The Cajuns: A Novel - Hardcover

Weill, Gus

3.26

27 ratings by Goodreads

Hardcover

ISBN 10: 0743249798 ISBN 13: 9780743249799

Publisher: Simon & Schuster, 2004

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When an altar boy dies in a suspicious gun accident, Bobby Boudreaux, the sheriff of a 1950s southern Louisiana community, is grated by the outspoken manners of worldly reporter Ann Daigle, whose arrival he fears may challenge local traditions and compromise his marriage. 20,000 first printing.

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Chapter One: 1956

Three days before the end of the school year, Bob Boudreaux, Sheriff of Richelieu Parish, Louisiana, walked down a short flight of steps at the rear of the courthouse where his gray unmarked Ford was parked, got in, turned on the ignition, and backed out onto St. Peter Street.

The cruiser was immaculate, kept that way by Herman "Thank You Please" Washington, the trustee who was by far the Sheriff's most dependable employee.

Bob Boudreaux was a neat compact man, not quite six feet tall, who by midsummer would look Spanish. He wore khaki shirt and trousers over polished brown boots. A simple star-shaped, gold badge that read sheriff was pinned to his shirt pocket. His black hair was neatly parted, and you could see his scalp; white was beginning to show above his small ears.

His gray eyes peered out from beneath narrow upper lids, shielding thoughts turned inward. His nose lay flat against his face, broken in a long ago fight and ill set by the late Dr. Prudhomme.

The mouth was a straight line, like something drawn on the ground with a stick. The lips were all but nonexistent.

He turned on the radio as he drove onto Main Street, where telephone poles were festooned with fading pink and gray circulars, old promises from the last campaign. Promises for rural people who wanted to believe. Promise: Drainage ditches are kept clean and open at all times. Promise: Grass is cut monthly in ditches and on roadsides. Promise: Garbage is collected weekly.

All these candidates had lost. People stayed with the tried and the true, Sheriff Bob Boudreaux thought, whatever tried and true meant.

He had been elected by trickery and reelected without opposition, and thought, I am tried but am I true? In some ways, he reasoned, in some ways.

Then he quickly put the thought behind him. What point would be served? What in hell was truth but a sore he kept picking at? He thought of BeBe and with guilt turned on the radio to make that thought go away as well.

He saw Na Na Duhon spinning records, standing in the plate glass window of his radio station, CAJN. Na Na's bow tie bobbed as he sent sweet nothings to his De De: "Daddy's gonna bring home some good ice cream for his De De." Play the music, Na Na, for God's sake play the music! Mean people said, Why didn't Na Na send sweet nothings over the air to his little papoon at Misty's Paradise Inn, huh?

Na Na saw the Sheriff, gave a big wave, then shot him the finger. Boudreaux stared back, face expressionless. Na Na threw back his head and laughed. No way to get a rise out of Bob Boudreaux!

For sure. Music at last. Thank you Jesus. Thought of BeBe now gone.

The only Roman numerals in Richelieu were on the face of the clock on the First National Bank, stuck at 4:00, like Main Street's single stoplight -- stuck on red. There was something comforting about it. Always 4:00, always red. Old-timers leaned against the bank, dressed in Tuf-Nut coveralls, brogans, white socks, cash from their Social Security checks in their pockets. Most were tenant farmers too old to work the land, thrown out of the shacks they had raised their children in, spent a productive lifetime in. That was the catch: you had to be productive.

Big Shot Fontenot exited the bank, high-stepping it to Savoy's Pool Room for one final bourr�e game before the wake. Funny how men walked, Boudreaux thought. Big Shot walked like he owned the earth -- which he just about did. Along with the Senator. The Senator made him think of BeBe. Bad. He was saved again by Father Brother-in-law's soothing voice caressing God via the Rosary, which he recited every afternoon on CAJN.

"Hail Mary full of grace..."

Having the Rosary in the background seemed somehow appropriate while going past Hurphy Perrault's law offices, the best looking building on Main. All white brick and glass, like an alien spaceship amid the plain wooden fronts of almost everything else. Hurphy was attorney for the diocese, district attorney for the parish. Hurphy would be left the Bishop's ring upon his death and was the only Knight of St. Gregory in all of Richelieu. Hurphy had a clubfoot, but no one noticed it because Hurphy was also very rich. "He got it coming out the ass," was the way Bad Ass Thibodeaux, the town drunk, described him, and everyone nodded. Bad Ass certainly had a way of putting things. Drunk or sober, although his sobriety was really only a memory.

Bobby drove past Moe Weiss's Notions and Tobacco. Camel cigarettes, Gillette Blue Blades, Vitalis, Keep Moving Cigars.

Doc Alcide Mouton's redbrick clinic was next, the red light on outside the emergency entrance.

Coon's -- Since 1900. Already filled with bourr�e players and Jax beer drinkers, slapping their cards down on the table like a fusillade of pistol shots! Catfish Francois stirring the courtbouillon or gumbo or sauce piquant of the day in his big black pot. Drink, play cards, shoot the shit. Coon Soileau should have been a wealthy man, but he was his own best customer and always lost.

The Sheriff rolled past Hot Dog Hebert's Bakery, scent of donuts and cream puffs and fresh French loaves filling the air like perfume. Hot Dog admitted, "It don' taste good as it smells," a puzzle he had never solved. "Like a virgin's pussy," Hot Dog liked to brag. No one argued.

Past Tooky "Best Rates in Town" Trahan's Insurance. Maryland Casualty, Travelers, and Aetna -- he had them all. Blessed Mother in the window, smiling like Tooky had got her a good policy, and a cross over the door. Tooky did a big church business and believed in advertising.

Past Possum Aucoin's Barbershop. Possum asleep in his own chair, the Gazette over his face to keep the sun out. Gossip slept in Richelieu. Rumor took a snooze.

"Blessed art thou amongst women..."

Watch Out Naquin's Funeral Parlor came into view, one of Watch Out's coloreds out front polishing the black hearse. The Sheriff smiled, though his lips barely moved. Watch Out swore to one and all at One Lung Savoy's poolroom (in defense of a direct accusation by Possum Aucoin) that he absolutely "my han' to Gawd!" made the colored boy get out of the room when he embalmed a white lady. Further, Watch Out declared, "I believe in states' rights firs', las', and always!" His mean-spirited listeners snickered. They weren't so sure. Possum had previously stated that the colored boy was Watch Out's son. He was known to prefer black women. Watch Out was forced to take another oath.

"Our Father, who art in Heaven..."

Slowly past Richelieu High School, where Cap'n Eddie, the crossing guard, waiting for the buses that would take the children home, offered a salute which the Sheriff did not return. One of these days real soon he was going to have to do something about Eddie Sonnier, Purple Heart or not. Enough is enough, he thought and tapped his steering wheel in frustration. He dreaded the inevitable.

"Blessed art thou among women..." Father Brother-in-law was reciting the Rosary at an accelerated pace. He too had to get to Ti Boy's wake.

Poor little Ti Boy, an image of him scooting by on his bicycle, the Gazette bag dancing side to side on his handlebars.

Bobby thought, The last time I attended a child's wake it was Hot Dog Hebert's son. The kid couldn't leave his daddy's donuts alone, ate thirty-six of them for breakfast, died of obesity. Took twelve pallbearers. Watch Out Naquin, who'd embalmed him, said the lad weighed in at three hundred pounds. Bobby was unable to eat donuts thereafter, though he still loved their smell.

Father Brother-in-law's final "amen" came as Bobby pulled into Prejean's Esso for a fill-up. President Prejean himself tanked him up. "It's a sad day," President said as he halfheartedly wiped at the window with a dirty cloth. "It looks worse," Bobby muttered, but President paid him no mind. Prejean's mama had named him President so that no matter what, people would have to address her pride and joy as President. It was a self-fulfilling prophecy, as Prejean was in his fourth term as President of the Rotary, Richelieu's only civic club, though it boasted at least eleven Catholic organizations (Sodality of the Blessed Virgin, Catholic Daughters of America, Ladies Altar Guild, Society of the Little Sisters of the Poor, Knights of Columbus, et cetera, et cetera.) No one could say exactly why they voted for Prejean. It had to be the name, Bobby thought as he drove away. Rumor was that Prejean was thinking of running for public office, maybe Mayor, bad news for Big Head Arceneaux, who was both Mayor and Richelieu's only midget. Big Head told the boys at Possum Aucoin's barbershop, "He's gon' find out there's a hell of a difference in being Mayor and being President." Hurphy Perrault offered what he thought he'd heard President's campaign slogan would be: "It takes a big man for a big job." The Mayor, who stood just over four feet tall, said he didn't think that was a damn bit funny and stormed from the barbershop, laughter following him out the door. Hurphy innocently asked, "What the hell's he mad about?" And got some more laughter.

One of the last shops on Main Street was Maybelle's Beauty Parlor. Slogan: "A little corner of Paris in Richelieu." Maybelle actually went to Paris every other year to keep up with the latest in styles. The Gazette followed up on these exotic visits every time with a front-page interview in which Maybelle gave very little away about those new styles. "They're both fascinating and unique" was the most she'd say. But it stimulated her business so much that men even sneaked into the shop at night (by appointment) so that they could be up to date on hairstyles. The radio station owner, Na Na Duhon, was one of her customers for sure. "That and a twenty-dollar bill is how he keeps his little papoon," Possum Aucoin said, not liking the competition one darn bit. Possum also suggested that Maybelle didn't go to Paris at all but slipped away to her sister's in neighboring Port Arthur, Texas. "That's her Paris," he said, giving the whole world the finger. Bobby Boudreaux's BeBe went to Maybelle's religiously every week, and honestly he couldn't tell much difference, even with a Paris style. BeBe loved her bangs.

The Sheriff was now out into the country.

The sun was a big neon peach. The heavens were pink and blue like a rainbow had tipped over, spilling color everyplace. He slowed to let an armadillo cross the blacktopped road. All the roads leading to the Senator's land were blacktopped. Thank you, Governor. Thank you, Baton Rouge.

To his left was a coulee where colored kids played. He turned on his siren and they laughed, and he waved at them and they waved back. To his right were the endless rows of cotton -- it looked good, green, healthy. He shook his head. That very field would look like snow-laden earth when the cotton bloomed.

BeBe saying, in his head, One day that'll all be ours, like she was compensating him for what was missing in their life, though neither could say exactly what that was. But something was. Like an empty room in a house. Mysterious and sad. He shook these thoughts away as he realized he'd left the siren on and self-consciously turned it off.

A white egret fed at the coulee's side, balanced perfectly on reedlike legs. Overhead a crow. So much life. So damn much life!

Accordion and fiddle music was playing on the radio, the singer saying that the trouble was his girlfriend didn't understand him. He mournfully asked, Why? Singer and song offered no answers. The question became monotonous and somehow burdensome, and Bobby turned off the radio. Now there was the silence, another kind of burden. He felt alone and could not have said why.

Aristede and Marie Brouliette farmed twenty acres of the Senator's good cotton land, something they had done with the help of their late son, Ti Boy. From this, they picked two or three bales of cotton a year. They stayed in debt, and though the Senator never pressed them, was in fact generous about advancing them money on which to subsist, they were as trapped as a nutria in one of those traps in the swamp. They knew this and accepted it. They were the third generation to farm someone else's land.

Their house rested on cinder blocks and was covered in fake brick material, and it tilted ever so slightly to the right like it was trying to catch a breeze. There was, of course, no wind, just heat and afternoon rains, and the cottonwoods that flanked the screen door were still.

Beulah the milk cow munched grass nearby.

On the tiny front porch was a swing. On the side of the house toward the rear was a privy, a much used path leading to it.

Leaning against the side of the house was Ti Boy's bike. A J. C. Higgins. It had once been red. The seat was beginning to rot. On the handlebars was slung the Gazette bag. That very year Ti Boy had been named Carrier of the Year. His photo had been on the front page of the newspaper, receiving from Zeke Daigle a certificate for a suit from Harmon's Department Store in Lafayette, which advertised in the Gazette. Ti Boy had a big grin, and Zeke had a hand on his shoulder. Zeke was quoted as saying, "That Ti Boy is definitely going places."

Well he sure was. Into six feet of rich soil.

The yard was filled with cars that Chief Deputy Slo' Down Angelle helped park. He had saved two spots nearest the house for the Senator and the Sheriff. Bad Ass Thibodeaux, plastered as usual, argued that he had as much right to a good parking spot as "those big shots." That he had no car was not mentioned.

Slo' Down paid him no mind. He arrested Bad Ass once a week, and they were good friends. "Why you so bad?" Slo' Down asked, and Bad Ass answered, "Thass jist my ways." Slo' Down nodded. That made good sense.

Bobby stepped from his car. He walked almost stiffly, as though in lockstep with invisible troops. He did not greet Slo' Down, who didn't expect it anyway but who considered Bobby to be one strange man, a man who had gotten his job by a trick, without which he would be as common as the rest of them.

Inside the house, the room was filled with whispers shattered by a booming baritone voice. Mayor Big Head Arceneaux was holding court, compensating for his lack of stature with a voice that seemed to come from a megaphone. He was talking about World War II, primarily errors made by Ike. He said the name like they'd gone to West Point together.

Strangers to Richelieu wondered how Big Head had ever gotten elected Mayor. Attorney Hurphy Perrault offered, "What the hell you want us to do with him? Would you hire him?"

Tooky Trahan once said while getting a shave at Possum's barbershop that he wished someone would get Big Head on an elevator and fart on him. That broke the boys up. There were several volunteers but limited elevators in Richelieu.

Chicken and sausage gumbo, made by Catfish Francois himself, was bubbling in the kitchen, and everybody would have a bowl or two with some of Hot Dog Hebert's French bread. BeBe had sent over a big earthenware bowl of potato salad, which everybody acknowledged she made better than anyone else in the parish. A lot of celery.

The Sheriff approached Marie and Aristede, who huddled together in silence. She wore black and would wear only that color for a year. Bobby shook hands with Aristede and slipped him a folded hundred-dollar bill to help pay for the funeral. He kissed Marie on the cheek. Their hands were callused from all the cotton picking. Bobby thought, Where they really need calluses is around their hearts. He said, "I'm sorry." There wasn't anything else to say. Aristede nodded. Marie eyed the Sheriff steadily. "We...

From Publishers Weekly:

Told with lighthearted, slightly sardonic flair in a voice dripping Cajun patois as pure as bayou honey, this poignant, thoroughly engaging fable is set in the tiny southwest Louisiana backwater of Richelieu Parish in the mid-1950s, and recounts the foibles and tribulations of a soft-spoken, long-suffering homeboy sheriff. Uncharacteristically perturbed, Sheriff Bobby Boudreaux is torn between duty and his sense of what's right when a local altar boy dies in a troubling accident. Bobby isn't exactly free to act independently: he's married to the obese and bovine only daughter of Sen. Glenn "Papoot" Gaspard, making him brother-in-law to the saintly young parish priest, Father Justin Gaspard. To make matters worse, the sheriff is confronted at Ti Boy's funeral by seductive newspaper editor Ruth Ann Daigle, who raises questions about Ti Boy's supposedly self-inflicted shotgun blast to his head. As the hard-drinking Bobby succumbs to his attraction to Ruth Ann and the once all-powerful senator's future is suddenly threatened, the situation becomes even more conflicted. The moral gumbo thickens when the aged priest who hears Father Justin's confession feels obligated to violate canons of the Church and unburden his awful secret to the bishop. Stir this darkly imagined, Jax Beer–laced bouillabaisse to a zydeco beat and you have a rousing Cajun entertainment.
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