In South Louisiana, with its subtropical climate, winters can be tricky— bitingly cold one day, balmy the next. So it was not totally surprising that, after a rainy weeklong cold snap, the mid-December weather waxed fair and springlike.
Justin and Grace Pitre took this as the cue they'd been waiting for. With a forecast of a week's worth of fair skies and balmy temperatures, they'd e-mailed and phoned relatives and friends with an invitation to a celebratory fais dodo—a Cajun dance party—at the camp at Crawfish Mountain. By late Sunday morning, with the sun yellow on the marshes and a light breeze riffling the waters of Surprise Bay, boats began arriving in noisy clusters at the camp's long dock.
The timing wasn't merely due to the break in the weather. The Pitres had much to celebrate but had not wanted to begin prematurely. Despite the complicated deal brokered by Julie Galjour (with the help of her cousin Wanda Dugas and her contacts with the impressive lawyer Gary Harmon), certain matters, notably the drowned dragline, had taken longer than expected to put to rest. Ole Man Hebert appreciated Justin's unvarnished, man-to-man apology (and appreciated it even more when Justin offered him the bank bag full of money). But Hebert had a harder time convincing his volatile wife to be as charitable. The matter might still have ended in court had not Joe T. Evangeline personally driven to the offices of Hebert Oil Field Evacuation and spent thirty minutes sweet-talking Ole Lady Hebert on Justin's behalf.
The woman nearly fainted.
So Tom Huff 's faux bribe money was put to a good purpose after all. Joe T. Evangeline, meanwhile, had taken the property he had intended to sell off the market.
There was also another (joyful) complication. Justin and Grace had been able to resume the life they loved, spending long weekends at the camp. But fishing, for a change, wasn't their primary activity. Grace, after supper at home one recent evening, wandered into their family room, where Justin sat reading a fishing-tackle catalog, to tell him that he had performed his husbandly duties at the camp spectacularly well.
They were expecting.
They had delayed an announcement until they could be sure all was well, and an ultrasound delivered startling news: twins were on the way. On this day, they would tell the rest of the world.
Wilson and Emma Pitre had arrived, as had Ned and Francine Cheramie, Grace's parents. So had Roulin Lasseine, having hitched a ride with Gary Harmon, accompanied by Wanda Dugas. She was thrilled to be able to swap her shift at the Alibi to attend the festivities (and this also counted as Wanda's and Gary's seventh date). Another personage of note was Dr. P. Donald Landrieu, invited as thanks for his behind-the-scenes help in resolving the Pitres’ problems.
The Pitres had spent all of Saturday at the stove. They had cooked up a giant vat of spicy redfish courtbouillon and two kinds of gumbo—shrimpokra, and chicken andouille—and a tub of rice to go with it all. Wilson Pitre had brought two giant pots of his specialty, a cayenne-laden oyster jambalaya, and Emma had made her famous Cajun potato salad. The Cheramies had brought two large ice chests of boiled shrimp, caught by Ned himself. Dale and Anne-Marie Lockett, the friends who had brought Justin and Grace together, had come with enough beer to sink their boat. And an old grammar school friend of Justin's had volunteered his four-piece Cajun-zydeco band.
Altogether, about fifty people had assembled. Beyond Grace and Justin announcing their good news, the only other announcement came from Randy Penwell, whose company had inherited the lease Justin had been forced to sign with Big Tex. While Dale Lockett passed out longneck bottles of Dixie to all who wanted them, Penwell stepped up onto the camp's porch. He ceremoniously pulled out a stack of papers, declared them to be the hated pipeline agreement, and promptly set them on fire.
There was the audible poof of the lease roaring into flames. Penwell dropped it gingerly on the wooden porch and stomped on the glowing embers. Much applause, hooting, hollering, and backslapping followed.
Justin offered a simple toast: “To our new good friend and a great neighbor. You are welcome here anytime, Randy.”
The band then launched into a lively Cajun two-step, and a serious amount of partying followed.
In the waning afternoon, a curious thing happened, an event that seemed alarming at first. The law arrived at the docks—two boats, one with blue lights flashing.
Justin and Grace anxiously made their way down to the water wondering what this could mean, having thought their worries behind them. The mystery was soon solved. Stepping from the boat with the flashing lights were two uniformed state troopers; from the other, a man dressed in jeans, Top-Siders, a crisply starched flannel shirt, and a khaki windbreaker.
It was Joe T. Evangeline.
He waved, tied off the boat, then turned his attention to his travel companions—Minna Cancienne, Julie Galjour, Buddy Dupere, and 'ti-Ray Lajaune.
Grace left Justin's side and walked briskly to meet the party. Joe T. greeted her with a smile and a handshake. “Hey,” the Guv said, “I heard there was a party here—I have my sources, you know—so I decided to check it out. Hope you don't mind. After all, it's part of the deal. You said I was welcome anytime.”
“We're honored, Governor,” said Grace.
By this time, Justin had arrived at Grace's side and also shook the Guv's hand.
“By the way, y'all might remember Ray here,” said Joe T. “And this is my old podnah, Representative Buddy Dupere. Buddy doesn't spend much time in the swamp, but when I told him of rumors that a world-class courtbouillon was being cooked up, he was the first one on the boat. I hope you don't mind that I've brought him along.”
“Of course not,” said Grace. “Welcome to Crawfish Mountain.”
Buddy grinned and shook hands with the Pitres. “Good to be here. Is that jambalaya I smell?”
“Good nose,” said Justin. “My daddy's secret recipe, and we got plenty left. We'll get you up to the camp porch and get you fixed up. Lotsa cold beer, too.”
“Way to go, Governor,” Buddy said to Joe T. “I'm in the right place.”
Grace warmly greeted Julie and Minna, with whom she'd had a long chat on the day that Julie had brokered the deal in the Guv's office. “How's the new job?” she asked Julie.
“Wonderful,” Julie replied. “I'm working with great people on great issues, though I have my frustrations. But there's one side benefit. I get to hang out a lot more with this character.” She smiled and pointed to the Guv.
Joe T. shrugged. “I'm being taken to school every day on things like sustainable development and biodiversity and habitat conservation. And I have to say I'm loving it. But, look, don't let her warm, charming smile fool you. She's a tough cookie.”
“We know that,” said Grace.
Minna nudged Grace. “You live in a postcard, dear,” she said, gazing up at the camp. “I had no idea, although Governor Evangeline has been rhapsodizing about your place for some time now.”
With that she looked around and spied Representative Dupere. “C'mon, Buddy, how 'bout you buy an old lady a beer?”
Buddy, somewhat confused, looked at Minna. “We got to buy the beer?” he said. “I thought, uh, well. I…”
Then even Buddy laughed. “That's a joke, right?”
“Right,” said Minna as she took him by the arm, tugging him toward the camp.
With that, everyone turned to go, but Joe T. stopped them, as though he'd forgotten something. “Hey, Ray,” he said, “why don't you walk up with Buddy and the ladies. I'll catch up. I've got something I want to show the Pitres.”
He turned back toward the dock and walked briskly to the boat. After rummaging around, he stepped back onto the dock with a rod and reel. “Check this out. What do you think?”
Justin eyed the outfit, examining it carefully. “Sweet, Governor. A St. Croix ultralight—that's an heirloom rod. And that Shimano reel—man, the drags on those things are like butter. I've tried 'em all, and I don't fish with anything else now. I know what these things cost. You ain't bought a rod and reel—you've invested in redfishing.”
“Good to know,” said the Guv, “since the tackle-shop guy coulda just been shining me on. And, say, listen—I don't want to disrupt your festivities, but, hmm, do you think we could squeeze in an hour of fishing? I'm dying to try out my new rig.”
Justin smiled. “I think that could be arranged, but you have to do your duty first. We'll get skinned if we don't bring you around. And Daddy and Momma would very much like to meet you. Daddy told me you called him. My father's a foursquare guy, and he was impressed by the straight-up way you apologized.”
By this time, the assembled partiers above knew the identity of the celebrity visitor, and whatever political or personal quibbles some might have had were put aside in the name of Cajun hospitality. And, anyway, Joe T. was a natural.
The genuine way he shook Wilson Pitre's hand, and the funny thing he whispered in Emma Pitre's ear (a funny thing heard only by her), seemed to erase what misgivings they might still have been harboring. He warmly greeted Gary Harmon and Wanda Dugas by name and remarked on Wanda's not slight resemblance to her cousin Julie. He stopped to energetically pump Dr. Duck's hand, pat him on the back, and chat briefly with him about lingering concerns over the Chacahoula shipping channel. He was all business when he greeted Randy Penwell, inviting the Oka-Tex executive to come up and have a serious discussion about oil-related issues in Baton Rouge. At Julie Galjour's side, he affectionately clasped her arm and whispered something in her ear. She blushed, then laughed uproariously.
Sometime later, the Guv felt a hand on his arm. It was Justin.
“Fishin’ time. There's about two hours of good light left, and we're only ten minutes away from our hot spot.”
“Excellent idea,” said the Guv. “Lemme just give my fellow travelers a heads-up.”
Justin grinned. “No prob. And tell them we'll be bringin’ you back this time—promise.”
A half hour later, the sun sat in an azure sky, a melting orange ball bleeding into a few clouds on the horizon. The bayou before them was a rainbow of calm. Fishing conditions were perfect. The only thing missing: the Pitres’ hot spot had gone cold. The reds weren't biting.
“Let's try the dam,” said Justin. “We can't send the Guv home empty-handed.”
Ten minutes later they stood on the dam, a simple wooden structure across the mouth of an ancient slough. The Pitres scanned the waters, hoping for a sign. From Joe T.'s brand-new tackle box, Grace had chosen a black-and-silver floating Rapala, a replica minnow that had enticed many a red before. She'd shown the Guv how to attach it with the cinch knot she favored.
“This is a great top-water place,” she said. “This time of the day, the reds come to feed on the mudflats. You'll work that bait in twitches with a slow retrieve.”
Justin interrupted the lesson. “Grace, easy, no sudden moves, but look up the left bank in that slow tidal eddy—damn, there must be twenty reds in that school!”
Grace picked up the fish quickly, though it wasn't hard to spot them. Even the Guv spied the commotion—a literal pod of reds, some with telltale fins out of the water, nosing slowly toward them.
“Governor,” Grace whispered, “get ready to cast when I tell you to. Just stay still for now so we don't spook them.”
The Guv felt his adrenaline rise as the fish pushed up the bank, slowly swimming into range. It seemed like an eternity, but finally Grace whispered, “Okay, now. If you hit anywhere near the center of the school, hold on.”
The Guv drew up his fancy new rod and flicked his bait—but his cast was nowhere near the fish.
A curse, louder than he intended, escaped his lips. “Damn!”
“Okay,” said Grace, “just reel in quickly and try again. They didn't spook.”
The Guv began to reel furiously, feeling the modest resistance of the lure as it sliced enticingly through the water. Joe T. was a second from jerking the bait out for another try when the water exploded just below him.
A hulking red, prowling the murky depths at the foot of the dam, slammed the Rapala with astonishing ferocity.
It began carving a jetlike path away from the Guv toward the far right bank.
The fish was so fast and strong that the battle ended quickly—the high pitched sizzle of line, then zing, ping! In under ten seconds, fight over: the red had spooled him.
“Damn, did you see that?!” the Guv moaned—the moan of a man in awe-filled disbelief.
“Welcome to getting your ass kicked, redfish-style,” said Grace. “Let's just wait awhile. Those reds could come back up.”
The Guv stood taking in his surroundings. Minutes passed and ripples faded. Quiet returned, save for the soft gurgling of water sluicing through gates in the dam and the occasional cry of a gull or marsh bird gliding overhead. And in the mellowing light, the bayou regained its ancient composure, stretching out before them like a broad, dark ribbon, etched along its edges with the mesmerizing, ephemeral designs of tidal eddies.
Five minutes slipped to ten and to twenty. But nary a red showed itself. Still, the Guv got plenty of practice casting, and he got better on every cast. And he couldn't believe how enthused he'd become about the… anticipation…of fishing. It was edgy and yet soothing at the same time. You never knew what might happen.
And as they turned to go, Joe T. Evangeline found himself drinking in the dying day—the water, the colors, the sky, the marsh, and the mysterious and serendipitous way that it all seemed to run together. His thoughts turned to his passionate friend, Julie Galjour, and her passionate lectures on the indispensable link between these watery landscapes and the people—his people— who loved and depended on them.
And a question formed in his mind: “Where the hell have I been?”