarrassment.
Then Tante Lulu directed her attention back to Grace. “Ya need ta buy yerself one of them push-up, see-through bras and a thong. Me, I cain’t see the attraction of having a sling up my crack, but men seems ta like ’em. And a garter belt. Y’know, it’s amazing, women in my time hated those seamed stockings and garter belts. We thought panty hose was the best thing since God invented condoms. Who’da thunk they’d come back in style?”
All this was being said to Grace’s back, so Tante Lulu didn’t even see her gaping mouth, but she did hear Grace sputter, “I do not want or need sexy clothes. When I’m ready for a man in my life, I’ll do it the old-fashioned way.”
“Oh? What way is that? Sittin’ on yer hiney waitin’ fer Prince Charming ta come floatin’ down the bayou on his white raft?”
“Can we drop this conversation? It’s giving me a headache.”
“Talkin’ ’bout men gives ya a headache? Holey Moly! Ya ain’t one of them lesbos, are ya?”
Grace rolled her eyes. “No.”
“Well, then, never say never.”
“Never.”
“Hmmmm.”
When silence finally reigned, Grace turned to look over her shoulder at the old lady.
Tante Lulu was deep in thought, but then she said succinctly, “Guess I’ll hafta pray on this.”
That’s all Grace needed.
Gambling on love...
Tante Lulu was resting on the blanket they’d spread in a clearing along the bayou, which was tranquil today. That was not always the case, but then, that was one of the things she loved about the moody waters of the swamplands. They were never the same. Nor was the ever-changing bayou itself. Often land here today would be gone tomorrow. Like people.
Their picnic was over and most of the herbs gathered, including the rare dilly willy mushrooms, which were poisonous when eaten but great in a paste for roach and ant bites.
The canvas tote at her side held plastic zipper bags of various plants they’d gathered today. Bark from the sassafras tree would be made into a tea good for curing many ailments: poison oak and fever, or into douches to treat bladder infections. Head lice could be killed off with its oils. Then there was ironweed for monthly cramps, spiderwort for stomachaches, trumpet creeper for coughs, bull nettle for mange, stinking arrach for ulcers, and feverfew for migraines.
Cajuns were known for their frugality, using every bit of an animal. No waste. Same was true of plants. There were uses for the leaves, the seeds, the roots and stems. God gave his bounty, and men had an obligation to use it wisely.
“Do you want any more of these cattails?” asked Grace, who was standing with the children at the edge of the water. They already had enough of the tall stems to sink a boat.
“Thass enough,” she said. “Be careful. Doan wade in too far. It’s not jist snakes and gators ya gotta be careful of.”
It was nice to see the three children playing carefree and happy. Their lives had been so worrisome of late. She was gratified to see all of them interested in the things she’d taught them today, especially Lionel, who was going to make a fine doctor someday. She would guarantee it.
But it was Grace that troubled Tante Lulu now. Something was seriously wrong with the girl, and Tante Lulu just couldn’t figure it out. Her end goal was to get the girl hitched up with Angel. They were meant for each other. But it wasn’t going to be as easy as she’d originally thought. Something deep and important was troubling the girl.
In the meantime, the two of them needed to be together more often for Angel’s plan to work. Leastways, she assumed he had a plan. Men were dumb clucks sometimes and thought things could just happen.
“Why so glum?” Grace asked as she walked up and sat down next to her on the blanket.
“Me, I was jist thinkin’ ’bout the foundation and all the work that needs ta be done. There’s so much ta do.”
“You knew that when you started, didn’t you?”
Tante Lulu shook her head. Bouncy red curls today that pretty much matched Grace’s. “I knew there was a problem, but I never guessed it was so big. I went over that folder of requests with Samantha yesterday, and it jist about broke my heart. So many needy folks!”
“Well, you can’t cure the world of all its ills, but you can take one case at a time and make a difference. That’s what you always say.”
“One thing I’m beginnin’ ta learn is that we gotta keep this foundation in the limelight. Allus gettin’ publicity. Allus raisin’ more money. Otherwise, people fergit and go about their own bizness.”
“It’s a good thing you joined up with the Starr family, then. It has to make things easier for you.”
“Yes, but we LeDeuxs still need ta keep on our toes. Gotta come up with our own new ideas.” Suddenly inspired, Tante Lulu said, “Oooh, boy! I jist thought of a way ta raise more money fer our charity.”
“Oh?”
“It involves you and Angel.”
“Uh-oh!”
“Doan be gettin’ yer knickers in a twist. I’m not matchmakin’ here.” You believe that ’n ’ I’ve got a gator farm ta sell ya in Chicago. “Since you and Angel are experts in playin’ poker, mebbe we could set up a poker tournament.”
Grace tilted her head to the side. “Hmmm. They do hold them for charities, but you have to be careful of local and federal gambling laws. You know, the RICO Act.”
Tante Lulu waved a hand dismissively. “Not ta worry! This is Loo-zee-anna. I know folks.”
Arching her eyebrows, Grace continued, “Angel has enough work to do with building the house. I doubt he would have time to—”
“He’ll be done with the house in no time. Betcha if ya asked him, he’d stay a bit longer and help plan a poker tournament if you asked him.”
“Me? Why me?”
“Well, ya know him better than I do.”
“Not anymore.”
“Okay, I’ll ask him. If he agrees, you’ll help, then?”
“Was I just set up here?”
“I doan know what you mean.”
When clueless men take advice from clueless old ladies...
Angel was frustrated beyond belief.
And he was damn tired of jacking off in the high-tech sex shower, or waking in the middle of the night with a wet-dream hard-on, or mooning over Grace on the few occasions they were within talking distance of each other, or playing this half-assed pretense game that he was dating other women. Almost two weeks in Louisiana, and his plan for happily-ever-after wasn’t working worth jack shit. Something needed to be done.
He was about to pick up his cell phone and call Grace. He’d tell her to get her sweet ass over here so that they could talk...and stuff.
Just then the phone rang.
It wasn’t Grace. It was Tante Lulu.
Oh, great!
“I got a great idea.”
Oh, great! “I’m glad somebody does.”
“Don’t be sassy.”
“I’m no sissy.”
“I said sassy, not sissy. Gol-ly! Best ya get the wax out of yer ears.”
“I’m not stepping into that shower again. No way!”
“Huh?”
“What’s your latest fool idea?”
“Yer pushin’ it, boy.”
“Sorry. I’m just frustrated.”
“So is Gracie.”
“She is?” Pathetic...I’m damn pathetic.
“Well, mebbe she is. Or mebbe she’s jist not used ta havin’ four kids livin’ with her. Anyways, you ’n’ Gracie are gonna set up a poker tournament fer Jude’s Angels. That’ll put ya t’gether a lot, I’m leavin’ it up ta you ta come up with somethin’ really cool at the end so you and that gal will end up in bed. A little hanky-panky would go a long way ’bout now, I’m thinkin’.”
“Tante Lulu!”
“Hey, I’m old, but I ain’t dead. Yer as bad as Grace. Ain’t ya got yearnin’s?”
“I’ve got yearnings, all right.” You don’t want to know about my yearnings, you interfering busybody. They are pure, hundred-proof X-rated.
“Iffen ya need some lessons on how ta get her riled up, I kin send Tee-John over. That boy could charm the undies off a nun. Prob’ly did a time or two.”
“Don’t you dare.”
“Whatever you say,” she agreed, way too meekly. “So, will ya do it?”
“Do what? Get Gracie riled up?” I wish!
“No—well, yes, but what I meant was, will ya help set up the poker tournament?”
He lifted his free hand in a hopeless gesture. “What do I have to lose?”
Later, he wondered if that hadn’t been an ominous question to ask.