Today's Reading
I am twenty years old before my father tells me the story again. I'm home from college for a weekend, the two of us in the kitchen.
I tell him I've been writing, and that I've been writing about home.
Everyone else in the usually bustling house has gone to bed. It is just us, on each side of the island in my mother's farmhouse-style kitchen, nibbling on brownies my little brother has underbaked. Dad is still in his scrubs, leaning one arm's weight against the counter, glasses hanging loose around his neck.
We're talking about chasing chickens at the courir, about Cajun music and the old record shop in town. About all the things I've only just realized the rest of the world does not know about Evangeline Parish, Louisiana. He's laughing. And then he's pondering, green eyes suddenly serious.
"You know"—he looks down at his hands—"if you're looking for a story about this place. A story that needs to be told..." He pauses. "Have I ever told you about how my grandfather died?"
A vision arises: MawMaw Emily splayed upon her bed.
"Some of it..." I say. "But tell me again."
Day 1
JANUARY 6, 1983
In those predawn hours, a soupy fog spread itself across the Mamou prairie—soaking up the first struggling strands of sunlight, then dissolving them into extended gray. In houses up and down LaHaye Road, men rubbed their eyes and peered out their windows toward the flooded rice fields, listening for migrating ducks. Unable to see even into their backyards, they dialed each other, one by one, to call off the morning's hunt.
Presiding over all of it were the three LaHaye castles: Aubrey and Emily's Acadian-style cottage at the center, flanked on each side by their sons' manors. My uncle Glenn's to the right, my grandfather Wayne's on the left, grandiose behind their collections of sprawling oaks. The farmer and the doctor and their wives—the Dupré sisters, Aunt Janie and my grandmother Susan. In between each house extended open expanses of pastureland, populated by LaHaye Brothers' Angus cattle—some of the finest in Acadiana. The driveways were full, the college crowd in for the holidays.
At 5 a.m., at the heart of it all, Emily's alarm went off. A reminder to reset her chime clock, which had been stopped for weeks. Plugging it back into the wall, her eyes caught a glimpse of her reflection in its glass face—a flickering outline of her sleeping-capped, denture-less state. She squinted, turned away.
The old house creaked as she shuffled into the kitchen, awakening to its familiar morning whispers: water rushing, splashing into the coffeepot, a measuring spoon clanking against the edge of the canister, the old man sighing from the bedroom.
The cold air gripped my great-grandmother by the waist and led her back to bed. Since Aubrey's retirement, there was no longer any hurry, no suit to lay out. They were still learning this new, slower routine. Breakfast could wait a bit longer.
She curled up beside him like when they were young, living in that cold little house on the Platin, dirty chickens clucking through gaps in the floorboards. Aubrey grunted, rolled over, gave a lazy smile, and squeezed her, eyes still shut. Emily breathed in the coffee's first curling fumes.
Rap. Tap. Tap. Three knocks ripped through the warmth of her half sleep. She opened her eyes. Aubrey didn't budge. Reluctant to leave the heat of his body, Emily convinced herself she'd imagined it.
Rap. Tap. Tap. More urgent this time. Unmistakable.
She rose. "Aubrey, someone's at the door." She waited for him to roll into a sitting position, rubbing his eyes. The knocking came again.
Emily walked through the kitchen, into the living room. Didn't turn on any lights in the still lightless morning. Before she reached the front door, she could already see through the panes that there was no one there. She paused.
The hammering returned—this time from the den. Whoever it was had moved to the side door. What could anyone want so early?
From the bedroom, Aubrey cautioned her: "Be careful, Emily."
She passed back through the kitchen, stealing a look through the window over the sink, flipping on the porch light. A subject materialized: a man, dressed in dark clothes and a funny hat, his pale skin bathed yellow.
...
