CHAPTER ONE
The sign was large and covered the upper half of Père Eugène LeBlanc’s store. The words were faint and weather-beaten now, after many years of storm and sunshine. Suzette looked up and read them over, although she knew them well by heart. She set the coal-oil can carefully in the path and pushed her sunbonnet back. She looked at the small bunch of fish strung on a strip of palmetto, which she held in her hand.
“If I had furs now, or moss, or alligator hides, I’d be sure to get coal-oil today,” she said aloud. A frown passed over her small, bright face. “Coal-oil makes a better light than coon or fish grease.”
The store faced the bayou. It had a wide porch, called a gallery, which reached to the footpath on the low bayou levee. A sharp wind made sprightly waves and whipped them noisily against the shore.
Suzette Durand was ten years old, small, thin and wiry. She wore her hair combed tightly back and braided in one long braid. Dark, bright eyes shone from her oval face, freckles covered her nose and cheeks, her chin was small and pointed.
She picked up her can and stepped up on the gallery. Suddenly the door flew open. A boy rushed out and passed her like a gust of wind.
“Hé! Felix Durand! You leetle animal, come back here!”
Père Eugène, the storekeeper, came running out, bursting with anger. His thin face was red as a turkey-cock’s and he waved his arms wildly. He almost jumped out of his shiny green coat.
“You, Felix Durand!” he shouted. “You toad, you snake, you beast! Bring me back those lump of sugar or I tan your hide, me. I tell your Papa, I tell your Maman, I tell your Grandmère how you make shame on the name Durand!”
Suzette shook her head. “He the worstest boy on the by’a.” She spoke in the soft patois of the bayou country, which makes “bayou” sound like “by’a.”
But Felix did not stop to listen. Laughing with glee, he boldly stuffed several lumps of sugar into his mouth and galloped off along the winding bayou path.
Père Eugène drew a large red handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his damp face. He buttoned his shiny green coat carefully. Suzette looked up at him. His face was so thin it made his ears stand out on each side. She had never seen him so angry before.
“Bon jour, M’sieu’!” she said, with a polite bow.
“That leetle terrible!” sputtered Père Eugène.
“He take somet’ing, M’sieu’?” asked Suzette, gently.
“Take somet’ing! He fill his pocket with pecan or sugar or pepp’mint every time my back, it turned!” cried Père Eugène. “He one wicked thief!”
“Mais non, not a thief!” cried Suzette, in a shocked voice. “The Durands, they not steal.”
“He a Durand and he take my sugar, I tell you!” snapped Père Eugène. “He fill his pocket full and run off. You see him go.”
“I am a Durand and I not take sugar,” said Suzette, lifting her chin.
“You may have pride for you,” said Père Eugène, “but shame for that cousin of yours. His Maman, she should take a strap to him, yes.”
“Poor Tante Henriette!” sighed Suzette. “She got so many children and so leetle time.”
She followed Père Eugène into the store, making light tracks in the saw-dust on the floor, and looked around. On shelves behind the counter she saw square glass jars filled with hard, round sugar candy balls, tiny striped peppermint sticks and sugar hearts with mottoes. On the counter itself stood a great yellow cheese, with a wedge cut out of one side, and also the box of lump sugar which Felix had sampled. Kitchen utensils sat on the floor beside large coils of rope, while from the ceiling dangled an array of muskrat traps. A barrel of dried shrimp in a corner gave out a sharp aroma, competing with the odor of dried apples and peaches near by.
Suzette’s eyes swept the interior in a glance, then she stared. For sitting on the floor beside a barrel of sugar cane syrup, she saw a strange girl of the same age as herself.
“Another animal!” scolded Père Eugène, pointing. “W’at have I not suffered this day!” He threw up his hands in great agitation. “There she sit all the time and wait. She do not’ing but wait. She not go—I can’t shoo her out. W’at she want, only le bon Dieu, the good God, he know. She not speak, she not answer questions. She just sit. Her black eyes, they follow me every place I go and me, I don’t like it. If she don’t get outa here, I go crazy. Me, I can’t stand it no longer.”
Suzette always liked Père Eugène’s store. It was the only store along the bayou front and things always happened there. Neighbors were always coming in, talking and laughing, and she could tell Papa Jules and Maman about it when she got home. A visit to Père Eugène’s store was always worth while.
But today there was only a strange girl with black hair, crouched against a syrup barrel. Suzette was disappointed to see none of the people she knew. She stared at the girl and the girl stared back at her. Then she went to the counter and handed her bunch of fish to Père Eugène.
“Two bits,” he said briefly, meaning a quarter.
“Papa Jules say, he want nails, M’sieu’,” said Suzette. “Enough to make a crab car.”
Père Eugène dropped a handful of nails onto the scales, then slid them into a paper sack.
“Your Papa, he feel well again? He feel like makin’ a crab car? He go crab fishin’ soon?”
“My Papa, he sit up every day, M’sieu’,” said Suzette, proudly, “and yesterday, he make one big walk across the room, him.”
“’Bout time he sit up! ’Bout time he walk! ’Bout time he work again, him!” said the storekeeper, with a frown. “W’at else you want, Mam’selle?”
“How much I got left, M’sieu’?” asked Suzette.
“Eighteen cent.”
“My Maman say, she want plenty coffee today.”
Père Eugène put coffee in a paper bag. “Thirteen cent,” he said.
“And plenty sugar and plenty grease,” said Suzette.
Père Eugène put up two very small packages of sugar and lard.
“Now how much left?” asked Suzette.
“Not’ing. Your money, it all spent.”
“But my Papa say, he want plenty tobacco,” said Suzette, “and my Maman say, she want coal-oil to burn in the lamp.” She lifted the can up to the counter.
“Not today,” said Père Eugène, firmly. “Your money, it all spent, I tell you. Better catch more feesh tomorrow.”
“But Papa Jules, he say …”
“You all the time askin’ for t’ings for your Papa,” growled Père Eugène.
“Only a leetle tobacco,” begged Suzette, “when he got to lie in bed all day … and the bullet inside him hurt so much …”
“W’y the doctor, he not take the bullet out?” demanded Père Eugène.
“He take one out, but he can’t find the other one,” explained Suzette.
“Well, if your Papa had stay home from the shootin’ match, he not get shot!” shouted Père Eugène, angrily. “If he let Claude Broussard alone, he not now have one bullet in his back!”
“But plenty, plenty people ’long the by’a goes when there is a shootin’ match, M’sieu’ Gene,” protested Suzette, loyally. “Nobody stay home, you know that. You close up your store and go yourself, and my Papa, he the best shot ’long the by’a! He hit the mark, he win the bigges’, fattes’ pig and we eat him up and he taste good. You not like pork chop, M’sieu’?”
“Time your Papa get to work to support his family,” said Père Eugène, gruffly. “W’y he not get outa bed and go fishin’, trappin’ and huntin’?”
“With a bullet in his back, M’sieu’?” Suzette’s eyes were soft with gentle reproach.
“How his wife and children gonna eat then?”
“We en’t starve yet, M’sieu’ Gene!” said Suzette, with a toss of her head. “My Nonc Lodod and my Nonc Moumout and my Nonc Serdot, they all the time take good care of us. My brother, Ambrose, he like to go fishin’ and huntin’, him. Me, I fish fish every day. I got patience, me, to fish. I swap the fish for the coffee, the sugar, the grease …” She paused, thoughtfully. “Papa Jules, he got plenty mouth to feed, yes. He got Grandmère to feed, and Maman and Ambrose, and my big sister Eulalie, and me and my three leetle brothers …”
“And all the lazy-bone neighbors, eh?” added Père Eugène. “So that w’y you need so much coffee, to keep the coffee-pot all the time runnin’ over!”
“When our frien’s they come to call, M’sieu’, we give coffee to drink,” said Suzette, with dignity. “We not too poor to be polite.”
Suzette Durand was used to defending her father before Père Eugène and before neighbors and relations as well. Many of the people along Bayou Barataria thought that twenty-two months was too long for a man to lie abed with a bullet in his back and that it was time for Jules Durand to show himself a man and get up. But Père Eugène had never been so fierce, so outspoken as today. Suzette’s hand trembled as she lifted the empty coal-oil can down and picked up the paper sacks.
She turned to go.
Then she saw the strange girl again. Her face was dark and very dirty. Her hair was black and straight, her clothes torn and ragged. But the look of fear on her face was somehow mixed with wonder and trust.
“Who are you?” asked Suzette.
The girl stared hard but did not speak.
“Who are you?” Suzette repeated the question.
“Me, I tell you who she is,” shouted Père Eugène, from behind the counter. “She one of them good-for-nothing half-breed Indians from the back country. First I see her standin’ on the wagon road ’cross the by’a with a dirty ole Indian woman, sellin’ baskets. I buy one or two, then she start comin’ here. Now she bring no more baskets, no. She hang round all the time and me, I can’t shoo her off. She one leetle animal, like all her tribe.”
“W’at your name?” asked Suzette, gently.
“Mar-teel!” the two syllables were little more than a whisper.
“Marteel? Marteel w’at?” asked Suzette.
“Marteel, me!” said the Indian girl, pointing to herself.
“Where you live?” asked Suzette.
The girl shook her head.
“You got no home, no? No bed to sleep in?”
Again she shook her head.
“You got no maman, no papa?” asked Suzette.
Another shake.
“No grandmère? No grandpère? No great-grandmère and no great-grandpère in the graveyard?”
“Don’t worry!” shouted Père Eugène. “She got father and mother and plenty brother and sister and uncle and aunt and cousin. The Injuns, they’re like the antses. Where there one, there a flock.”
“You got no maman?” Suzette’s eyes opened wide at such an impossibility.
Marteel looked very sad. She shook her head again and in her eyes there came a look of pleading.
“My Maman is a beautiful to take care of somebody,” said Suzette, softly. “My Papa Jules, he is shot in the back and didn’t get well yet. Marteel come home with me, yes.”
The Indian girl rose and followed her.
“Another mouth for Papa Jules to feed!” cried Père Eugène, with a chuckle. “Well, I get rid of her, anyhow.”
“Ho, there, you, Suzette!” he shouted, suddenly, coming to the door behind her. “Here somet’ing for you. You forgot your lagniappe.” He handed out two tiny striped peppermint sticks.
It was customary after a purchase for a storekeeper to make a generous gesture and offer some trifle as a gift.
“Oh no, no, M’sieu’,” said Suzette, drawing back. “No, merci, M’sieu’, I couldn’t take no pepp’mint stick today, M’sieu’!”
“Not even for your leetle brothers, no?” asked Père Eugène.
To Suzette’s little brothers, candy was always a special treat. But after the refusal of tobacco for her sick father and Père Eugène’s harsh words, Suzette’s pride would not let her accept the gift. The storekeeper’s new generosity could not heal the hurt he had given her.
“No, merci, M’sieu’!” repeated Suzette coldly. “Come, we go home, Marteel.”
On the bayou path, the Indian girl stopped abruptly.
“See!” she said. She pulled her ragged shirt down over one shoulder to show her bared neck. She pointed with a dirty brown finger. “It hurt, but well now.” Running down the girl’s back, Suzette saw great red, lumpy scars. “Ole squaw push burning splinters under the skin,” Marteel explained.
“O-o-o-h, no!” cried Suzette, in horror. “Who would do a thing like that?”
“Ole squaw. Ole Injun squaw,” answered Marteel.
“Your … your grandmère?”
“No, no got grandmère,” said Marteel. “Ole squaw.”
Suzette’s eyes showed horror and sympathy. All she could say was, “Marteel come home with me, yes.”
She started off and the Indian girl followed.
The houses along the bayou were set close together in neighborly fashion. Each had its own small front yard and fence. A winding footpath ran in and out and up and down on the low levee between the fences and the water’s edge. Chinaberry and hackberry trees and young live-oaks made sun-speckled patches of shade. Each house had its own wharf at the edge of the bayou, and beside the wharves, pirogues, skiffs and a few sailing luggers were moored.
Suzette’s bare feet pattered lightly along the dirt path, but the Indian girl’s footsteps behind her made no sound. The wind was blowing harder now and the water made rhythmical gurgles as it slapped against the levee bank. Here and there the soil had been washed away in great bites, leaving steep, straight embankments down to the water’s surface. Where the path itself had been washed out, planks were laid across for narrow bridges.
Suzette pointed out the various houses. “The Bergerons, they live here,” she said. “They got a boy name’ Theophile and a girl name’ Beulah. The Broussards live next. They got two girls, Elise and Ellen Elaine, but we don’t speak to them no more.”
“Bon jour, M’sieu’ and Madame Theriot,” she said, politely, as they passed an old couple sitting on a bench beside the path. “They live in there. Their grandchildren are name’ René and Doreen Dugas. Now we come to the Durands. The by’a, it full of Durands. Tante Céleste, she live here by herself. Nonc Lodod, he rich, he buy the house for her. She don’t like to live by other people.”
They walked on. She pointed out her uncles’ houses.
“Tante Henriette and Nonc Serdot, they live here,” said Suzette. “They got fifteen children, only some are dead and some married. That bad Felix, he their boy, and Odalia, Olivia and Ophelia, they some of his sisters.
“Now we come to Nonc Lodod and Tante Thérèse. They got a phonograph and white paint on their house, and a fine new house-boat.”
The two girls stopped again.
“Tante Toinette and Nonc Moumout live here. Tante Toinette, she like cats, and Nonc Moumout, he spend all his time fishing.”
Marteel, the Indian girl, had listened to all of Suzette’s chatter, but had said nothing. They came to their last stop.
“This where my Maman and my Papa Jules live,” said Suzette, proudly. “And my Grandmère and my big sister Eulalie and Ambrose and my three leetle brothers.”
She stopped before a small frame house of a faded orange color, with a built-in front gallery or porch. A steep stairway rose from the gallery to the grenier or attic bedroom. The front of the house had two doors, tightly closed with solid batten shutters, made to swing outward.
“My Grandpère, he build this house when he marry my Grandmère,” Suzette announced solemnly. “Now, my Grandpère, he dead and buried in the graveyard, but Grandmère, she live with us.”
She opened the gate. Three dogs came running out, two hounds and a small house dog. “Papa’s hunting dogs are name’ Roro and Toto, and this is leetle Poo-poo,” Suzette explained. She patted the small dog on the head. “They won’t hurt you. Come in, Marteel. Come and see my Maman.”
The Indian girl hung back. She looked up and down the bayou as if she wanted to run away.
Suzette heard voices coming from the house.
“Wait here,” she said. “I go see.”
She went into the yard and stopped beneath a window. The window had no glass sash or frame, but a wide batten shutter which opened out. Suzette listened for a moment to the voices inside. Then she went round to the kitchen door and set the oil can and the packages on the back doorstep.
Returning, she took Marteel by the hand. “Come,” she said. She led her to a clump of bushes in the back yard, behind a shed. “Sit down,” she ordered. “Wait here till I come.”
“Marteel wait, yes,” said the Indian girl.
