Ten Chapters of the Creole romance suspense, Pushed Times, Chewing Pepper

I am undertaking a total re-write. This story is different because the central character is torn. She embraces her Louisiana Creole culture, but resents it for its darker side. She chases romance, sees visions, knows some voodoo but ignores all of her inner wisdom to have the wrong man.

Tell me what you think of Sarah and her story! merci beau coup!


CHAPTER ONE

The colors held my attention, a festival of orange-ish, blue-red-gold. It was almost pretty if it weren’t so deadly. Fire was traveling in five directions at once, moving like a neon cat; sneaky, deliberately and softly through the unidentifiable apartment. I saw the reflection of the flames in eyes too bright to be sane, too sad to try to stop the inevitable tragedy and in fact, seemed to enjoy it. There are bodies, but she is unmoved by their lifelessness…who is this disturbed woman?
Yet another vision played out in my mind like my own personal movies, some are prophetic and some don’t seem to be. They never last long enough….oh, well. Now I am focused again on the great view and my horrible mood.
If I didn’t think it would make a few bitches happy, I would jump from this damn window. But therapists who kill themselves don’t get clever epitaphs. Anyway, most times I rather bitch my way through this life than end it.
I am the successful family therapist with the unsuccessful personal life . . . .by other folks’ standards. In addition to my ability to heal families, I have what they call the gift of vision that has yet to deliver my life’s presents. The visions sometimes make me grouchy, but today, I was grouchy before the mysterious fire vision. My assistant is never far away, just outside my office door at her reception desk.
“Jean! Jean! How many times have I told you how much my Creole culture pisses me off? Well, go ahead and add today to the number! My gloating-heifer, always-married cousin, Stacy called to ask if I was married yet. Supposedly, she needed some information, but once again, it’s about Sarah the success who can’t get or hold a man!”
From the window of my fourth-story office building in downtown Oakland, I could see the bountiful sky, a perfect blue, California cloud-laced sky like the one my little brown legs melted into while I pushed-and-pulled to the squeaky rhythms of the backyard swing as a child. Whenever I was afraid or confused, I searched that sky for answers from a Holy Father who would make life all better. I also looked up there for the peace and happiness that Aunt Cat insisted was on the way. Aunt Cat saw it in her visions, the crazy gift I had inherited that added another level of bizarre to my life.
“Jean!”
Jean had now walked into my office from her reception station.
“Oh, sorry for yelling, I didn’t know you were in here. You know that pretty sky seems to be saying, ‘come on Sarah, jump. You can end the frustration and disappointment of it all. . . ’
But that thought was interrupted, as I noticed a familiar figure down below.
“Why the hell is Corwin’s crazy ass standing down there, looking up here, again? Wait ‘till you see today’s head wear, Jean. I have got to drop him as a patient one day. Anyway . . .back to my dramatic end . . . .”
My anger is usually framed in irreverence and wit. Jean knows the drill; I vent, I threaten to end it all and then, I feel better.
“I know. I know better. But it sends me over the edge to have these various and sundry relatives always with the same-o, same-o marriage-thing!”
My reflection distracted me from my routine bitch ‘n moan. My God, I look stunning in this. I was wearing my trademark basic black jacket and skirt suit, with a striking white, collared-blouse, pearl necklace and signature gold Chanel earrings. I have always been a clothes horse, it’s an obsession. I have a face that broadcasts every drop of my blended heritage, honey-caramel-colored skin, a near monochrome against my brown hair and eyes. If you blink fast, I look like a cartoon character, an odd cute! My glorious gumbo history has made me what I am and much of that is insecure. I frequently take secret little visits to a single woman’s hell that no one really understands.
“Fuck ‘em!” I blurted it out between the two thoughts and it fit for both.
Jean’s eyes found their familiar spot on the ceiling. They politely roamed to that place whenever I was in a funk.
As if on command and without warning, another one of my visions bolted deep into my mind’s eye. Almost out of body, I could see a crowd of my family and friends, including rotten-bitch, Cousin Stacy with her signature turned up nose. Stacy always looked as if she were smelling spoiled food or dead animals . . . . something. I couldn’t quite discern the reason or location of this gathering, but I was peering over the backs of their heads, while they turned to look at me and, I could not make out whether they were wearing approving or disapproving looks.
So is this a happy occasion or sad? This is why these visions frustrate me!
Good news, bad news, I wasn’t in the mood for hope and promises of great things to come, I wanted to vent, and Jean was a splendid audience.
“It’s about time for your three o’clock. He came up.” Jean was announcing Mr. Corwin.
“I know. I couldn’t see him from the window anymore.”
Jean was always so irritatingly perky and pressed in her tweed pants suit, not a single hair out of place, but I have to admit that none of her predecessors, handled me with such grace and nurturing. In a distant way, we are friends. Jean’s obsession was punctuality, so I was quite happy to have an assistant whose strength compensated for my own weaknesses.
“I think it’s really about me being so successful and independent, it’s not just the ridiculous pressure to get married. It represents an area of my life where they get to feel superior. That’s exactly what it is…” my thought continued and trailed off, but quick anger erupted.
“I hate the way the Creole culture is built on the 1950’s model----marriage as the be-all, end-all! Humph, half of them have horrible marriages. They think it’s the one thing I can’t have…look at me, extremely-well, over-paid, running my own business, but they use my singleness to put me down. Bullshit! And one more mention of my baby-clock and I’ll clock somebody!”
I always rant in combined street jargon and what my friends call my professional voice. It works so well with sarcasm and bitterness.
“Marriage is considered a necessary rite and a badge of honor for women of the Louisiana Creole culture. Even today, a woman, over forty who's never been married, more's the pity!”
“Look at what I have created here!” My office had the look and smell of success. It was filled with well-appointed mahogany desks, leather chairs and an over-stuffed sofa that sleeps good if I’ve had too much to drink at lunch, or more accurately, drank lunch.
“Yet, I ain’t shit in the eyes of my family because no man has yet claimed me. How do you like that crap? Do I look like somebody who needs to be owned?”
I was using my singing range, so my voice hit another octave. “I don’t even know if I’d like being married….my mother and that Louisiana bullshit…”
“You're from Berkeley, why do you care?” Jean asked.
I couldn’t stop myself long enough to answer Jean. I was even pointing my finger down in that sista kind of way which was a bit odd because I grew up in an elegant part of the college town where there was very little finger-pointing or neck-rolling-anger.
“I have no desire to cling to their past…it’s not my past! It’s oppressive, out-dated and more than anything, bullshit. . . . I need another word for bullshit! Guess you’re tired of hearing me rant about this every time one of my family members makes a remark.”
“Well, I know it gets to you, but the walls are thin here and Mr. Corwin is waiting. Are you ready for me to get him?” Jean asked.
“Yeah, I better get to work, although I’m kind of enjoying feeling sorry for myself.” I giggled.
“But hey, at least I’m damn good at this family therapy stuff—kinda like the priest giving marriage advice, huh?”
“You are a mess. I’ll get Corwin.”
On this day, he had decided to wear a blazing red motorcycle helmet or more accurately, a child’s bicycle helmet, upon closer inspection. It sat on top of his head almost like a bell hops pill box hat. He had the strap and all, and it didn’t fit his head by any stretch. To top it off, he did not drive a motorcycle or a bike, but he believed that the helmet helped him to communicate with his higher self. The corner of Jeans mouth wiggled out of control as she opened the door for his grand entrance. Corwin paraded into the office, helmet on head like a top hat on an elephant, standing straight and tall as if he were leading a marching band. While he took several minutes to decide which chair to sit in, I completed my thoughts.
It’s a shame that all this talent and success will never mean a thing to my family if I don’t find real love. And maybe deep down, I agree with them. It’s an embarrassing admission and I haven’t really had a relationship lately that would lead anywhere near marriage. But…it could be that the gorgeous guy who keeps coming to the club to hear me sing is really coming for more than that. Maybe Mr. “Oh-I’m-Fine,” is my future love! Love, love, love as smooth as jazz, as complex as a minor triad and as warm as the blues. Hey, that could be a song! There I go again with music analogies. Another wasted degree. I need to focus on work and that crackpot, Corwin.
Jean had everything in place, the coffee mugs, note pads and tissues.
My name is Sarah Doucette Jean-Louis, PhD, a mouthful of a name with a handful of a life. The great thing about my Louisiana Creole heritage was its mystic and spicy charm. The bad thing was the family pressures, mostly about marriage.
I keep running, but the past always catches up to me.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Corwin. How are we today?”
Today, I don’t really give a shit how he is and I sure don’t see his crazy ass as a ‘we’ . . . . and when will he stop wearing bizarre head wear? Not to mention, I think he’s wearing black pantyhose!” Corwin had crossed his legs, which hiked his pant leg up a bit.
“Let’s pick up where we left off.” I went back to my professional composure.
I was a follower of the world renowned psychologist, Carl Jung. I’m sure that he was rolling over in his grave with this one.
Jung believed everyone had shadows in contrast to the conscious personality. Mr. Corwin was a white male whose shadows stood erect in the face of what appeared to be a so-called, normal life.
“Every time I think I’m doing better, they contact me and tell me to do things,” he had a peculiar effeminate voice that almost whined.
“But I don’t want to do the things they want me to do, well sometimes I do want to do the things they tell me to do, but when they tell me to do them…”
Jeez…if he says, ‘ to do’ one more time…! I hated to admit it, but on Fridays my patience was thin, gauze-like.
The one-hour session ended with Corwin spilling his guts about his addiction to pornography, his addiction to sex with men behind his wife’s back and the child he refuses to believe he had fathered. It all added up to sexual dysfunction and two failed suicide attempts. I got him from the courts when he stole a television that he believed was taping his intimate moments and showing them to department store customers. Shortly after I began seeing him he told me that wearing hats comforted him and connected him with higher thoughts. Therapy was part of his probation agreement, thank God. And thank God for the end of the session.
“I’ll see you next time. One week, right?” I had managed to get through his hour without climbing onto his lap and choking him, which I had done several times in my fantasies.
“Yes, unless you need to see me twice a week? Corwin had hope in his voice.
“No, no once a week will do.”
At least his checks clear and if I can keep him from killing himself or anyone else, he may one day be a marginal, but steady contributor to society.
Corwin marched out as ceremoniously as he had marched in. Jean saluted once he had cleared the door.
“He is waaay too into you.”
“That happens. The therapist can become the object of attention or even, yuck…affection.”
Jean was my worrier. She noticed that Corwin was always early and frequently asked for additional sessions. His latest mania was hanging outside my office, staring up at the window, appointment or not.
Three patients and an hour of paperwork later, I was one step closer to Saturday night and Mr. Oh-I’m-Fine! For the past four Saturdays, the unknown handsome, almost nerdy man had come into the club, sometimes with friends, sometimes alone. He never left before our show was over and I caught him glancing at me more than once. It was a little weird, but he was so gorgeous!
The weekends were time for my passion of singing with Chico and other occasional musicians. At first it was for the money, but as my practice grew, I still kept doing it. The club had become a great man laboratory where I could watch and meet them by the dozen. Of course, I had only dated two men from my man lab and they were both duds, one with capped teeth and cheap suits, the other with a violent girlfriend. She followed him on one of our dates and slapped the hell out of him. So much for the man lab, but I grabbed my brief case and rushed out of the office anyway. Jean wished me a good weekend and seemed to say ‘happy hunting’ under her breath.
Smartass.
I wondered how good and happy it would be. I just hoped Mr. Oh-I’m-Fine would show up, again.







CHAPTER TWO
Chico played the intro three times. He whispered, “Start the song, shit!” He was a gifted piano player who never studied music as I had done. We were a pretty hot attraction at, H’s Lordships, on the Berkeley marina. It was one of the restaurant/clubs that still kept Saturdays open for live music and catered to a 35+ crowd. The contemporary décor sans the cold steel and glass gave it the traditional bistro or California grill look.
“Okay, okay. I’m ready.” I took extra time to search the room for my latest crush, but it was time to start the show.
Our first song was Nancy Wilson’s “Guess Who I Saw Today?” It was perfect, not Nancy Wilson, but pretty close. I had studied voice and classical music in undergraduate school and my practical mother, insisted that I get something real to fall back on. So I also got a degree in Psychology, a Masters in Family Therapy and a PhD in Psychology, the clinical science program at University of California at Berkeley.
After the song, I had to remind myself to breathe. I tapped Chico on the shoulder.
“He just walked in and I just stopped breathing.”
“Why don’t you go up and introduce yourself during our break?” Chico was tired of my infatuation.
“Because he comes in every time we perform and I’m introduced on stage, why should I have to go up to him and say my name? He should come up to me.” I did a hard whisper so our conversation wouldn’t be picked up by the microphones.
“Do you know how silly that sounds?”
“What…silly? I don’t want to make the first move.”
“Yeah, it’s so much better to just stare at him. All you need now is to hang your mouth open and drool a little, and you make the whole package.”
“Smartass.”
“Dumbass.”
“I love you, you no-playing-bag-of-wind.”
“Love you back. And shit, if I could sing, you wouldn’t even need to show up!”
“Let’s entertain these people.”
Chico and I had become like sister and brother. We teased, taunted and insulted each other all in fun. But he always looked out for me and was old-school, protective.
“Oh, I almost forgot. I had this Saturday night marked on my calendar. This is the fifteenth day of the month. Remember I told you how Miss Bosco said that the fifteenth day of a special month would be significant and the beginning of a big change in my life. I can’t remember the rest, it’s been so long ago.”
“Do the people who license you as a therapist know about your psychic-voodoo advisor? You are crazy. “
“I have the right to be crazy, it’s in my blood.”
The mood at the club was familiar and warm. Then a wave of something powerful blew. The crowds parted. Not really, but it seemed that way to me as he walked from his seat to the mens’ room. This time, when he looks this way, I will smile and whisper, hello.
The good-looking man locked eyes with me for a minute while he returned to his seat in the back of the club. He was lined up directly across from the microphone and small stage. He smiled and mouthed, “you’re great.” At least, that’s what he seemed to say.
I tried to remember the physiological reason hands shook with an emotional response, as I grabbed for the microphone. I knew there was an actual reason that physical attraction caused physical reactions. But intellectualizing self-talk didn’t stop my hands from shaking or the staccato beat of my heart. I managed to get through the first half of the show effectively hiding my nervousness. I have to believe the attraction was mutual because this time, for the first time we connected . . . .in a way.
Chico’s loud piano and the hum from the crowd in the club calmed me.
Four songs later, my fantasy man walked up and said, “You have a great voice. Contralto?”
“Yes,” I squeaked, while the richness of my voice became poverty-stricken.
“I don’t want to interrupt your set, so I’ll go back to my seat, but I had to compliment you on doing a wonderful job with a difficult song.” He was right, nothing by Whitney Houston was easy and I had just strained-to-impress with “I’ll Always Love You.”
“And who would you be?”
“I’m Lance Gaston.”
Aw hell, another French name. Did every African American in California have to have Louisiana roots? The answer is--- usually. Or Texas or Mississippi or Georgia, face it, no slave ships actually stopped in California so we all had to be rooted somewhere in the south.
“Glad to greet you, Gaston.” I couldn’t resist the alliteration, but then felt stupid. My eyes shyly looked down and then got stuck on his feet.
Are those tassels on his shoes? Good Lord, why didn’t he just wear a sign?—Ivy League brother, too professorial for the good looks. And that black turtleneck under the gray, black and blue hounds-tooth jacket . . . so, Yale/Princeton/Harvard. I had trouble hiding the tiny smile that wrestled with my top lip.
“What’s so funny?” He looked confused.
“I’m glad that you like the way I sing. I’ve seen you come in before to see the shows.” I rushed my words to ignore the question.
“I have been enjoying your shows. You are really talented. Can I buy you a drink later?”
I was living my dream.


One martini later, Lance and I were sitting at a table expanding on our introduction while I was on break. I learned that he had moved to the Bay Area to join the Pediatric Department at Alta Bates hospital in Berkeley, and that he had bought a home in north Oakland. Sounded to me like plans to settle down.
“Did you grow up here in the Bay Area?” I was feeling much more comfortable. Thank God for vodka.
“No, Sacramento. I went to Houston for my undergraduate pre-medicine work at Rice University. After that, I went east to Harvard Medical School. I spent a few years in Chicago and Los Angeles, but I had always planned to return to the Bay Area.”
“This area is hard to beat. It has it all…” I was about to go into the predictable great weather, proximity to skiing, beaches…etc., but Lance was distracted and abruptly cut me off.
“Well, it was great meeting you,” He swiftly stood up and offered his hand.
I didn’t know whether to be insulted or pissed off.
“Uh…uh.. sure. It was great meeting you, too. Thanks for the compliment.” I held out my hand with the same business-like coldness.
My eyes followed Lance and I saw that he had guests who had just walked into the place.
Here I go again, falling for an unavailable man.
Lance’s group arrived, a white woman with strawberry-blond hair and a kick ass body that she made more obvious with a pale blue cat suit. It seemed to be made of one of the new spandex blended fabrics because it hugged her curves more kindly than leather. The party also included two other men, possibly colleagues from the hospital, one black, one white and both with dates. I guessed the strawberry blond was with Lance because she immediately kissed him on the cheek and none of the others kissed him. My heart sank. I had waited weeks to meet this man and when I did, he was taken. I fought the look of the defeated that I assumed Chico would notice and walked back onto the stage. I sat next to Chico on the piano bench to finish a watery drink and our show.
“Are you ready to stand up and start singing again or just going to stare at that glass?” Chico tapped my shoulder.
“You may not need the money from this gig, Mz. Girl, but I do!”
Chico was firm but kind. He didn’t know that Lance had cut our conversation short in an almost rude manner. But he was also right, it was time to finish the show and earn our keep.
While I had physically rejoined him on the bench, my earlier spirit had not. My light had dimmed by Lance’s rapid move from possible connection to brush off. I was reduced to staring at my sheet music.
“Yeah, I’m ready.” I answered Chico a bit dazed. “I just thought . . . . nevermind.”
I had also begun to deconstruct the fantasy that I had nurtured for weeks. It had me married to Lance, the former mystery man, living in our historic, renovated Victorian house, with two girls attending a posh private school. My mother would live in the garage apartment, serving as part-nanny, part-critic. Oh, well. It had been a fun, but now defunct exercise. I reached inside for new energy, put my shoulders back, took my place at the mic and belted out, “Stormy Weather.” The audience stood up.
I nervously tried to control my eyes as we continued the show, but they insisted upon visiting Lance’s table to watch the woman who touched him often on his arm or leg. The night felt like a bad chick movie, with me the unfortunate and blondy-girl, the lucky one who was all-laughing and exaggerating her good time.
I think I hate her…course, I don’t know her, but I hate her, anyway.
I closed my eyes through most of the remaining songs in order to make their table disappear. When the show ended, I collected my sheet music, beaten, but still with a damn good voice. I hated to admit it, but I actually sang better with a little pain in my heart. Then I felt a tap on my shoulder.
“What, Chico?” I turned to see that it wasn’t Chico, but the warm eyes of Lance.
“I’m not Chico. And I’m not the kind of guy who does this because I am clearly on a date. But, I am not involved with her. This is a fix-up that’s not working for me. I really would like to take you to dinner. Please don’t think I’m a player . . . I just. . . .”
I gave pride the boot and blurted out, “I would love to go to dinner with you. Here are my numbers. Call me and we’ll make a plan.” I was glad that I kept business cards at all times!
Yes! I win! Oh, that wasn’t nice, but who gives a shit? I win!
“Thank you. I will call you.” With a smile, Lance left to catch up with his friends who were standing to leave the club.
“Chico. See ya in two weeks!” I had new energy. Chico just smiled and shook his head. He had overheard the whole thing.
Next was my familiar mind-dance. It was my inner reflex to doubt the good stuff. I vacillated over whether he would call.
He will, I guess. No . . . . he will. No, he won’t. Was this really gonna happen? Oh, shit. We’ll see. I’m tired.
I drove into my condominium garage not sure of the answer, but ready to wind down from the excitement of singing and finally meeting Mr. Oh-I’m-Fine! I anticipated a slow bath and some hot dreams. And knew I would face a long night of fighting my doubting mind.









CHAPTER THREE

The loud ring of my cell phone startled me as I searched the nightstand past the empty bottle of fine cabernet I had finished off after I got home from the club.
“Who is this on a Sunday-morning-after-I sang-last-night?” I was more playful and sing-song than irritated. I figured it was my mother or my girls, the eclectic group of long-time friends I have known for years. We are way too opinionated about each others’ lives, but we had become habit and a fun routine.
The voice was not my mom’s or the girls’ it was mellow and male.
“Well, I didn’t know the rules. I will never call on a Sunday-morning-after-you-sang-the night-before, again.” Lance mocked me.
“Oh, sorry. I thought you were someone else.” I sat up in bed in order to sound more alert.
“Evidently. How are you?” .
“Fine . . . .fine and you?” I cleared my throat.
“Great. You know why I’m calling. You have an appointment with this doctor . . . . me. Can I take you to dinner next week or do you have to work at the club?”
“Funny. No. Sure, next week is fine. I don’t work at H’s Lordships. I’m a therapist, a family therapist, I just sing as a fun hobby. My office is here in Oakland.” I felt obligated to clear that up.
“Well, you sure are a good performer for a hobby. Your voice is incredible.”
“Thank you.”
“Since you are available next Saturday, where would you like to go?”
“What about Chez Panisse in Berkeley. Have you been there?” I tried to slow my pulse.
“No, I haven’t. I haven’t been back here in the Bay Area that long, so I need to play catch up on the great restaurants. You didn’t take any time at all in suggesting a place, so it seems I have the right guide.” Lance flirted.
“I do love great food. I think Chez Panisse would be perfect.”
“What time should I pick you up?”
“I think seven will work. I’m in the condos on Jayne Avenue, off Euclid. I can email you the directions. Send me a note so that I’ll have your email address. You have mine on the card I gave you. The directions are easy.”
“And very close to my house. I am not far from the Lake Merritt area, myself. But to be sure where I am going, I’ll send you a note later today. Look forward to it, lady.” He hung up.
My inner smile was jolted by a lightening fast vision that came in a red flash. I could see the knotty wood walls of one of the night clubs in Louisiana. It was dark and I was with the cousins and . . . .uh . . . .oh. It vanished.
What the ….? Oh, well, back to Lance. Yaaay!!
I jumped up and down on the bed like a three-year-old, with a taste for stronger drinks. I sang, “I have a date, I have a date!” I went for the phone to share this great news with the girls because they still only knew Lance as “Mr.-Oh-I’m-Fine” but quickly changed my mind.
It will be more fun to talk after the date. I don’t want to hear their opinions before we go out. . . .If we do go out. Was this gonna happen? Yes, because he called. No, maybe he’ll change his mind. No, he won’t. But. . . .aw shit!








CHAPTER FOUR

The week leading up to my first date with Lance was uneventful and mercifully flew by. I didn’t tell Jean about my upcoming date either, but I think she suspected something because I was a little happier than usual, bitching less and smiling more. That typically meant a new man or a date.
Before I knew it, I was standing in my closet looking at racks of too many clothes to make the important decision of what to wear. Something said red, so I picked my red dress. It was my cliché dress because it seemed to stop traffic. I gave myself extra time to get dressed.


“I’m on my way.” Lance had called as he was leaving his home.
“Okay, I’ll keep an eye out for you.” I hung up the phone and realized I hadn’t asked if he would like to come up and see my place.
Slow your roll, Sarah, he’s still a stranger, so if there is a next time, he can come inside.
I watched from my condo window as the really old and rattling BMW squeezed into a too-tight parking space. I didn’t expect the good-looking success to drive what we used to call a hoop-dee car. It was old. Not old like classic, old like ugly. I decided to keep an opened mind and resist the temptation to suggest that we take my car.
Is he tight or broke? I made sure I had my credit card as back up.
I went to the elevator to join Lance and found him walking toward the building.
“Hi there,” I stood smiling, waiting for his reaction to my red, tight-fitting but appropriate, dress. It was low-cut, just enough and not too much. It was tight, just-enough and not too much. I got the reaction I had hoped for as his eyes became stuck on an area that seemed to be near my waist.
“You look fantastic.” The compliment drained from his lips.
“Thank you. Let’s go.” Now I had the confident voice. Touché.
We soon approached Berkeley’s so-called, Gourmet Ghetto area of restaurants. Within twenty minutes, we were led to a great table at Chez Panisse that presented a bit of privacy. I noticed that Lance stood until I was seated. That was a good sign.
If I know anything besides how to counsel crazy people, it’s food. My Louisiana roots inspired my passion for elaborate meals and strong drinks. Lance bowed to my expertise and insisted that I do the ordering. I did. The restaurant had a nice hum of conversation, not too loud but lively.
Lance and I became part of that hum as we shared individual histories. It was no big surprise that my suspicions were correct and Lance’s family had come to California from Louisiana in the 1950’s.
“I made it a mission over the years to discard many of the negative superstitions and wives’ tales so celebrated in the Louisiana culture. For example, I intentionally eat bananas at night.”
It were as if we had the same parents, I was well familiar with Creole wives’ tales.
“Did your mama used to say that you would smother if you ate them at night?”
“Oh, yes indeed. Even after I became a doctor and told her that was not scientifically accurate.” Lance laughed as if he had not laughed hard in a long time.
“I bet that went over well.”
“Oh, yeah, and to make it worse, “I also eat red sauce made by women I don’t know.”
“Whoa, man!” I couldn’t believe he knew about that disgusting spell that could supposedly make a man fall in love with a woman.
“That is dangerous territory. I hope no one really …I hate to say it at dinner…put their mensies in red sauce to get a man. Forgive me for saying it. Cuz you know what they say . . . .”
We spoke in clumsy unison, “A woman can put a spell on a man with red sauce!”
We must had been talking too loudly because the group of three Asian women sitting at the next table, shot strange glances our way.
Lance’s face turned serious.
“Although I have a French last name, when asked about it, I just say that my ancestors came from a plantation owned by the French.”
That may have worked with people unfamiliar with Louisiana and its history, but I knew that Lance had a look that inferred more French involvement than simply work at the plantation. His mixed-race heritage was obvious.
“I am,” he continued, “much too Afro-centric to discuss or focus on the fact that I am not purely African.”
Lance was one of the brothers who seemed to wish his skin were darker and his hair kinkier, but it hadn’t happened that way for him. He had what some call the typical Louisiana look, very light, olive-yellow skin with black wavy hair. Like lighter-skinned Creoles, he looked Latino. And despite the Black pride movement of the 1960’s, the taboo issue of skin color and hair texture still plagued the African American community. The unspeakable truth was that many African Americans felt that light skin and wavy hair were more attractive than darker skin and kinkier hair. It was a touchy subject that obviously gave Lance some inner conflict.
I tried to make him feel better.
“I understand. Non-Creole African Americans think you want to be white or that you are ashamed of your African heritage if you recognize your Creole culture, but Creoles think you betray your roots when you don’t acknowledge the culture. There’s a lot of---damned if you do and damned if you don’t---for us.” It felt good to share the common cultural baggage. Wearing dread locks was my way to embrace my African heritage.
While Lance rambled on, my mind began to drift in that terrible girlish-way to wondering again, if this guy could be ‘the one.’ We talked through our poached lingcod with fennel and spicy salsa, grilled Paine Farm squab with squab liver croutons, roasted Chino Ranch vegetables, and potatoes. By the time dessert arrived Lance had gone deeper into reciting his entire resume, and I had dug deep into the coconut vacherin with passion fruit ice cream and kiwi sherbet and deeper still into mentally planning our wedding.
What a curse, this imagination of mine. But I continued to indulge myself.
Ahh, this could be it, Sarah Doucette Jean-Louis-Gaston. I mulled over the name to myself.
Who would ever believe that name? It sounds too made-up. The thought made me giggle but Lance never noticed. He seemed to think I was writing his autobiography because it felt more like an interview than a conversation.
“I couldn’t make up my mind on a specialty.”
Lance was now deeply entrenched in explaining his college and medical school years in painful detail.
One sure thinks highly of one’s self. He doesn’t even stop to breathe when he talks about himself, apparently his favorite subject. Jesus! He didn’t seem this boring at the club. But the good thing about his long-winded dialogue was that it gave my mind time to wander. At least he liked good food and drinks as much as me, that will help with these long pontifications. I ordered another martini and wondered how the night would end? I questioned, would he expect something? What do I do if he does? Hell, what do I do if he doesn’t? Would he. . . .no. Maybe yes. But. . . . aw shit!








CHAPTER FIVE

The next morning ended that mystery. I woke up next to Lance in my bed. Blame it on the liquor, my tight dress or the never-ending expectations, Lance got free milk this night, without buying the cow---as my mother often warned. And maybe, this time, she was right. This had not happened the way I wanted it to, it was too fast and just a blur. We both had too much to drink for the sex to have any real meaning. We had an awkward morning of hello, no breakfast and him mumbling about having to get to the hospital. He left so fast, that his raggedy car must have left tire tracks in front of my place. And three days after our date, I had not spoken to Lance. My phone rang a few times, but the caller would hang up as soon as I answered. I knew from my caller ID that it was him, but I couldn’t figure out why he didn’t want to talk. One day I did hear Lance’s voice. He had left a voice message on my home phone early in the day, a thinly veiled effort to avoid a conversation. The message said that he was glad we met, but thought we weren’t quite right for each other. I didn’t listen to the rest of his long-winded kiss off. Verbose fucker!
I dialed one of my girls. I chose to call the one who was the harshest critic and best friend, Nikeba.
“Okay, let me shortcut this. For weeks I noticed this fine man at the club you remember, I didn’t know his name so I had been calling him Mr. Oh-I’m-Fine, to you guys…”
“What else is new? Do you know how many times you have started a conversation with me that began with those words?” Nikeba had a heart of gold, it was just packaged in ice.
“Shut up. Let me tell this.”
“Suit yourself, so you hawked a fine man at the club, and…”
“And we went out. Too much to drink and I slept with him. I can’t tell you how it was because I don’t remember it. Anyway, I didn’t hear from him afterwards to say, ‘nice time,’ ‘great restaurant,’ nothing. The asshole made a few hang-up calls and then left a message, a message to say we’re not right for each other! Can you believe this? Why do I keep trying?”
“Where do you want me to start? I keep telling you, it’s not you, it’s your choice of men. They have been giving you signs all along the way and you refuse to pay attention to them. You are a therapist, but you put blinders on when it comes to your own relationships. I bet he showed signs of being self-centered or disinterested at some point.” Nikeba had some sympathy in her voice.
“Well, I guess. But even though I’m pissed and diss-ed, something tells me he is not a bad guy,” I couldn’t explain the feeling. It didn’t make sense, but I felt he was still a good guy.
“You and those feelings, visions, channeling and voodoo, let’s come into the real world, Sarah. He fucked you and didn’t call to say thanks. That spells jerk! Fuck him. Not literally, this time.”
“I guess you’re right. And to make matters worse, it’s time for that horrible family reunion of mine! Now I have to go face the judgers after this. Nikeba, what’s wrong with me?”
“Absolutely nothing. It could be a number of things. Maybe he had an old love reappear. Maybe he got scared. Maybe he is just a jerk.”
“This will sound strange coming from me, being radar-challenged, but my instincts tell me that this guy is different and he really is not a jerk. As you know, I’ve been through this before so I’ll live, and face it, it’s his loss,” My words were more positive and upbeat than my feelings.
“There you go. You are pretty and smart. And think of all the women who never get dates. Okay, so this didn’t work. You will continue to attract guys. You are hot. Now, let me stop while I’m still into men!” Nikeba laughed.
“You always find the humor. Thanks. I better pack for my trip to Louisiana. Let’s get the gang together at our place when I get back!” I hung up.
I couldn’t help but wonder why it seemed so much easier for other women in my family to have lasting relationships.
Was there some secret handshake for the successful relationship club? Was there some formula? Hell, maybe it’s time for me to make red sauce!
I took time to glance, once again, at the letter from Aunt Cat. In it, she had shared her premonitions and family gossip as she had done in all of her letters. This letter was in Aunt Cat’s typical vision code.
It read, “I hate to say, but I see a very bad time for you, cher and then comes a very good time. That don’t mean today, just mean it’s a comin’.”
As usual, I had no idea what the hell that meant. Little did Aunt Cat know, I just had a very bad time and now I had to face the family which meats---a worse time was a comin’.













CHAPTER SIX

I took extra time to pack because I had to make sure that each outfit had an impressive designer label. If I had to go to this family reunion alone again, I might as well look successful and my wardrobe fed my wounded ego. Two hours before flight time, I climbed into a shuttle for the Oakland airport, holding a first class ticket and a bad attitude.
Thank God I had the good sense to manipulate traveling alone.
I had lied about having a late appointment so that I could avoid traveling with the others as they wanted to do. The others included my recently widowed mother, Bernice, my brother, Lyle and his wife, Tracy and their kids, Drew and Dawn. Also in the party was my difficult sister, Lizette with her beaten-down husband, Tom and their over-indulged daughter, Riley.
What a group.
My brother and sister lived lives as orderly and predictable as their names. I was the odd letter out “S.” I often wondered why no “L” for me? My mother said that I should be proud of the name Sarah because it represented overcoming. My name was taken from Sarah in the Bible who was barren. The story goes that Sarah laughed at the prediction that she would have children, and eventually gave birth to a son at the age of ninety-plus.
How appropriate. I would probably will have figured out relationships and gotten married by the time I’m ninety!
The only good thing about these family gatherings was Aunt Cat. Her stories of family scandal and mysterious events seemed to bring the past back to life, dramatically.
The family reunion was being held outside of Lafayette in an unincorporated area close to the town of Franklin. The area was a south Louisiana mecca of great food, thick accents and drunken fun. Where else in the world could you buy daiquiris at drive-thru locations?
Well, let the games begin!
I had mentally rehearsed answers to the predictable and anticipated questions from family members of why I was still unmarried and whether I had any ‘potentials’ out there in California.
The nearly six- hour flight from Oakland to Lafayette was enough time to organize the lies and make up a boyfriend who was too busy to attend. I planned to use Lance as the busy boyfriend and not the rat he turned out to be. Changing planes in Houston reminded me of him talking about his undergraduate years at Rice University. I felt a sense of sadness and then chased the thought away and focused on my current challenge. My siblings lived in northern California, but different cities than Oakland and I had intentionally kept my mother out of the details of my personal life, so the made-up story would work.
As I got off the plane, the thick humid air seemed to fill my nose and make my breathing labored. It forced me to sober up after a two-martini-flight.
Lafayette had not changed much over the past two years since I last visited. It was now hard to believe that in the 1970’s, the small city had become a progressive center of the oil and energy industry. But it was hit hard by the fluctuating industry and now seemed to be at a standstill. The small airport was easy to navigate, so I was in a rental car in no time.
As I began driving on highway 90 out of Lafayette and towards the rural area where my family was waiting, my mind was preoccupied with getting through the next few days with as little emotional pain as possible. I could kill Lance for breaking my heart before this high-pressure event. Before I could complete that thought, my phone rang.
“Dr. Sarah? It’s Jean.”
“Yeah, Jean.”
“First, how was your flight? I take it you are there by now?” Jean asked.
“Yep. I’m here. Just landed. I am driving now towards Franklin. What’s going on?” Jean didn’t need a tour of the area, so I got back to business.
“Just to let you know, Mr. Corwin was taken to the hospital this morning. I got a call from his wife. She said it wasn’t a suicide attempt this time. He has pneumonia. She just wanted you to know.”
“Well, that’s better than his usual. You know the drill. Make sure we fax a copy of his chart to the hospital, so they have a clear record of his mental state and medications.” I was almost matter-of-fact because Corwin had almost as much drama in his life as I did. Jean wished me a good trip and hung up. Nearly an hour down the lonely four-laned and then two-laned highway and I was approaching the long driveway and private road between we still called, Gramp’s house and my wonderful Aunt Cat’s home. The trees hung heavy with Spanish moss and seemed haunting. Gramp’s house was the family’s summer place. Even those of us from the progressive states, met here every few years to reconnect to our roots and our colorful Aunt Cat. She was the family griot. Her stories kept our family history alive and were told melodically, in English interspersed with broken French. A recurring theme was always some dead person who appeared to speak to the living, or a voodoo spell by an angry woman. Aunt Cat some times used gris-gris bags or voodoo dolls for what she called positive spells. She preferred to light colored candles to exact justice, or to use chants for blessings and herbs and roots for healing. Aunt Cat used black candles for protection, green candles for money, blue for luck and white to ask for justice against an offender.
As I got out of the car, Aunt Cat was walking towards me. I spoke very little Creole, but made the effort out of respect.
“Como ca va, Auntie?” How are you, Auntie?
“Ca va bien, et twa; ti Sarah?” I am fine and you, little Sarah?
Aunt Cat was a very petite woman who looked Native American with her copper, tanned-brown complexion, long straight nose and hair, and high cheekbones. She stood 4’5” with a 95-pound frame. Her hands and feet were almost child-like and she was wearing one of her flowered-housedresses. Although she was in her ninth decade, she could easily pass for a woman sixty-five or seventy. She never admitted to her real age. We hugged and walked up to Gramp’s big porch. Aunt Cat took her seat in a large wicker chair. Steam was coming from huge black cast iron kettles filled with spices, crabs and crawfish. It looked as if about twenty of my relations of men, women and children had been at Gramp’s for a while. The adults, mostly cousins, were sitting in the large front yard talking, drinking and playing cards while the children played on the tree swings.
Gramp had passed away in the 1960’s, but Aunt Cat intentionally kept his memory alive in the stories she told to the younger generations.
“Mais, they used to say my papa was an old white man, yeah, because he had green eyes and light brown hair and not much color. But he never wanted to discuss his race.”
As Aunt Cat spoke the family members became still and listened.
“My papa farmed his own land, this land right chere and worked as a foreman at the Sugar Mill.” Aunt Cat had the sound of a docent, as she led this verbal tour through our history.
“He retired in the early 1900’s and just worked our land, right out chere. Just him and his mule, kept all of this land, growing everything you could eat …and chickens, yeah! Long before that, he saw my mama in town one day and said she had the longest, black hair he had ever seen. She could sit on her hair, yeah. Mais, he talked to her and found out that she lived at the Chickasaw reservation. He started to call on her there and they got married.”
I looked at my extended family of all shapes and colors. What we didn’t have by blood in the way of variety, we had married. The gathering included just about every race and nationality, as cousins and their spouses came in from Maryland, California, Texas and Illinois.
While Aunt Cat talked about Gramp and his horse and buggy going down the long driveway to the fields back yonda’ I could almost see and hear him.
“And you see all the embroidered linens and doilies in the house?” Aunt Cat’s voice had a sense of pride in it. “They were made by my mama. We kept everything she made in place after she passed.”
I could see the pictures of Gramp and my grandmother hanging on the walls in the hallway inside through the screen door.
Aunt Cat loved to talk about their family dinnertime routine and nearly acted it out every time she told it. I considered it an example of the cultural chauvinism I deeply resented.
“Papa would come driving up in the buggy and call, ‘Lillie!’ That was his way of letting everybody know he was home and ready to eat. No one ate until he started. Papa would look over the table while we stood at attention with our mother,” Aunt Cat was wringing her hands as if reliving the tense moment.
“If something was missing or out of place, Papa would knock on the table, he would never tell us what was missing. Then we’d have to jump up to put out bread, water, an extra knife or whatever else wasn’t on the table.” Aunt Cat still wore a look of intimidation as she remembered her domineering father.
I loved Gramp, but what an asshole. I would have told him to get up and get his own damn knife…humph.
Aunt Cat continued to talk about Gramp and how he made fig preserves from the fruit of his fig trees. Aunt Cat bragged that each jar of figs was perfect and the syrup from them, heavenly.
“When you would pour the syrup from those figs on pancakes and biscuits…” Aunt Cat was smiled, “that was some good eatin’ yeah!”
Aunt Cat then teased my mother, Bernice about how her job in those days was to clean cinders from the bedroom and parlor fireplaces. My mother looked like a younger version of Aunt Cat, but with a prouder chin.
“Aw, Catin, those chirren don’t care about that mess,” my mom pretended to protest. She enjoyed the look back in time.
But no one dared talk about Gramp’s issue with skin color. My father was too dark for him and was never allowed in his house. My aunt’s had married lighter-skinned, more acceptable men. I looked at my mother and wondered how she ever forgave her father for the deep insult.
Our family never held the popular family reunions with t-shirts and public venues, we always met at Gramp’s. We also never lit up a barbecue grill for these gatherings, this was strictly seafood and a pig cooked in the ground as part of a cochon de lait or as some relatives called it, a boucherie, the happy custom of butchering a pig and cooking all of its parts.
Jesus, no wonder I’m a vegetarian.
But the pleasant mood was not to last. It seemed all birds and animals began to scatter as a sign that something wicked was nearby. Animals didn’t really run from Stacy, but they probably should have. She and her hen-pecked husband, number-whatever, drove up and got out of the car. Stacy was Aunt Cat’s daughter, but didn’t share her gift of visions or good heart.
“Sarah, mais how you doin’, my couzan?” I was the first person she noticed.
“I’m fine, Stacy, how have you been?” I didn’t pretend to be excited as she had.
“Oh, you look so good and successful. Did you bring a man with you this trip? You independent women, I don’t know how you manage without a husband. I couldn’t imagine not having Robert.” Stacy smiled the smile of the evil.
“I couldn’t imagine you without Robert either, Stacy.” I smiled back.
Several of the adults came to a hush as they knew Stacy and I had a history of arguments and I regret to say, at least one hair-pulling, cat fight at a wedding. She pushed my buttons, so I pushed her face into a dessert tray.
“Well, if you are in the market, Robert and me know of a really nice bachelor who has moved to town. He is working on some type of fellowship or research grant in geology and came here to study the soil in this area. Can we introduce you? He’s been to dinner with us a couple of times and he never brings a woman.” Stacy was fishing.
“Stacy, I am seeing someone,” I made it sound true.
“Oh, you have a man this time. Is he coming?” she spit the question out with a pinch of sarcasm and doubt.
Snide bitch.
“No, unfortunately, he’s a doctor and couldn’t get away,” I was feeling heat in my neck.
Stacy was one of those women who wore her marriages and husbands like some sort of social badge. She was on her third husband. The first husband divorced her because he caught her with another man, the second was the other man, and the third was Robert, a mousey man. Stacy also had a weird habit of wearing all of her old wedding and engagement rings. Her right hand was a monument to former lovers. She adored jewelry and wore it with jogging outfits as her signature casual look. On this day, she was wearing her favorite color, pink and despite her horrible personality, Stacy was an extraordinarily attractive woman. She had huge breasts, a small waist and generous hips. Her wavy hair was jet black, shiny and framed her olive-colored face. Her eyes were large, deep brown almonds and she had both our mothers’ straight noses and high cheekbones. Her lips were full and perfectly shaped. Despite the supposed trend favoring the waif-look, most men licked their lips when they saw Stacy.
“Yes, I do have a man. Lance is a doctor and he was on call at the hospital this weekend.”
At least I had a real name to use.
“Oh, well just let us know.” Stacy backed down.
I could hear the rest of the family members begin their own conversations and turn their attentions away from Stacy and me. I was humiliated, again by this uneducated bitch. Trumped, by a slut. I just held a plastered smile on my face and went to my rental car to get my one piece of luggage. I dragged it to the porch and met my mother’s pitying eyes. She had been coming out of the house just as Stacy and I traded words, so she heard it all.
“Don’t worry, Sarah,” my mother tried to sound comforting, but I knew she was embarrassed by me. She had her right hand on her cheek.
“I keep telling you, it’ll happen for you when you least expect it, cher.”
I was her disappointment, the daughter who couldn’t get a husband or even a steady boyfriend. She had spent forty years with one man, my father. He wouldn’t let her work outside of our home, drive or cut her hair, so I couldn’t bear to listen to man advice from my mom. We had almost nothing in common.
“Ma dear, I’m not worried. I just get tired of everybody harping on the fact that I’m single. I’m single. I am single, okay! What is the big deal?”
“I was just trying to make you feel better. You looked a little down after Stacy made her remarks. Don’t pay attention to her. But she does have a way with men….”
“Please, ma, I don’t want to talk about it or Stacy’s way with men,” I snapped.
“Bernice, leave her be about a man. I wish my daughter would stop marrying so damn many men.” Aunt Cat was visibly irritated.
“Sarah will be fine and I told ya, I know from my visions that she is gonna get a good man. I can’t tell when. It’s not real soon, but she is gonna get married. Now, leave her alone!” Aunt Cat had come to my rescue.
“I just pray, cher, that things will work out for you. I just don’t want you to be alone in life.” My mother ended with that and went back inside.
That statement had me fighting back tears.
I am probably wealthier than anyone here. Why, in this setting, do I feel sorry for myself? Maybe it’s because so many people here feel sorry for me. I think that I am the oldest unmarried relative here. Every time I come here, I live in the shadow of other peoples’ designs for my life. I reject it, on the surface, and try to hold on to myself, but deep within they draw me into it and I fall.
I carried my Louis Vuitton bag, those thoughts and a heavy heart into the house. The stage had now been set for the reunion.
Aw shit!

CHAPTER SEVEN


I found my way to the room set up for the kids and the unmarried. . . . me. I put my bag between two rollaway beds and I heard some of the cousins calling my name. Verdeen, Stacy’s sister, was the loudest voice.
“Sarah, we want to go out tonight. You know we always go to Le Bon Ton. What if we leave at about 8:30, can you be ready?” Verdeen was yelling from the front porch.
“I have to take my kids home and change, then we’ll come back in our van because there’s about eight of us who want to go to the club. Verdeen had a really great husband. He was soft-spoken, but a good guy who could be fun at times.”
I didn’t necessarily want to be with Stacy and that tree stump husband of hers, but I really wanted to go to the club. I put my hurt feelings aside and decided to say yes.
“That sounds like a plan, I’ll be ready!” I was starting to feel a little better and excited. This was truly just to pass time because no way I wanted to date any of the locals. They were part of a very different world.
I sifted through my suitcase and picked out a nice pair of cream-colored pants and cream-colored, light-weight sweater. I matched it with a gold belt, gold flat shoes and gold jewelry. I had just finished taking a quickie shower and dressing when Verdeen honked the horn of her van. She had already returned.
“Come on old folks! It’s late! Let’s go while we can still get tables!” Verdeen yelled to rush us up. She was parked in the long drive way between Gramp’s and Aunt Cat’s house. Our cousins started coming out of Aunt Cat’s and Gramp’s house.
The screaming was effective. We all ran to the minivan and loaded up like school kids. Verdeen was good at driving the dark country highways of Franklin to Le Bon Ton. Twenty minutes and an impromptu sing-a-long of old Motown songs on the radio later, the caravan of Jean-Louis relations pulled into the concrete, moon surface parking lot of Le Bon Ton.
“I’m glad I wore flat shoes, will they ever flatten the concrete of this parking lot?” I was a tiny bit irritated.
“Well, you know us in the country, we don’t care so much about rough parking lots,” Stacy was using her sweet-bitch voice.
“Stacy, we don’t like it either, the Francis family just won’t do anything about it.” Verdeen stopped a further Sarah-Stacy match. The Francis family owned Le Bon Ton and nearly all of the men in that family worked at the club.
We walked in and the unique sounds and smells of a real Louisiana juke joint greeted us. We heard R&B songs sprinkled in between Zydeco tunes in the Creole patois, wailing about love and life.
I looked down at the knotty wood floors and thought how absolutely different this club was from H’s Lordships in Berkeley. My eyes trailed the walls to see if any changes had happened since my last time here, but they hadn’t. The Jax beer sign still had a blinking “a.” Two out-of-date, grease-stained insurance company calendars were held in place with tacks above the worn, wood-topped bar that was trimmed in metal. I took a deep breath and savored the smell of hot links, seasoned fried shrimp and French fries being cooked in the backroom kitchen. Le Bon Ton was dark, even in daylight. I couldn’t tell what was behind the red and white curtains, but something else had to block the sunlight. I enjoyed walking to our seats while all eyes stared at the big group of Jean-Louis’---we were gossip fodder in town, but a well-respected family. We found an area and the waiter helped us move three limping, small tables together. Seated and looking around, I decided to start a conversation, so I picked Robert.
“Robert, it is really amazing that over the past twenty years this place has not changed much at all.” That comment seemed safe enough.
“Yeah, this place will stay this way forever.” Robert smiled the smile of the dense.
Original.
“Do people still come here to creep out on their spouses?” I felt playful.
“Oh, let’s not bring up all that . . . .” Stacy was inexplicably irritated.
“Shit, people still come here to cheat. It’s the low lights.” Verdeen was not bothered by the club’s reputation.
The other cousins started side conversations and thankfully, our waiter came to get our orders.
“Okay, that’s three rum and cokes, two Jack and sevens, a scotch rocks, a beer and a vodka martini.” the waiter repeated our orders. I was the martini.
My cousin, Trey who had come in from Maryland, pointed to Mr. Dugas who was dancing by himself. He was a drunken fixture like the mix-matched furniture of Le Bon Ton.
“Aren’t you a bit jealous of his bliss?” I asked the others. I was starting to become analytical and deep.
“Hell, after a few drinks, we’ll be that blissful!” Robert beamed.
Wow, he actually said something and it was funny.
I got my drink and sipped gratefully while I continued to people-watch. I closed my eyes and noticed that the smell of earth competed with the aroma of smoke and liquor. Most of the people were rural, some actually worked on farms or at the sugarcane mill and coming to Le Bon Ton was a big night out for them.
I felt someone looking at me. I turned around and saw a man who I’m sure didn’t live in or around Franklin. He looked out of place. He smiled. I reluctantly smiled back. I wasn’t ready to meet anyone and I sure as hell didn’t want to meet anyone here. I’m out for a drink, a dance and to get this whole reunion shit overwith. But he walked over.
“Hi. I wanted to introduce myself, I’m Michael Rousseau in town visiting my relatives for a few days.”
He didn’t have a local accent, so that part seemed true. And the good thing is that he looked good enough to make Stacy visibly jealous, so that was a bonus. But no connecting!
“Oh, hello. My name is Sarah Jean-Louis. We’re all in town for a family reunion.” I didn’t bother to introduce everyone because half of my group was on the dance floor, dancing badly.
“Would you like to dance?” Michael asked confidently.
“No thank you. I’m pretty tired from traveling.” I was smiling, but frosty.
“Oh, come on, just one dance. It doesn’t seem to matter here how well.” Michael looked at my cousins and raised his eyebrows.
He made me laugh, so I agreed to dance, once. He was a pretty nice-looking guy. Not striking, but respectable and handsome. I refused to focus on him too much because I was still trying to drown out my memory of Lance, the build up and disappointment of being dumped.
The Temptation’s, Just My Imagination was one of my favorite songs. I was careful not to hold on to Michael too tightly, but it was nice to sway to the smooth sound. When the song ended, Michael walked me back to my chair.
“May I sit here with you?” He was inching beyond our original bargain of one dance, only.
“Oh, I don’t know. I’m not really feeling up to a conversation.”
“I won’t talk much. Or, I’ll talk to your friends, family, whoever they are. Or, I’ll talk to myself, just sitting at your table.” He smiled with charm.
“Well,” I was now smiling, too.
“Okay, but we’re not going to have fun. No fun allowed.” I was ready to play, a little.
Michael sat down and gave an over-stated thank you. He watched the dance floor and did not talk at all for the first few minutes. As the cousins returned to the table they all introduced themselves. Stacy was not very skilled in hiding envy. She wore her disappointment as visibly as her rings. Her smile was tight and her large eyes shrinking with anger.
“Michael, tell me about yourself.” I started a conversation, fueled by Stacy’s jealousy.
“Oh, are we cleared for talking now? Michael teased.
“Yeah, but the window is a short one, so hurry up.”
“I live in Phoenix. My aunt and uncle live here, but most of our family is in New Iberia and Lafayette, up the road, as they say here.”
“I live in Oakland. I grew up in Berkeley and our family is mainly in Franklin and all over the U.S.” I had started to relax a little.
For the next hour or so, Michael and I talked as if we were at a table all by ourselves. The rest of the group seemed to disappear and were it not for the music, even the club started to fade away. I was happy to feel the attention of another man so soon after being rejected. It felt good.
A silver sparkle hit the inside center of my head as a flash of a vision came to me. I saw myself riding in a car with this stranger, on the way to my home in Oakland. The vision left.
I wish I had some control over these visions and could get a clearer or longer picture from them.
“Well,” Michael cut into my thoughts, “tell me more about you.”
This was the time when I would usually began spilling my guts in one run-on sentence about everything from growing up in Berkeley, Concord and Sunnyvale, to moving to Oakland after completing my undergraduate work at UC Berkeley and then pursuing my masters at the University of San Francisco…. then back to UC Berkeley for my Ph.D. I would also go on and on about past relationships and begin a deep and lengthy discussion about the differences between men and women in relationships. But, I decided to take my own counsel and I broke that pattern this time and gave a brief overview of the cities I had lived in and why I decided to become a psychologist.
“I was fascinated with family therapy. I thought that if I could just open my own office, I could do it my way. I have my own approach to healing family relationships and I have set my own direction for treatment.” I sensed that I was going on too long, but I couldn’t hide my enthusiasm about my work.
“Why did you choose to become an engineer?”
“I didn’t really know what an engineer did when I was growing up, but I was so good at science and math that one of my high school teachers thought I should consider Mechanical Engineering as a major. Fascinated is too strong a word for my attitude towards my work, but I am pretty charged up when I make things happen at the refinery. It’s like a giant erector set for me,” Michael smiled a big smile of straight and nearly perfect teeth.
“But, it is harder to hold on to jobs in my industry these days,” Michael’s smiled turned neutral.
“I always wanted to live in California, so I jumped on the opportunity to go to ARCO in Los Angeles. I have been a frequent visitor to your great state and now I get to live there.”
Barry White’s voice melted into the conversation with the lyrics “now that I’m here, no more tears; come here, come here.” The song, “I’ve Got So Much To Give” had always been one of my romantic favorites.
“We have to dance to this one,” Michael stood up and extended his hand.
I stood up automatically and let myself enjoy the dance and the moment. This time I didn’t plan my wedding. This time I broke a pattern and kept my imagination still. I was determined to follow my Aunt Maree’s constant admonition to keep my drawers up and my dress down. It was nearly midnight when Verdeen asked us if we were ready to leave. I was tired and politely told Michael goodnight as my group stood up.
“Can I see you again?” Michael asked.
“I don’t know if that really makes sense.” I was still cautious.
“Hey, what’s wrong with a new friend, especially a new friend moving to L.A?”
“Well, okay. Here’s my cell phone number.” I wrote it on one of the less-soaked cocktail napkins. I then joined my group as they walked back onto the moon-surface parking lot for Verdeen’s van. I did notice that Michael stayed inside of the club and didn’t walk me out to say goodnight. I wondered if that was one of those important signs Nikeba had talked about.













CHAPTER EIGHT
“There is always a damn rooster somewhere when I come here,” I was not talking to myself, aloud.
It was much too early for man, woman or the little colorful beast to be awake, but it crowed as if it someone had set him like a colorful alarm clock. I got up and avoided the roll-a-way beds of children in the room as I took big steps in the direction of my clothes and the bathroom. The smell of coffee with chicory and Louisiana spices was an aroma that could not be duplicated anywhere in the world and instantly affected my mood. I had a quick shower and put on some pre-washed jeans with a torn-but-chic tee-shirt and pulled my locs into a pony tail holder. I went for the coffee and to find out what was cooking.
Those relations who weren’t piled up in Gramp’s house, were next door at Aunt Cat’s or in a nearby hotel. In addition to our Le Bon Ton tradition, we always gathered early for a breakfast that ran into lunch and into a lazy dinner. I guess the extent of our reunion was some light partying, food, cards and gossip. No real events. One year there was fishing, but that didn’t last very long. We owned a levee to the bayou behind Gramp’s house, but the water had an eerie quality and was very deep, so we kept our festivities on dry land. Our reunion was less formal and more about getting together than a fully-planned agenda. My mother and Aunt Cat were the sole survivors of their generation. They were the grand dames and organizers of the reunion now which meant they set the date and contacted everyone. The two were sitting at the round, oak antique kitchen table drinking coffee, while Stacy, Verdeen and two other cousins worked culinary magic.
“Can I help?” I bounced in.
“No, cher, we got it. Get yourself some coffee and some eggs with shrimp.” Stacy was polite.
She was an incredible cook. I looked into a serving dish and saw perfectly fluffy scrambled eggs with a side cheese sauce laced with shrimp and green onions. The toast was made from homemade bread and the smell of yeast was seductive. They were all meat-eaters and had a separate dish of bacon, sausage and pork chops. That part of the breakfast made me a little ill, but the rest was mouth-watering. The smell of what Louisianans call the holy trinity- the onions, garlic and bell pepper, fresh and finely chopped stimulated my appetite. I noticed that the men had gathered with the kids at a tables in the front yard and appeared to be waiting to be served. I bowed to the spirit of Gramp for turning even the visiting men into Creole chauvinists. I grabbed coffee, but decided to help out before filling my plate. Stacy and I had become the waitstaff for everyone. Ma dear and Aunt Cat had also moved to the tables in the front yard. Stacy and I carried and served the food.
The pleasant moment didn’t last.
“You met a nice-looking man last night, yeah, cuzan. What will you do now about what’s-his-name?” She held the large tray of scrambled eggs and cheese sauce and managed to fill all of the plates while serving up her nice-nasty remarks.
“Oh Stacy, I’m not looking to marry every man I meet. Michael will make a good friend.” I don’t know why I had the meat tray, I hate meat. But I used the longest tongs to serve up the sacrificed animals. I was tempted to use them to pinch Stacy’s large ass, but I restrained myself.
Stacy didn’t miss my verbal slap and gave one back with, “Maybe you should be lookin’ to marry, you know your clock has passed, cher.”
“I can’t think that way in my situation. With my business as it is, I stand to lose a lot more than I would gain in a hasty marriage.”
Touché. I clocked her. We both continued around the tables.
In a move that was so surprising it should have come with its own gasp, Stacy’s husband Robert, spoke up. His voice was deep, but small.
“Stacy, let Sarah live her own life, everybody’s different.”
Okaaay….not exactly profound, but he tried.
I never disliked Robert, it’s just that to me he had the presence of a hologram. It was easy to ignore the short, stodgy, medium-brown skinned man. His wavy hair was cow-licked and he was beginning to show the early signs of a beer belly. With my love of clothes, I cringed at the sight of his outfit. He wore black nylon socks with dress shoes, plaid shorts and a Hawaiian shirt. Ewww.
Where does he buy that crap?
Stacy had a tendency to start something when she felt she didn’t have the upper hand, as if she needed to put me back down to a place of despair. Clearly Michael’s attraction to me made her feel uncomfortable and ridiculously jealous. Maybe Robert was finally growing tired of Stacy’s miserable personality. My analysis was that Robert had an extreme aversion to confrontation. One manifestation of this was his tendency to quickly change awkward moments by using non sequiturs. I considered it a classic sign of avoidance. After softly chastising Stacy, he used one of his coping non sequiturs.
“You know, researchers now say that real butter is healthier than all of these margarines?” he pronounced while spreading a liberal amount of butter over a slice of toast.
Who gives a shit? Grow a ball. You spoke up, for once, be comfortable with it.

In a kind and generous move, another one of the men picked up on the theme of---- foods-once-considered-bad and-now-considered-good----and gave life to that discussion.
When my brother, Lyle chimed in I thought to myself that the testosterone-laden, pompous ass discussions were now fully in session. As the men impressed each other with their knowledge of the latest news headlines. Stacy and me seemed to call a silent truce, knowing we were both about to go too far. We were no longer the center of attention.
A breakfast that could hold up with strong chicory coffee, was no easy accomplishment, but Stacy and company pulled it off. I had managed to complete my waitress duties and overeat. The food was glorious. Full and now drowsy, I got up to begin taking dishes inside and to clean up.
“Oh, you don’t have to do those all by yourself.” Stacy offered to stay and help.
“Oh no, it’s not a problem for me. You have to go home and then come back later, so I’ll do this.” I didn’t want to spend one-on-one time with my rival.
“Okay then. See you later, cher.” Stacy touched the arm of her husband, his head bobbed up and down with drowsiness. The two left.
I kept my cell phone near the old-fashioned kitchen sink. I had convinced myself it was in case a patient or Jean needed me, but in my heart-of-hearts I was waiting for a call from Michael. While cleaning the last pot, my wish was granted. Michael called.
“Good morning. Did I really meet you last night, or was that a dream?” Michael flirted.
“Did you really use that line on me, or is this just a nightmare?” I shot back.
“Fair enough, I thought it would be funny, but it didn’t work, did it?”
“Nope. Didn’t.,” I chuckled to avoid building up any tension.
“I am happy that we met and I would like to see you before I leave. I will be flying back to Phoenix tomorrow morning. I know you guys have your reunion, but do you have any time today?” The sincerity was back in Michael’s voice.
I was hesitant, but wanted to see him too, so I told him that he would have to come around 7:00 o’clock, about the time dessert would be served. My decision to break old patterns inspired me to avoid inviting Michael to the actual family event because it would seem overly eager and too much, too soon. I instead told him he could join us for coffee. I gave him directions.
After we hung up, I wrung out the over-sized dish towel and began to clean the table, the 1950’s white stove and anything else in sight. I had to keep my hands busy so they would not reveal my excitement. I wanted to see Michael, but didn’t want to build my hopes up. I couldn’t wait for 7:00 and his arrival. I wondered how the others would react to him. It had been so many years since they even met a man with me. As I thought about it, it was back in graduate school when I brought my then boyfriend to one of these gatherings. He started flirting with my cousins, including Stacy and I asked him to leave. He was gone before the big dinner. It was embarrassing. I remember ma dear putting her hand over her cheek, the way she always did when she was embarrassed about me. I hoped that kind of humiliation would not be repeated tonight.







CHAPTER NINE
It was about 3:00 when I woke up to the sounds of people laughing and talking. I had taken a nap after cleaning up and felt a soft breeze coming through the opened window by the bed. Before I went off to nap, several of the group had gone off on their own to visit old friends in nearby towns or to sights-see in the area. The country roads were trimmed with deep ditches. And there were several plantation mansions that were now tourist attractions. The look of south Louisiana was unique and so different from the places many of us lived. I splashed water on my face and found ma dear and Aunt Cat fanning and talking on the front porch. I couldn’t tell if they had been there the whole time or napped and returned to their seats.
“I’m all fresh again and ready to work.” I announced.
“Cher, go help get the yard ready for dinner. Stacy’s been-a watching over the cooking for about an hour, they should have everything ready for 5:00.” Aunt Cat used to cook most of these dinners, but at her age now, she was happy to supervise. Stacy may not have had inherited her psychic gifts, but she did learn to prepare great meals.
Long portable catering tables, card tables and chairs were being re-set on the front lawn. The men created a make-shift bar because this meal would go into the evening.
By 5:00, the dinner had been paraded out. Large lamps hung from the big oak trees, small hurricane lamps were placed on each table. The gas lamps that laced the brick walkway in the front yard were lit and were a beautiful sight. We finished the meal before dark, but the lights gave an added warm yellow glow to the setting sun.
“Oh, it’s so good to be with family, yeah.” Aunt Cat was sipping Jack Daniels for “medicinal reasons.”
“Oh yeah, cher, it make life good.” Ma dear didn’t sip. She was drinking coffee and rocking.
While the cicadas began their symphony, Verdeen and her daughter recruited a few younger cousins to begin offering everyone a choice between apple pie, carrot cake or bread pudding with bourbon sauce. A car with Enterprise Rental license plates pulled into the long driveway.
“Who is that, that’s a different car?” Aunt Cat was the first to notice.
Michael had arrived on time 6:00. He parked and walked towards the now slightly tipsy group, waving to me as I stood on the porch.
“That’s a new friend. I met him last night at Le Bon Ton.”
“Ohhhh, really?” Ma dear didn’t bother to hide her pleasure.
Aunt Cat stared at Michael, but I couldn’t read her face.
“Hi lady. Hi everyone.” Michael waved and spoke to the group.
“Hello, it was good meeting you last night.” Stacy went to greet Michael. Her eagerness was out of place and inappropriate.
I chose to ignore her. Stacy returned to her seat next to Robert.
“This is Michael Rousseau. He’s visiting his aunt and uncle in New Iberia and we met him at Le Bon Ton.” I hoped the announcement would handle the introductions.
“Michael, this is everyone. You will have to go around the tables and introduce yourself. I’ll get you a drink, or do you want coffee and desert?
“I will skip dessert, but I would like a Jack Daniels, rocks.” Michael followed my instructions, introducing himself to Aunt Cat and Ma Dear, first and then circling the tables shaking hands. I gave Michael his drink as he was now sitting with the men. He added his voice to their man-talk and contest of who could drive the longest distance in the shortest amount of time.
“When I hit Virginia, I had beat my time, from the last time,” I heard Tray brag.
They reminded me of my father, it was his favorite conversation.
“We had to complete the entire project in three months, totally unrealistic,” Michael’s voice blended perfectly into the space where my father’s would have been. He wasn’t nervous and transitioned with the other men into the who-had-the-hardest-job contest.
“Man, that’s nothing, we rolled out a whole new system in weeks,” Lyle piped in.
I was amused by the competitive nature of the guys. I left Michael with them and rocked with Ma dear and Aunt Cat, mostly in silence. The young parents were the first to leave for their hotel rooms or rooms inside of Gramp’s house. Next, older cousins bid their farewells and soon only Aunt Cat, Ma dear, Michael and me remained on the porch. Stacy had walked over to Michael and touched his hand to say goodbye. She and Robert were the last to leave us.
“Tell me, cher, who’s ya people?” Aunt Cat always asked this of new people.
Aunt Cat was wise and sly and you could tell that she was talking about one thing, but watching Michael closely and thinking of something else. She was visibly irritated that she couldn’t ‘place’ Michael’s family. She knew many Rousseaus, but everyone she named drew a “no, not them,” from Michael.
Aunt Cat knew nearly all of the families in the area, and even if she didn’t know the younger ones, she knew of someone in their bloodline.
Aunt Cat continued to study Michael’s face and manner while she told stories of mysterious visits from the dead and the many conversations she has had with those who have passed on.
“Right here on this porch,” she pronounced, “was my first real visit with a spirit. It was the spirit of my dear mother, Lillie. She had passed a week before. Me and Bernice, was sittin’ on the porch and her spirit walked up and said for us to go on and live our lives. We yelled, mama, go back! Go back! Well, the next day, our aunt, Dabette came over and said to Bernice and me that she had had a visit from our mother the night before. She said Lilly told her, ‘go to my house and tell my silly girls to stop being so scared.’ And that is the truth!” Aunt Cat held her chin high.
“Sure is.” Ma dear testified.
.“From that time on, Cat could see and hear spirits and get strong visions, better than me. I have only seen a very few visions. They were good ones, but not anywhere near as many as Cat. Everyone around here knows that my sister can see spirits and the future!” Ma dear was proud of her sister.
Now is the time to be embarrassed. I wasn’t sure that I wanted a new guy to hear about spirit visits and visions.
Michael remained polite and interested. Aunt Cat and Ma Dear loved an audience and they moved into talking about the spells they had cast in their lifetimes, with candles and powders.
“Okay, that’s it!” I broke it up.
“Enough! This is Michael’s first time meeting you. Let’s keep the casting of spells a secret for now!”
Once the two women completed their laughter and silent assessment of Michael, they bid me and Michael goodnight. Aunt Cat went next door while Ma dear went inside, leaving the creaking of the screen door trailing off in the background.
“What a great family you have. This is so cool. I wish I had more surviving relatives who would do something like this reunion. If we all got together, we’d have fist fights before dessert,” he grinned.
“Don’t be too impressed, we have had our share, but it’s usually when someone dies. In fact, I can’t think of a funeral without a fight.”
We shared funny family stories and then ended the night with coffee and Grand Marnier.
“I better get back to my aunt and uncle’s house.” Michael rose from the chair.
“I have to get up early and run some errands, so I better get going. I’ll be moving to L.A. by the end of the month, so can I call you when I get settled in a few weeks?”
“Sure. That would be nice.”
I started to let my guard down, now that Michael talked in terms of staying in touch. We said goodnight and I watched as he started up his rental car and turned on its headlights.
As I walked to the door, I caught a glimpse of Ma dear looking my way as she came from the hall bathroom. I could see satisfaction in her face.
A Berkeley doctorate but my mom beams when a man comes to see me. This is a trip. But it was alright, I was pretty proud,too. I just wondered if I would hear from him. I wasn’t as attracted to him as I was to Lance, but he did have much more charm and was much more at ease with me. We’ll see.






CHAPTER TEN
The four-day reunion celebration seemed to end as quickly as it began. The final day was a chaotic choreography of long goodbyes and promises to stay in touch. Ma Dear and Lyle and his family, were the first to leave. They had a flight together and he would drop her off at her place in El Cerrito. Lizette and her husband and daughters followed. They kissed everyone and argued their way to the rental car before backing out and taking the rural road to the highway, and then to Lafayette and the airport.
I led the second shift. When I had finished packing my rental car, I settled into a porch chair for my traditional long goodbye chat with Aunt Cat.
“Mais cher, I’m so happy to see you looking well and successful. It makes me feel good inside. You know that your mother is so proud of you, yeah. She brags about you all the time.”
“I know. I know. She just seems ashamed of me sometimes.”
“No, cher. And don’t ever worry what your cuzan. Stacy is really jealous of you, it’s eating her up inside. She may be my daughter, but I know that her weakness is jealousy and spite, yeah.” Aunt Cat laughed a big melodious laugh before her tone changed.
“You know that I mean well by you, yeah.”
I nodded in agreement.
“Mais, I’m sorry I have to told you this, but I had a vision about your new young man.”
Aunt Cat’s visions were legend. One time she had a vision of her own son’s funeral. He had not been sick and had even survived a war, but three weeks after her vision, he was killed in a freak auto accident. His car went out of control and hit a tree head-on. He died instantly.
Another vision long ago, foretold of the birth of a grandchild, born to her daughter even though doctors said she would never conceive. Vereen and her husband, Daniel, had tried for many years to have children. They were eventually told they had less than a fifty percent chance, even with fertility treatments.
Aunt Cat never had much faith in modern medicine. She made a voodoo broom doll for fertility and good health for Vereen. And Gave Vereen instructions to buy nursery furniture, Aunt Cat told her to sit in the nursery each night and talk to the baby, (welcoming the child’s spirit into the room). Vereen became pregnant two months later, despite the medical prognosis. Aunt Cat was known all over the area for her gift.
Aunt Cat lived a simple, rural life that was as complex beneath its surface as her language. She married at the age of eighteen and remained married for sixty years until her husband’s death. As a younger woman, she was midwife to many women in the neighborhood. She seemed to be pregnant most of her life. She had children from age nineteen, until she was just over forty. Stacy was the youngest and had siblings old enough to be a parent to her.
Aunt Cat was also famous for her healing remedies that made the town’s doctors take notice. Her treatment for high blood pressure was putting salt in a sock and placing the sock in the heel of your right shoe. We laughed at that one until we learned it really worked on one of her sons.
I spent so many of my adult years trying to discount Aunt Cat’s powers, and now it seems she is going to burst this tiny bubble of mine with them.
“Sometimes…” Aunt Cat began, “…a man is not all bad, but has a bad situation. That’s what it is with this man. He has some bad spirit and a bad situation. I can make you a powder for it, but if you continue to see him, you will be caught up in it and I can’t help you, cher.
“What do you mean bad spirit? Can you tell me more of what you mean?” I tried not to sound irritated and impatient, but I was.
“I told ya Sarah, these things don’t always come in clear. My vision came to me just as you saw him off to his car. I saw a glow over him as if he was two people, cher. I was looking at you two out of the window, but I saw him in doubles. I think he is hidin’ somethin’ yeah. I saw you in tears, big tears.”
“I don’t understand, but I thank you, Auntie. I guess I will have to take this in,” I fought disappointment.
“Merci beaucoup, Auntie, I will keep my eyes open. I really will. Be safe, cher.” I kissed Aunt Cat on the cheek and jumped into the car, waved goodbye and drove off.
. What could this be about? Doubles? What does it mean?
While I drove the rural highways back to Lafayette towards the airport, I felt a tinge of sullenness.
The one time I meet someone who seems good, I get a warning, a bad vision. Maybe Aunt Cat is wrong this time. I sure hope so.
As I sped into the Lafayette city limits, I quickly took the airport exit. Within an hour I had returned my rental car and settled into my seat. I asked for a pillow and a Jack Daniels and water. I wanted to sleep, but a warning from Aunt Cat, even one I wasn’t ready to believe, prevented me from relaxing.
Is she right? Is there really something to this mystical shit? Damn!