Lies Agreed Upon (29 page)

The stinking, buggy wilderness outside had been completely banished. Within its protective hedge, the garden sprawled sensuously in the golden light, exotically pe
rfumed and dressed in living floral brocade that shimmered and rustled. The atmosphere of the garden immediately wrapped the three trespassers in a cocoon of somnolent attar-censed air.

“So Antonio’s garden still exists!” exclaimed Tess. “Why is it here when the house is gone?”

“Only the house burnt down. The garden was fine,” replied Sam, lifting his hat and wiping his brow with a white cotton handkerchief. “Armand and Roman kep’ it up for a spell. The family useta come here for picnics and parties. Roman had his weddin’ party here if you recall.”

Tess realized with a start that she had
been given a clue to the garden’s existence several days ago. When Sam first told her his tale, she had not questioned how he could serve champagne here in 1933 if the garden vanished with the house in 1930. She attributed missing that tip-off to the cavalcade of dates and characters she had been trying to sort out.

They were completely enclosed by the high hedge. A golden sandstone path bordered the
yew wall on all sides, and another wide path ran down the middle, intersected by walkways. Together the sandstone walks created a grid of square planting beds for flowers, and in the middle of each bed was a stone fountain basin. From Gloria’s photo, Tess remembered that water spouts once had dappled the surfaces of the basin pools. Now the stone bowls were empty except for a thin layer of brown sludge. The hydraulic system had obviously not been maintained over the years. But the floral display had not vanished; it was a riot of annual and perennial color.

The broad green leaves of hosta, the silver frill of dusty miller and succulent sedum pearls were a backdrop for fuchsia cranesbill froths and spears of blue salvia and indigo lavender. Waves of azure marguerites were wrapped by bumpy spreads of pink and white carnations. Violet beds of campanula contained explosions of orange day lilies and buttery yarrow. Snowballs of white ye
llow-eyed daisies cooled red speedwell flames, while drifts of purple coneflowers and golden loosestrife were tamed by low borders of white sweet alyssum.

Short pedestals were placed at regular intervals along the green hedge wall. Each was topped by a wide stone bowl that overflowed with pink ivy geraniums or trailing white verbena
. Their sharp spicy scents were a piquant counterpoint to the dominance of sweeter floral aromas. Stone benches sat against the hedge between the flower-topped pedestals.

A small white-marble statue of a
sleeping cherub lay atop a pedestal in the middle intersection of paths. His plump hands pillowed a round cheek, while little wings lay in folded quiescence above a pair of dimpled buttocks gleaming in the sunlight. Tess remembered Gloria’s remark about the “dead baby” statue that had once graced the maze. Apparently, Sam had moved it to the garden.

“So this garden was preserved perfectly for 80 years?” asked Tess in wonder.

“Oh, no, after Armand passed, the place got real neglected f’sure,” said Sam. “The Cabreras kinda forgot about it, but I never did. When Guy come back from Texas and sold Ben’s townhouse to the Donovans after that boat crash, he told me he’s thinkin’ of sellin’ this place to the Donovans, too. The Donovans sure wanted it. That woulda been a shame. Since Guy ain’t been out here for so long, I made him and Emily come for a look. The garden was gone to seed, but a rose or two was still bloomin’, and I hoped they’d see the promise of it. Sure ’nough, Guy and Emily did start fixin’ it up. They was out here regular even after Emily got pregnant. Now even back in the ’50s, the fountains had dried up, but there was a well pump worked if you primed it good. So they did weedin’ and put in new roses and toted water in buckets. Emily told me later she got real happy memories of this place
—
of the two of them workin’ and picnickin’.”

“I don’t understand. Why were you so keen on them keeping the garden, Grampaw?” asked Jon.

“Well, I guess I never thought like it’s a Cabrera garden,” mused the old man. “Jus’ like my restaurant’s not a Cabrera restaurant. You know, Antonio never made this garden, though he got credit. It was Thérèse did it, and she did it with Grammaw Solange’s help, ’cause it was Solange who knew the ways of plants and nature. So it was sorta Solange’s garden to me
–
belongin’ to my family, too. I didn’ want it tore up by Desmond Donovan, f’sure.”

“But what happened after my grandfather died?’ queried Tess, a little
bemused by the old man’s possessive ardor for the abandoned land of a white employer.

“When Guy
got kilt, Emily decided he woulda wanted her to keep on, and she axed me to help,” nodded Sam. “So I got up a garden crew and begun to manage it for her with the money she sent me regular. She said Joanne and her granchirren can walk here someday and honor Guy’s memory. She kep’ sendin’ me money, and then Joanne took over payin’ me. I get a crew out to trim, weed and fert’lize, and they pick me up once a month to come out and check on things. I got a sprinkler system set up usin’ a generator and a pump for that well water. No haulin’ buckets gonna keep up this big place. I learnt alot about gardenin’ over the years. Not a job I looked for, but I got pride in it.”

While Sam
was talking, Jon had strolled over to study the marble infant with a frown. “I swear this statue looks familiar, but I just can’t place it,” he commented.

Sam nodded and advised blandly, “Don’
t think too hard on it, and it’ll come to you.”

Tess meanwhile looked through the
trimmed arched openings of the hedge opposite to the entrance and realized that the main garden was still unexplored. She moved through the nearest leafy portal into a hall of fragrant roses and warm light. Before her stretched the long central channel of Miss Gloria’s photographs, although now dry and motionless
—
and minus peacocks.

A new grid of sandstone paths define
d beds of riotous rose bushes. The showy blooms nodded heavily in every hue imaginable
—
from crimsons so deep they looked black to bright whites, buttery yellows, vibrant pinks and sunset-hued multi-colors. The heady scents
—
some fruity, some herbal, and some old-fashioned attars
—
drenched the air.

Tess looked eagerly to the right where the house would have been, but only the ho
ney-colored stone steps remained, climbing up to a paved platform that collided abruptly with the flat face of the green hedge. In the center of this platform, where the lower-floor gallery of the house had once stood, a large white-marble statue had been placed. It depicted a reclining, partially clothed young female on a granite block pedestal. Tess curiously studied the turbaned head and flowing, vaguely Near Eastern robes of the marble woman, who stretched in lithe semi-nudity. She decided the statue probably depicted a dying odalisque, or harem slave. The erotic harem had been a popular theme in the nineteenth century, she recalled. Was this Josephine’s “naked lady,” which Gloria said Thérèse banished from the maze after Antonio’s death?

The harem girl certainly was appropriate to the cloistered pleasure-garden setting, and the sculptor seemed to have modeled his vision more on a sexual paroxysm than a final agony. The bare limbs were erotic and only subtly contorted. A pert breast arched from the open robe, while a white hand reached limply toward the roses, a vial about to roll from relaxed fingers, presumably a fatal poison. The other hand cradled the fragile temple of the turbaned head. The face was classically beautiful, relaxing into oblivion. The granite base bore the chiseled words “Tout Pour L’Amour” (All for Love).

Tess turned to look down the long fountain channel and gazed upon the belvedere. It was a little the worse for wear; the roof was short on clay tiles, and the exterior had large scrapes of missing plaster where the red brick bled through. But the graceful arcades and bright Moorish tiles still impressed.

“I’m so excited to see the belvedere. It gives me some idea of the grandeur of the house,” she exclaimed as Sam and Jon slowly joined her in the central garden.

“Well, only the house burnt up, like I said,” remarked Sam. “Now I’m gonna sit on a bench unner them roses, since it’s been a long walk for me.” Jon, who had been scanning the garden in amazement, hurried to help his grandfather over to a carved stone bench set into the far hedge. An arch of red and white climbing roses massed densely over the bench and gave it a cool, sweet shade.

Comparing the garden to her memory of Gloria’s picture, Tess realized that the hedge with the rose-covered alcove had originally been clipped into an arcade as well
. Its arches had opened out to a gravel path with potted orange trees. “The garden’s not exactly the same as in its heyday. I saw a picture with Gloria Donovan, and it showed that this far hedge used to have arches opening onto a formal orangery walk,” Tess said as she strolled over to where Jon was helping his grandfather seat himself on the bench. 

Sam removed his fedora to wipe his forehead and neck with the wadded handkerchief. “Yeah, I been addin’ some and takin’ away some. Emily was
OK with it. Firs’ thin’ I added was that hedge at the top of the steps to block off where the house been so folks didn’ wander in. Other stuff I let go. Too much trouble
—
like that boxwood maze. But I took that angel-baby statue outta the maze and put it in the garden. I let go that ernge-tree path leadin’ to the maze, too. And the hedge this side was open to the garden, so peoples could walk in here from the ernge-tree path. I had trouble with trespassers comin’ in to spoon and drink. They even stole rose bushes and took tiles off the belvedere. So I filled in the outside hedge till I closed it up solid. With the slope and so many trees growed up, nobody can see the hedge and belvedere from the road and come explorin’. And if they do, they gotta come with a chainsaw to cut through that yew.”

Sam’s effort over the years frankly amazed Tess, even granted it involved overseeing a crew of workers rather than physical labor. It was also puzzling to her when she visualized the barren, neglected backyard of Sam’s own home.

As if he could hear her thoughts, Sam added pensively, “I never had time for my own house garden. Firs’ I was workin’ for my family and got no time for it. Then my chirren was all agains’ spendin’ on my Backatown house and kep’ pushin’ me to move to a better neighborhood.” Jon flushed, and Tess recalled his embarrassment over the state of the Tremé home when they first visited.

“But my Tremé garden coulda never been so beautiful. I put my heart into this ’cause it had the hope of somethin’ great,” Sam added and contemplated his handiwork.

Tess sat beside Sam and firmly brought him back to a less pleasant reality. “Mr. Beauvoir
—”

“Grampaw,
” corrected the old man gently.

“
Grampaw Sam, it’s hard to bring up unpleasant truths in this beautiful place, but I have to tell you I’m upset that you weren’t honest with me when we met a few days ago,” Tess declared. “You knew my mother witnessed Desmond’s suicide as a little girl, didn’t you? You knew that trauma was why my grandmother left New Orleans and moved to Texas. Why didn’t you tell me?”

Jon, gazing idly at the garden a few feet away, whipped his head around at Tess’s que
stions and quickly drew close to place a sympathetic hand on her shoulder. “That’s shocking news,” he said gently, and then looked sternly at his grandfather. “Why did you keep that secret when you were telling Tess so many other ones, Grampaw?”

Sam remained quiet
and trained his gaze on the dying odalisque while he apparently mulled a response.

“Why won’t you tell me what you know?” Tess
finally demanded. Jon shifted impatiently and added his own prompt, “You owe Tess the truth about this, Grampaw.”

“The truth,” echoed the old man slowly with a sad nod, “is
Joanne did love to play in Ben’s library. She liked to curl up in one of them big armchairs and read a book, or she’d go hide under that big desk of Ben’s and make a secret playhouse outta books from the shelves, like they was dusty bricks. Now what I know is from what Phil Dreux told your grammaw, Miz Emily, about that day in the library. Accordin’ to him, Emily and Cee was down in the kitchen fixin’ lunch. Dad Donovan was over by the refinery, workin’. Desmond was home like usual. He har’ly ever got to his job at the refinery then. He only kep’ a title and office since his family owned shares in the place. After the accident, he won’t go out much atall. He didn’ like people starin’. So he called his friend Phil Dreux to come over to keep him company and take him out for a ride. The two of them had gone up to the library to drink and jaw.”

“Mr. Dreux was actually there when the suicide occurred?” gasped Tess. “He never said that.”

“F’true, Phil Dreux got reasons to avoid talkin’ on that,” nodded Sam. “On that day, Desmond rolls into the room in his wheelchair, and Phil goes to sit in a chair by the fireplace. They didn’ know little Joanne was snug unner that big desk, quiet as a mouse. Prob’ly she was jus’ waitin’ for them to go away again. Phil Dreux says Desmond axed him to get a bottle from the kitchen. He says he lef’ Desmond sittin’ there all peaceful, but when he was headin’ down the stair, he heard a bang. He come runnin’ back, and there’s Desmond, with his head blowed off and a gun layin’ by his dead hand. And there’s Joanne cryin’ in the middle of that mess, with blood sprayed on her face and li’l hands. Emily and Cee run up, and you can imagine the carryin’ on. Joanne kep’ wailin’, ‘I was tryin’ to stop him.’ Now that’s all I know.”