Cane River Part 32

Oct. the 27th, a.d., 1906Redemption post officeMy dear Cousin Antoine,You will excuse me for not answering your letter sooner, I will say to you I have been to New Orleans since you left school. It was on business, and I returned eight days ago. I am very glad to know of your safe arrival at Memphis, Tenn., especially after hearing about the disasters you narrowly avoided. Last Sunday your father and your mother told me that you are at a new school that has been opened and I think that will be a greater advantage to you.Now, do as I told you at the station when you left. If anything should happen to me, no matter what, take possession of that which I have. I give you all that I have acc.u.mulated. That is my will. Not a cent for my brothers, remembering the ingrat.i.tude of which you know. Settle my accounts. Above all, do for my children as I said. I transfer to you all my rights. Take care of this letter.Now, work hard. This will be the last year of hard work for you. Try to work so to be received in the world. You know how difficult the field is, and you have tackled it with courage, and that is what makes me believe in you. As to the examination, you will go out one of the first, and afterwards, you know, if your father cannot afford to do for you what you need, I will. Accept then my sincere friendship. Your Cousin. And if you need anything, write to me.Joseph Billes Antoine stumbled slightly at the part referring to his inability to afford to do for his son, but he finished reading the letter with a flourish, allowing a dramatic pause to develop before he went on.

"So you see," he said, directing the comment to Emily, "this letter makes it clear that Joseph wanted us to handle his affairs, that he trusted us to do the right thing for your children. It's the Grandchamps with their greedy hand out that we need to fight, and with this, I'm prepared to take that hand out of our pocket once and for all."

"What about the will, the one they found at his house?" Emily asked. "It was written after that letter."

Antoine talked directly to Emily, but she saw his eyes slide briefly to T.O. before coming back to rest on hers. T.O.'s face was ashen as he stared down at the table, never lifting his head.

"That was a mistake, never valid," Antoine said dismissively. "And it seems the original has disappeared. Once this letter is recognized as the last will and testament, we can accomplish the same thing. Surely you trust us?"

Emily said nothing, trying to shut out the memory of Joseph's visit to her the night before he was killed. The court would no doubt accept this old, stained letter once Antoine brought it forward, even though they had rejected the later will for not being in the proper form. And it was unlikely this letter would disappear.

"I don't expect you to follow this, nothing to worry about," Antoine went on, "but Joseph gave Lola a great deal of property when they first got married, a donation, like this land you're living on here. He regretted it immediately after they actually married, and he got her to sign it back over to him, in front of witnesses. Lola's people are trying to lay claim to that land as being hers, and rightfully theirs now that she is dead. With this last will and testament, we'll prove that it all comes to us. Then we'll be able to see after you and your share, once the law gets out of it. I just want to make sure there's no loose talk about Joseph and his wishes to have us handle his estate for him. Not that there would be, or that anyone would listen, but the law can be demanding. Better not to tangle overmuch with either the law or the Grandchamps, eh?" Antoine gave a wink. "We can straighten everything out between us later, after it is finished."

They all sat quiet, alone with their thoughts. Emily wondered whom there was to truly mourn Joseph, other than his family on Cornfine Bayou.

Joseph Billes's last will and testament, entered into evidence, Louisiana Supreme Court.

The trials spilled over into two years of appeals, moving from Colfax to New Orleans, where the Louisiana Supreme Court heard the case without anyone from Cornfine Bayou being involved in any way. Once again the demands of farm life consumed them, and they seldom heard anything about the case or even spoke of it.

T.O. came back from Colfax one day enraged, so filled with disbelief that they could hardly understand him. "It was him," he said. "I heard his voice. I'm not likely to forget that, am I? The voice in the woods. He was in it with Antoine all along, doing the deed and then sitting on the police jury, cozy with the judge."

"T.O., calm down, tell us what's happened. What voice in the woods?" Emily said, but her son wasn't listening.

T.O. paced in the front room, his hands thrust deep into his pockets, his eyes narrow with rage. "Antoine Morat cheated us. He has the court on his side, from here down to New Orleans. He never had any intention to do as Papa wished. They settled with Lola's family already, twelve thousand dollars, and they aren't going to give us anything at all."

Louisiana Supreme Court record, 1908.

Emily tried to make sense of T.O.'s words. Was it all over? "Did you talk to Antoine?"

T.O. curled his lip. "He laughed at me, him and his lawyer, just back from New Orleans and victory. He paid the Grandchamps off, but said we held no such legal claims. Well, I can get a lawyer, too."

"T.O., there's no more to be done."

Emily did her best to soothe her son. Suing Antoine and A. J. Morat was a man's way, full of strutting, with nothing to be gained in the long run. There had been murder over the land already; they weren't going to give it up now to an impotent colored man just because he shouted it was unfair. The women's way was more effective. They might be ignored, abused, or dominated, but in the end the women were more practical, keeping their eye on whatever prize was within their grasp. But T.O. couldn't hear that in his current mood, not from her.

As an emigrant from the old country years ago, Jos. Billis knew the eventual value of American realty and forests, and put forth his hands and with little effort acc.u.mulated a competence, becoming with its increased value wealthy. He had little in common with the world, and took small part in its affairs. During all this time there grew up around him quite a brood of children, off-springs of his illegitimate union with a colored woman. He loved those children and they and their mother lived in the house with him. It was in their common dwelling he returned each night after tossing about on the ocean of life, but he never ventured far from the sh.o.r.e. This was the refuge he sought. Here is where his heart was at rest-such rest as a heart could get amid such environments and constant reminders of wrong doing. Here is where if his heart was ever warmed by childhood affection, it was when the thick lips of his dark skin mulatto children pressed his.We would call the Court's attention also to the testimony of Mr. Raney Antee at page 125 of the transcript, who testified to a number of quarrels and serious altercations between these spouses about the husband's negro wife and negro children. Mr. Pierre Antee at page 127 of the transcript testified to a number of serious disputes between them and from which it appears that she wanted him to give up his negro wife and children, but which he refused to do, declaring that he was going to lose the last drop of his blood before he would do so.

Lawyer's summation and witness testimony, Louisiana Supreme Court, 1908.

Emily couldn't stop T.O. from going to Montgomery to find a lawyer to represent the family. After the case was already cold, T.O. filed suit against A. J. Morat. Emily knew it was as much about wanting to be seen as Joseph Billes's son as it was the land. In 1909, his action was ineffective at best, presumptuous and dangerous at worst. They accepted his pet.i.tion, then laughed him out of court.

"Bring back a paper saying Joseph Billes married your mama, boy," the judge said, "and then we'll look at your claim."

45.

P hilomene carried the food tray down the hallway to the back bedroom she shared with Suzette. The old woman was asleep, breathing heavily. Philomene slid the tray on the bedside table and gently shook her mother awake. hilomene carried the food tray down the hallway to the back bedroom she shared with Suzette. The old woman was asleep, breathing heavily. Philomene slid the tray on the bedside table and gently shook her mother awake.

Suzette slowly shifted between sleep and wakefulness, cranky from the start. "I want collard greens," she complained.

"It's not the right season, Maman. Maman. We fixed up a nice plate so you could eat before everybody gets here." We fixed up a nice plate so you could eat before everybody gets here."

"I want one of the others." Suzette's voice was a petulant whine. "You drop food all over me on purpose. You do that with Madame and she'll sell you off to the first one pa.s.sing by, sell you so quick your head spins. Away from everybody you know." She leaned toward Philomene conspiratorially. "You have to be careful, but I spit right in his winegla.s.s. Listen to what I'm telling you. Pick your time. The rest isn't important, you do what you have to. They're all right, you know, if you know how to work with them."

"Uh-huh," Philomene said. "Sit up a little, Maman. Maman."

Suzette chuckled. "I changed my name. They can't find me now. You better believe they're out there looking, too, but I got them this time."

"It's hard to eat when you keep talking," Philomene said.

Suzette stopped and considered the plate of cut chicken, rice and gravy, green peas and cornbread. "This doesn't have any taste."

"I'll put some more hot sauce on it for you, Maman. Maman."

"He up and married a white woman. Those babies have a chance, though."

Philomene studied the hand that gripped the spoon as she moved the food toward Suzette's mouth, and she found surprises there. Light and dark splotches speckled her hands, and the skin sagged around the colony of tiny wrinkles near her knuckles. Her grip was firm, but ropy veins protruded upward from under the skin, as if they were trying to escape their prison. If she didn't look at her hands, she could forget she was a sixty-eight-year-old woman. She had never been vain about her appearance, indifferent until she started to lose the things others envied: her figure, the thin coolness of her hands, the l.u.s.ter of her thick hair, the elegant stiffness of her bearing.

Her mother was petulant today, pushing her to the point where Philomene grew impatient, but she didn't like sending the young ones in to look after Suzette when she got this way. Suzette lived much of her time on the plantation, and there was no point in having them hearing too much of that. They had fought their way beyond it. They had their own land now and paid their taxes promptly every year. She had never once missed a payment since the time she had almost been late twenty-five years before, in 1884.

In certain moods Suzette stroked Mary's sandy hair with grat.i.tude and longing. "Don't you ever let dark hands touch this," she would say. "You're too good for the likes of that. You come from quality, and you owe it to your children." The problem was that neither Josephine nor Mary had an acceptable suitor, and they were already well into their prime marrying years.

Philomene heard the boastful rooster outside as she fed Suzette her dinner. In her mind's eye she could see the old red c.o.c.k puff out his feathered chest in response to the first of the family to arrive outside, announcing each batch of visitors as they pulled up to the house. Right alongside, or from a more restful, shady spot, their ancient yellow dog would barely lift his head. The dog was another of the strays Suzette insisted they keep, back when she was still vigorous enough to take care of them. In his day he had been a good watchdog, but now he was blind in one eye, and great patches were gone from his once golden fur. The dog had conceded his custodial responsibilities to the rooster the year before.

State of Louisiana tax receipts, 1884 and 1899.

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Mary and Josephine Billes.

Unlike the dog that drowsed in the shade of the gallery, Sunday visiting day on Cornfine Bayou brimmed over with energy, life renewing itself. Philomene's children came, with their own futures in tow. Spouses, live-ins, children, grandchildren, stepchildren, in-laws, so many sometimes that it was hard to keep track. Philomene had borne ten, and six were able to come to her and pay their respects each week. Three dead and buried in small mounds, taken before childhood, and one who had used his light color to run off to Texas and pa.s.s from the life they were living in Louisiana.

Bet, the oldest, came with her new husband, the third she was in the process of outliving, in a wagon full of squirming children, stepchildren, and grandchildren. Once her first husband died from fever she had gone on to older men, widowers looking for a strong woman to take care of them, who would adapt to their set ways. Bet was that woman. She seemed to pick the ones too old to outlive her, but not so old that they couldn't give her more children. From hardy, long-life stock, she was no good living without a man.

Philomene's youngest, Matchie, had married and had two quick babies already. He seemed happy enough.

Her son Joseph had always been a ladies' man. There were so many Josephs in the family, they took to nicknames and initials. Philomene's son was Joe F., and he brought his Indian-looking wife, a pretty little thing who always brought to mind her grandfather Gerasime. She liked Fannie. The girl had been raised right, a pleasant young woman capable of making herself useful, and they already had two children, little Narcease and Gurtie. Philomene knew her son's nature, and she wasn't sure how long Fannie could hold Joe F.'s interest.

Joe F Married Two times His first Wife was Fannie Nash, they had two children Narcease and Gurtie.--Cousin Gurtie Fredieu, written family history, 1975

Nick had taken up with a baby-faced white woman from the hills named Kate, and they had a little girl named O'Rena who was oh so sweet. Kate wasn't prepared to be a wife. Philomene didn't consider her cooking worth eating, she couldn't dress the deer Nick caught, her garden went to seed from neglect, and she kept a dirty house. She had been cut off from her own family, probably because of Nick, but Philomene didn't ask. The girl pressured Nick until he took her up to Montgomery to get married before the baby was born. They didn't know either of them there, and Nick lied about his color, so they married the couple. It might not be strictly legal, but the girl had her piece of paper, and she convinced herself that the children were going to be legitimate.

Henry married a girl from over Campti way, but there were no children yet.

And, of course, her Emily. On Sundays Emily was the centerpiece in a house overrun with family. She carried on as if she had no cares in the world and refused to allow sorrow to come into her house for too long a stay. She fed everyone, young and old, colored and white. Her rules of conduct were few, but they couldn't be violated. Everyone past the age of crawling had to have at least a sip of her homemade wine shortly after coming through her door. Each mother had to control her own children, make sure they did not act like common riffraff and were respectful of their elders.

And after dinner, when the dishes were cleared and washed and the smallest children laid down for their naps, Nick would pull out his fiddle. Alone in the middle of the front room with the audience clapping and cheering her on, Emily would dance a spirited three-step, as spry as they all remembered. The children were entranced, the adults impressed. No one dared to leave before she tired. No one wanted to. Sundays were the best time they had.

Narcisse's son Edd always came alone to their Sunday dinners when he could. If he met any of them in town, there would be a curt acknowledging nod, white to color, but in the woods on Cornfine Bayou they met like family.

Joseph was still in the house with them, even though he had been dead for two years. Emily wouldn't speak his name out loud, but Philomene knew that she carried him with her in spirit. Her daughter had lost the freshness that had been captured so well in the oil painting over the mantel of their front room, but she was still a good-looking woman, trim and lively into middle age. She had learned to dance alone and not dwell on the past, a lesson she hadn't been able to pa.s.s on to her son.

There was little to be done for the boy. He was grown, but T.O. was one of the many Philomene had seen who took each hurt inside and nursed it until it threatened to rupture. She felt helpless when she thought about her grandson.

Philomene realized that Suzette had slipped into sleep, and she wasn't sure how long she had allowed her reveries to keep her in the bedroom. Certainly longer than she intended. It wasn't in her nature to sit idly. There was always something to be done, some child to look after, a meal to cook, an animal to feed, clothes to mend, her mother less able to do for herself with each pa.s.sing day, but she caught herself more often drowsing in the sun, taking too long to do too little. Like now.

With Suzette fed and resting, Philomene went out to the front gallery to get some air. Two of the great-grandchildren had spoons from the kitchen and sat in the middle of small mounds of freshly loosened dirt in the front yard, seeing how deep a pit they could dig. Their faces and mouths were striped with the muddy remains of dirt they had eaten.

Philomene swooped down on the children, yanking them upright by their collars, startling them into bewildered tears. She looked at the unmistakable signs even as she began to comfort the children, blubbering and shaken, but it was too late.

Digging in the front yard meant someone was going to die.

Two weeks later Suzette pa.s.sed over peacefully, in her sleep.

Eighty-five had been a long, respectable life, and Philomene hoped Suzette was someplace now that offered more than the indignities she had borne in this one.

If Emily was the bloom in Philomene's garden and Elisabeth the root that reached down deep enough to anchor itself and search for nourishment, Suzette had been the soil itself, buffeted by winds, withstanding storms, baked by the sun. Philomene met her mother's death with grim acceptance.

Death would be knocking on her own door soon enough, and she would have to let him in.

She wasn't ready.

46.

J oseph Billes may not have been allowed to leave the inheritance that he intended, but he left a legacy that a.s.sured T.O.'s privilege among Negro and colored alike. T.O. himself, along with his brother and sisters, and his mother, for that matter, could have pa.s.sed for white anywhere in the country, anywhere except for this part of Louisiana. His background dictated that he marry an as-yet-unnamed but clearly defined wife who would bring more of the same to the table. White skin, light eyes, straight hair, Catholic upbringing. And fertile, so the next generation could put even more distance between themselves and Negroes and come closer to white. It was even possible for him to marry white the way his uncle Nick encouraged him to do. oseph Billes may not have been allowed to leave the inheritance that he intended, but he left a legacy that a.s.sured T.O.'s privilege among Negro and colored alike. T.O. himself, along with his brother and sisters, and his mother, for that matter, could have pa.s.sed for white anywhere in the country, anywhere except for this part of Louisiana. His background dictated that he marry an as-yet-unnamed but clearly defined wife who would bring more of the same to the table. White skin, light eyes, straight hair, Catholic upbringing. And fertile, so the next generation could put even more distance between themselves and Negroes and come closer to white. It was even possible for him to marry white the way his uncle Nick encouraged him to do.

Generations had been sacrificed for his look. The thought filled T.O. with such despair that sometimes he didn't know how he could go on. He spent hours locked in his own mind, playing with ways he could live out his life without this constant coil of hopeless entrapment.

He thought about moving away from Louisiana and pa.s.sing, like his uncle Eugene, but was sure he couldn't make it on his own. Deep down he didn't think he could carry it off. Everyone would know he was an impostor.

When he looked in a mirror, it was a haunted man who looked back at him; an incomplete man with flat eyes and a crippled soul, inadequate in every way that mattered. A man who stood by and did nothing to prevent his own father from being murdered. A man who couldn't live up to his responsibilities to those he should be able to protect, accepting crumbs instead of finding a way to win the inheritance that belonged to his family.

T.O. despised the man in the mirror, and with an uncharacteristic clarity knew what he needed to do to break the chain. He didn't have the courage or the stamina to go up against Morat again. That was all over. The one thing he could do was to strengthen the blood of his own children. How many times had his mother told him blood was everything? She meant white blood, but he didn't believe in that anymore. He would find a mother for his children who was everything he was not. Strong. Determined. Capable. Unafraid. And not brought up with the same att.i.tudes that in the end would keep the wheel going in the same direction. That meant a woman who had no pretensions toward being colored Creole. A Negro woman. This would be the boldest act of courage he had undertaken in the thirty years he had been on this earth, because it would run contrary to his mother's wishes. He looked again into the mirror.

It would stop with him, and something new would begin again.

"Maman, this is Eva Brew," T.O. said nervously in English. Eva was the first girl he had ever brought home, and he counted on Emily's relief to give him an extra measure of forgiveness in his choice. He was thirty, and Eva was nineteen. this is Eva Brew," T.O. said nervously in English. Eva was the first girl he had ever brought home, and he counted on Emily's relief to give him an extra measure of forgiveness in his choice. He was thirty, and Eva was nineteen.

T.O. hardened himself, conscious of the half beat too long while Emily digested Eva. Nappy hair parted down the center and pulled back tightly in two coiled braids, accentuating the pretty roundness of her face, her ginger-colored skin, her broad nose, and the freshly starched, ironed, and serviceable gingham dress free of frills. He had expected his mother's unspoken disapproval, but he had not antic.i.p.ated the clear, level gaze that Eva gave Emily in return, no fluttering hands or averted eyes.

"Bonjour, Mademoiselle Eva. Voulez-vous du cafe?" Emily offered. Emily offered.

"Maman, English, please," T.O. rushed to say. "I told you Eva doesn't speak French." English, please," T.O. rushed to say. "I told you Eva doesn't speak French."

Emily smiled charmingly at Eva, and T.O. noted it was her polite, "because you are a guest in my house and I was brought up properly, I choose to extend you this courtesy" smile she reserved for company. "Welcome to Cornfine Bayou, Mademoiselle Eva," Emily said. "May I offer you coffee?"

"Yes, ma'am," Eva said. "Would you like any help?"

"No, no." Emily kept her eyes on the girl. "Josephine will bring it."

Eva looked around appreciatively. "You keep a lovely home here, ma'am."

"Thank you." Emily sat and motioned for Eva to do the same. "I understand you live in Colfax. Which church do you attend up there?"

"Pilgrim Rest Baptist, ma'am. I go every Sunday."

"Well, here's Josephine with the coffee at last. Shall we pour?"

T.O. thought Eva held up to the rest of the afternoon very well.

The courtship was short. In 1911 T.O. Billes married Eva Brew and moved her into the house on Cornfine Bayou.

In the winter of 1912 T.O. approached his grandmother's room with a feeling of dread. Philomene battled pneumonia and today had called for him by name. It was too much like the summons before Memere Memere Elisabeth died. Elisabeth died.

Geneva (Eva) Brew.

She was small against the whiteness of the pillows, but even weakened she still emitted a potent life force he felt from across the room. Philomene took both his hands in hers, rubbing them gently as she talked. The hands sliding over his own were dry and rough to the touch, but a strange warmth began to generate between them, as if they were building a fire together.