Cursed

“I was on my way to Surette’s meat market in Lebeau before dey opened dis mornin’ when I ran into Abraham Duval,” said Sophronia Beliveau as she poured Jacqueline Rivière a cup of coffee.

“Who’s he?” asked Jacqueline, a neighbor who had stopped by to chat.

“He dat ole Creole who used ta cut my grass. He done told me he saw a ’gator crawl under Leonie Mercier’s house yesterday,” said Sophronia. “I’m worried.”

It was late morning in Palmetto, Louisiana, ten miles west of the concrete bridge over the Atchafalaya River. The summer temperature already was nearing 100 in the kitchen of Sophronia’s weather-beaten shack.

“Aw, pshaw,” responded Jacqueline, waving Saphronia’s words away. “You’re ’magin’ t’ings. Dat ole man prob’ly drinks too much!”

“He was flat sober, Jacqueline!” Sophronia asserted, looking indignant. “And he done look real scared. I know what I saw in his eyes, clear as da nose on your face.”

“Well, den, dat can’t be good,” said Jacqueline, shaking her head as she took a sip of the piping hot brew. “Dat can’t be good at all. Someone who live in dat house gonna die.”

“I know, I know,” said Sophronia, swaying back and forth in her chair. “Dat Mercier family be cursed, for sure. ’Member last month when Leonie went to Madam Ophelia—you know, dat woman who does dem tarot card readings—to learn what she could ’bout Otis, dat no good-for-nothin’ son of hers?”

“Madam Ophelia’s supposed to be the best,” said Jacqueline, nodding her head.

Truth be told, while Madam Ophelia’s track record was among the best of the tarot card readers in the area, even she would have to admit her readings benefited from huge helpings of gossip scooped from conversations with her patrons. Gossip was like currency, to be exchanged for power and prestige. Also, there was the gossip to be heard at Surette’s meat market, where word of mouth flew over the counter as fast as the ground beef and smoked pork. Surette’s was the Mother Lode when it came to gossip, and anything and everything in the air there was grist for Madam Ophelia’s mill. So, it’s not surprising that word-of-mouth about Leonie Mercier’s son Otis would have dominated many a conversation between counterman and customer.

“Dat boy be cursed from da moment Leonie done birthed ’im,” Jacqueline continued. “Born under a bad sign, he was.”

Sophronia agreed. “Big old clumsy man. Dey always called ’im Grande Bétaille.”

“I heard he slept wit’ da Moon shinin’ on ’is face. Dat’s why ’is mouth was crooked, ya know.”

“I know. An’ he never could hold a job, either.”

“What did Madam Ophelia tell Leonie, do ya ’member?”

“Well, it wasn’t good, dat’s for sure. She dealt Leonie The Fool, the Eight of Wands, The Devil, the Seven of Swords, an’ . . . well—”

“Really? Really?! You’re not gonna tell me dat last card?”

[Sophronia hesitated.] “Death.”

“I knew it! I knew it!” said Jacqueline, setting her cup down hard on the saucer. “An’ look what done happened! Sure ’nuff, jus’ last week, da State Po-leece done found Otis floating head-down, drowned in da bayou west of Levee Road. ’Xactly like Madam Ophelia said wud happen!”

“I’m tellin’ ya, if dat ole Creole really done seen a ’gator crawling under Leonie’s house yesterday, bad t’ings gonna happen for sure.”

“But who gonna die?”

“At least one of da three people dat live der.”

“I know, I know . . . could be Leonie, dat good-for-nothin’ husband of hers, Rémy, and her daughter, Ida,” replied Jacqueline.

“Why she hasn’t t’rown Rémy out by now is beyon’ me,” said Sophronia, shaking her head. “Dat man never held a job longer dan six months, at best.”

“Fifteen years wasted on to dat bon à rien of a man,” continued Jacqueline as she took a handkerchief from her purse and mopped her brow. The heat and humidity in the kitchen were overwhelming.

Sophronia rose, walked to the window, and lifted the sash to its full height to let more of what passed for fresh air into the room. Turning, she said: “Well, wouldn’t be no harm if da Lord took dat good-for-nothin’ man home. Dat’s my ’pinion. Leonie certainly deserves better!”

“An’ dat daughter of hers ain’t no charmer either,” said Jacqueline.

“Dat’s for sure. Always stayin’ out late, drinkin’ and havin’ sex, even with men 10 years older dan her. An’ poor Leonie always havin’ ta fight with Rémy, who keeps givin’ da girl money ta buy fancy clothes an’ stuff.”

“’Member da time earlier dis year when Leonie and Ida got into dat knock-down, drag-out fight over da keys to Leonie’s car tha’ sent Leonie to da hospital wit’ a gash over ’er eye?”

“An’ Ida to juvenile detention,” Sophronia added. “She shoulda done stayed there for a month or two ’stead of jus’ two nights. Dat would have teached dat girl somethin’!”

Jacqueline shook her head. “It’s jus’ terrible!”

They sat quietly for a few moments, sipping their coffees. The only sound heard was the non-stop chatter of the dog-day cicadas.

It was Sophronia who finally spoke. “So, whaddaya t’ink we should do?”

“You mean ‘bout gettin’ Leonie outta da house for a while?”

“Yes. We have ta do somethin’.”

“Doesn’t she have a sister upstate a bit. I t’ought I heard her talk ’bout an older sister one time . . . Lavette, or Laverne, or somethin’ like dat.”

“It’s Lavette. And you’re right. She lives between Cottonport and Moreauville, on da bayou. It’s where da family home is. 'Er mother still lives der, too,” said Sophronia.

“Well, dat makes it easy, den. All we gotta do is guilt Leonie into makin’ a trip ta see her maman. Somethin’ on the order of two weeks or so should do, jus’ ta make sure her maman is doin’ well in da heat of the summer, ya know,” Jacqueline said, winking.

“Perfect! Dat should be long enough to save Leonie’s life.”

“An’ den, for all we care, the Lord can take both Rémy an’ Ida!”