A Rose in Fielding

By Joseph N. Brucato

A deadly automobile accident has claimed the life of a young Negro woman in a segregated Louisianan community. Her brother becomes suspicious after hearing rumors that she was kidnapped and her death staged as part of a cover up. When a friend decides to look into it certain people of authority grow apprehensive.
Paul Matthews is a typical, happy teenager until he gets involved in a deadly search for clues surrounding Annie Thompsons death. Most people in town are against him, believing things are best left alone, but he and his friends continue to pry. Its a dangerous undertaking. Someone has a lot to lose and will do anything to prevent the truth from coming out, even if he has to kill.
In his terrifying odyssey through the bayou Paul interacts with its Cajun inhabitants while navigating through the deadly swamp where gators and snakes abound. He is guided by a mysterious fortuneteller. The voodoo princess knows all. Will she lead him to the truth or down the path of destruction?
The serenity of the bayou can bring great joy but beware: monsters lurk within it, and most of them are human.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Dec 27, 2016
• ISBN: 9781532011634

Joseph N. Brucato

Joseph Brucato earned a bachelor’s degree in history from the College of the Holy Cross and a Master’s in Education from Worcester State University. A retired social studies teacher, he is married and has two sons. He is the author of Our Father: Recollections of a Small Town Boy.

Book preview

1

P aul Matthews dashed to the phone. His best friend, Buzzie Simoneau, was on the other end.

Hey boy, what are we doing tonight?

Your game’s my game, buddy, replied Paul.

What say I drop by your place at about eight, Paul suggested. Maybe we’ll pop a few beers.

Right on.

Paul got dressed quickly. But it was only seven o’clock. He needed to kill some time. After having thumbed through several back issues of Sports Illustrated he fell back on his bed, hoping to take a short nap. His mind raced. He thought of the summer that lay ahead and anticipated his last year of high school. What would become of him in his senior year? Would he meet a girl? Could he get into college? Would he ever survive away from home? He tossed and turned. Finally Paul had had enough. I’m outa here, he thought to himself.

Ten minutes later he was leaning on the horn of his beloved 1960 Dodge, honking noisily while parked at the curb in front of Buzzie’s house. Simoneau ran out, chomping on a sandwich. Eating was his trademark. After all, the guy was built like a house. His enormous body needed to be fed often. He played guard on the football team.

Paul sped off in the direction of downtown Fielding, making small talk along the way.

Pull over here, directed Buzzie, pointing to an old market. I’m going into La Pointe’s. You bought last time. I got the beer tonight, he insisted.

Having entered and exited the establishment in no time, Simoneau produced a bottle opener from his key chain and popped the lids off two GIQ’s.

Hope Schlitz is alright with you partner, spoke Buzzie, as though it really mattered.

Paul took a long sip. The beer was cold, just the way he liked it. He never questioned his friend’s ability to buy alcohol, even though he was only seventeen. All the kids bought there. The miserly proprietor, Francois La Pointe, had no scruples, anything for a buck. That old Frenchman had had his liquor license revoked at least a dozen times, but he always went back to the same old routine. He rarely turned down a minor.

The two friends polished off their beer in no time. After a spin through the back roads they headed toward the bowling alley. As they entered the parking lot to Sally’s At Sally’s Bowladrome a crowd was gathered in front of the entrance. The two flew out of the car.

What happened? asked Buzzie, approaching one of the bystanders.

Willie Thompson went berserk inside. He just went nuts, the stranger went on. One minute he’s fine, the next minute he’s tearing the place apart.

The friends waited until three police officers escorted the black man out of Sally’s. Head down and sobbing, he was led to the cruiser in handcuffs. Paul felt sorry for him. He was one of those guys that had always been unlucky. Willie’s future was looking dim. His dad split when he was only an infant. His mom was out of work. His sister had died tragically. The family was penniless.

Paul knew that it was only a matter of time before Willie snapped. Two years ago his sister had perished in an automobile accident. His life was a mess. Though Sally gave him odd jobs at the lanes, sweeping floors, cleaning the bathrooms and setting pins, he spent his paychecks on booze. Sometimes Maurice Reading or one of the other Negroes from school let him sleep in a garage or tool shed. They’d bring him sandwiches, sometimes clothing too. He rarely went home.

The crowd stared as the police car tore out of the parking lot, siren blaring. At the far end of the building there was a group of teens milling around, talking nervously. Their voices grew louder. Paul noticed one of them. It was Maurice. He stood in the middle of the pack, lecturing the others. Buzzie moved closer to eavesdrop but proceeded with caution.

Let’s get outa here, Buzzie. It’s not a good time to be around those Negroes, barked Paul. Maurice looks like he could bite someone’s head off.

Nah, I’m in with him and his boys, replied his friend while he drew closer to the crowd. The past two seasons I’ve been opening Reading holes big enough to fit a fleet of Mack trucks. How do you think he’s been able to score all of those touchdowns?

All the whispering stopped while the gang glared at the intruder. Paul felt uncomfortable. Buzzie, undeterred, moved forward.

Is that you? Is it the famous all American, Mr. Buzzard Simoneau in the flesh? teased Reading.

Yeah, dude, it’s me, replied Buzzie.

Paul felt relieved. Maurice’s tone was pleasant.

Get the hell over here white boy, ordered the Negro. And tell that skinny buddy of yours to get his ass up front too.

Paul joined his friend. The black kids had welcomed both into their circle. They had been passing around a bottle of whiskey. Paul was nervous, hanging out with the colored guys, sharing their booze. He and Buzzie had been admitted to their turf. They were trusted. It was good to know that he and his friend were neither feared nor loathed.

The conversation centered on Willie Thompson. Each discussed a plan to raise money for his bail. It was a given that he’d do time in the county jail. There was no way he could ever pay for the damages at Sally’s. Someone proposed passing the hat but most disagreed. It would never be enough. Willie had thrown a chair through the main window, tossed over several tables; tore down a few curtains then jumped behind the bar and smashed a bunch of liquor bottles. One fellow suggested, half-heartedly, that they go out and rob a bank. Maurice was all over him. It was not a joking matter.

Reading stood silently for a moment, looking dejected. Paul and the others sensed his melancholy. He finally spoke.

You know something, Maurice opened. Willie was tormented.

The others drew closer.

Now I know that you boys are feeling’ sorry for Willie, he continued. But there is something else.

The group continued passing the bottle. By now Paul was feeling the effects of the alcohol. The beer that he had consumed earlier gave him no more than a slight buzz but the whiskey enhanced his state of inebriation. Nevertheless he was still focused and attentive to Maurice.

I saw Willie earlier tonight, Reading persisted. He’s been drinking lots and started talking crazy. He said that some white boy called his sister a whore.

Oh yeah, said one of the fellows in the group. But she’s dead over two years now. Why does some honky dude have to say them things?

That’s the point I’m making, Maurice followed. The guy said that he saw Willie’s sister with some white boys not long before she was killed.

Buzzie was quick to respond. But I thought Willie kept her real close? Everyone knew that if a guy even looked at Annie the wrong way her brother would kill him.

And, Buzzie furthered, We all know she sang at church and was really big on the Bible and stuff.

Right on bro, Reading smiled. There’s the deal. That girl was as pure as snow. She’d never let anyone get close to her like that.

So where do we go from here? Someone from the group intervened. It’ll take a near miracle to get Willie out of the slammer.

Just keep your ears open, Maurice Reading advised. I want to know where this talk is coming from. Willie Thompson’s got a pretty good idea that there was more to that car accident than what we’ve been led to believe.

When the discussion ended the Negroes headed off. At this point Paul had had his fill of booze and talk. He and Buzzie went to the car hoping to find something to do. The night was still young.

***

Paul and Buzzie made their way down a narrow dirt road that led to the north side of Shire’s Pond. The high school kids had nicknamed this place the Marsh, and rightfully so. The bayou was a quagmire of rotted trees, mosquitoes and snakes. Its smell, when ripe, was a mixture of muck and moldering swamp plants. Paul led the way, walking guardedly through one of the well trodden paths. The air was thick and malodorous.

He began to sweat. As he perspired, Paul’s tee shirt was beginning to cling to his chest. Swarms of insects began to attack him. Squadrons of gnats and other pests attacked randomly and mercilessly. Like piranhas going to town on a wounded host, the vermin persevered all the more once they got the scent of his blood. Having honed in on their victim, insects nipped at exposed body parts like so many pins and needles.

Had Paul Matthews not emerged into the clearing, where the trees were fewer, it would have been enough to drive him to madness. He was used to it and savvy enough to know and respect the rules of the quagmire. No one was ever invited. Everyone was a trespasser. There were a hundred ways a man could die there.

He’d always felt close to the marsh. It soothed him, particularly when stressed. When times were bad at home or in school it helped him think things out. Ironically, for most, it was one inhospitable place. In the stagnant water, hidden beneath stumps and rocks, oftentimes camouflaged against leaf and brush, cottonmouths and rattlers abounded. No one in his right mind ventured too close to shore either, for there were alligators as well.

Teens liked to hang out at the Marsh because it was conveniently isolated. Their car radios blasted loud music. Everyone drank and partied. No one feared being turned in. There was neither hut nor dwelling for miles. No one ever heard them. Some smoked marijuana and a few, reeling from its effects, ventured into its deeper recesses. It was a dangerous risk. The wetland was a monster, a ghoul that devoured the weak and vulnerable. The police, though well aware of the spot, never patrolled the area. No cop in his right mind would chase a bunch of kids through the swamp and risk life and limb to wild beasts and reptiles.

That evening there were several cars scattered about the dirt parking area. In the distance the two noticed a group gathered around a fire. Buzzie recognized the bunch and convinced Paul to go over with him. Dickie Babcock and Dimples Springer were present. When they arrived Matthews and Simoneau were each handed a can of beer. Paul lit a cigarette then joined the conversation. It was typical teenage boy talk about girls. Now emboldened by drink each boy had a pickup strategy. It was courage from the bottle.

The he said, she said routine bored Paul. He was more interested in making a move on some chick right away rather discussing the pros and cons of whether or not to ask one of them out. Paul asked his friends if any had seen Carole. Dimples pointed to the group across the lot.

Paul grew nervous. His heart raced, adrenaline began to surge. It was now or never. The liquor had done its trick. He felt confident. He had to make a move.

Paul strolled over to two teenage girls standing by a Volkswagen Beetle. It belonged to Carole. She had saved three years for the used car and often boasted about how she financed the entire automobile herself. She was independent like that.

Matthews conjured up his last reserve of self-assurance and spoke first.

Hi everyone, he entranced, trying to act cool. What’s the news?

Oh, hi Paul, Betsy responded.

Carole did not answer but gave him a neat smile and a little wave.

You hear about all that trouble at Sally’s tonight, Paul asked them, hoping to capture the girls’ attention. The gossip strategy worked.

No, tell us Paul, tell us, Carole begged, acting interested.

Willie Thompson tore the place up and got dragged off in the squad car. Maurice and the rest of the Negroes were pretty torn up about it.

Well, you know something, Carole spoke, trying to be objective. That poor boy’s been in lots of scrapes, but you can’t blame him. I can just break down and cry every time I think of the sadness that he’s been through.

Betsy was of a different opinion. They should throw that boy in prison and lose the key, she disagreed. As far as I’m concerned that family should be driven out of this town on a rail.

Paul expected her to take that stance. Her dad was one of the cops on the police force and she usually took a conservative view on matters of crime and punishment. Carole, on the other hand, was more sensitive and rational in her reasoning. She always thought before drawing a conclusion. That’s what Paul liked about her. She was so smart, so open-minded. To him there was not a bigoted bone in her body.

You know I once heard Willie’s sister sing. said Carole, now growing somber. "She’d done a gospel number in one of those talent shows at the State Theater. Annie was so sweet. I remember that when her song ended there was an uncomfortable silence in the audience. No one knew how to react. Finally there was some scattered applause. Fact was no other act came close to hers. They gave her third place.

Think she got a gift certificate for A & W Root Beer. The Continentals got first. They played Orbison’s Pretty Woman and the singer was way out of key. His microphone squealed and I think one of their amps blew a fuse or something. It didn’t make any difference. Their prize was in the bag all along."

Like an angel she was that night. What a shame. When I heard about her death I just cried and cried.

What do you say, we take a walk, Paul managed after an uncomfortable pause. Though he addressed both girls Betsy really knew that he wanted her friend. She walked away, leaving them alone. Matthews was relieved but also nervous. He was not sure that Carole knew of his intentions. Surely she had seen him stare at her in class and in the halls at school. Did she accept his invitation as a friend or did she expect more? Either way, Paul hoped that he would not screw up.

They walked toward a nearby meadow, away from the steamy marsh. Carole strolled along beside him, head down deep in thought. He knew she had been thinking about Willie Thompson and expected her to say something. Hopefully she would speak first then Matthews would pick up his cue. There was plenty to discuss and that would save him from an otherwise forced conversation with the uncomfortable quiet time where no one knows what to say next.

Annie had such high hopes, Paul, she said, her head tilted to the sky.

When she faced him he noticed her natural beauty. She stood straight and spoke with surety and confidence. Many of his friends thought Carole was conceited, even presumptuous. He knew differently. She had a polish about her, like a real Southern belle. Carole walked with the grace of an aristocrat, displaying the manners and refinements of one who was no stranger to money. Ironically, nothing could be further from the truth. She was middle class all the way.

While she spoke he studied her. Her features reflected more of a country girl rather than the perky cheerleader type. Paul felt chills inside each time he laid eyes on her.

She dressed simply and rarely wore makeup but her peaches and cream complexion more than made up for that.

There was nothing false about her. Paul studied her petite silhouette. She had hazel eyes and long golden hair. It was pulled back tightly behind her ears and tied with a lacy red bow. Her nose was tiny, slightly upturned and dotted with freckles. She had a little space between her top front teeth that, for Paul, accented her uniqueness and made her even more appealing. In the moonlight she appeared much younger. To him she was like a doll, the perfect teenage girl.

Carole never really smiled. Hers was more like a one sided grin or, rather, a smirk. Sometimes she squinted when nervous or when trying to make a point. Matthews fell head over heels in love from the moment he first laid eyes on her. Carole’s face was in his thoughts maybe a hundred times a day, before bed, in the morning, during school and every moment in between. He was obsessed with her.

Some might argue that Carole was far from beautiful but there was something special about her. Most guys he knew probably construed her as a plain Jane but to Paul, it was the sum of the many features that captured his interest; like the long eyelashes or the tiny dimple on her chin. She was of average height and build, and neither brawny nor frail. It might have been her gait, so deliberate, straight and confident that attracted Paul. Perhaps it was her scent. She had a sweet smell about her but not of perfume. It was something fresh and natural like wildflower.

Paul had fallen hard. His was a mixture of sadness and jealousy. He tried to calculate his odds. She had been seeing another guy for more than a year. Paul pictured what they might have been doing together. He could have gone insane thinking of her with another in the back seat of a car. He tried to push away the thoughts but they still flooded his mind. Paul tried to convince himself that she was still a virgin. He forced himself to believe that no other boy ever touched her breasts or had his hands down her pants. What tormented him the most was the thought of her having touched another guy’s penis?

Paul, is everything all right? she interrupted, putting on a thick Southern drawl. You look like you’re in a trance. Aren’t you listening?

He was caught off guard and glad that she was not a mind reader.

You know something? Paul changed the subject. I think that’s the spot where that Brookfield boy got dragged into the swamp, pointing to a partially submerged wooden walkway.

Ah, you mean Black Bob? asked Carole, giggling. She was referring to the legendary alligator that lots of people still believed was stalking the area.

My pop used to tell me about him too, she went on. When I was a little girl daddy told me that Bob was the biggest gator of them all, and that he would probably be around forever. That’s because he lived on hate.

He used to say, she went on, that there was more evil lurking in that swamp than all the fires in hell. And this town keeps feeding him.

Paul, only half understanding what she meant, nodded. He never liked to read into things. He stared into her eyes, hoping that she would read his and make it easier. He wanted to kiss her but waited for a sign. It never happened.

I think I’ll head back to the guys, Carole.

Okay, she agreed, but looked puzzled.

Paul cursed inside. Perhaps he had been too brief. Should he stay with her longer? Was it possible that Carole wanted him?

Ah, mm, I guess I’ll see you at school on Monday.

See ya, he exited, now feeling like a total idiot.

Hey Paul, you know the Memorial Day festival starts next Saturday, she called from behind. Maybe I’ll see you there.

He suddenly perked up. His night had been made.

2

T he first bell rang and students at Fielding Junior Senior High School burst out of their homerooms en route to the first period class. Paul moved fast in order to avoid the mad rush in the hallways. He noticed Maurice Reading heading in the opposite direction. He towered above the crowd. Like Buzzie, he was also a football star and it was not surprising that he was flanked by dozens of other students, black and white. As a running back Maurice had set a record in the parish for scoring the most touchdowns in a year. He had all the tools; speed, size and strength. Reading had led Fielding High School to a state championship and for that he was treated with respect. No other Negro in the school was given that kind of attention.

Fielding High School had only recently been forced to integrate and racial tensions were perceptible. One could not walk down a corridor without recognizing any one of several cliques. Teachers, administrators, and students seemed always to be on edge. Fistfights and other skirmishes were not uncommon. The blacks rarely strayed from the group, never venturing beyond their turf. The poor white kids kept to themselves, as well. They too were easily identified. Their rural attire and provincial dialect made them easily distinguishable. Paul never really gave any one group much thought. To him that was the way things had always been.

Reading was in a sour mood that morning. Paul saw him in the hallway clenching his fists and looking mean. It was uncharacteristic for one who was usually jovial but Paul had a pretty good idea why. Meanwhile, he had a more immediate worry, English class.

About a dozen students sat back at their desks chatting and making small talk when Matthews entered the room. He took his assigned seat in the front and awaited his teacher’s grand entrance. Not a moment after the second bell, the instructor strolled to his desk.

Julius Danforth, know to most as Smoke, was a heavy, middle-aged man whom the kids had grown to tolerate but more out of pity. The fellow actually had a few good qualities but the negative far outweighed the positive. On the one hand he was quite intelligent and well read, and he did care about his students but on the other his laziness, sloth, and tendency toward obsessive and compulsive behaviors made him stand out. He was eccentric and unpredictable. Smoke might be tame as a kitten one moment then suddenly explode into a fit of anger the next. Even the most miniscule of deviations in his ordered life might set him off.

Smoke was in a good mood that morning. He read Death of Salesman out loud to the students. It helped make and otherwise boring English class tolerable for Paul.

Calculus flew by. Paul had never minded it. He was always good at math. When the bell for lunch rang he flew down the hallway in order to avoid the line at the cafeteria. It was not so much that the food was good as it was his hunger. Paul had not eaten breakfast and his stomach had growled throughout the morning.

Having filled his tray he walked over to his customary spot, a table in the middle of the large dining facility. Paul liked to watch the different groups and cliques gather. Like him they ate at the same table each and every day. The cheerleaders stayed close, as did the athletes. All their fake high school spirit, trendy hairdos and clothing styles made him sick.

The greasers frightened Matthews. They all had slicked back DA hairstyles and wore tight pants. Most smoked Lucky Strikes or Camels. In order to look cool they rolled the cigarette packs into their shirtsleeves. A few of them cut back their tee shirts to show off home made tattoos. None of them particularly cared for the athletes or, for that matter, anyone else. The feeling was mutual. Each following looked with disdain upon the other. The greasers and motor heads had their entourages; hard looking girls wearing caked-on makeup, trying to appear much tougher and sensual than they really were. They snapped their gum loudly and struck sexy poses, sometimes making rude remarks when some geek or pansy happened by.

At the very far end of the cafeteria were several tables filled with Negroes. While everyone else at lunch laughed and made noise, they spoke softly, even in whispers. Their heads bowed low, eating their meals quietly, not a one would ever consider bringing himself negative attention. Even Maurice Reading was careful not to deviate from the norm. Mohammad Ali had been arrested a month earlier for refusing to comply with draft regulations and Martin Luther King Jr. was stirring up lots of trouble in Washington D.C. At Fielding High School the tension was palpable. Political opinions outside the accepted views were neither sought nor tolerated. No one ever dared to rally behind a civil rights cause, at least not in public. The Negroes therefore kept quiet on all fronts.

Sometimes the blacks angered Paul too. He was jealous of their loyalty and how they all kept close. Their solidarity was enviable. He was aware of all the social and civil unrest going on in the country but never spent the time or effort to take a political stance on anything. Paul was apathetic about the war in Vietnam and never really thought about his goals for the future. He was intelligent enough to realize, however, that his hometown was headed toward some critical juncture. Paul saw it going on at the restaurants and coffee shops, at the gas stations and at church. He heard people talking about it in the men’s rooms and at the barbershop, at the park and on the radio. The small town of Fielding was sitting on top of a volcano, teetering on the brink of explosion. Centuries of hate had fueled the races. Something catastrophic was about to take place.

It was never a question of whether or not it would happen. What had concerned him was when.

Every so often Paul got to thinking about his youth, when life was simple. Everyone around him seemed content. He’d been sheltered. Mom and dad never led on to the realities of the real world unless a simple lesson could be taught.

Paul’s life was a drag but it wasn’t supposed to be that way. It was the sixties. So much was going on in the world, there were so many causes and so much to do yet he still felt stifled, paralyzed. He needed a start, perhaps a new identity, some focus. Summer recess was about to begin and he had no clue where things were heading. He’d become his own worse enemy, complacent, boring and lackluster.

After school ended that day Dimples and a few others headed downtown to grab a burger. On the way Paul saw Maurice waiting for his bus. The Negro called him and Buzzie over. Dimples stayed behind.

Reading was morose. He got to the point right away.

Look guys, I gotta take off in a second, he spoke softly, looking around to see if anyone might hear. But I want to meet somewhere, later. With that, he turned and jogged over to the school bus. Once he got inside he took his seat then mouthed his words through the open window, Seven o’clock at the Marsh. Be there!

Neither friend knew what Reading had in mind. Both were certain, however, that he had not been acting like himself. He seemed all wound up lately. Maybe, they thought, he was putting pressure on himself about going off to college in the fall.

***

Earl Scuggin’s place was the favored hangout for teenagers. It was the local greasy spoon. The establishment was many things; pharmacy, soda fountain and grill. There were a dozen stools at the counter and at least that many spots in the booths that lined the front windows.

When Buzzie and Paul entered they found the place packed. Dozens of teens had already arrived at the end of the school day. The smell of burgers and fries made Paul’s mouth water.

Earl was right in the middle of the crowd taking orders and shouting them back to the kitchen. For a man of seventy years or more he moved around the place really well. He was spry for his age and very few could ever pull a fast one on him. Earl knew his inventory and could spot a thief a mile away. He’d tell you how many boxes of Dots he’d sold in the past month. He knew the exact number of bags of potato chips on the rack and how much salt was in the shakers before school got out. Earl had the eyes of a hawk and if he ever caught someone trying to take advantage, there would be repercussions for he was also the town gossip.

Earl had an old jukebox in the corner, near the lavatory. It was always blasting. He really didn’t like the new stuff but every now and then would sneak in a couple of decent songs, some recent stuff by Patsy Cline or Merle Haggard. The rest were ancient country or hillbilly. The owner never stocked up on rock’n roll. To him the Beach Boys were a bunch of surfer queers and the musicians in them British bands looked like women and sang like sick cows. Earl said they were all communists. Sometimes he’d get started on the Cold War and, sure enough, proclaim that the reds were only one step above the Jews and niggers.

The friends passed on the food, deciding instead to go for a couple of root beer floats. Buzzie and Paul didn’t recognize many in the place. The crowd consisted mostly of underclassmen. They hung out for a while, hoping that some of the regulars might pop in. No one showed. The afternoon was not a complete waste, though. A few of Earl’s buddies came in. They’d just been fishing and smelled of swamp. Two of them held stringers of catfish. They were real big ones too, fat and black as night, their beady eyes like shiny lifeless orbs.

The others carried their rods and tackle. They were headed for the kitchen. Earl allowed his friends to clean their catch in the back yard then store it in his freezers. He was good like that, mostly because he made out in the deal. One of them had a gas station and the others were partners in a poultry farm. Earl never wanted for chicken or paid for an oil change.

The friends finished their drinks and were about to leave when Buzzie overheard part of Earl’s conversation with some of the old timers. It was something about an agenda for the next meeting at the Fielding Grange Hall. All the men, including Earl, were Masons. Each wore rings displaying compass and square symbols. All members, like so many others in town, took up where their daddy’s and granddaddies had left off, taking oaths of secrecy and practicing rituals that many believed had been established by medieval freemasons since the time of the Crusades.

Paul’s dad had never been a supporter of the Masons. He was a Catholic, and the Vatican had made it clear that their practices violated Church doctrine. Though the organization presumably did a lot of good, raising funds to help the needy, establishing scholarships and donating time and money to charitable causes, the elder Matthews never trusted them. He sometimes called them good ole boys or men with connections and said that they were hypocrites with ulterior motives.

Once Paul pried, searching for the real reason why his dad held the brotherhood in so much disdain. His response was clear. Ever see a Catholic, Jew or a Negro wearing that ring?

Earl was all worked up about something. Paul edged closer, catching bits and pieces of the monologue. The old guy was frantic, going on about some nigger loving’ son of a bitch and how some boy had no right to take his chances away. It didn’t make sense.

Paul was unimpressed. He told his friend that he had better things to do than eavesdrop on a bunch of old men talking shop. The two exited. Buzzie took his friend home.

3

P aul went up to his room and took a short nap. He awakened only after his mother called up to him to get ready for supper. At the table he barely touched his food. He was anxious about the meeting with Reading at the Marsh.

On the road Buzzie and Paul spoke about the possible scenarios while driving out to Shire’s Pond. Each anticipated something serious. They wondered whether the topic would be gang related. Maybe Reading wanted to hammer out some terms between the coloreds and whites and was using them to get to the school’s administration. If that was the case, neither Paul nor his friend would go for it. A deal like that could cause a guy to get beaten up, or worse. No white boy in Fielding would ever dare get involved in a race issue if he knew what was good for him. It was best to avoid any and all entanglements with the colored people.

Something else perplexed the two friends. Very few Negroes ventured out to the Marsh. Reading was an exception. He was a local star but his friends were not. Maurice had to have something big in mind. What kind of meeting was this?

Matthews and his friend pulled up alongside a lone car toward the back of the dirt parking lot. They recognized the face of the driver. It was Peter Francois, the captain and quarterback of the Fielding High School football team. The two found it rather odd that the guy was out there in the woods alone but in a moment that would all change. Reading popped his head up from the back seat, looking to his right and left, making sure that he was with friends. At the moment there was nothing to fear. There was no one else around.

As usual, Maurice did not mince his words. He came right out with the issue.

Look, he whispered, as though some intruder was listening, I went over to the jail and saw Willie Thompson yesterday. The cops beat him up pretty good. I wouldn’t have been here now Pete hadn’t been so good about giving me a lift. It’s just not any white boy who gives a colored guy a ride in these parts.

Willie, Reading went on, said that one of you guys should go see Bari Mishu at the festival. She’ll tell you boys what to if you want to help him.

Buzzie and Paul were confused. Maurice was not making sense.

What’s going on Reading? Paul demanded. What the hell are you trying to say?

Mishu knows Willie, he furthered. She reads the palms at the festival. She will tell you what to do.

At that moment headlights approached from a distance. Someone was coming. Maurice panicked. Let’s get out here, Pete! Go!

Francois tore out of the parking lot. Reading stayed low in the back.

Paul and Buzzie were more baffled than ever. What was Reading up to? Why all the secrecy? Who was this Bari Mishu and what did she have to do with anything?

Paul spoke first. I don’t know about you Buzz but I want nothing to do with Reading or Thompson. I’m not gonna get my ass shot up for a couple of colored guys needing a favor, he charged.

Yeah, Buzzie put in his two cents, that’s true, but maybe it’s worth a shot. We’ll go into the old witch’s booth, hear what she has to say then get the hell out of there. No one knows a thing except that we’re getting our palms read.

No way, man, Paul snapped. I don’t even want to get near that tent."

Who in his right mind is going to suspect anything from anyone who drops in on an old lady with a bunch of tarot cards? Buzzie reasoned. I’m going to see that woman and hear her out, whether you’re in or not.

Paul was in no mood to argue. He had a pile of homework and needed to go home. He would have to sleep on it. Maybe by tomorrow he’d feel different. Either way he wished he’d never gone to the Marsh in the first place. Paul had a feeling he’d gotten himself into a dangerous situation.

***

The next morning Paul awakened to the smell of his mom’s coffee brewing. Feeling hungry, he popped out of bed right away but was the last to take his seat at the table. Dad and Sarah were already eating. Mom was serving calas, a sugary breakfast fritter. The recipe, an old Creole favorite, was a mashed rice cake powdered on top with nutmeg and cinnamon. Although popular throughout most Louisiana households, it was still a treat for Paul. It brought him back to a time when the aroma of fresh pastries filled the house on Christmas morning when he anxiously gobbled up his portion before opening presents.

Paul felt rested and was actually looking forward to school until his sister, Sarah, began talking about Saturday’s festival. He had momentarily forgotten about the night before. His mood changed. Now Paul would be tormented for the rest of the week, anticipating one scenario after another.

Sarah had hit a sore spot with her dad too. He didn’t like the Fielding Memorial Day Festival. He never did. Even when his son and daughter were small they would plead with him to take them but he always refused. Had their mom not stepped in, pressuring her husband to treat the youngsters, he would have stood firm. The elder Matthews hated the carnie types. He was suspicious of the hawkers who peddled cheap toys. He disliked the people at the concession booths who solicited his money and badgered him to play their rigged games. Above all, Paul’s dad had no use for the crooks that waited on the fringes, ready to descend upon the festival’s naïve patrons, picking their pockets or hitting on their teenage daughters.

Dad immediately changed the subject, filibustering right through breakfast, jumping from one topic to the next. By the time he finished the teens were out the door en route to school.

***

Paul stood at his open locker and stared, trance-like, at a picture of the Beatles that he had taped against the door. His thoughts were not on the photograph or on his schoolwork but on Maurice Reading, Willie Thompson and Bari Mishu. He felt his throat tightening. His heart pounded.

He snapped to attention only after Dimples had approached him from behind, tapping him on the shoulder.

Hey dude, whatsay we go out to the car and do a joint, he suggested. Smoke ain’t here today. There’s a sub and he’ll never miss us.

Paul was in no mood. Ah, get someone else to get high with. Not this time, he said, sharply.

Matthews started to walk away but did not get very far.

What’s this I hear about you guys and Reading last night at the Marsh? Dimples pried.

Paul grew edgy. Are you freaking’ nuts? he snapped, now grabbing his friend by the shirt. How many people know about this?

My man, chill out, said Dimples, trying to reason. I’m cool. I’m cool. Buzzie told me on the way to school this morning. No one else knows a thing.

Paul flew down the hall. He entered English class several minutes late but it was not an issue. Dimples was right. Smoke was absent and the sub was not concerned about any student being tardy. When Paul took his seat he couldn’t concentrate on his assignment. He daydreamed until the bell rang. He and Buzzie had to find a way to get out of Saturday’s meeting with the palm reader.

Paul rushed to the lab, knowing that Buzzie had a chemistry class during the second period but the teacher told him his friend had just left. He flew down the hallway in the direction of a French class but would not go inside. A bunch of greasers were hanging out in front of the doorway.

They were part of Bo Joskin’s gang. They were scary. His mind raced again. Paul imagined them, knives in hand, cornering him against a wall in the back of the school. They would call him a nigger lover, beat him up then run him through with their switchblades No one except his family would ever mourn him, at least not in Fielding, Louisiana.

***

Paul caught up with his friend during lunch. They brought their trays to an isolated table in the cafeteria, distancing themselves from the majority of students. The two spoke in whispers. Paul was on the brink of an anxiety attack. His voice began to tremble.

Look, Buzzie, I’m out of this. I want no part of the deal, he began, his voice breaking.

But the friend was not rattled. He acted as confidently as he did the night before when he agreed to speak with the fortuneteller.

There’s a new twist on things, Buzzie vocalized, now acting serious. Thompson called Reading late last night. Apparently they’re going to move him upstate to another facility. They don’t want him in the Fielding lockup.

That’s good Buzz, I’m glad to hear that, Paul responded, feeling much relieved. Now we can drop the whole issue.

Buzzie, now animated, had a different view on things. It doesn’t work that way, Paul, he whispered, now moving closer to his friend. You see Willie Thompson told Maurice that his sister had been set up, maybe even murdered.

Now you’re completely insane. Paul got up, threatening to leave the lunch table. I’m definitely out of here. I don’t even know you anymore, Buzzie.

Paul’s mind raced again. He pictured one gruesome scene after another. He saw himself, hands and feet bound, gagged and tossed into the marsh by a bunch of townies.

It was dark. He’d look up and see Earl and the boys laughing, right before they fed him to Old Bob.

That’ll teach ya, nigger lover, they’d yell. Then everything would go black. Paul’s death would become yet another story told by grandfathers to their grandchildren about what happens to bad boys. Matthews would be like the Wilkins boy who’d been dragged off by the giant gator some fifty years earlier.

Wait. Listen to me Paul, begged Buzzie. Some guys at the jail were teasing Willie T. They said the car accident with his sister never happened. Annie wasn’t even in that old heap.

Yeah right, smart ass, Paul joked. And I bet you’re going to play Perry Mason too. Of course she was in that car. They buried her didn’t they? Huh?

That’s the point, his friend continued. She wasn’t in the car. The whole thing was rigged.

I think you ought to have your head examined, Buzzie. I’ll ask my dad to see if he can recommend a good shrink.

Paul walked away, never touching his food.

***

The last bell of the day finally rang. It was the most dreadful six hours of school he had ever experienced. Paul was beat but didn’t want to go home right away. He needed to talk to somebody, anyone who he could trust. He would not seek out Springer. Lately, he’d been stoned most of the time. Buzzie was his only hope but he was not making any sense. Paul believed he was delusional about the Thompson accident.

He jumped into his car and sped off toward Earl’s place. Maybe Carole would be there. She’d understand him.

Tuesday’s were always slow at the joint. Matthews did not mind. He would find a quiet spot, maybe a vacant booth, and relax.

When he entered Earl greeted him from behind the counter then went right back to watching television affixed above the door leading to the kitchen. A couple of elderly fellows sat on stools sipping coffee. They seemed amused. It was a local network centered in nearby Passe Partout. The men sat, focused, while Channel 10 played a clip from one of Clifton Chenier’s gigs.

Clifton was one of the most respected musicians in the county. Some said that the Opelousas-born crooner was the best in Louisiana when it came to Zydeco music. They’d come far and wide to hear him play his accordion. He could play anything; waltzes, two-step, Creole, blues and country. He was a living legend.

Paul got a kick out of watching the folks at the soda bar sing along with Chenier. In history class he’d learned about the people from Nova Scotia and how they settled in Louisiana after the British forced them out of their native land. He had learned some of the Acadian dialect and some of the traditions of their descendants, the Creoles and Cajuns. Paul loved their simplicity and down-home customs. He spent the better part of that afternoon at Earl’s just hanging out. It kept his mind off things.

When Paul got home it was nearly suppertime. Something smelled good. He went right for the kitchen to see what his mom was cooking. She was standing at the stove stirring chili. Below, in the oven, there was freshly baked cornbread just ready to come out. He was starved.

Mom told him that there would only be three at the table that evening. His dad was staying overtime at the hospital. Paul did not mind. It was nice having just him, his mom and Sarah together. They’d talk and have some laughs.

Paul remembered when they were living in Baton Rouge and dad had to work long hours at the clinic. That was before he became chief of staff at Fielding Memorial. Mom would sit on the living room floor with him and his sister and assemble a puzzle or play games of Candy Land or Monopoly.

Elaine would set up folding tables then bring out sandwiches and bottles of pop. Afterwards they’d cozy up under a blanket and nestle on the couch, just the three of them, while watching television. At bedtime, mom would read to Paul and Sarah until each fell asleep. Dr. Seuss was his favorite, especially If I Ran the Zoo.

If I ran the zoo

Said young Gerald McGrew

I’d make a few changes

That’s just what I’d do

When Paul had tonsillitis he remembered how his mom stayed by his bed throughout the night and awakened him every other hour to take his temperature. She talked the nurse out of using the rectal and administered one orally instead. She fed him bits of ice cubes and spoonfuls of ice cream too. During post op the after effects of ether had made him ill. He sobbed because his stomach hurt. She stroked his head and sang him lullabies to ease his pain.

That and many other things crossed his mind when he joined his mom and Sarah that evening. He needed this special time. He had been going through a lot during the past few days and needed to get his mind back on track. Paul wanted to discuss the issue with his mom that night but knew it wasn’t the right time or place. Anyway she would probably bring dad into it. His father would surely go to school the next day and make inquiries. And before Matthews had a chance to explain, the story would be out and Reading would be implicated. The school would say that he was stirring up trouble, creating a disturbance among his fellow students. He’d face an inquisition of school board members and be told to keep his mouth shut, or worse, threatened to have his scholarship at LSU revoked.

Paul decided against telling his mom. As it turned out, he had made the right decision, at least for now.

About halfway through the meal she said something that almost caused him to choke on his food. Things had taken a twist.

Oh, Paul, mom confessed, I almost forgot to tell you. Someone by the name of Maurice called earlier. He had a deep voice. I’ve never heard of him. Sounded like an older man. He wants you to call him back.

Matthews was stunned. He could not believe that Reading would ever dare call his home. Things like that just did not happen in Fielding. That was one gutsy act. Paul was angered. He felt violated. Who the hell was Maurice to invade his privacy? This guy has the stupidity to call a white boy’s home? Paul thought about it briefly. The guy must have been very desperate to have done something that foolish.

Ah, yeah, mom. No problem. Just some kid at school that needed a homework assignment, Paul answered after a pause, covering his tracks.

But mom would not let it go.

That’s funny Paul, Elaine went on, growing inquisitive. I’ve never heard you mention his name before. Isn’t he some star athlete or something?

Matthews began to squirm. Where the hell was his mom going with this? He was trapped. Had it not been for Sarah he’d have found himself in a big predicament.

Ma, what are you writing a book? She broke in. Can’t Paul get a call and not be put through the third degree. Cut him some slack. Anyway, I know the kid. And yes, he is a football player, and a good one at that, the sister continued.

Okay, Okay. I get it, their mom apologized. Adults should be seen and not heard. Anyway, I left his number on the counter near the phone.

Sarah had gotten her brother off the hook. She was great like that. Paul owed her one but was not out of the jam yet. After supper she cornered him.

You’ve got to be kidding me, she said, sounding angry. There’s talk around school that Maurice and Willie Thompson have been trying to stir up trouble in town.

Matthews’ sister moved closer, pointing her finger in his face. Are you involved in this, Paul? Please tell me you’re not involved, she pressed, her voice beginning to quiver.

Paul’s heart raced. All along he wanted to tell her everything but feared for her safety. He quickly thought about it then decided to reveal all, knowing that he had to share some of the burden to save his own sanity.

The two headed to the back yard and sat on the grass. Paul made sure that their mom was nowhere in sight. Sarah sat patiently and did not interrupt while he discussed the details. She understood. Her brother, though feeling his huge burden unloaded, was still nervous. Sarah gave him good advice. She told him to call Maurice back and decline any more invitations to get involved with Thompson and that he should tell the boy there was nothing he could do for him. As for Buzzie, that was his problem. If he wanted to take that risk,