Crossed Roads

By Margaret S Ward

Crossed Roads tells the stories of three contemporary women living in the New Orleans area who feel a sense of knowing each other even before they meet.

Ali Rushing is married to her Tulane sweetheart, David, and she works as a counselor at a private girls school. She is fascinated by the study of human behavior and also spends much time researching the architectural history of the city.

Claire is a lawyer who is an advocate of judicial equity for rich and poor alike. Her fervor is stoked by the devastation and allegations of wrong-doings by Federal and State agencies and officials following Hurricane Katrina, and she sets out to get accountings from the core of victims and to make this information available to all.

Remee is a shop owner in the French Quarter who creates jester figures, Mardi Gras Krewe replicas and voodoo charms and potions. She is fascinated by the culture that built and maintains the essence of the French Quarter, specifically the Voodoo and Creole cultures. She is especially drawn to observance of private Voodoo rituals.

The story that brings these three women together stems from their ability to exchange information mentally even before they meet. As the story unfolds, the reader is given glimpses into New Orleans life in the 2000s including Hurricane Katrina, Mardi Gras, a Jazz funeral parade, a view of the historic Garden District, the Cajun and Creole cultures, an authentic Voodoo ritual and a murder. The plot takes the reader also to Natchitoches and St. Martinville in Louisiana, both steeped in the Creole culture.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Aug 27, 2012
• ISBN: 9781477253342

Margaret S Ward

Margaret Saetre Ward, retired educator and medical professional. Throughout her lifetime, she was a sounding board for a diversity of problems, both real and imagined. Reflection on these recountings provided the springboard to the development of the characters in Crossed Roads which she set in New Orleans, her college home.

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© 2012 by Margaret S Ward. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Published by AuthorHouse 08/01/2012

ISBN: 978-1-4772-5335-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4772-5334-2 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012913484

This book is printed on acid-free paper.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Acknowledgements

The Basics

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

About The Author

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Special thanks to Mark, Melissa, Alec, Deb, and Alison who provided the wind for my writing sails on this book.

THE BASICS

An intangible bond sometimes forms when kindred souls meet; and in rare instances, this unexplained connection exists even before the actual meeting. Ali, Claire, and Remee sensed such a link through a kind of sixth sense which initially was a vague awareness of thoughts coming into their minds which were not their own. With time, the subtlety gave way to patently obvious examples of some type of thought transference. While it is not uncommon to have a thought out of the blue, these women experienced memories of things they had not done, answers to questions they had not researched, and forebodings of dangers they had no reason to expect.

Although they lived in geographically distinct areas of metropolitan New Orleans and in the settings of different lifestyles and careers, they shared something of a hunger to understand the cultures that first molded and now perpetuate the life of The Big Easy. Ali focused on the architectural design and furnishings of the city’s history. Claire sought to understand the legal system and human values. And Remee was caught up in fascination with the Voodoo/Creole/Cajun influences. On their paths toward satisfying this hunger, the three women literally and figuratively walked many roads in common spatial dimensions, but these roads had not as yet overlapped in time. Circumstances would later dictate the time and place of their meeting, but destiny had long before mandated their coming to know each other.

Ali, a school counselor, a wife, and a people person, initially spent what free time she found in the course of her days visiting, researching, and photographing representative builds diversely present from the Vieux Carre (the location of the famous French Quarter) to the modern residential and shopping areas along the lake and riversides. For each picture she researched and acquired documentation of authenticity and history which she compiled in flip-page notebooks and shared readily with anyone who asked – and even some who didn’t!

An attorney, Claire had totally integrated her fascination into her work. In her quest she was not unlike Diogenes in his search for an honest man except where he used a lantern, she used a laptop computer. She searched for honesty and equity in the legal system of the State and was an advocate for the downtrodden and disadvantaged population as individuals. She was conversant in the applications of the Napoleonic/Civil codes of law as practiced in Louisiana and had researched cultural and legal bases dating to the time of importation and sales of African slaves in the Louisiana territory.

Remee designed and sold carnival fashions, Creole souvenirs, and Voodoo memorabilia. The lure of the Creole and Voodoo histories had tugged at her ever since she could remember. She was drawn to visit area landmarks where often she sensed and felt she could absorb the living history and she dug deeply into the subtleties of the city’s Mardi Gras which was elementally an outgrowth of the Voodoo beliefs. She was well-versed in the Cajun culture; and since settling in New Orleans, she began assimilating the closely related Creole influences also.

CHAPTER ONE

The first of the roads destined to cross with the others was paved by Alison Creel Rushing who prefers being called Ali. An attractive and vivacious woman, she had married a man she often felt had been part of her life forever – or at least their adult forever. Over the years she and David were together, they weathered college, medical school, graduate school, a lot of financial hurdles, and a devastating hurricane.

When they first met, she was a freshman at Tulane and he a junior. Shortly after they began dating, he was accepted into the medical program consolidating senior year undergraduate studies with the first year of medical school. The classroom, study and research time was rigorous; and the time he and Ali had together was usually at the end of the day when both were tired and ready for a night’s sleep. Largely because of that, most of their dates from that point on took place in David’s apartment where they cuddled on the couch watching movies on television. Ali rarely made it back to her dorm before morning; and if anyone asked either of them about a movie ending, they confessed that for them all movies at home ended with daylight piercing the shutters on the window of the apartment and waking them.

Ya know David yawned one morning, still holding her close, We are like an old married couple! Few dates, no time for wild sex, and falling asleep on the couch.

Ali laughed, I know, but it’s better than having no time together. I like just feeling your skin against mine. It relaxes me… . and it excites me… . and I love you.

David turned her around to face him and gave her a long, warm kiss. Ali, you know what? (When he started to say something but was still thinking about what he should say, he frequently began with the phrase: You know what?)

Not until you tell me, she quipped as she always did in response to that question.

We have known each other two years. I already know I don’t want to be with another woman and I also know I want you with me always. But it’s going to be a long and rough road for the next 10 years and I guess it’s not fair to ask you to just pick up your things and move in with me… . even if your mom approved… . which I know she wouldn’t.

His words brought a wide smile to Ali’s face followed by a serious response: I agree to a point, David; but I don’t think there is anything ‘unfair’ about two people jumping a few hurdles to be together if they are in love and working toward common goals. She took a deep breath and continued: If you think about it, we are separately paying for a home but almost every chance we have to be together, we are here… together. Practically speaking, it is wasting money. I want to be with you when we can, and I can’t imagine that will change.

The thoughts were snowballing in her mind and seemed to drop like an avalanche out of her mouth. Maybe we could even get a head start so when you have your own practice and are earning money, we could buy a house. I want to work fulltime after I graduate no matter what. I have already accepted an offer to work as a student assistant at the Law Library starting this semester.

Deciding she had probably said more than she should, she glanced at the clock and almost welcomed the excuse the time dictated for a change in the subject. Yikes, I’m gonna be late for class. Please run me back to the dorm so I can change and get my books.

Sure thing, love. I need to get into my scrubs and lab coat and we’re good to go.

David had late call that night so it was the next day before he had time to connect with Ali again. When he did, he asked if she was ready for a nice dinner. Are you cooking? she asked innocently (knowing he could hardly boil water without burning it).

Naw. I thought I’d take you some place nice since I’m off until tomorrow. Put on something pretty and I’ll pick you up in an hour.

True to his promise, they went to the Bon-Ton, their favorite atmospheric hole in the wall restaurant which always served unbeatable French cuisine. Between courses small martini-type glasses were brought, each with a scoop of sherbet (to cleanse the palates). Ali was in the middle of telling David about her day. Without taking her eyes off his, she felt for her spoon and blindly aimed it for the sherbet. There was a sound of metal hitting metal. Oops, she giggled and looked to see what she had spoon-beaten. In the middle of her sherbet was a simple but elegant diamond ring with a streamer attached which read: WILL YOU?

She had thought of little else since their discussion the morning before but didn’t want to bring it up again, fearing she had already said too much. Apparently she hadn’t. Here it was. He was proposing and her heart was pounding like a bass drum in Macy’s Thanksgiving parade. With a quivering hand, she picked the ring out of its frozen bed, wiped the sherbet off with her napkin and handed it to David who had already moved from his chair to kneel beside her. He accepted the ring from her but did not put it on her outstretched finger. The restaurant conversation of the other guests came to a halt as all eyes were on the two of them.

Ali my love, it’s not going to be easy for a while; but I promise I’ll make it up to you later if you’ll be my wife.

You know what? (and she broke out in an ear-to-ear smile, her eyes reflecting the flickering candlelight and almost dancing). Even the most difficult of times will be far better with you than our being apart. I would be honored to be your wife.

Disregarding the audience who were appropriately captivated by the romance in the room, David slipped the ring on her finger and gently lifted her out of the chair and pulled her close for a passionate kiss that brought ahhhh’s and applause from the diners and restaurant staff in unison. At the end of the kiss, they reseated themselves and made an attempt to finish their dinners. Both were smiling, almost giggling like kids. The feeling of fluttering butterflies in their bellies convinced them they should take the remainder of their fine meal back home so they asked for a take-home box. When the waiter returned with it, their check was on top. In bold red ink on the bill was written: Congratulations and thank you for sharing your special day with us. Your engagement dinner is on the house. Come again!

The day after that semester ended, the Creel home in nearby Houma was filled with friends and family as Ali and David were married. Their parents gave them a 3-day honeymoon cruise to Mexico, and they had to leave before their reception was over to get to the ship in time. When they returned to New Orleans, they had only two days to move Ali’s few belongings into David’s apartment and get ready for return to classes. That was their introduction to the pace that would characterize their early married years. Heavily weighing the scales of survival in their direction, they were young, in love, and determined to be together. Ali’s check from her on-campus job kept them in groceries, and both sets of parents chipped in from time to time to help.

It seemed as if the fates were shining on them in spite of some minor pitfalls, and Ali received her B.S. degree on schedule, with honors, the day after their second wedding anniversary. A month prior to that, she had printed multiple copies of her resume and hand-delivered one to each private school in the area hoping to find a counseling job paying enough to support them though David’s last years of school, his internship and residency. Her first job interview resulted in her being offered the position of academic and personal counselor at St. Cecilia’s School for Girls, and the salary was more than she had even dared to hope. The school catered to both boarding and commuting students from kindergarten through high school, and the wide span of the girls’ ages provided unlimited opportunities for interaction which fell directly in line with Ali’s ambitions. She had always been a people person with an enviable warmth and wit that made one-to-one as well as group interactions enjoyable for all involved. It was obvious that she had found her niche in the workplace.

The time between the end of her day at school and David’s return home gave her hours on her own that she used to further her personal quest to absorb more of the essence of the New Orleans culture as a whole. She frequently launched out on walking tours of the nearby Garden District, taking photos, making notes and researching on her laptop the residential history of the area. When the weather was rainy (which was often), she would forego the tours and nestle in a study area at the library poring over designs and décor of antebellum homes or reading the latest journals on human behavior. The latter interest was in strong contention with the cultural quest as interests went. Ali was determined to come to some understanding of the mental processes which governed human behavior.

Within three months of David’s completion of medical school, Ali applied for and received a stipend covering graduate studies in psychology; and she received that degree three years later. The hours of classes complimented her work schedule; and more times than not, she was home with fresh coffee brewing by the time David got in. He had interned at University Hospital the first year it was converted from a private hospital to a teaching institution. The hospital boasted a high-profile trauma center; and that, in combination with the city’s diverse population, offered exposure to a multitude of illnesses and surgical needs which was a magnet for him. He remained there for his residency and was hired on permanent staff after that. At that point it seemed life for them had achieved a status of being settled and very comfortable.

During this time in Ali’s life, the second member of the forming trio of women, Claire Callais, came on the scene. She was a law student at Tulane who was an independent woman paced by her internal treadmill, doing pretty much what she wanted when she wanted. She was not concerned with following rules of protocol in either work or social settings, but respect for her obvious intelligence and determination overrode her mannerisms and kept her in demand as an attorney and a reference source. She had an office in somewhat suburban Metairie but spent most of her time pursuing legal issues related to people who, in her words, were less fortunate residents of the State. Rarely did she appear in court, but her name was well-known in the legal community primarily because of frequent citing of her publications by other attorneys. Her law practice was solely dedicated to helping the indigent; and, as a matter of record, she never accepted even one dollar in payment for her services.

The bulk of the court cases assigned to her and the vast majority of the publications of her research findings focused on the Black and Creole populations. She was a prolific self-publisher with the preponderance of her work relating to the Creole impact on Louisiana law and lifestyles, primarily in the New Orleans and Cain River areas, both footholds of the Creole population. This exposure lured her into what became extensive research into the original slave communities in Louisiana and the laws governing them. The history trail pointed heavily to both the Louisiana Voodoo and Cajun cultures; and in her quest for a kind of internalization of these people and their plights, she discovered an information source which became another passion for her. She began visiting old cemeteries in the area where she often found subtle revelations in the words carved on the headstones. Sometimes the insight came from bits of poetry and other times from comments about the deceased. The earliest and the homemade headstones were treasures in this area of historical curiosity, presumably due to the lack of engraving costs for those stones so wording was not limited except by space.

In her small but tasteful office, Claire had posted a Speakers’ List for one of the larger organizations which planned seminars and conferences at sites as varied as a travel agency’s roster. The speakers’ names were listed alphabetically and hers appeared about one-fifth of the way down the first page. The listing provided an impressive summary of her qualifications, publications and interests, among which were a Bachelor’s degree from Northwestern University in Natchitoches, LA and a Juris Doctorate degree from Tulane Law School, class of 1997. These were impressive credentials for a woman who did only pro bono work.

Surprisingly, however, Claire’s home did not reflect any indication of her being a volunteer as her career role. She owned a simply designed but well-appointed home in the upper middle class waterfront community of Lake Shore. The neighbors with whom she exchanged pleasantries from time to time discussed among themselves the possible sources of her income. Thoughts of the curious ranged from the possibility of her being involved with drug trafficking to the question of her being a somewhat eccentric heiress. Claire was not oblivious to the questions, but she had no intention of addressing them. In fact, she smiled at the thought of the entertainment she provided these people without doing anything.

The final link in the threesome, Remee Lacour, was by far the most reclusive of the women. Most days she worked upstairs in her shop in the French Quarter designing and sewing her fabric figures. Remee’s Creations, was nestled in the midst of a plethora of voodoo spell sellers and fortune tellers; but it stood out because of the quality and authentic design of her offerings. She sold a mix of New Orleans Voodoo symbols, spells and charms as well as replicas of the costumes and frivolity that symbolized Mardi Gras. Her business focused on a combination of the two, and as jazz music filtered down the street from nearby clubs, Remee felt she had achieved a blend of the Quarter: jazz, Mardi Gras, Creole influences and Voodoo – the formula that gives life to the city.

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Each of the personally made items she sold attested to her dedication to that formula. The standing cloth-bodied Mardi Gras figures featuring the kings Rex, Comus, Bacchus, and Zulu, stood on the shelves only from one year until the next and then were stored out of sight. She used the same basic forms for these figures and her much-demanded black and white jesters and kept a large stock on hand, having made the forms in times when business was slow or the weather was bad. Then each year as soon as she had access to the designs of the year’s finery for the court members, she began outfitting the forms and the end results replicated the life-sized costumes meticulously. The carnival and voodoo figures filled almost the entire first floor of the shop which was laid out in a sectioned maze. Only one corner had no figures but showcased various Voodoo charms, gris-gris pouches, potions, and information pamphlets.

The back of the store area had a cleverly concealed stairway to the second floor where Remee had her workshop and made her home. This upper area was not large but had abundant light provided by the floor-to-ceiling windows along the back and by two large skylights which opened into the work area. The front wall was windowed on either side of a simple rounded-top door leading to the wrought-iron railed balcony which overlooked Royal Street and also served as an overhang for the shop entry. A kitchen with a half-wall connecting to the sewing/work room composed half of the upstairs, and on either side of that area were two bedrooms, a small sitting room and bathrooms. The entire upstairs was unified by the look of comfort and utility in the art deco style of fabric and designs she used in her handiwork.

Notably no photographs of family members were displayed in the apartment but instead walls were covered with shelf upon shelf of books and racks which held countless bolts of fabric and lace. In the far corner of the workshop was a large wooden barrel overflowing with cotton/nylon stuffing materials which Remee used to give form to the cloth figures. In the corner directly opposite that was a freestanding tool box with sectioned drawers filled with beads, sequins, lace, rune stones, and confetti bits. Above that was a two-level shelf with dozens of containers of leaves, dried plants, rose and vanilla scented liquids, and various types of powders – to be mixed according to the appropriate recipe for requested gris-gris pouches.

When Remee first saw the building, its only identification was a roughly carved wooden plaque above the doorway: Aunt Suki’s Praline Kitchen. Remee smiled at the misnomer since the space it occupied was little more than a street-level nook at the entrance to an empty shop. The shutters on the windows along the street were closed and Suki’s praline stand stood in the inset for the doorway.

The building was in an area of the French Quarter that had maintained the integrity of the old city. This included a conglomeration of bars, strip clubs, nice restaurants, antique shops, a hotel and, of course, the other sellers of memorabilia – all within several blocks of each other. The historically preserved area came to an abrupt geographic stopping point farther down the street where it seemed bit by bit every property that sold had the authentic builds replaced with more modern buildings. Remee reasoned there was a determination on the part of the owners of the buildings in the immediate area to keep the ambience and appeal of the originals, and she admired their dedication.

Although Remee knew this part of the city as well as most tour guides even, when she decided she was ready to buy, she combed the already-familiar streets from end to end looking for the right spot for her shop. Each time she walked down Royal Street, she felt a strong draw to stop and chat with Suki, who stood beside her stand of pralines looking like she had just stepped off the label of an old Aunt Jemima syrup bottle. Besides the sales of her confections, Suki enjoyed entertaining passersby who stopped to ask questions and then stuck around to listen to her stories, fact or fable. Her French-Black-New Orleans dialect delighted most listeners, and if she tended to exaggerate it a bit (which she did), it was all the more entertaining.

Five days into her shop hunt, as Remee was nibbling on a praline and chatting with Suki, a man dressed in jeans and tee shirt appeared in the otherwise empty downstairs shop carrying two armfuls of boxes. How you be, Massa Potter? asked Suki who whispered to Remee that she did not know his real name, but he made pottery so that was the name she gave him. Whether he heard Suki’s greeting or not, he said only Excuse me ladies as he made his way to the street and across to a car which was parked at the opposite curb. Both Remee and Suki stood to the side of the entry out of the man’s path; and in almost a whisper Suki continued telling Remee about the potter.

He been livin’ in de upstairs long as my shop been here. She paused as he walked back inside for another load and then resumed her story.

I don know de reason how come he never talk. He been like dis since he come here. Remee nodded and leaned back against the shutters on the front of the building, half listening to Suki and half processing in her mind what was