Alexandre knew all this, had always know it, and the sight of his mother as she usually was, upright, immobile, frozen in some timeless stupor, was as normal to him as the view from her tall bedroom windows of the relentless river that flowed in the distance.
Early in the morning, well before the rest of the house was up and about, when only the house slaves stirred in the distant, detached kitchens, he would creep from his room and perch on the satin coverlets of his mother’s great, carved bed and stare back at her. Sometimes he would talk, just to see if she would answer. Most times he remained as silent and motionless as she was.
Elisabeth Couvillion Fadyen LaBranch. Alexandre thought that it was too much name for such a tiny woman. Fine featured, fine boned, she still resembled the life-sized portrait of herself that hung in the main ballroom that was no longer in use in their house. Alexandre knew, he had seen it enough, climbing up the ornate fireplace mantel and uncovering it to see it for himself. It was a betrothal portrait, commissioned to be sent to his father prior to their marriage and intended to return to her family house and its place of honor. The slaves whispered about the woman his mother had been ‘before’. The relatives that used to visit whispered about her as well. And the neighbors. Everyone whispered about Elisabeth, about the vibrant beauty she had been and the shell she had become.
From what Alexandre could gather and understand, his Maman had been alive and exciting. The only daughter of Angus Fadyen and Olympe Couvillion, heiress to the abundant rice plantation, Vieilles Chantantes, Elisabeth had been considered a prime catch in seven counties, including the City of New Orleans, where her debut had caused a surge of suitors that was still talked about. Elisabeth had been allowed to know her own self, make many of her own decisions, as was the way of the extended line of women she came from. Independent, she was encouraged to speak her mind, to have opinions, to be educated. Although her upbringing was considered eccentric, her bloodlines were impeccable, her beauty legendary, and her wealth almost incalculable.
When the dust from her debut had settled, so had her mind, and it settled on one man only: Géraud LaBranch. A tall, dark young man, with clear green eyes; his physical beauty had taken her breath away. He was not from Louisiana, but a recent émigré from Paris visiting relatives in the area. His references were without question. Géraud was wealthy, French, and if not raised to plantation life, seemed to adapt to it quickly. It had been his intention to expand his family’s fortunes in America, to learn what he could of the finer points of farming tobacco, indigo, rice, and cotton, whatever crops were prevalent to the area. Marriage was only a part of that agenda, but on meeting Elisabeth and her family, and learning of how the settlement of the family fortunes would be, he was amenable to an alliance. Angus and Olympe had no objections to the handsome, ambitious young man.
Elisabeth, though, contrary to what she thought was her nature, fell deeply in love with Géraud.
The match was looked upon well throughout the counties. The wedding, a lavish affair lasting several days, was celebrated with all the grandeur of royalty, and the newlyweds set off for a six months journey to Europe where Elisabeth became more closely acquainted with Géraud’s family. Despite the warm reception of Paris, Elisabeth was content to return to her home, wanting desperately to begin a family, wishing for small girls with her delicate build and their father’s stunning green eyes.
It was there that Alex had been unable to piece together more of his mother’s history. Something happened, something terrible that was never spoken of, the outcome of it all being his own birth and his mother as she was.
Alexandre rested at the foot of his mother’s bed, his sharp chin so like her own resting on one curled fist, and continued to gaze into the dark pools of her eyes as he ran his thoughts. Later, when the sun was first washing over the rice fields and his father, Géraud, had gone off riding with the overseer, Hercule, he would be back in this room with full decorum under the watchful eyes of Marceline, his mother’s nurse, to bid a proper good morning. For now, though, he was content to stretch out at his Maman’s feet and wonder what it would be like if she might talk to him. If it might be she who would tell him stories of Paris and New Orleans, both places he had never been to. Perhaps she might be able to enlighten him as to why his father, the tall, brooding, icy Géraud disliked him so, and what he might do to change that.
But day after day, year after year, Elisabeth remained trapped in her own body, her mind a mystery to all those around her. Marceline and the others that tended his mother always spoke to the woman as if she might respond to them at any time. Hearing this, and observing their treatment of her from infancy on, Alex did the same. He often came to her during different parts of the day to bring her bunches of wild flowers he had picked for her. Vi-vi, his playmate, had taught him to weave the slender stems into chains. He would present them to Marceline who would drape them in Elisabeth’s hair, or around her slim neck.
On rainy days, he would sit in the gracious room on one of the many soft-cushioned chairs and listen to Marceline or Yvette, Vi-vi’s mother, read by the hour to Elisabeth. It was under their tutelage that he learned to spell and read, learned the rudiments of the education that was mandatory for all house slaves at Vieilles Chantantes, as well as for any of the field hands that wished to learn. Another of the eccentricities of Elisabeth’s family.
Today was not a rainy day, it was going to be hot and steamy. Alexandre could already feel the heat rising from the moist earth, feel it curling around him as he lay very still, watching for some sign of life from his mother. As the heat escalated and enveloped him, he found himself nodding off to sleep, his chin slipping from his hand, his cheek resting on the cool, satin coverlet as his eyes grew heavy.
As he drifted off, knowing full well that if Marceline didn’t find him first, his father would beat him for being on the bed, he saw a vision rise up as if the heat became tangible. In it, there was a dense fog, wet and cool, very inviting. He moved without walking, moved through the efforts of his thoughts, making his way through the mist to a clearing he didn’t recognize. A pool of water was there, the edge of something clean and clear. Getting down on his hands and knees, he gazed into the water and saw his reflection.
But it wasn’t his reflection.
He saw a man, with thin cheeks and dark eyes like his own. Ripples ran across the surface of the water and he saw himself again, but this time as a child, a boy with startled brown eyes. The ripples wafted across the glassy surface once again, and he saw it, saw a wolf, and it leapt up from the water at him, waking him with a start.
A.J. awoke in his typical fashion, hand to his chest, bathed in sweat and a scream on his lips.
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“The car’s waiting,” Vee called up the stairs. The car had been waiting for half an hour and she had been waiting with it. Elle was still in her room, as were Linda and Iris. Linda and Iris had only just arrived a few short hours ago and were in the process of unpacking and freshening up before the limousine would take them into New Orleans for the first of the three concerts they were going to attend. After the show they would drive back and feast on all the wonderful food Françoise had been preparing all day. The smells were tempting them to stay, but Vee’s soft, demanding voice beckoned.
“Ladies?” Vee called again. This time she was met with more than muffled voices. Doors opened, laughter wafted down from the upper floors accompanied by rushing footsteps.
“Does it really matter if we miss the opening acts?” asked Iris. The small young woman grinned at her impatient friend.
“I don’t give a damn about the opening acts, but I’d like to get there without getting too bogged down in traffic.”
“Ah, all for the love of her beloved A.J.,” Linda teased. She was still tucking her shirt into her jeans.
“And I’ve never denied it,” Vee said with a laugh. “Elle, are you coming with us?”
“No,” Elle said, descending quickly with her soundless tread. She was tying back her thick, hennaed hair, trying to make her auburn curls behave in the humidity. She was also in casual jeans. Vee and Iris were in dresses, Iris’s something peasanty and gauze, Vee in a tawny yellow shift that made her mocha skin shine. “Oh, man, Vee, you look like you mean business.”
“I always mean business,” she said with a smile, leading her friends to the car.
“Poor A.J. All alone on that stage and completely helpless when he comes up against Vee’s charms. What’s a Backstreet Boy to do but succumb?” Linda said.
“He has no choice. I’m sure Vee’s put the old mojo on him already,” Iris joked.
“Iris, you don’t put a ‘mojo’ ON anybody,” Vee said with a shake of her head. She settled onto the leather seat and busied herself with opening up a bottle of chilled champagne. It was a celebration tonight, a party.
“Well, I’m sure you’ve done whatever it is you do when you do it,” Iris said.
Vee just smiled and poured the champagne.
Yes, she’d done what she needed to do. She’d drawn her vèvè with traditional cornmeal, making an elaborate pattern of hearts and curlicues, and made the most extravagant offerings to Ezili: a mirror framed in sterling, bottles of Veuve Clicquot and Anaïs-Anaïs, and a diamond necklace that had been in the family for years. She had chanted the litany to Ezili in English, French, and Kreyòl. She had hung a small, intricately crafted boat carved from a piece of one of her own oaks from the ceiling of the Ounfò, the small building she used for worship. Her silver crossed-bones were around her neck. She had danced to call down the spirits of luck and love.
Everything was done and prepared. The rooms were ready, the house was gleaming, waiting for them, for all of them.
But especially for Alex.
Because he was hers and she was his and that’s the way it had always been. She knew it from the moment she had see his picture in a magazine. Knew it with every instinct inside of her, and she had been raised on instinct, nursed on dreams, and weaned on magic. The signs were there, the dreams had started. Although she wasn’t sure of all the meanings, she recognized the import of everything that was happening.
“Vee is in dream time,” Iris chanted.
The sound of Iris’s voice broke the spell inside her head. Vee studied the smiling faces in the limousine and smiled back in return, trying to work up a blush to color her dusky cheeks, but knowing that it would be unnoticed in the muted light of the car.
“Vee is thinking about her ‘man’,” Linda said, accepting one of the crystal flutes of champagne that Vee was passing out.
“But of course,” Geneviève said with a smile.
Elle had remained silent, watching. Some of the teasing was humorous and light hearted, but most of it didn’t come off as funny to her. Geneviève was casting spells right there with them, and as far as Elle was concerned it gave her cause to reflect on what was going on. The dreams, these wolves that Vee had assured her she would bring out to the house, the way the entire house had been scrubbed and polished, all of it added up to big doings. But she still couldn’t put her finger directly on what those doings were, or why it bothered her so much.
Vee caught her eye and winked, offered a smile.
Elle smiled back, hoping that she looked more enthusiastic than she felt.
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Brian found A.J. in one of the locker rooms below the Sports Arena. He was lying on a padded bench as one of their masseurs was working him over with vigorous motions.
The sound check had gone badly. A.J. was lethargic and ‘spacey’. His mind was elsewhere. All of him seemed elsewhere. The others weren’t much better, himself included, but Brian sensed that A.J. was at the center of some shit storm that was about to rain down on them all.
“How y’all doin’?” Brian asked.
A.J. turned bloodshot eyes to him from where he lay.
“Okay,” he said, then he closed his eyes once more.
“If you can make it through tonight, and tomorrow, we’ve got two days off,” Brian said. He sat on a nearby bench and motioned for the masseur to leave, which he did after giving A.J. a few final adjustments to his arms and neck. “Maybe you should see somebody, Aje.”
“Like who?” A.J. asked warily. This wouldn’t be the first time it was suggested he ‘see’ somebody. Kevin and Brian had repeatedly asked him to ‘see’ someone about his overindulgence with just about everything. Hell, he was just an overindulgent kind of guy.
“Ah don’t know,” Brian said. He said it in all honesty. He wasn’t sure who A.J. could see. A psychiatrist seemed extreme, and Brian wasn’t sure if that was who you saw when you had bad dreams, but then again, it should be some kind of analyst, because wasn’t Freud like that, and didn’t he study dreams? He couldn’t remember.
“Yeah, well, neither do I,” A.J. said, heaving a deep sigh after his words.
“Maybe the tour Doc can give you somethin’ to help you sleep?” Brian offered.
“NO!” A.J. barked in response. It made Brian jump.
“But, Ah thought...”
“I know, I need sleep. Bad. But I don’t want to take anything,” A.J. insisted. He pulled the sheet that had been draped over him around his impossibly thin waist. He had lost weight. From the look on Brian’s face, it was pretty obvious that the weight loss was significant. “I gotta get ready to go on,” A.J. said, deflecting any more comments. He walked out of the room, leaving Brian to stare at one of the concrete walls.
Sleep. He needed sleep so bad he could feel it in his bones now. But not with pills, or anything like that, no way. He was too afraid, mostly of not being able to wake up again.
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© 2002 Chandrah, Inc.
© 2002 (*> Baby Bird Productions, Inc.
