Acadian Waltz Read online

  Acadian Waltz

  By

  Alexandrea Weis

  World Castle Publishing

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, organizations, or person, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  WCP

  World Castle Publishing

  Pensacola, Florida

  Copyright © Alexandrea Weis 2013

  ISBN: 9781938961793

  First Edition World Castle Publishing January 15, 2013

  http://www.worldcastlepublishing.com

  Licensing Notes

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in articles and reviews.

  Cover: Karen Fuller

  Photos: Shutterstock

  Editor: Maxine Bringenberg

  For My Mom

  Wish You Were Here

  Chapter 1

  For many, the course of an entire lifetime could be summed up in a few defining moments, but moments do not choose your path. There was always an indescribable force lurking inside of us that shaped our destiny. Whether this motivation was the result of fear, longing, or in my case, guilt, it haunted our being and oversaw our every action. Like a constant voice inside our heads, this energy gave each of our lives direction.

  My inner voice was hugely influenced by the city where I was born. Built at the bend in the Mississippi River and tucked behind protective levees, New Orleans nurtured a peculiar world infatuated with the Catholic rituals of sin and penance. Therefore, it should be no surprise that those of us who endured in this swamp-ridden land below the level of the sea had mastered the art of sin. In fact, we turned it into something of a tourist industry. It was the penance part that many of us had not quite gotten a handle on. But God, in his infinite wisdom, wanted to make sure that we were always reminded of our heavy feelings of culpability. That was why he created the greatest guilt-making machine of them all—the mother.

  Mine was named Claire Mouton Gaspard Kehoe Schuller. My mother’s first husband, Etienne Gaspard, had been her high school sweetheart. Etienne was known for running touchdowns, shrimp boats, and little else. Their marriage ended the day my mother first laid eyes on Clayton Kehoe at the criminal court house, where she had gone, yet again, to bail her drunk husband out of jail.

  Her second husband, the late Clayton Kehoe, had been a prominent attorney in the city of New Orleans. Mother’s current husband was a Jewish jewelry maker named Lou Schuller. Lou was not as influential as Kehoe had been, but infinitely more skilled with gold and diamonds, which invariably pleased my mother to no end. But my mother had always insisted that it was Clayton Kehoe who had swept her off her feet from the first moment their eyes met.

  “Your father,” Mother would always say. “Had the sweetest way of talking, and he always knew how to treat a lady like a queen.”

  My mother was nineteen and my father was thirty-two when they married. It was a happy marriage, with lots of parties, many friends, and eventually the arrival of me, Nora Theresa Kehoe. I was named after my mother’s favorite saint and my father’s favorite movie star.

  Marriage to my father must have agreed with Claire. She enjoyed being the wife of a well-connected New Orleans attorney, and thrived on the social circuit of parties and political gatherings. Even after my father died when I was fourteen, she would still meet with her old friends from the various political groups around the city, and pound the pavement for many of my father’s former colleagues who were running for office. But that all ended when she married Lou Schuller.

  At fifty-five, Lou was dumpy, chubby, bald, and had the personality of a matzo ball. But Lou had the money to keep Claire in the lifestyle to which she had made herself accustomed, even after all the insurance money my father had left ran out. In the beginning of their marriage, Lou tolerated my mother’s love for the social scene, but he soon grew tired of the endless cocktail parties and political fundraisers, and reined in Claire’s activities. Now, after fifteen years of marriage, middle-aged, and trying to cope with the passage of her youth, my mother had found a new venture in which to place all of her efforts; me. Or more to the point, my marriage to some man, preferably wealthy, in the hopes of attaining the beat all and end all of middle age—grandchildren.

  “You’re thirty now, Nora. It’s time to meet a man and settle down. Why haven’t you found someone? It can’t be all bad out there,” my mother began one Sunday morning in March.

  I had returned home to join Mother and Lou for our weekly brunch at their large home off St. Charles Avenue.

  “Mother, the worth of a woman is not measured by the size of the diamond she wears on the third finger of her left hand. Maybe I don’t want to get married,” I griped as I buttered a piece of toast at the grand mahogany table we were forced to dine at for every meal.

  “Not get married!” Mother roared, making the fine blue veins on her forehead pop out. “I knew I shouldn’t have sent you off to college. Those professors fill young girls’ heads with ideas, like women’s rights and global éclairs.”

  “Global affairs, Mother.” I rolled my eyes, mortally embarrassed that she could confuse a pastry with equal rights. “I didn’t learn about women’s rights by going off to college. I studied it in high school, along with all the other—”

  Mother put her hand dramatically to her chest. “Oh, my God, you’re a lesbian!”

  “Now, Claire,” Lou chimed in, giving my mother a critical gaze over his thick, black-rimmed glasses.

  “Well, I can’t tell, Lou.” Mother’s puppy-like brown eyes looked from me to my stepfather. “You know how kids are today; all that experimenting they do. She probably hung out with lesbians in high school. That’s how it starts. I saw a television show on lesbians once. That’s why she never brings over any men to meet us, and why I never see her with any girlfriends.” She paused and her lower lip quivered ever so slightly. “Do you have friends, Nora? You know, the normal kind?”

  “Mother, stop it.” I pounded my fist on the brightly polished mahogany table. “I work fifty hours a week at the hospital running the total joint program for the orthopedic department. I don’t have time for friends. I don’t bring any of my dates here because you would scare them to death.” I shook my head as the tremble of her lower lip became more pronounced. “Mother, I’m thirty years old. I‘m well past experimenting and no, I’m not a lesbian.” My mother’s shoulders sagged with relief. “Why should I want to marry anyway? I already own a house. I make great money as a physical therapist. I’m working my way up the corporate ladder and have lots of opportunity to further my career in management. What in the hell do I need a husband for?”

  Mother rolled her large eyes, accentuating the wrinkles beneath them. Her bright red hair shimmered under the dining hall imported Irish crystal chandelier. “Nora, a husband can’t be out of fashion. How do you expect to have children?”

  “I don’t have to get married to have children, Mother. Conception has been known to happen outside of the marriage bed.” I winked at Lou.

  Lou, turning a light shade of red, tried to shrink further down in his chair.

  “No daughter of mine is going to have a child without a wedding. Can you imagine what all of my friends would say? What would Father Delacroix say? What would the Women’s League of St. Rita’s Church say?” Mother pulled at the pale cream lapels on her perfectly pressed Chanel suit. “Lou, say something!” she shouted.

  He peered over at my mother with his pale hazel eyes “Claire, you’re overreacting.” He stabbed a thick piece o
f ham on his plate with his fork. “Give the kid a break. She’ll marry when she’s ready.”

  My mother stood from her chair and dropped her linen napkin on her untouched plate of ham and grits. “When will that be? I’ll be dead before she’s married, and I’ll never get to see my grandchildren.”

  “Grandchildren?” I chuckled with profound amusement.

  She balled her hands into fists and her pale complexion began to boil over red as she glared at me. “I want grandchildren!” she hollered, while pumping her diamond and gold-encrusted fists up and down for added effect.

  “Mother, please,” I begged as I sat back in my chair, stifling my desire to bolt from the room.

  “If you don’t give me grandchildren before I’m old, you will have broken the first cardinal rule of being a daughter.”

  “What rule?” Lou asked, and then stuffed his piece of ham into his mouth.

  “That daughters are obligated to provide grandchildren for the pleasure of their parents, and the betterment of mankind,” Claire barked as her voice broke under the strain of her rage.

  “The betterment of mankind…really, Mother! Eliminating all politicians I can see being for the betterment of mankind, but children?”

  “Since when do you want to be a grandmother?” Lou inquired as he eyed my mother, half-laughing. “You had a panic attack last year when your daughter turned thirty. Cost me fifteen-grand in plastic surgery, that did.”

  “Shut up, Lou!” she yelled. “This is not about age, it’s about duty. Every generation is obligated to the one that went before it. Grandchildren are part of that duty.”

  “Duty? For goodness sake, Claire, it’s the not the invasion of Normandy.” Lou slammed his napkin down on the table and stood up. “Children should be born out of love, not because of some silly sense of duty. Let Nora find someone to love first, then you can pester the poor girl about grandchildren,” he argued, giving Mother one last scolding with his eyes. He turned from the table and marched out of the mahogany-paneled dining room.

  Mother scowled at me. “Now look what you’ve done.”

  “Me? You yelled at him.” I picked up my plate. “You can’t make me do something I don’t want to do, Mother. I’ll marry and have children when I’m damned good and ready.” I turned from my mother and carried my plate into the kitchen, signifying that the conversation, as far as I was concerned, was over.

  But little did I realize on that Sunday morning that the full impact of a mother’s guilt had been passed on to me. The heavy mantle of parental expectations had been thrown over my shoulders, because after that day, something inside of me changed, and my life would never be the same.

  * * *

  I left Mother and Lou later that morning and headed out of the city. I drove past the swamps that surround the metropolitan area as I made my way toward the small town of Manchac. The community was on the outskirts of Lake Pontchartrain, and was made up of old Cajun families who had always made their living on the freshwater fish and shellfish found in the Louisiana bayous.

  I veered off the interstate and down a shell-covered road leading to one of the harbors located along the edge of the lake, where many of the best shrimpers and fishermen in the state did their business. Setting out well before sunrise, these intrepid men with rough, callused hands and worn out souls scoured the bayous of southeast Louisiana to catch their living. They worked every day except for Sunday. No one fished on Sunday. That was God’s day, and in this predominately Catholic community, a day for church. But after church, most of the men in these parts could be found on the docks next to the lake, tending to their boats, fixing broken nets, drinking lots of beer, and communing with their own kind.

  When I pulled my blue Honda Accord up to the Gaspard Fisheries boatyard early that afternoon, I found a line of beat-up Ford pick up trucks in the parking lot. I walked to the long pier, where over fifty shrimp trawlers and fishing boats were docked, then sauntered down the familiar planks until I came to launch number twenty-two, and a trawler named Rosalie.

  “Uncle Jack,” I called out to the empty deck of the old trawler.

  All about the bleached wooden deck were scattered tools, an assortment of nets, and large coils of thick rope. Perched away at the far end of the deck, facing out to the expanse of the blue lake, was an old wooden deck chair. Over the top of the back of the chair, I could make out a faded blue cap, and sitting next to the chair was an open ice chest with two longnecks of beer protruding over the rim of the container.

  “Jacques Mouton,” I shouted one more time as I slung my purse securely over my shoulder. I made my way down the two four-by-four planks that served as a gangway until a sudden motion from the chair caught my attention.

  “Who’s there?” a raspy voice called out from the deck chair.

  I hopped off the gangway and on to the deck of the boat. “Uncle Jack, its Nora.”

  Peering out from the side of the deck chair was a square, suntanned face with small, sky blue eyes. He had sunken cheekbones, a long pointy noise, and silver whiskers covering his chin and cheeks.

  “Nora T?” He jumped from his chair. He was dressed in a greasy pair of jeans, a grungy white T-shirt, and no shoes. “What you doin’ out here so early, girl?”

  “It’s after two, Uncle Jack. How long have you been asleep?”

  “After two?” He pushed his blue cap back on his head, showing his sterling gray hair.

  I motioned to the ice chest. “How many beers have you had?”

  “Enough to lose track of the time.” He walked over and hugged me.

  He smelled of grease and sweat. His T-shirt clung to his back and I could detect the beer on his breath as his lips brushed my cheek.

  “I’ve told you before, Uncle Jack, no more than two a day. It’s not good for your blood pressure,” I scolded as I pulled away from his arms.

  He nodded his head and backed away from me. “I know, but it’s just too hard for me, child. Old men can’t change their ways.”

  “Old men had better change their ways or they’ll be dead men.” I placed my purse down on the boat deck, unzipped the top, and started going through it. “Go and sit in your chair,” I ordered as I pulled out a blood pressure cuff and a stethoscope. “Let’s just see how bad your pressure is today.”

  Uncle Jack went and sat dutifully in his deck chair, then held out his arm to me. “You don’t have to come and take my pressure every Sunday, you know. I could go to that free clinic in town.”

  I rolled my eyes at him. “You would never go to the clinic. You would just tell me you were going.” I placed the cuff around his arm.

  “You look more like your mama every day,” he said as his eyes explored my face. “You have her oval face, creamy skin, and her high cheekbones, but you got my blue eyes and blond hair.”

  “And my father’s big mouth.” I placed the stethoscope to my ears and began inflating the blood pressure cuff.

  Uncle Jack sat patiently waiting for me to finish before he spoke again.

  “Your father was a smart man, Nora T. You’re smart, just like him.”

  I unwrapped the cuff from about his arm. “Yeah, well, four packs of cigarettes a day wasn’t that smart.” I sighed as I took in his blue eyes. “One forty-two over ninety-five; borderline, but still higher than I’d like, Uncle Jack.”

  “My pressure, she’s fine.” He reached over and patted my arm. “Stop worryin’ ‘bout me.”

  I rolled the blood pressure cuff up with my stethoscope. “If I don’t worry, who will? Auntie Elise has been gone almost twelve years now, and Nathan has….” I wanted to kick myself for bringing up my dead cousin’s name.

  He turned and scoured the blue water of the lake behind him. “He’s been gone six years. Six years since he drown in Katrina.” He shook his head, reliving the nightmares of the past. “Seems like yesterday this was his boat. His problem, and now….” His eyes found mine. “How’s your mama?” he asked.

  I walked back to my purse and put my
equipment away. “Driving me mad. She wants grandchildren. She says I owe her grandchildren.”

  My uncle rubbed the gray stubble on his face. “You do know that your mama is bracque…real crazy, she is. She done been that way ever since she was a youngin’. Always wantin’ the world, and tellin’ everybody how to get it for her. Don’t pay her no mind.”

  “Well, today she really got to me.” I paused for a moment and looked out over the blue water of Lake Pontchartrain. “Perhaps she’s right. I’m thirty now and I should think about getting married,” I mumbled.

  “What about love, girl? Don’t you want to be in love before you marry someone?”

  I faced my uncle and shrugged. “Love would be nice.”

  He zeroed his blue eyes on me. “Nice? Child, love better be all you’re after, ’cause the rest don’t work without it. Don’t be in a rush to marry, Nora T, if your heart ain’t in it.” Uncle Jack laughed, his warm cackle that always entertained me as a child. “You don’t want to end up like your mama, do you?”

  “No, I don’t,” I admitted with a smirk.

  “So why you listenin’ to her?” He paused and stared at me for a moment. “Anyways, I ain’t known you to be serious about no beau.”

  “Most men bore me.”

  “So you one of those…those lesbots?” he queried.

  “Lesbians,” I corrected, shaking my head. “Mother asked me the same thing this morning. No, I’m not a lesbian.”

  “Now that’s a damn shame!” a man’s velvety voice said sarcastically behind us.

  I turned to see the towering, muscular figure of a man, dressed in a casual pair of khaki slacks with a blue knit polo shirt, make his way onto the boat deck. He had wavy, black hair with a touch of gray around his temples, and deep brown eyes with long black eyelashes. His suntanned, square face had a protruding brow that only seemed to intensify the unsettling quality of his dark eyes, while his thin, red lips appeared to be frozen in a perpetual smirk.