Lies Agreed Upon (34 page)

“But when will I hear from you, meet you
again?” she stammered. Mac glanced up at the anxious catch in her voice and then bent to tie his shoes.

“Look, I’ll try to arrange something for Sunday. It depends on Joel. He’s a colleague from my firm. I’m staying at his house in Marigny while I’m in town.” Mac stood up and went to the mirror in the bathroom to comb his hair roughly with his fingers. He frowned at the wrinkles marring the clothes he’d discarded in negligent heaps such a short time before. Then he shrugged and headed for the door. Tess watched
numbly, fisted hands plunged into the pockets of her robe and bare toes curling into the carpet.

“I’ll call you. I promise.”
He gave her a smile, blew a kiss and slipped out before Tess could form a reply. In the closing snick of the door, she could hear her mother’s sniff of vindication.

Tess sat disconsolately on her lofty, romantic bed. Was the rough haste of his lovemaking
just due to time constraints instead of unbridled passion? She felt her heart squeeze painfully. She seemed destined to play the willing victim, she thought despairingly. One of Big Al’s husky lyrics, a slaughterhouse metaphor, took on an eerie resonance, humming in her ear: “I let ya put me on the killin’ floor.”

14 TRYSTS

A current of cool air caressed Tess’s bare hip and
shoulder and nudged her awake.

She blinked blankly at the painted sill of an old paned window a few feet away
, its lower sash raised open. She looked out into the branches of a maple tree whose leaves rustled in a light breeze, their slight movement revealing the winged flitter of chirping birds. Through the veil of greenery, Tess could see patches of nacreous pink sky, shimmering on the edge of dawn. The sun was about to roll over the horizon and wash away the pastels in a wave of azure and white, but not yet. For a few moments more, there would be a reprieve from hot light. The earth, flanks covered in a perspiration of cool dew, stirred and exhaled fresh grass-scented breath.

Still disoriented, Tess began to register a number
of impressions simultaneously. She was lying naked on an unfamiliar bed, only partially covered by a sheet. A warm male arm was draped across her waist. A soft snoring was blowing warm, moist air against her neck. A rough-haired male leg pinned one of her calves to wrinkled navy sheets. Memory came rushing back as a molten sliver of light appeared on the horizon.

“Oh, God,” Tess groaned to herself, willing her body into silent stillness to
prevent waking her companion. She wasn’t ready to deal with him.

She had started out the weekend in her
lonely hotel room bed on Saturday morning. She had been a little down because she feared Mac counted her as a convenience rather than a commitment, and, contrarily, frustrated to have to wait until Sunday to see him again. She had hoped the planned outing with Jon would keep her from useless pining.

Now she was in this untidy fo
reign bed on—she searched to confirm the day in a brief panic—Monday.

“Oh, no, I need to get out to Lafayette today to meet Remy and Louise Gregory.” She had to suppress an audible gasp
as her sense of panic strengthened.

“
Calm down. Figure out where things stand before you jump out of bed and make a bigger mess.”

Tess obediently began to reassemble her scattered memories. She recalled that
her Saturday outing had begun pleasantly, or at least on a note as light as possible given that she and Jon started their tour of Tremé at the Tomb of the Unknown Slave.

“It’s a pretty grim memorial,” Tess commented to Jon as she eyed the large, tilted cross made of heavy ship’s chain, from which dangled lighter chains with manacles and shackles. “Who’s buried here?”

“Lots of unknown slaves are probably under the ground somewhere here, but there’s no individual under this marker. It’s a recent monument actually. It was dedicated before Katrina hit,” noted Jon.

They were standing outside of the historic St. Augustine Catholic Church, where Jon was lecturing her on the history of the church in his serious pedantic prose. He was explaining that St. Augustine had been founded in 1842 for use by local whites and “gens de couleur libres” like his great-great-grandmother Solange, who proudly purchased a pew in the new church. 

“Grampaw still attends,” Jon continued with a smile. “And some claim post-Katrina worshippers are more color-blind than in the past because of a shared commitment to rebuilding.” Glancing at the memorial, he sobered. “But black-white cooperation now can’t obscure the basic facts behind this monument. This church, this city and this state were built on ‘nameless, faceless, turfless Africans who met an untimely death,’” he concluded by reading from the tomb’s explanatory plaque.

Tess observed a
quiet pause of appropriate solemnity and then spoke. “That reminds me of something I’d like to discuss with you. Your grandfather let me know as we were leaving the hidden garden that the Cabreras, meaning me as the last heir, have a ‘debt’ to the Beauvoirs. What do you think he expects? What do
you
expect for that matter?”

“I don’t know,” sighed Jon. “I can guess at Grampaw’s feelings, but I can’t see how you’re going to make amends for generations of injustice, Tess. I don’t think it’s about money if that’s your worry. Maybe he just wants to be acknowledged, to be thanked as an equal instead of as an employee. You’ll have to work it out yourself. Let’s take a look inside,” he said abruptly
and smiled to lighten the mood.

Jon took Tess to “Solange’s pew,” where they sat as he lectured on the stained-glass wi
ndows, the cypress pulpit and general history. Tess, relaxed and replete from a heavy lunch, gave polite attention.

She corrected her remembered itinerary;
she and Jon actually had begun their outing by standing in line at Willie Mae’s Scotch House restaurant. Looking dubiously at the nearly windowless, old white-clapboard building, Tess had asked Jon uneasily before entering, “What kind of cuisine makes this place famous?”

“The best fried chicken in the U.S. of A.,” he grinned. “And that is a universal food critic declaration not the bias of a native son.”

“Did you grow up here in Faubourg Tremé?” asked Tess. Jon did not seem to fit in.

“No, I visited here growing up because of Grampaw Sam,” he replied. “By the way, you won’t hear a local
say they live in Faubourg Tremé, or even its municipal designation of Sixth Ward. It’s just Tremé.”

“So your father grew up here,” Tess concluded.

“Yeah, my dad was born and raised here, but he was blessed compared to lots of kids who grew up in the projects here. Grampaw Sam wasn’t rich, but he was comfortable, and he valued education,” nodded Jon. “He sent all his kids to private Catholic schools and then pushed them into college. Grampaw was impressed enough with my dad’s business education to hand over his precious eatery when he retired. I was raised in an upscale suburb thanks to my dad’s success. He expanded the business to several restaurant locations. My parents live on the north shore of Lake Pontchartrain now.”

“I’m embarrassed to admit it, but I’ve never asked you about your family.
Did your grandfather have siblings? How many children did your grandfather have? What are your parents’ names?” Tess felt shame at her previous lack of personal interest in Jon. She had been too focused on her own mission, and she deserved his reserve.

Jon smiled and answered, “Grampaw Sam was the youngest and only boy, and his sisters, my great-aunts, are all dead now. He had two sons and a daughter with Grammaw Marie, who died 20 years ago. He has a raft of grandkids. We have noisy get-togethers on holidays—Thanksgiving, Christmas, Easter Sunday, and Mardi Gras, of course. Grampaw’s oldest child is Aunt Luanne. She’s a widow with lots of time to fuss over him. Grampaw’s second oldest is Uncle Maurice, who owns a funeral home. Grampaw’s youngest son is my dad, Lyle, who runs the main Canal Street restaurant and the branch locations he added after he took over from Grampaw Sam. My mom is named Roberta, and I have an older sister, Janelle, who’s a CPA and married with two kids. I also boast 32 cousins, nieces and nephews.”

Over fried chicken, they continued the conversation about family, focusing on Jon’s childhood. Reading between the lines, Tess pictu
red a well-behaved, serious boy with doting but demanding parents. Tess tried to reciprocate, yet, while Jon’s stable world highlighted anecdotes, her more chaotic past seemed to swallow detail. She found herself listing addresses, like a dull traveler reciting a route from a map. Jon also read between the lines; he avoided probing questions.

Now in St. Augustine’s shadowed interior, Tess interrupted Jon’s history lesson to ask, “What’s Tremé’s claim to fame today?”

“Well, Tremé is home to more music icons than I can recall right off the bat: Jazz founding fathers like George Lewis, Chris Kelly, Jimmy Noone, Henry Ragas, Louis Prima, Alphonse Picou, and Lucien Barbarin. The famous Rebirth Brass Band considers Tremé its birthplace, and the Tremé Brass Band brings in crowds at the Candlelight Lounge here. Do any of these names ring a bell?” Jon asked.

Tess shook her head, saying apologetically, “I’m really a music ignoramus, especially when it comes to jazz, blues, or brass bands, which I’m guessing play something different from Sousa marches.”

“I know you’ve heard of jazz great Louis Armstrong,” smiled Jon. “This church hosts the annual Jazz Mass in honor of Armstrong, and Armstrong Park, which was created out of nine blocks of historic Tremé, honors him, although he wasn’t from Tremé. The park is a touchy subject with Grampaw. Back in the 1960s, planners cleared peoples’ homes for a cultural center that fell through. Weedy ‘green space’ was not a good trade-off to Grampaw’s mind. He was also angry about the I-10 ramp that wrecked Claiborne Avenue with an ugly concrete overpass just to give easy access to the suburbs. ‘Development’ has not been good for Tremé, he says.”

After the church, Jon led Tess through an itinerary clearly designed to show Solange’s legacy. In the African-American Museum of Art, Culture and History, Tess was amused to get a guide dressed up as the
nineteenth century’s Marie Laveau, the “Voodoo Queen of New Orleans” The historical character had some obvious parallels with Solange, since both were hair stylists and beauticians as well as supposed voodoo practitioners.

She pointed this out to Jon, who nodded and whispered, “I think old Solange had more than a pas
sing association with Baron Samedi and Papa Legba, too, despite the pew in St. Augustine’s.” They smiled at each other in camaraderie.

Their next stop was the Backstreet
Cultural Museum’s exhibits on Mardi Gras Indians, jazz funerals and second-line parades. On the way there, Tess said politely, “Tony told me a little about the Mardi Gras Indians. Is anyone in your family in a tribe?”

“Yeah, Aunt Luanne’s son Lionel is passionate about his Indian tribe,” nodded Jon. “Sa
ving his precious suit and gaudy feather headdress is the only thing that motivated him to flee the Ninth Ward before Katrina. His house is gone, but he figures he’s a real lucky guy compared to tribe members who lost their suits. Did Tony also tell you about ‘second lines?’?” Jon asked.

Tess shook her head. “Doesn’t a second line have something to do with
dancing at funerals?”

“Well, every tourist sees promo pictures of a brass band marching in the street,” grinned Jon. “And I bet you’ve seen a ‘jazz funeral’ scene in a movie, too. They’ll show an old-fashioned hearse drawn by black horses, accompanied by a lively brass band and a funeral cortege of frenzied dancers. It looks macabre. Here’s a more accurate description: From the church to the cemetery, there’ll be a solemn procession, usually with two upfront marshals. They’ll pace slowly in formal suits and gloves, leading the ‘front line’ of mourners and pallbearers. Some of the cortege may carry the flags of a local
social aid and pleasure club. A brass band will play a slow march, and everyone is suitably solemn. But once the body is laid to rest, the band starts to bat out tunes of celebration, and then the ‘second line’ of the funeral begins to dance. I guess you can say they’re rejoicing that a loved one has gone to a better place, or celebrating life after a reminder of death. But you don’t need a funeral for a second line. Any time a band strikes up, people can begin an impromptu dance parade.”

“You mentioned a ‘pleasure club.’ Is it a gentlemen’s club? It’s odd at a funeral,” Tess remarked.

“I doubt Grampaw Sam has ever entered a gentlemen’s club,” laughed Jon, “but he is a long-time member of the famous Zulu Social Aid & Pleasure Club. Zulu, and clubs like it, were set up to help African-Americans financially, hence the ‘aid,’ and as a social outlet, hence the ‘pleasure.’ They still perform as community service organizations and are keepers of the second-line tradition. Plus, the Zulus developed their own Mardi Gras krewe and used to parade in Tremé when the official Mardi Gras was whites-only. Now the Zulu krewe is part of the main event, and its parade is the first on Mardi Gras Day.”

“Are you a member?” asked Tess, recalling Tony’s view that Jon was too stuffy for such revelry.

“I’m not much for Mardi Gras or second lines,” said Jon, confirming Tony’s characterization. “But Uncle Maurice is a member of the Zulu krewe, and Aunt Luanne is a big one for reading
Times-Picayune
obits so she can join second-line action.”

Studying an example of an astoundingly elaborate Mardi Gras Indian suit at the mus
eum, Tess asked curiously, “Does your grandfather ever come to these museums?”

Jon frowned and paused before answering. “No, I don’t think Grampaw Sam has ever set foot in the African-American and Backstreet museums. I guess he doesn’t need to go looking for a cultural past, because he’s lived it, and is still living it. Suburban professionals like you and me are the ones who come to look at our ‘roots’ preserved in labeled cases with interpretive guides. Tremé is a small place where everybody either knows you, or knows ‘your people,’ or treats you politely as a stranger. I’m a stranger here. If I mention Grampaw Sam, I may be welcomed in his honor, but I don’t really belong.”  There was both regret and relief in his voice, Tess thought.

As they drove back, Jon took Tess past St. Louis Cemetery No. 1, the oldest and most famous of the many “Cities of the Dead” in New Orleans, and location of the supposed tomb of Marie Laveau.

“Where’s your family buried?” asked Tess, cutting off Jon’s listing of famous cemetery residents.