Chapter Two

The road snaked insanely across the level landscape, twisting wildly between the walls of cane and slithering suddenly into marshy hollows. Of course, the air conditioner on the rented economy car failed just after departure from the breezy interstate.

“Sure,” said the serviceman at the last gas station before oblivion. “This is the Old Chapelle Road. You just go ’til you can’t go no more.”

Then, the cane fields swallowed the small car and driver again. The air conditioner quit at the exact moment when turning back would have endangered the interview waiting at the end of the journey. Laura stopped at a break in the fields where two parish roads crossed. “Chapelle—10” claimed a sign.

She rolled down every window in the vehicle and continued onward. The road bobbed into a small swamp that had recently defeated the highway department by flooding over the grading. Puddles as large and black as tar pits covered the macadam. The little car bounced in and out of a pool masking a treacherous pothole. Great dollops of inky mud flew into the front seat along with a swarm of small, black and very nasty variety of mosquito. The wind created as the small Ford rounded the next bend and came to open country sucked most of the mosquitoes back to their marshy domain, but the damage had been done. Itchy welts rose on her legs and the dark, muddy spatters spread on her white linen suit.

“Should have worn the navy blue,” she chided herself, but the white suit with its lime green piping had seemed so very southern in the motel room near the New Orleans airport. In fact, she had been pleased with her appearance for the first time in months—white straw bag and matching shoes, crisp linen suit, hair curled and double sprayed to withstand the oppressive humidity just beyond the motel door. Despite the lacquer, her newly styled hair had straightened tendril by tendril. With each mile, the armpits of her linen suit grew damper.

At last the fields ended, brought to a halt by an immense gray sugar mill, its hooks and claws hanging over the cane, its shadow blocking the sun from a row of identical gray clapboard shacks. No one stirred in the heat of the day. A clump of black-eyed Susans brightened one yard and a red plastic tricycle sat in another, but basically the houses were all the same in their poverty.

Beyond the quarters began a line of white frame houses—at first shabby with peeling paint, then more neatly kept. The uniform white frame gave way to the glories of aluminum siding in pale blue and bright yellow. Crepe myrtles, exhausted by a summer of bloom, still shaded porches with their yellowed leaves and occasionally offered a garish bouquet of hot cerise or deep purple.

The houses grew larger. Here and there stood a real or fake antebellum mansion and more modern brick homes imitating the old cottages with steep roofs and deep galleries. Abruptly, the road ended. Laura stopped at the first traffic light she’d encountered since leaving the interstate. She faced a village green that might have been in New England if the lawn had been shaded with sugar maples rather than live oaks. A gray and white stucco church sat framed by the trees while the brown water of the bayou flowed sluggishly in the background. On the opposite bank lay a vast cemetery of dead parishioners. The church bells clanged briefly.

Noon. At least one thing had gone right. She had a full hour and a half before the dreaded interview, allowing enough time to repair some of the travel damage, find lunch and a large cold drink. The business district stretched both right and left. She chose left and parked by the village green in the shade of the oaks. A single row of shops ran for a block in both directions. Across from her parking space sat an old service station. “Canal Gasoline” read a rusty sign over ancient pumps. Laura headed for the restroom. No one manned the office, but the facilities were unlocked.

Laura blotted her face with a paper towel dampened at the ladies’ room tap, combed back what remained of her coiffure and clipped it with a large barrette. She resisted the urge to scratch the mosquito bites festooning her ankles and instead worked diligently on the mud-stained skirt with cold water. She made an assessment in the speckled mirror—lovely Laura, the efficient, competent and resourceful librarian. Yeah, right. She tossed the towels into a can and emerged into the heat of a Louisiana September afternoon.

An old man wiping his lips with a paper napkin came around from the rear of the station. “Didn’t hear no car, me,” he accused.

“My car is over there. I’ll be sure to fill it here before I leave, but for now I just needed to use the restroom. Could you tell me if I can get lunch somewhere nearby?” Laura smiled appeasingly.

“Domengeaux’s got good boudin, yeah.” He waved at a small store on the opposite corner. “You not from here, eh?” Again, it sounded like an accusation.

“No. I came for a job interview. From Pennsylvania,” she added, knowing what he would ask next.

“At least you not a damn tourist. Strangers always crawling all over our church, yeah. Say, you know da difference between a Yankee and a damn Yankee?”

She shook her head indicating that she did not.

“A Yankee visits, den goes home. A damn Yankee comes an’ stays.” He chuckled more at the expression on Laura’s face than at his own joke. “You gotta learn to laugh if you want to be a Cajun, cher.” He thrust out an arthritic hand. “Aldus Thibodeaux, pleased to meet wit’ you.”

Aware her palms sweated in the heat, Laura took his hand. “Go get you some lunch at Domengeaux’s.” Aldus waved her across the street.

Laura smiled as she crossed to the café, the tar bubbles in the street popping beneath her shoes. To think two days ago, she had been breathing the cool, clear air of the north and regaining the energy needed to restart her life. Now she swam in this humid atmosphere. She paused beneath the awning shading the store. “Domengeaux’s” was spelled out in red lettering shaded with yellow. Aslant in opposite corners of the glass were the words, “HOT BOUDIN” and “NEW ORLEANS STYLE MUFFULETTAS.” Painted flames licked the letters of “BOUDIN.” Double red lines underscored “NEW ORLEANS.” A bell rang as she stepped into the pleasant dimness of the restaurant.

A row of refrigerator cases held offerings of cold cuts, potato and gelatin salads and coleslaw. A bank of soft drink machines vended every beverage from apple juice to RC Cola. Chains of garlic and strings of red peppers hung in available corners while postcard racks, packets of dried shrimp, baskets of pralines and alligator toe key chains accumulated on the counter by the cash register.

Two oil-clothed tables held caddies of salt, pepper, ketchup, and one bottle each of red and green pepper sauce. Most extraordinary among the clutter sat a shrine. In the one free corner stood a pale, blue-robed plaster Virgin Mary. A votive candle in a red glass holder burned at her feet, casting an eerie purple sheen over the statue’s blue eyes and tinting the Virgin’s blonde hair a light orange. Large bouquets of plastic roses, red and pink, flanked the candle.

Only one other customer occupied the sandwich shop. He leaned against the Formica counter with his back to Laura and did not turn around at her entrance. She formed a tentative line several feet from his worn and nicely filled jeans. David had always teased her about being a connoisseur of men’s posteriors, an area in which he could not compete with his long lanky body and flat derriere. She had promised to swear off looking when they married.

The other customer continued to ignore her, giving Laura ample time to notice his stocky build, broad shoulders and the thick, black hair waving just over the collar of his khaki work shirt. With his shirtsleeves rolled up exposing heavy biceps, she noticed more dark hair scattered across deeply tanned forearms. This kind of man probably needed to shave twice a day but did not, Laura thought. She wondered if tiny Chapelle had something in common with New York City where striking up conversations with the natives was somehow wrong. People in the South were supposed to be friendlier, but then she had already met Mr. Thibodeaux across the way.

A large woman clutching a Styrofoam box hustled through a curtained doorway. “Dere you go T-Bob, one catfish po-boy fully dressed wit’ my own special potato salad on da side, none of dat packaged stuff in da cooler.”

“Merci, Miss Lola.” The customer pulled a wallet from his hip pocket, stretching the worn denim a little tighter for a moment. He took out a ten and shoved it across the counter. “And a Dr. Pepper, too.”

Miss Lola rang up the sale and handed over the change. T-Bob pocketed the bills and dumped the coins into a half-full gallon plastic jar with the photo of a bald, thin, large-eyed child pasted on the outside. A legend written in black marker under the photo read “For Jason Breaux’s leukemia treatments.”

“That was nice of you,” Laura remarked, trying to spark a conversation.

The man turned and glanced briefly at Laura, making her very aware of her limp hair and wrinkled, water-spotted linen. “We take care of our own here in Chapelle. If you stay around, you’ll realize that. Ma’am.”

He nodded slightly causing a lock of black hair to slip across his forehead. He brushed the hair from eyes of bittersweet brown and strode out of the store to a battered pickup truck parked by the curb. He drove off before the shop door closed.

Well, he had shaved today. Would have been a shame to cover that wonderful cleft chin with a beard, Laura thought.

“Ooh, dat T-Bob is some hunk. Too bad about him.” Miss Lola paused, waiting for an invitation to gossip.

Laura could not see a thing wrong with T-Bob—except she didn’t care for swarthy men—or men who “ma’amed” her as if she were ninety years old—or men who were not David. With no response coming from Laura, Miss Lola shrugged and asked, “What can I get you, cher?”

“I heard you had good boudin, but I couldn’t stand anything hot today. How about a New Orleans style muffuletta?” Laura smiled confidently, not at all sure what she had ordered, but she saw no other menu than a small chalk board listing Today’s Special as the catfish po-boy with potato salad and drink, $5.95.

“Coming right up. You not from around here?” The waitress vigorously plied a slicing machine. Thin shavings of cheese, ham and salami accumulated quickly into a large mound.

“No, I’m from Pennsylvania. I’ve come for a job interview.”

“You dat new librarian. Lilliane LeBlanc told me to watch out for a young Yankee gal. I’m Lola Domengeaux. Dat’s said ‘DiMaggio’ like dat baseball player, but he don’t spell it right.” Mrs. Domengeaux split an immense circular bun with her knife and deftly heaped on the cold cuts.

“I haven’t gotten the job yet.”

“Oh, you will, cher heart. Not too many will even come for an interview in a small place like Chapelle, and your qualifications are real good.” She sloshed crushed olive salad over the wheel of the sandwich, replaced the top and severed Laura’s lunch neatly in half. “Anyt’ing else, cher?”

“A large cold drink. My air conditioner broke on the way here.”

“Take your pick.” Miss Lola pointed to the coolers.

Laura selected a tall Coke in a plastic bottle. Chapelle was certainly not what she’d had in mind when she had sent her resume to the State Library of Louisiana—so much for a nice reference position in a New Orleans university. Laura fought the impulse to tell the motherly Mrs. Domengeaux all.

“Here or to go, hon?”

“To go. I think I’ll have a picnic over by the church,” the Yankee gal answered, feeling awkward with the robust woman who had probably read her resume. She also believed if she sat at one of the tables, Miss Lola would extract her entire life story and tell her T-Bob’s in the next thirty minutes.

“Now, if a skinny little girl like you can eat all dis sandwich, you deserve some lagniappe. Dat’s a little extra, you understand? Here’s a praline for dessert. I make my own. Best in da parish for absolutely free.”

As Mrs. Domengeaux handed over the big sack containing the muffuletta wrapped in white waxed paper and one praline in a small plastic bag, Laura selected a tourist guide from the overburdened racks on the counter.

“I might as well learn a little about the town while I’m here.”

“You be back, cher heart. Now da library is down left of da church along da bayou, dat old Barras place. Miss Barras left dat house to the parish for a library, you see. Come on back now, you hear?”

Laura backed out of the door, hands burdened by sack, drink and book, and into the glaring sunlight. Up and down Main Street, no one stirred except for one aged black woman warding off the sun with a huge red umbrella. This lone companion soon disappeared into Hebert’s Penny Saver Grocery.

Alone again, thought Laura, and then reprimanded herself to cancel the pity party and eat her lunch.

She crossed the green to the side of the church where the shade seemed thickest and found a small grotto nestled in the angles of the cruciform building. There stood a statue of St. Francis with his feet entangled in ivy and ferns; his hands offered a bowl of water to a stone dove, but the saint’s kindly eyes invited Laura to a seat on a mossy bench by his side.

Knowing she had ordered too much, Laura removed one hunk of the muffuletta from the sack and grasped it in two hands. Olive oil dribbled from the bottom and made a thin track down the front of her jacket. Great, one more mark against her—that and being a Yankee. She mopped her chest with a paper napkin and mostly smeared the oil around. Damn.

Her appetite came on strong, complete with a growling stomach. She wadded the napkin under the base of the sandwich and took a bite—salty and meaty, a taste of New Orleans that made her ravenous for more. She was going in for another mouthful when the ferns at the base of the church rustled furtively. Something black streaked from a fist-sized hole in the foundation. Snake!

Laura jerked her feet up on the stone bench. Her sandwich went flying into the ivy. Everyone knew Louisiana teemed with water moccasins. A nest of vipers probably lived beneath the raised floor of the church. The ivy parted and a coal black kitten went to work claiming its half of the fallen muffuletta. The tiny tongue scraped away the first layer of ham and went after the second.

Laura swung her feet to the ground “Okay, you take that half. I didn’t want it anyway.” The small cat responded to her invitation by pausing to rub against Laura’s calf. The kitten returned to its lunch after two quick passes.

“I’ll tell you what, little guy. If I get this job, and you’re still camping out here when I return, I’ll give you a home. Deal?” She glanced at Saint Francis who wore a look of benign agreement. “I’m not even Catholic, and here I am looking for favors from saints.”

She finished her half of the muffuletta and drank the Coke, which had already lost its chill. The kitten sprang up the concrete robes of the statue and lapped water from the saint’s bowl. Laura let a bit of the sweet, brown sugar praline dissolve on her tongue while she thumbed the tourist guide of Saint Jeanne d’Arc Parish. The town had more historical landmarks than Laura’s free hour could accommodate.

She paged to the section on the church. A short walking tour began by the bronze figure on the green. Laura gathered her purse and the sandwich wrappings and stepped out of the shaded grotto. The kitten bounced by her side, then discouraged by the heat and lulled by a full stomach, retreated into the cool darkness beyond the hole in the church wall. Laura positioned herself at Point One of the walking tour and read the guidebook.

“This spot offers a lovely view of the church of Saint Jeanne d’Arc, oldest structure of its kind in Louisiana. The church rests on the site of an older chapel founded by French priests during their conversion of the local Indian tribes. The first chapel gave the town its name of Chapelle. The current edifice, built in 1810 of native cypress, has resisted the ravages of time. The entire structure was recently restored to its original state with funds from the National Trust for Historic Preservation. The church contains many historical and artistic treasures, among them the birth and death records of the original settlers and their descendants.

“Point Two. A statue of Saint Joan stands directly in front of the church. Created, cast, and donated by Emile Devereaux in 1812, the statue was the artist’s thank offering for his escape from the devastations of the French Revolution. Devereaux, a court artist, arrived in Chapelle in 1802 with a large group of French emigres. It is also believed that the statue served as an advertisement of Devereaux’s skills. He earned his livelihood sculpting busts of local planters and creating ornate tombs for the wealthy. Many of his works may be seen in the Cemetery of Saint Jeanne d’Arc across from the church.”

Laura paused to look closely at Saint Joan. She approved of the classical folds of the drapery and the clean ascetic lines of the face. The eyes of the statue were lifted toward heaven, but her fine nostrils flared and her mouth set grimly as if she could smell the first wisps of smoke from the bronze bonfire at her feet. Clearly, Emile Devereaux had been an excellent artist whom fate had delivered to Chapelle to die in obscurity. Laura glanced at the somnolent town slumbering toward its three-hundredth birthday and laughed to think of both herself and Devereaux “buried alive,” as her mother would say, in Chapelle, Louisiana.

Shaking off the grim humor, Laura strolled toward the church, Point Three in the guide. She pushed the wrought iron latch on the heavy wooden door and stepped into the sunny interior so unlike the dark and incense-burdened stone cathedrals of the north. Perhaps, the honey-colored cypress planks and pews gave the church its lightness. The founders, being short on glassmakers, had rimmed only the outer edges of the windows in red and blue stained glass. The sun pierced to the heart of the structure and rebounded off the gold altarpieces and the gilt ornamentation rimming the walls. Above, a turquoise vaulted ceiling held the painted stars of heaven and several brass chandeliers now filled with electric candles. In the right arm of the church, a plain brown niche contained the usual plaster Saint Joseph, but the Mary altar to the left was much more striking.

Laura walked down the aisle to get a better view. The left wing held a gothic altar. Entirely of wood, the carvings of the altarpiece twisted and writhed like souls in hell. Among its contortions sat a statue of the Virgin carved of tawny cypress. With complete serenity, she stood straight against the convoluted background and gazed out at her worshipers. Brown hands clasped in prayer above a slight bulge in her white painted tunic as if she still carried the Christ Child in her womb. Black curls escaped from beneath her veil of sky blue, and her dark eyes looked with understanding and compassion on Laura Dickinson. Strewn about her tiny sandaled feet were plaques of marble and granite reading “Merci” or “Thanks” depending on the origin of the giver. One elaborate heart-shaped offering of pink marble bore the inscription “Merci Beaucoup-1830.”

Laura scanned the guidebook, which went into great detail on all of the fixtures of the church and finally came to Point Thirteen—Mary Altar. “Carved by a free person of color, Celestin Segura, the altar was commissioned by Aurelien LeBlanc to commemorate the birth of his son and heir in 1830. The large, pink marble heart was placed on the altar by his wife, Camille. Segura also carved the statue of the Virgin.”

Short shrift to give a work of art as fine as the statue of Saint Joan on the green, thought Laura. More than one good artist had languished in Chapelle. Footsteps sounded hollowly on the cypress planks of the old church. A priest dressed in an old style cassock like a long black dress came toward Laura with a greeting on his lips.

“I’m Father Ardoin. Please let me answer any questions you might have about the church. We are very proud of its restoration.”

“I was wondering about the statue of the Virgin. The figure is very moving, but there is so little information in the guide.”

“I can tell you a great deal more. I’ve made a study of the history of this church and did much of the research for the restoration. Please, sit down.” They sat side by side on a cypress pew pitted with use.

“Celestin Segura was a free person of color. In the early days of the colony, wellborn wives were hard to find. A Spanish nobleman, Don Juan Segura, held a large land grant in this area. A childless widower, he came without family to this country. As might be expected, he soon craved a female companion and purchased a mulatto slave named Alma from one of his new neighbors. She kept his house and on the birth of their first son, Antoine, he freed her. Like most men of his status and time, Segura acknowledged his bastards and gave them his name. If you have the time, I can show you the actual records of the baptism of Antoine Segura, f.p.c., in this church.”

“F.P.C.?” Laura asked.

“A Free Person of Color. The child took the status of the mother.” The priest continued, “Celestin, a second son, was born three years later and also baptized here. Shortly after his birth, one of the planters died, leaving an eligible widow with a large estate. The local priest brought pressure on Don Juan to marry the widow in the church even though she was older than Alma and barren. Alma was given a cottage and land on the edge of the Segura estate. She owned a few slaves to farm for her, and her sons eventually were apprenticed to a cabinetmaker.

“Both boys had amazing talent. Their armoires are still cherished by antique collectors. Celestin, however, was a true artist. He must have been fifteen when his mother gave birth to a daughter, Marie, also fathered by Segura. Despite the scandal, Don Juan acknowledged this child too. I believe his marriage, though blessed by the church, did not make him happy and few blamed him for returning to the comfort Alma offered. Juan Segura died in the same year as his wife. They are buried over in the cemetery on opposite sides of the same Devereaux monument. His grave faces the colored cemetery where Alma lies.”

Laura shifted on the hard pew and stole a glance at her watch. The priest showed no sign of running out of information.

“Now, I see Alma as a practical woman. Segura’s land passed to a nephew of the same name, and Alma, envied by black and white alike for her prosperous farm and her thriving cabinet shop, was left without protection of the right kind. Too old to attract another lover, Alma still had her daughter, Marie, a beauty of sixteen by then. Alma condoned a liaison between her quadroon daughter and Aurelien LeBlanc.”

“The LeBlanc of the altar?” Laura interrupted for the first time.

“Exactly. Celestin Segura, the artist, did not have his mother’s worldly outlook. He was enraged at her and LeBlanc for placing Marie into slavery of another sort, though it is said that LeBlanc was kind and generous to the girl. However, Marie died in childbirth at the age of eighteen, her stillborn son buried with her. We have those records here, also.”

“At precisely the same time, LeBlanc’s wife gave birth to his heir after many unsuccessful pregnancies. LeBlanc wanted a suitable monument for the event and commissioned Celestin to build the altar for the church. Segura was the only local artisan at the time skilled enough to undertake the carving. I am certain that LeBlanc was unaware of the depth of Celestin’s feelings against him, or surely he would have sent to New Orleans for another workman.”

“The plot thickens.” Laura gave the priest a small smile he took for encouragement.

“When the altar was complete, Celestin placed the statue of the Virgin Mary himself and covered it with a cloth. On the day of the dedication in front of the entire congregation, white and black, because the slaves worshiped in the church loft, he unveiled the statue. Without a doubt, the Virgin portrayed young Marie Segura, pregnant with LeBlanc’s child.”

“Aha.” Laura nodded, checked her watch again.

“Aha, indeed! Keep in mind that we are out of the colonial era now and well into Victorian times. People were no longer as tolerant of the mixing of the races though, of course, this still went on. It is said Camille LeBlanc refused to place the pink granite heart until the statue was removed. A parishioner ran home and brought a poor substitute of a plaster statue to sit on the altar. They placed the beautiful carving outside the door of the church until the ceremony ended. Camille and the white community were appeased. By then, the statue carved by Celestin had been spirited off, no one dared ask where. And that night, Celestin Segura hung himself from the rafters of his shop. Since he could not be interred in the holy ground, no one knows his burial site, though I suspect he lies somewhere on Alma Segura’s land.” Father Ardoin ended his long narrative not even winded. The romance of by-gone days lighted his pale blue eyes and misted his gold-framed spectacles.

“An interesting story. How was the statue returned?” How idiotic to ask! She would be late for her appointment if she couldn’t shake loose soon.

“I see you share my enthusiasm for history.” Father Ardoin laughed pleasantly. He was a short, slight and balding priest, but his kind blue eyes did remind her of David. “An ancient colored woman brought the statue to me during the renovations. She is called Tante Lu, the oldest member of the black Seguras and quite an institution around here. She told me the story and said the Virgin belonged here.

“Obviously, the statue was the work of Celestin and matched the altar. Mrs. Domengeaux happily took the other statue for her own shrine. I was able to corroborate the names and dates in the story from the church records and even found an old newspaper account of the dedication of the altar. The incident was glossed over in the article, saying that due to an unfortunate accident, a plaster statue had to be placed on the altar. The editor was sure that Mr. LeBlanc would later provide a finer substitute, but as far as I know, he did not. I still feel I must be careful to whom I tell this story. It would be a tragedy to have the statue displaced again by irate parishioners—but you aren’t from around here, of course.”

“I’ve enjoyed our talk, Father. I wish I could spend a week here, but I’m almost late for a job interview.” She rose and grabbed her handbag, not wanting to go into her origins again.

“Ah yes, the new librarian.”

“Not yet!” replied Laura, slightly annoyed to be caught again.

“Listen, my dear child. When I was transferred to this parish from New Orleans, I thought they had sent me to the ends of the earth to preach to the savages. Not true. Here in this small town are the same currents of history, of passion and love, of life and violence we find in the Old Testament. You can find whatever you want here, too.”

Someone had been stationed in Chapelle too long, Laura guessed. She thanked the priest and hurried out by the side door, past the Virgin’s altar and under the compassionate dark eyes of Celestin Segura’s sister.