Chapter Five

I believe there is no sickness of the heart too great that it cannot be cured by a dose of Africa.

—John Hemingway

“Hello, Caitlin,” the doctor said as he entered the waiting room. He slipped on his reading glasses, sat down on the rollaway stool and studied her chart. “How can I help you today? Are you ill?”

Caitlin tossed the Delta Style magazine into the seat of the empty chair next to the exam table she sat on. “No, I’m fine. My company is sending me to Africa, and I need to get shots for yellow fever and cholera.” She handed him the visa form. “My priest said that I might need other shots too.”

He scanned the form. “Sierra Leone. Excuse me for a minute, and I’ll check on those other shots. I’m sorry that I don’t know off the top of my head, but I don’t have many patients going to Africa.”

He returned with a tome that he set in his lap. From the index, he turned to two other pages, his fingers scanning the paragraphs in his hurried research. “Interesting. Yes, if you plan on going to West Africa, I would also recommend immunizations for hepatitis, typhoid, and a tetanus-diphtheria booster. You must also begin taking anti-malarial medicine. I would suggest mefloquine. When do you leave?”

“In two to four weeks if everything goes as planned.”

“Just in time. You’ll need to start taking 250-mg mefloquine tablets once a week before your departure, once a week while in Africa, and once a week for four weeks after returning home. The medicine is expensive, but it works well. How long will you be gone?”

“I don’t know for sure. At least a month,” Caitlin said, for the first time feeling some sadness at leaving Louisiana.

The doctor scribbled out several prescriptions. “Well, here’s a mefloquine prescription that will get you through a year, and some antibiotics that you might need in case you come down with a bug or something. I’d take as much of your medication with you as you can since there are medical supply problems in West Africa.” He ripped the prescriptions from the pad and handed them to her. “Ready for your shots?”

“Do I get the shots in the butt or arm?” Caitlin asked.

“Yes,” her doctor said.

****

In a cold misting rain, Larry drifted slowly down Trenton Street in West Monroe, Louisiana, warming his hands in the side pockets of his faded olive-green field jacket. Pausing in front of each store window, he studied the antique furniture and other goods on display. When he came to an art gallery, his eyes were drawn to a wooden sign above him that read: THE LOST BAZAAR. Suspended by chains, the sign rocked whenever a gust of wind nudged it, rasping despondent creaks and groans in the gaps of silence between passing cars. A cardboard placard was taped to the glass of an ancient wooden door. Larry moved his index finger across the page word by word:

HAPPY MARDI-GRAS! THIS WEEK THE GALLERY WILL FEATURE AN EXHIBITION OF THE WORK OF CAITLIN JOHNSON.

The gallery was closed. Larry took off his ball cap and pressed his face to the smudged, tinted glass and peered at several paintings hanging inside on the plaster walls. Adjacent to the window stood a bronze sculpture of a naked man with empty eye sockets holding a guitar with one raised fist. His mouth was opened wide as if he were tortured and howling in rage or dementia. Next to this simulacrum stood another bronze figure of a kneeling nude young woman who held her hands to her face as if she wept for the man’s anguish. Larry rubbed his burning eyes.

“Now, we see through a glass darkly…”

For a moment, Larry thought the man-statue had spoken. He shook his head. When he heard a snicker, he turned and saw a man peering over his shoulder. The man clutched a scuffed duffel bag in one hand and with the other he touched his face as a man does when he inspects himself before a mirror when shaving. He wore a pointed stocking cap that was pulled down to his thick black eyebrows. His dark eyes were big and wild, and he grinned, revealing teeth that were stained and crooked.

“What?” Larry said.

The man pointed at the statues. “Dress them up in a few clothes and they might look human.”

“I guess.”

“I reckon this must be some kind of museum.”

“An art gallery actually.”

“Well, I’ll be. I wonder what else they got on display inside. I used to be a preacher, showing people the way to that great art gallery in the sky. In fact, folks just generally call me Preacher. That’s because I quote the Bible so much.”

“Glad to meet you, Preacher. My name is Larry.”

“You remind me of an uncle of mine. He had a coat like that too. Served in Viet Nam he did. He blew his brains out though. You know what time it is?”

“No. I sold my watch a couple of weeks ago.”

“The exact time don’t matter much noway. I came in from Mississippi on the train. You?”

“Walked and hitchhiked here. Left New Orleans a while back. I’ve been out West. Mostly rambling through Texas.”

“Ah, you are a true King of the Road, a pilgrim walking till he reaches that better land!”

“Where are you headed?” Larry asked.

“I don’t know, my fellow vagabond, but I reckon I’ll get there somehow. King Larry, could you spare some change to help a man get a drink?”

“Sure. I got a few bucks and could use a drink myself. I don’t have much, but I’m glad to share what I got.”

“Like the Bible says, give strong drink unto him that is ready to perish,” Preacher said, “and wine unto those that be of heavy hearts. Let him drink, and forget his poverty, and remember his misery no more.”

“Are you sure the Bible says that?”

“It does for a fact. Speaks right to the heart, don’t it.”

“There’s a ring of truth to it,” Larry said.

Preacher pointed toward the river. “Round the bend yonder I saw a bar. We could go there.”

“Sure. It’s bound to be warmer and drier than standing here.”

They crossed Trenton Street and walked toward the river. As they walked, Preacher sang, “Little Brown Jug.”

Larry looked up at the sky. The gray clouds were thick with moisture. South of town, large plumes of smoke billowed up into the sky from a paper mill’s concrete smokestacks. The north wind gnawed its way through his jacket, and the light mist, which earlier floated and drifted to the ground, changed to a light rain mixed with sleet that pelted and stung Larry’s face.

“I never can get used to walking in the rain,” Larry said. “I hate it.”

“The good Lord makes his rain fall on the just and the unjust.”

“I still don’t like it.”

Near the levee they passed through an opening in a concrete block floodwall and sloshed through the parking lot to the Cottonport Lounge. Larry paused outside the door and studied the Ouachita River and the reflections of buildings and lights shimmering on the dark water’s surface.

“We’re going down the river one by one,” Preacher said.

“You must be a hoot at funerals,” Larry said. “You probably have a Bible verse ready for every occasion.”

“I do indeed. How much money you got, King Larry? The Bible says, ‘Money answers all things.’”

“Five dollars.” Larry scraped the bottoms of his muddy boots on the edge of the concrete porch. He looked up at the flashing neon sign that said it was Mardi-Gras Night.

“Tain’t much for us to drink on,” Preacher said.

“Sorry. It’s all I got. Look for unfinished drinks. Shoot them down and no one will be the wiser. Let’s go on inside.”

They entered and sat down at an empty table near the door. Larry stretched out his cramped legs and felt drafts of heated air push the cold dampness of his jeans against his skin. He leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes and thought of last week’s walk through the West Texas Badlands and how the wind had pushed him relentlessly out of Texas back to Louisiana.

A waitress came to their table. “What would you men like to drink tonight?”

Larry opened his eyes. “Let me have a Budweiser.”

She nodded toward Preacher. “What’ll he have?”

“A glass of red wine,” Preacher said, “for my stomach’s sake.” He snickered.

The waitress rolled her eyes, took Larry’s money, and returned with their drinks.

“You got any free snacks?” Preacher asked. “I’m a mite bit hungry.”

“We have some hors d’oeuvres and King Cake laid out later for the Mardi-Gras party,” she said. She eyed the two men. “You should have come in costume. We’re giving a prize for the best one.”

Larry looked down at his hard traveled clothes. Not much of a costume. “We’re just passing through. Didn’t know about the Mardi-Gras party.”

Preacher gulped down his wine. “Thank you, cupbearer. I was hungry and you gave me meat.”

“Don’t drink so fast,” Larry said. “The longer your drink lasts, the less they’ll hustle you to buy more.”

“Ah, wine that maketh glad the heart of man!” Preacher said. “The Lord shall provide more, King Larry.”

Larry sipped his beer slowly and studied the motley crowd. The costumes reminded him of a bar scene in Star Wars or folks attending Bourbon Street festivals. A menagerie of alien humans milled about him in various stages of drunkenness—mutants, weirdoes, rednecks, and deviants in mismatched or bizarre clothes. A bartender in a tuxedo jabbered with a man in a leisure suit. A plump brunette wearing a plastic tiara and a short black sequined dress brayed to her friends with a high-pitched voice. One man sported a heavily bearded face and a bandoleer of wine coolers across his chest. He grunted with each step as he strutted past their table.

“Hey, it’s Chewbacca!” Larry whispered.

“Watch this, King Larry,” Preacher said. “Hey, fool!”

Three men at the bar turned and looked at him.

“No, not none of you,” Preacher said. He pointed toward the back of the lounge. “Way back there.” He snickered when they looked that direction.

“I think I’m gonna mingle with the church,” Preacher said. “You know, check on the indwelling of the spirits.” He left the table and walked through the bar, talking to various people as if they were lost and delinquent members of his lost congregation. His arms flapped wildly as he bellowed out strange Bible verses. Soon, one man went to the bar and fetched Preacher a bottle of wine.

“Yes, sir,” Preacher predicated. “A man’s gotta be baptized and warsh away his past sins. That old man’s gotta die and be buried in the water before a new one can rise up. Course, baptism don’t always take if’n you don’t do it right.”

A slender blonde woman entered the Cottonport. She wore a gray crewneck sweater and blue jeans. Her pale slender fingers wiped raindrops from her face then nervously tapped her leg. She scanned the bar and when her eyes fell on Larry, she smiled.

“Looking for someone?” Larry asked. For a second, Larry thought he knew her, but then dismissed the idea as wishful thinking.

“My friends, but I don’t see them. I guess I need to find a table and save them seats.”

“You’re welcome to take this one. I’ll move to the bar.” Larry pushed back his chair to get up.

She sat in Preacher’s chair. “I’ll take a seat, but you don’t have to leave. It’s sweet of you to offer me your table though.”

“My name’s Larry,” he said.

“I’m Caitlin. Are you ready for Mardi-Gras?”

“I never seem to be ready for what a day brings.

“Damn. I’m not sure why I came here tonight,” she said. “My boyfriend was supposed to be the music for tonight, but he couldn’t make it. Most of my life I’ve waited around this piss-pot town hoping for things to be different. But they never are.” She looked at Larry’s face. “Your eyes are awfully red. Do they hurt?”

“No more than usual.”

Preacher was perched on a pool table, wolfing down sandwiches and guzzling wine. He set down his glass and beckoned Larry to come to him.

“Excuse me a minute,” Larry said. “I must consult with my philosopher.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Just trying to make a joke.”

Larry walked over to Preacher. “What do you want?”

“There is a time to dance,” Preacher said, then with his hand dismissed him.

Larry grinned and returned to Caitlin just as the band began a slow song. He slipped off his field jacket and draped it across his chair. “Hey, dance with me, lady.”

“Sure.”

They danced in small circular movements on the crowded dance floor. Caitlin gently laid her head on his shoulder and sighed. “This is nice. It’s been a while. My boyfriend never dances with me since he’s always playing his guitar.”

Preacher waved a paper horn at them as if it were a wand, as if he were bestowing a blessing upon them.

When the dance ended she said, “Look at that lunatic friend of yours.”

“Aw, he’s all right. We’re probably all crazy in one way or another. It’s easy to do, to go crazy.”

“Yeah, it is. I’ve been on the edge a few times myself. What do you do, Larry?”

“I travel.”

“Are you in sales or something?”

“No. I’m gainfully unemployed right now.”

“Do you just drive your car from place to place?”

“I don’t have a car.”

“Well, how do you travel if you don’t have a car?”

“I either hitchhike or walk mostly. I have hopped a train or two, but I don’t like traveling in boxcars. Rough company, and the trains don’t run on schedule anymore. Everything’s so damned unpredictable these days—the weather, jobs, trains, people.”

“Where will you go next?”

“I don’t know. Any suggestions?”

“Are you like homeless or something?” she asked.

“Only by choice, till I get my head together.”

“How sad. But you don’t look or sound like a homeless person to me. How did you end up like this?”

“I just left one day. Got sick of the way things were, so I just left. Should have done it years ago, but I’ve always held on to things longer than I should. It’s not too bad. I find an odd job now and then, sleep where I can, then I walk somewhere else. I don’t know why I’m telling you this crap. Let’s talk about something else. What do you do?”

“I’m an artist.”

Larry remembered the sign at the Lost Bazaar. “I saw a sign about an art show at a gallery that mentioned Caitlin Johnson. Would that be you?”

She pulled back a little and looked at him. “Yes, that would be me. I’ve got this last exhibition, and then I’m closing the gallery. Hey, my last showing and reception is tomorrow. Maybe you can come.”

He touched her left hand resting on his shoulder. “You have the hands of an artist, Caitlin. I bet you are a good one. Why are you closing the gallery?”

“I’m going to Africa.”

“I have… had a brother who spends a lot of time in Sierra Leone.”

“You’re kidding. That’s where I’m going.”

“Yeah, my brother Von has made a fortune in diamonds there. We haven’t communicated in years. He says I’m a loser and a disgrace. I haven’t made up my mind about that.”

Caitlin cleared her throat. “Diamonds? Your brother’s name is Von? What’s your last name, Larry?”

“Vermeer.”

Caitlin shivered. “When did you last see Von?”

“Years ago. We did not part on good terms after what he did to me and our parents.”

“What happened” Caitlin looked at Larry for a moment, studying his facial features and dark eyes, wondered what had come between the two brothers.

When Larry didn’t answer, she gently but firmly pushed Larry away when she saw her friend Jessie enter. “I’ve got to leave now, Larry. My friend is here. Can I buy you a drink? What would you like?”

“A double whiskey.”

When she returned with his drink, Larry watched her leave with her friend waiting for her to turn back and look at him one more time. She didn’t.

At 1:00 a.m. the bar manager shouted, “Folks, you don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here.”

Larry returned to his chair and sipped on the whisky Caitlin had bought him as the crowd filed out—some left alone, others were headed for trysting places or after-hours clubs. “No thanks, folks. I think I’ll just stick around here,” he said to no one in particular.

On his way out, he stuffed his pockets with leftover peanuts, pretzels and a slice of King Cake that he wrapped in a napkin. Picking up a half-finished drink, he downed it quickly, and the straight whiskey warmed his throat and belly. He set down the glass and looked around for Preacher, but he couldn’t find him. Trying not to think of the damp cold he knew would seep into his bones before morning, he walked out of the bar into the darkness of the gravel parking lot.

The rain had ended. Larry sat with his back against the floodwall where he could see the river. He was relieved he hadn’t gotten drunk tonight and passed out in the bar. A man ought to choose his resting-place. It’s bad when the drink decides. Too many things are lost that way. He fastened the Velcro collar of his jacket and pulled his cap lower. There was no breeze, and the thick moist air was heavy and full of the sour, rotten smell of the paper mill. The stillness oppressed him and pushed his thoughts and being into his own flesh.

Weariness crept up his legs and he closed his eyes and drifted into sleep. His mind was empty at first, but his dreams carried him into the Lost Bazaar where he saw himself and others he did not know hanging on its walls. Barkers and auctioneers in fancy suits stood in front of the gallery hustling indifferent people on the busy street to come in and buy the people on display in honor of the good times past. Larry hung near the door above the statue of the tormented man. One of the auctioneers cursed and flogged him with a whip while Larry raised his fists and howled in pain. Caitlin passed by and he cried out to her for help. Someone gouged his ribs with a stick.

“Hey, you! Wake up.”

Larry looked up through his blurred eyes into the face of a policeman. “Oh. Mornin’, officer.”

“What are you doing here?” He tapped his open hand with his nightstick.

“Sleeping,” Larry said.

“Don’t you have somewhere to stay? Did you get drunk and pass out here?”

“It’s a long story. Do you really want to know?”

“Can I see some identification, sir?”

“Don’t have any. Don’t need it anymore.”

“Look, smart ass, before I get real curious about who you are, you better get up and move on or I’ll carry your indigent ass to jail. You can’t stay here.”

“I’ve heard that before. I’m going.”

Larry rose and plodded back to the Lost Bazaar. Preacher sat on the curb.

“I thought you might be coming back this way,” Preacher said.

“Where did you sleep?” Larry asked.

“In the back of a truck at the bar, but this morning’ a feller woke me up. He seemed pretty riled up. The truck was at some apartments but I managed to find my way here. Where’d you sleep?”

“Down by the river. They’re having a reception here this morning. We can get some coffee and breakfast if we hang around a while.”

“That’s a fine idea, King Larry. Mighty fine.”

A huge cloud of blackbirds flew over them, filling the air with the sound of their wings and chirping. Splotches of white splattered the ground around them, and Larry felt a gob of bird shit hit his jacket.

Preacher snickered. “Louisiana’s got lots of those blackbirds, don’t it? They’re like people—you gotta watch out for them when they’re in big groups.”

They waited on the curb. The gallery had just opened when Caitlin arrived. She stepped out of a white sedan wearing a black formal dress. A priest followed her out of the car.

Preacher slapped Larry on the shoulder. “She’s come to see you, Larry! And all dolled up too.”

“She didn’t come to see me. She’s the featured artist you dumb ass. Be careful what you say.”

They followed the crowd into the gallery and Preacher sped directly to a table loaded with refreshments. Larry strolled through the gallery and studied Caitlin’s paintings and sculptures, pausing at the bronze man-statue he had seen through the window yesterday. Caitlin noticed Larry and wended her way through the crowd to him.

“Larry!” she said. “You did make it.”

“I want to congratulate the featured artist. Your art is exceptional, Caitlin.”

“Thanks, Larry.”

He pointed to the bronze statue he had noticed yesterday. “If I had the money, I’d buy this to remember you by. The man and the woman both look so sad.”

“That’s sweet of you to say, Larry.” She touched the statue’s eyes. “It’s my favorite piece. I call it Tempest in the Mind.”

The priest walked over and took Caitlin by the arm. “I don’t mean to interrupt your conversation with this—gentleman, Caitlin, but I think one of my parishioners wants to buy a painting.”

Caitlin placed her hand on Larry’s arm and squeezed. “Take care of yourself, Larry.”

Preacher walked over as Larry was studying the man-statue. Preacher bent over and peered at it closely. “Lord! He ain’t got no eyeballs!”

“I’d buy this statue if I had the money, Preacher.”

“What do you want a graven image for, King Larry?” he shouted. “You can’t afford nothing like this. Besides, he don’t seem like he’d be good for anything.”

“You’re right, Preacher. See you later.” Larry scooped up the statue and ran out of the gallery toward the Cottonport Lounge.

Preacher hollered, “Hey, Larry! Ain’t you gonna eat first?” He grabbed a platter of pastries from the table and ran after him. “Hold on, King Larry, I’m right behind you!”

Several in the crowd pursued them. The priest who came into the gallery with Caitlin strode to Caitlin’s desk and picked up the phone. “Caitlin, do you want me to call the police?”

Caitlin took the receiver from his hand and hung it up. “No, Father. No police. It’s mine to let go. Leave him alone. At least he liked it, unlike Hunter who I made it for.”

When Larry reached the floodwall, he turned and saw the crowd in pursuit.

Preacher yelled, “You sure do know how to raise Cain. Shall we gather at the river, King Larry?”

Larry willed his rubbery legs toward the river and jumped into the cold water. Preacher stopped at the edge and stuffed a pastry into his mouth. “You done lost your mind, King Larry. This ain’t no time to go baptizing yourself. Get out and eat one of these cinnamon rolls.”

Larry crooked his arm around the neck of the statue and side-stroked into deep water as if he were a lifeguard rescuing a drowning man. The river carried him downstream past the houseboats, past the plush houses and apartments built along the riverbank. Larry struggled to cut across the Ouachita so he could reach the Monroe side, but the current denied him any progress and sapped his strength. Vice-like invisible hands pulled at him, and a Lethean numbness crept up his legs. Through blurred eyes Larry glanced at the bronze face in the crook of his arm.

“Damn, you’re a heavy one, but I ain’t gonna let you go. You guitar players don’t belong in no Lost Bazaar. We’ll go down together. How long you reckon a man can hold his breath?”

Larry Vermeer saw Caitlin the artist looking at him. He raised a fist to the sky and howled at the crowd on the riverbank, then let the river pull them down.

****

The next week when her exhibition ended, Caitlin met Jessie at the art gallery. She could have taken her car, but the Lost Bazaar was on Trenton Street in West Monroe, in easy walking distance from her boat. Caitlin hated the idea of renting the building, but an art gallery is a high-maintenance, time-intensive commitment, and she knew she wouldn’t be able to care for it while she was in Africa. Jessie arrived just as she had taken down the wooden sign on which her father had carved the name she had given the gallery—The Lost Bazaar.

“Hello, Jessie,” Caitlin said. “Thanks for helping me out.”

“No problem. Good news. I’ve already found someone interested in leasing your building, Caitlin. Her name is Melissa, and I think you’ll like her. She wants to open an antique shop in downtown West Monroe. After I described the building, she asked if she could live upstairs. I told her the apartment was unfinished and not part of the lease. She offered to fix it up in exchange for lowering the rent. Are you open to that?”

“I guess that would increase the building’s value. It would be better to have someone living there, wouldn’t it? Hunter’s promised a dozen times to do some work on the apartment, but never got around to it. Sure, tell Melissa we’ll work something out.”

“Good. She sounded so excited about the building. We’ll miss the Lost Bazaar though.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll reopen it when I return.” Caitlin stepped down from the stepladder and stood the sign on its end.

“They found the body of that homeless man that fled your gallery near the Columbia Lock and Dam. I’m afraid your Hunter statue is on the river bottom somewhere.”

“Such a sad man. I kneeled down and wept when I saw him sink. Let’s change the subject, Jessie.”

“Sure. Tell me once again. Where exactly are you going?”

“Sierra Leone in West Africa. Can you believe it? At last, I’ll be somewhere besides Monroe, Louisiana.” She folded up the stepladder and slipped her arm through the rungs so that the ladder rested on her shoulder.

“I’ve never even heard of the place. How’s Hunter going to take your decision to go to Africa?” Jessie asked.

“I don’t think he gives a rip. The night he got himself arrested, I told him I wanted to go, and he tried to laugh it off. Now, I don’t know what he’d say. I’ve decided I’m not going to see him anymore. Looks like he’ll be in jail for a while, and since I’ll be overseas, it’s probably for the best that I just end it.”

“Well, it’s sure a rough way to break up. I’m sorry things didn’t work out between you two.”

“That’s okay, Jessie. We probably weren’t meant to be together anyway. God, this has been such a mess. Thanks for being sensitive and not nagging me about it. Just like you said, the story was in the paper’s police report, and then the newspaper followed it up with an article, then Channel Eight News mentioned it. My phone’s rung constantly. Some of the callers are girls I don’t know, and they’re asking me about Hunter! God, he must have had groupies everywhere he played. I’m so embarrassed over what happened that I don’t even want to go out anymore. I’m tired of explaining it, and I’m damn sure tired of the gossip.”

“Caitlin, believe me, everyone will soon forget all about what happened and move on to talking about someone’ else’s misfortune. That’s how some people around here get off—hearing and spreading juicy news about others. Cut off your phone for a while if you don’t want people bothering you.”

“I guess I should. Hey, Jessie, I need to ask you for another favor. Do you think you and your husband could take care of my houseboat while I’m gone? I’ll pay all the expenses, and you’re welcome to use it all you want.”

“We’d love to. That is so sweet of you to offer. Don’t worry about paying us. You can reimburse us for any expenses when you get back. As much as that husband and kids of mine like to fish, I ought to be paying you. We’ll take good care of it. Don’t give it another thought.”

“Thanks, Jessie. I’ll drop off the keys and papers you’ll need before I leave. God, I’ve got so much to do yet. Before I can get my visa, I have to buy round-trip air tickets, a business letter of responsibility from the Church, and a letter of invitation from the mission I’ll be working with. The damn paperwork is so complicated that it’s frustrating. All I want to do is make some money and help some people.”

“You should see the paperwork I’ve got to wade through just to sell a house. I wonder if there’s an official reader who reads all these papers the government makes us fill out.”

“If there is, he’s probably read himself blind like Milton.”

“Who is Milton? A relative?”

“No, a poet.”

“Don’t you go showing off by quoting people I don’t know nothing about. Did Hunter call you yet? You know, to bail him out of jail?”

“No. I guess I should try to call and check on him.”

“You talk like you’re his mother. Do you hear yourself sometimes? Anyway, I don’t think that parish prisoners are allowed to receive phone calls. It’s not like he’s at summer camp. If you’re going to dump him, dump him. You don’t have to explain anything.”

Caitlin tried to call him at the prison anyway. She was told that Hunter could call her collect if he wanted. He didn’t. Caitlin thought about visiting the prison and talking to Hunter face to face, but she settled for mailing him a letter the day she left for Africa. She began the letter with Dear Hunter and ended it with Kiss my ass.