Chapter Twenty-Seven

Friday evening brought the wake of Louie Domengeaux. Indicating this sort of affair was best left to women, Robert refused to go. Laura volunteered to drive for her own subversive reasons. Her new husband thanked her for looking out for Tante Lil. His aunt was getting too elderly to drive at night, he said. The old woman glared at her nephew as he packed her, the wheelchair and Pearl into Laura’s small vehicle and waved them down the drive. His outraged aunt provided the only conversation on the way into town.

“He thinks I can’t drive after dark anymore, but did he concern himself about that at the Mardi Gras Ball? No! I’m good enough to get Angelle home while he had his little fling. I sat out there in the drive honking the horn until Tony came from heaven knows where to help me inside and find Pearl to get me undressed. I suppose T-Bob knew I wouldn’t get drunk and do something stupid on Mardi Gras eve like some people I could mention.”

Miss Lilliane muttered and coughed along the same lines up to the door of Duchamp’s Funeral Home. Somewhat mollified by the personal attention of Armand Duchamp who erected her wheelchair, she rolled up the ramp where the caskets usually rolled down to the waiting hearse.

Laura followed them through the door of the converted Victorian mansion, down its thickly carpeted, sound-muffling hallway and into the viewing room. She shivered a little at the sight of Louie Domengeaux in his coffin. Not knowing what else to do, she stepped up to the open coffin and gazed on the corpse, such a spare little man in death, hardly making up half of his widow’s bulk. He slept eternally now with his spectacles still set on his nose as if he might wake up at any second and need them handy for reading the sports page. Laura bowed her head for a moment, and then moved to the back of the room to make way for other mourners.

She turned to see Miss Lilliane tap a woman who had been praying intensely by the side of the coffin and take her place, pulling a rope of rosary beads from a pocket and beginning to say them fervently. Even Pearl went to her knees on the padded kneeler placed in front of the coffin and swayed slightly as she prayed. The mourner who had been relieved and whom Laura assumed was close kin to the dead man turned out to be the telephone operator, Myrtle Hill. The operator moved away from the candlelit coffin toward the discreetly dim area of electrical lighting where Laura stood searching for Lola Domengeaux. She noticed the town gossip too late for retreat. Miss Myrtle seized her arm and started right in with the chatter.

“Can you believe I been here for two hours? My knees are just killing me, and I could use some food, couldn’t you? Mama is taking care of the exchange. I should take her a plate.”

“I’m looking for Mrs. Domengeaux.” Laura’s escape plan failed.

“Well, she’s right back here with the refreshments.” Myrtle dragged her along to another room where Lola Domengeaux, entirely clad in black except for a white apron, supervised trays of fried chicken drumettes and poured small cups of black coffee or sweet punch depending on the preference of the mourner. Such a normal scene, so routine, so like the old days at Domengeaux’s store—Laura’s eyes filled with the first real tears of the night. She hugged the large woman and blinked her eyes to control her emotions. As usual, Miss Lola was the one who consoled.

“Don’t cry for Louie, cher. He suffered, now it’s over. My daughter, our Suzette, stayed right by me to da end, and I know my Louie was a good man who had his las’ rites said by Father Ardoin. A few more prayers and he’ll pop straight t’rew to heaven and be waiting for me dere. Now, tell me how you doing, little bride. I knew you and T-Bob was meant to be from dat first day you come in my shop. I seen you checking him out. If you had fed him my gumbo las’ fall, it would have happened sooner, I tell you me.”

“I’d like to speak to you—alone.” Laura rolled her eyes toward Myrtle Hill piling a plate with drumettes and pastel mints.

“Troubles already? Let me give you my gumbo recipe. Dat’ll fix things up. He got to expect you can’t cook Cajun yet.”

“No. It’s about your house. I’d like to buy it.”

“T-Bob wants some rental property? He don’t have enough responsibility with da cattle and dat big house? What he want wit’ my little place?”

“No. It’s me. I need a place to live.”

“No, no, no, cher. Dat’s da worse t’ing you can do if you fightin’ is to move out. You stay put and make him see how wrong he is, den when he good and sorry, you take him back in your bed. My Louie could tell you how good dat does. I already heard you not sleepin’ wit’ him, but dat’s none of Miss Lilliane’s business. I tell her to let you two alone. It will come right, heh?”

Filled with rancor for Miss Lilliane and embarrassment for herself, Laura nodded and pulled away from Lola Domengeaux. She had some coffee but refrained from eating because she persisted in imagining she could smell formaldehyde scenting the room. The others chowing down didn’t appear to notice any unusual odors.

Feeling calmer after listening to Myrtle Hill’s mind numbing chatter for an hour, Laura returned to the wake and expressed her condolences to Suzette Domengeaux Prioux, a stout woman like her mother. Abruptly, she jerked Miss Lilliane’s chair away from the casket. None too gently, she shoved the old woman into the car with Pearl’s startled aid. Before starting the engine, she made an announcement to all passengers. “What goes on ­between Robert and me is a private family matter, and as long as I am living at Chateau Camille, it will stay that way.”

She raced the engine and swerved onto the road, leaving a spray of gravel in her wake. No mutters came from the backseat on the drive home. In the chill and silent atmosphere, Miss Lilliane went to sleep, only to be jerked awake when Laura braked forcefully in front of the Chateau. Without a glance into the backseat, Laura announced, “I’ll send Robert out to get you.”

“I can handle it,” Pearl intervened.

“Fine!” Laura marched into the mansion and feeling perverse, entered her husband’s room without knocking and slammed his door intentionally so that Miss Lilliane would be able to hear it in the drive. She would give the old hag another kind of rumor to spread. How about bondage for a start? She could leave silk scarves tied to the bedposts as evidence for the old lady to find. Let her tell her friends about that!

Robert was packing. An open suitcase lay on his bed.

“You shouldn’t be the one leaving. This is your house. I’ll go.” Laura made the offer automatically, not sure why she’d come to his room now. The heat of her anger drained into a small, chilly puddle in the pit her stomach.

“It’s funny,” Robert said without a smile. “I’ve been waiting for you to come here, and now you come when I decide to go. Don’t worry about making other arrangements. I won’t be back for two weeks. I’m going to do a little fishing and some thinking out at Ed Montleon’s camp. When I get back, we’ll either start all over again fresh, or we’ll call the whole thing off and get an annulment. I’d give you longer Laura, but calving is starting soon. I breed my cows a little later than some because blue ribbons for size at the fall shows don’t mean as much to me as healthy calves born after the last chance for a cold spell passes. Calving is a wonderful time, Laura. I hope you will be here to see it.”

Without looking at her, he continued to shove balls of heavy socks into the pockets of the suitcase. “Besides, if I stay here another night, I might just knock down that locked door. As it was, I nearly molested a sleeping woman last night. You’d better get to bed. I’ll be gone by five a.m.”

Laura turned to go, then hearing Miss Lilliane’s chair in the hall, she stayed and faced Robert. “It’s just that I don’t want to be pushed by loneliness or drunkenness or convenience. I want to know this marriage is right by my own conscious decision. Do you understand?”

“Yes, I do. But let me tell you, Laura, we are all pushed by something—revenge, lust, loneliness—and we must hope we are being pushed in the right direction. Now go to your own room before I close this suitcase and leave space on this bed for other activities.”

As he snapped the case, she ran away.