Across Cane River: A Saga

By Thomasena Martin-Johnson

Jacques Lawrence at your service, the voice was deep, resonant and a little lazy; Paulette looked up into warm, brown eyes, and six foot four inches of welled honed muscles.Here, let me.

Simone turned her head toward the sound and there he was. Where did the oxygen go? Her eyes locked on the tall, lean, hard body in front of her. She was hot; the air conditioning must not be working. She immediately dropped her eyes down to his shoes, neat, just what I like.

At your service, ladies. Jacques was studying Simone while everybody was busy being busy. His eyes covered everything, long legs, just like he liked them, a thin, athletic bodyhere is my chance, thought Jacques. He reached for her arm and she gave him her hand. I dont even like shaking hands and here I am putting my hand in a strangers hand. She quickly removed her hand and started toward the elevator, the handsome stranger dragging the loaded cart, getting on last.

The door opened on the sixth floor and Jacques got off pulling the cart with him. Simone got off last. She started down the hall. She could feel his eyes on her as they roamed unchecked over her body. She knew her hips had an extra swing to them and she couldnt help it.

As she floated down the hall, Jacques thought, being in this mud hole wouldnt be so bad if she were connected to the registered letter that got him here in the first place.. Now where did that thought come from? Right now, an inheritance is the last thing on my mind.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jun 10, 2013
• ISBN: 9781479776450

Thomasena Martin-Johnson

Thomasena Martin-Johnson has spent four decades inspiring students and audiences alike with her knowledge, her stories, and her dedication to education. Through her teaching, writing and speaking, Mrs. Martin-Johnson continues to profoundly touch the lives of so many around her. She inspires those others to always reach for their dreams. Now a retired Professor of Writing, Mrs. Martin-Johnson practices what she preaches. She has gone on to pursue her own dreams. Always drawn to history and intrigued by other cultures, she is now a sought after speaker, and consultant on such topics as cross culture communications, anthropology, ancient history, Egyptology , Creole culture and much more.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Jacques Lawrence sat at a corner table on the balcony overlooking Bourbon Street. His stomach growled, reminding him that he had not eaten since morning. Was he upset or just deep in thought. Jacques was a dyed in the wool Scorpio, a loner, or he liked to think of himself as such, the type that Hollywood liked to make the western, rugged man, the man whose best friend was his horse, the open sky and the deserted range. Except, he had no horse, and the only time he was on the open range was when he was traveling between Las Vegas and LA. His own company was comforting, especially since his run-in with Liz. A knot formed in his stomach. Just the thought of Liz made him shuffle his feet and reposition himself in the chair. He looked up after a fashion checking to see if anyone noticed a change in his demeanor. A scowl attached itself to his face; he felt the change and wondered if he was as sharp at hiding his feelings, as he thought he was. From a distance, he heard a voice filtering its way through the thoughts that possessed him; looking up at the waitress who stood next to him with the pencil under her chin, patting her foot impatiently. He smiled at her, but she did not smile back.

Are you having a bad day? he asked.

She did not reply to the question, instead she said, What will you be having?

He looked back at the menu, made his selection then said, If you don’t want to be here, then I think you should go home.

The waitress jammed her pad into her pocket, spun on her heel and stocked off. He considered leaving, but his stomach growled again so he reconsidered, took a sip of his drink and made a mental note not to leave a tip; that would show her, and maybe she would smile at the next customer.

Focusing on the street below, he tried to concentrate on the faces as they moved up and down the street, but instead, those words from the letter started across the bottom of the television screen of his mind again. A frown appeared between his eyes as he tried to crawl deep into his memory searching for a name or a face. He could not remember his mother or father. Somewhere deep in his memory, he saw a trunk. Could that be what he was going to get?

After having thought about the customer’s attitude, and how that might affect her tip, the waitress returned, carrying a tray, a rack and a new attitude. She sat the tray on the rack and began to serve him a plate of crawfish tails, gravy, and rice. The sweet aroma drifted into his nostrils and his stomach growled again. The smell of Creole spices, cayenne pepper, ginger and cloves made him even hungrier. Tomato gravy smothering the chunks of meat that looked like tiny lobster’s tails hit the spot. The distinctive aroma of coriander and red pepper tantalized his nostrils. He looked at the lady; she smiled and asked him in a friendly tone if she could get him anything else. His reply was a curt no thanks. Too late to be nice now, he thought. He was fine, or was going to be in a few minutes when the delicious food hit his hungry spot.

The food was delicious. It had been a while since he had had truly, Louisiana food.

In Los Angeles, authentic Creole food was hard to come by. He missed the taste that was so much a part of who he was? He tried to wipe out even that little part of Louisiana once he left but all he had to do was see a picture or get a whiff of the unique flavors and he knew that try as he may, the taste of home was always there. He though he had let go of that part of the culture even though he always asked for the Tabasco sauce. Whether he admitted it or not, he had conjured up many little devices that he used regularly to create the man that he wanted the world to know and to keep the real him only to himself. Sometimes he succeeded and sometimes he did not. He thought that he did all of the time.

He was full. The waitress came back to remove the empty dishes. This time, she smiled, and so did her eyes.

How about some coffee, maybe a dessert; we have good old southern pecan pie and homemade bread pudding?

Yes, coffee. Is it chicory?

We have both, which would ya’ like?"

Without! She raised her eyebrow and left.

While Jacques drank his coffee, he took a pen from his pocket and began to doodle on the napkin. Doodling always came in handy for him when he was deep in thought, brooding, deep in his man cave. He seemed to spend more and more of his time in the cave lately, even before the registered letter arrived. As far back as he could remember, he would retire from his surroundings and keep company with himself and the thoughts that seemed to haunt him even in childhood. He had felt alone his whole life, but seldom did he admit it. Just another one of those things he thought he hid perfectly from even himself. As a child, he did not know it was loneliness, but he always knew that something was missing. He still doesn’t call it loneliness, not Jacques Lawrence; he did not need anybody.

After three cups of coffee, without chicory, as he reminded the waitress each time, and three napkins of circles and lines and arrows, the tall, lanky, man in the cowboy hat pushed his chair back, left a less than generous tip, and departed the balcony.

Out on the street, he contemplated strolling down Bourbon Street, checking out the sights and mixing with the crowd. Instead, he leisurely headed for the hotel. It was still warm, but the sun was on the other side of the buildings, which cooled the air, and spread its golden hue as people continually filled the street going no place in particular. Music and beer mixed in the air and occasionally, a customer stumbled from a doorway, disoriented from the drink, falling into passers by. Here and there, a hand would reach into the crowd asking for a handout. Jacques resented such behavior, begging instead of working; all they were going to do with the money was drink some cheap wine or buy some bad dope. At least he could offer to work for the hand out. But that would not make a difference to Jacques; he usually ignored such things even if the hand looked like his. That is exactly what he did. The crowd was beginning to thicken. It seemed like the music got louder and the people too.

Women, scantly dressed had drifted onto the balconies overlooking the street. From time to time, one would yell down to a man on the street below inviting him to join her for some ‘fun’. Some would invite his female companion also. Mostly the invitation was for him and him alone. Jacques ignored that too. Here and there, young pre-teen boys tapped danced for money. They looked like a black version of Huck Finn or Tom Sawyer, ragged clothes, pants too short, no socks, holey tennis shoes with no strings, hair uncombed and motley faces. They fastened pop-tops to their shoes for taps. Street musicians, with homemade drums, or a horn of some kind wailed the blues to the steady beat of his foot—the flavor of the French Quarter, the flavor of Bourbon Street.

He finally reached the hotel. The short walk from the restaurant helped to digest the meal he had just eaten. He walked through the double brass and glass doors, up the three steps and into the lobby of the Monteleon. The quaint lobby was crowded; the bellmen were busy and all of the clerks at the check in desk were occupied. Jacques Lawrence walked up to the desk, waited his turn, with what seemed like patience. He considered going on upstairs, but he wanted to check his messages and mail. After waiting his turn, collecting three pieces of paper from the desk clerk that he stuffed into his pocket, he walked over to the newsstand in the doorway of the gift shop, bought a newspaper and started for the elevator when he heard a commotion at the door.

Three beautiful ladies laden with luggage and dragging the rest were struggling up the steps.

Don’t let the door close,

I’ve got it, here, give me that bag.

That’s okay, I’ve got it.

I wonder where the bellmen are?

They’re never around when you need them.

Simone was the first to clear the doorway and began to organize her bags away from the others. The first thing she thought was never let them see you sweat. Paulette was the next, adding hers to the pile near the grandfather clock. While Michelle brought up the rear, Paulette went to the desk to check in. Simone found a seat on a bench near the giant planter. The fragrance of magnolias filled her head and made her dizzy. She was edgy from the hustle and bustle in the lobby. She looked around to see if there was something else to do; seeing nothing, then sighed and relaxed a little.

From across the lobby, he watched the three ladies. His eyes kept drifting back to the one seated on the bench. She turned her head toward him just as the elevator door opened. Instead of taking the elevator, he walked over to the sofa, sat down and opened his paper. His heavy eyebrows arched mischievously. He continued to watch her while he pretended to read his paper. A phrase slipped from his lips; ‘Knock my socks off’. Her aloofness was intriguingly apparent. She did not appear to have noticed him. She is beautiful, he thought. Her skin looked like velvet, smooth as whipped milk chocolate. He licked his lips; he could almost taste the sweetness. Chocolate was quickly becoming his sweets of choice, especially as of now. This was better than a snicker.

Paulette finally reached the desk, registered, picked up the keys to a room over looking Rue Royal, and joined her companions; still no bellman and no luggage cart. Once again they started gathering bags etc., dropping things trying to head for the elevator. When out of nowhere, appeared a cart, accompanied by a tall, strikingly handsome, well dressed Cowboy in ostrich boots and a Stetson hat.

Jacques Lawrence at you service, the voice was deep, resonant and a little lazy; Paulette looked up into warm, brown eyes, and 6'4 of well honed muscles. Thank you."

Michelle had already begun to stack bag after bag onto the cart.

Here, let me, were his next words and with rippling muscles, swung the luggage onto the cart. Simone seemed pre-occupied and not really paying attention to the scene played out around her. Her mind was trying to only responding to the letter she had received and the reason for her trip. Her heart rate increased at the sound of his voice.

From somewhere in the distance, Simone heard her name floating up to the surface of reality. She was afraid to look up. She didn’t know how she would react since she was having difficulty breathing. Slowly, she struggled back from her revere to the present, to the lobby of the hotel. She turned her head toward the sound and there he was. Where did the oxygen go. Her eyes locked on the tall, lean, hard body in front of her. She was hot; the air conditioning must not be working.

Hummmm, what a body, all six feet four Inches of it, he looked powerful, like he commanded all of his space and hers. Her eyes roamed over his shoulders, wide and cut, his waist narrow and tapered into slim hips. His clothes hugged his body and the clean look of him impressed her. She immediately dropped her eyes to his feet. Neat boots, well kept and delicate, just the kind she liked. When was the last time a man commanded that much of her attention? With a smile playing around his full, sensuous lips, he cleared his throat and leaned toward Simone. He reached for her elbow. As if an invisible string pulled her, she rose from her seat; their eyes met.

The smile in his eyes had a sensuous flame as deep and resonant as the husky voice that repeated, At your service ladies. She just stood there, not breathing; the oxygen had disappeared. She was lost in the gaze of his eyes. The mischievous twinkle that always appeared in his eyes when he was excited caused them to smolder. He was aware of the effect he had on the ladies who still had not given him their names. It was like a talent, he did not remember practicing it, it just happened. Females, young and old, responded to him. As a teenager, he used this ‘talent’ to taunt young girls, but since he matured, the desire to see how far he could get eventually was buried until this very moment. This idea shocked him. For the first time he realized how long it had been since he was moved to test his ‘abilities’. That is what… her name was Liz Condor. He tried to push the name out of his mind as quickly as it had come. However, this beautiful creature standing before him did remind him of Liz at all, another shock.

Thanks a lot, I do not know what we would have done, commented Paulette. She gave him her most dazzling smile. He smiled too, but he was looking at Simone.

We would do what we usually do, find a cart and put our bags on and go… replied Michelle. Jacques was studying Simone while everybody was busy being busy. His eyes covered everything, long legs, just like he liked them, a thin, athletic body. He took a deep breath. Wonder what she’s thinking; she did not seem to know that he was alive. He knew she was alive and his body let him know in no uncertain terms that it had been a while.

Her response did not mean anything; he thought, she is just acting like she is not interested. I know the game; I did it enough myself. That’s cool too. He smiled too. She likes me.

Michelle started toward the elevator just as it arrived and the door opened. He waited for Simone to move toward the group, but she didn’t.

At the elevator, Paulette called back, Hay Sim, this way, waving her hand in a come on fashion that appeared to be in slow motion.

This is my chance, thought Jacques. He reached for her arm and she gave him her hand. Her physical reaction to him was a new experience for her. Never had she felt like a bolt of electricity racked her body. Still caught by those devilish brown eyes, she moved like she was in a dream unaware of her actions. He looked down at her hand, smooth with long tapered, red nails. He smiled inside, hoping that his face was straight as a tremor ran through him.

Her eyes followed his down to her hand and immediately removed her hand thinking to herself, what is wrong with me, I don’t even like shaking hands, and here I am with my hand in the hand of a stranger. She quickly started toward the elevator—get a grip girl—she said in her head. They all boarded the elevator, the handsome stranger dragging the loaded cart, getting on last. His eyes worked their way around the car finally resting on Simone again. A little voice in his head reminded him that her chest was just enough to make a guy notice the blouse and wonder if the buttons were easy. The silence was deafening but only to Simone. She stole a quick glance at him; his collar was open and she could see his chest. Her companion did not seem to notice. Suddenly the space got smaller, and the air got heavier. Jacques kept the watch going; he knew she was uncomfortable. From the corner of her eye, she could see him looking at her. She thought, he should be ashamed to stare like that. How rude. No one had ever affected her this way. Not knowing what to do with those feelings, he took a quiet deep breath and let it out slowly, hoping it would calm him. She took a deep breath and then let it out slowly too. Four, five, six, the voice on the elevator chimed. The door opened, and Jacques got off dragging the cart with him. Then Paulette and Michelle followed, chatting about this and that, as they moved down the hall toward their room. Next, it was her turn. Simone got off and started down the hall. She could feel his eyes as they roamed, unchecked, over her body. She knew her hips had an extra swing to them and she couldn’t help it.

About 125 pounds, neat waist, jeans fitting just right—tight enough to display the assets, thought Jacques, as he watched her float down the corridor in front of him. He wished he was in those jeans with her. The picture that flashed in his head made him smile. Her hair was almost black and hung down near her waist. It had a slight wave to it, causing it to fall gently round her shoulders and down her back. The hall seemed to stretch far into oblivion, and the handsome stranger with the body to die for and smoldering eyes filled it up. The two ladies in front reached the room, opened the door, and went inside.

Don’t forget to check the place, spoke up Michelle, opening doors, looking in closets, checking the bathroom, looking in draws, pulling the covers back on the bed to inspect the bed and its linens, they were satisfied. It was clean, fresh, and comfortable. Satisfied? questioned Paulette. You act like you are the only one who is going to sleep here." They were satisfied. It was clean, fresh, and comfortable. Simone and Jacques reached the door and entered. He began to unload the cart, first the hanging bags and then the suitcases.

I’ll hang these for you, he volunteered and looked around for Simone. She had walked over to the window. I hope to see you ladies later. It sounded like a statement and a question all in one, and it was. However, he really did not expect an answer.

‘I do too,’ thought Simone. Thank you for your help. I’m here on business and he could be an ax murderer for all I know, she scolded herself, so—that’s that. She and Jacques looked at each other longer than was polite for strangers; time seemed to stop, put on pause. Then he ‘picked up his socks’ and made for the door. He took one last look as he closed the door. Time was in slow motion; his eyes locked the number—606—and he began to hum his favorite tune as he waited for the elevator. On the way down, he kept seeing those hips as they moved from side to side, in their own rhythm, smooth sensual and sexy, and those hands—long red nails; wonder how they feel on my back. What a crazy thought. Her perfume lingered in his head, spicy, heavy, clouding his senses. The voice on the elevator announced, three, before he realized that he was going the wrong way, down instead of up. Oh well, I can ask the desk clerk for their names," he said aloud.

Simone sighed heavily as she turned away from the window. Paulette and Michelle were standing in the middle of the floor staring at her. They looked at each other.

Okay, what’s the matter? they both said at the same time. They were surprised that she was not hiding her feelings any better. She struggled with a smile and tried to lie convincingly. She wondered if her face showed the x-rated thought she was having about that man in the cowboy hat. His scent was lingering in her head.

Nothing really, replied Simone, releasing the rest of the pent-up air from her lungs.

What time is your appointment and exactly where is it? inquired Michelle. She gently touched her friend’s shoulder.

Do you want us to go with you? asked Paulette.

She realized that she had successfully escaped discovery; she had hidden the currents and sparks going through her being.

The letter said ‘heir’ so maybe they won’t let you.

Well, piped Michelle, they can’t throw us all out; besides, if she wants us, needs us to be with her, we will be there. I don’t care what the lawyer said.

She sighed again and climbed into the middle of her bed, "I’m a big girl; I can sit in a chair and listen to the reading of the will from some unknown ancestor at least.

I just wanted you to know, begin Michelle as the two friends joined her on the big bed, that if you need us, we would go with you.

I know, said Simone, and she put her arms around her two best friends. I can’t remember a time that either of you weren’t here for me.

Silence fell over the room. Each was in her private world. The three friends had been together for a long time. Paulette was her first friend; they played together every day. Sometimes Simone played with Paulette’s toys while she took a nap. Then one day Michelle came to Simone’s with her mother. The mothers were friends; they belonged to the same clubs; they attended the same church and shopped at the same shops. They even went to the same doctor. They were like sisters and so were the girls.

Well, I am going to hit the shower; are you two coming with me? asked Paulette. Michelle and Simone looked at each other—Simone raised her eyebrow and Michelle mouthed ‘in the shower’. Just then, Paulette poked her head around the door jam.

Shopping, not the shower.

Of course, remember the shoe store, replied Michelle, "I would not miss it for the world, new shoes and stuff.

Simone turned toward the window and stared out at the clear sky. It was almost dark, no rain in sight. Maybe that is a good omen.

"I’m next, Michelle interjected, digging into her overnight case for her special soap.

I won’t even need a shower cap; I plan to wash from head to foot. With that statement, she disappeared behind the closed door.

Paulette went through the usual routine, dressing and trying to communicate with her distracted friend, who was lying on her bed. It was near impossible for Simone to concentrate on the conversation. Instead, she was thinking about her meeting with the lawyer. She had a million questions. What could she possible inherit and from whom. It was probably a trunk full of 19th century dresses or a case of confederate money. Maybe a box of books, first editions or a diary cataloguing the ancestors from a plantation and find out that she was sixth or seventh generation descendent of Lafayette or some other pirate that was hanged in the town square. She smiled. Maybe she was a direct descendent of Marie La Veux and inherited all of her voodoo secrets. She had already asked the lawyer, but all he would say was, ‘in due time.’ It was truly frustrating and since she had no control of these events, she was more frustrated than ever. She knew that somewhere in her background was some money of great, great, great-grandfather whose name was Adams or Jones, or Johns or maybe all of them. Which was it? There had not been any money to speak of for several generations. She could not remember all of the details. She had never had much interest in digging up ancestors. The thought that there may be an ancestor that she would not want to know about always kept her from looking. Her parents never talked about race mixture that may have been in the family, or why they left Louisiana in the first place. She vaguely remembered conversations about Cane River but she did not think about asking any questions. She knew that she came from a mixed group but what that mixture was, was never discussed; therefore she never questioned. It never came up even in her mind. The thought of maybe trying to dig up some family history—if she had the time—had crossed her mind.

Presently, the bathroom door opened and a voice yelled out.

Your turn!

Having to concentrate on shoes or perfume was a bit of a chore, but sitting around in this room second-guessing the documents in the lawyer’s office was actually a waste of time. So she decided to join her friends; that decision made, she headed for the shower.

Are we walking or riding?

*     *     *

The crowd in the lobby had thinned considerably. There were two clerks behind the desk, one male and one female. Jacques chose the male. He figured that his chances were better with the guy. The female might think he was some kind of pervert and call security. The man would understand, and there would be no problem. He moved down the counter toward the man. Just as he reached the spot where the clerk stood, the telephone rang. The clerk went to answer it. Jacques stood there talking to himself, be patient guy, they aren’t going anywhere. He at least hoped not; however, they could have already gone. He took a deep breath, held it for a minute, and then let it out slowly; they looked like they were staying for a while. Hurry up guy, he thought; the impatience that he thought he had well hidden was beginning to show. The clerk hung up the phone, and Jacques started to approach him. A young woman beat him to the punch. He had a stack of disorganized papers in his hand. He began to drum his fingers on the counter top. He cleared his throat. Nothing happened. He thought of giving up just as amber eyes appeared before him. His resolve was renewed. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the desk clerk sent the young woman on her way and walked over to an anxious Jacques Lawrence.

Good afternoon Sir, how can I help you?

Jacques looked from left to right; he wanted to make sure that he was not overheard. He drew himself closer to the counter, and leaned toward the clerk.

I need a favor, began Jacques.

I’ll be glad to help you, Sir, replied the clerk.

There are three young ladies in room 606. I need their names, said Jacques in a kind of stage whisper.

Sorry Sir, giving out the names of guest of the hotel is against policy, I couldn’t… . Jacques reached into his pocket and pulled out a money clip. The clerk’s eyes dropped to the money, and for an instant he wavered. Jacques flipped up two twenties. The clerk looked back at the money; Jacques added another twenty. The man behind the counter opened his mouth to speak, and the telephone rang.

Can you get that Andy, called out another clerk.

Andy let out a sigh of relief as he quickly went to answer the telephone. Saved by the bell, he thought. Time seemed to drag by for Jacques as he waited.

Why doesn’t he get back, he thought. He was in a rush; he didn’t have all day; supposed they leave and he never saw them again?’ He took a deep breath. Calm down, Guy, he scolded, They are still in the hotel. After what appeared to be forever, Andy returned to his customer.

Mr., I cannot do it. Jacques flipped up two more twenties. That could mean my job. All the while, he was pushing the roll-o-decks toward Jacques’ hand and slowly flipping pages. He looked back toward the area where the voices came from. The telephone rang again.

Excuse me, Sir. The clerk picked up the phone and turned his back. Jacques flipped through the pages until he came to 606. His heart started racing, as he quickly recorded the names in his memory; last names were not important yet, Paulette, Michelle, Simone. That helps, now which one is which? He wondered how he was going to determine which name went with the long legs and red fingernails. He looked around again then slipped the money between the card in the roll-o-decks, pushed to the back of the counter and said aloud, No problem, I hear what you are saying, see ya." quietly walked away whistling his favorite tune.

Now the wheels in his head were turning, how to handle this new problem. How could he find out which girl was sitting on the bench. He walked over to the elevator and pushed the up button. He, again thoughtful, began to tackle his new problem, how to get the name of the amber-eyed, long legged beauty who was responsible for him picking up his socks, now on a regular basis. The elevators were slow, too slow for the few people who were coming and going. He thought about calling the room and asking for the foxy lady who sat on the bench. He chuckled to himself, which was something he rarely did. He was more the stoic, brooding type, the kind that showed no emotions, not displaying his true feelings, or at least that is how he thought he was looking. Why not? A man has got to do what a man has got to do. The elevator arrived, as last, Jacques could breathe again. He took a long deep one and let it out slowly. He was not aware that he was holding it until he let it out. He hit the eighth floor button. She may even answer the phone; would he remember her voice? Sure he would; how could he forget; he couldn’t be sure. He did not want to leave a negative impression. He considered himself far enough behind in the game of meeting his dream lady already. He even considered sitting in the lobby half the evening He could be accused of stocking the ladies. That really was not cool. The voice in the elevator said eight and the door opened. He started down the hall toward his room searching for his key.

Once inside, he turned on the television, sat on the side of the bed and removed his shoes and socks. He chuckled to himself thinking that he still had on his socks. Next, he removed his pants and shorts, fell back on the bed, precariously; he was breathing evenly.

*     *     *

Jacques was jolted awake by the jingle of the telephone. He was disorientate, slightly confused, not knowing exactly where he was. He did not move immediately. Slowly he looked around; his thoughts cleared as his memory returned. He had slept more soundly than he thought; he must have been very tired, but tired of what? He had not done much, had dinner, walked to the hotel which was around the corner, and thought about the amber eyes. The telephone rang again. He picked up the receiver; who could be calling me at this late hour; nobody in this town wants to talk to me. It was a calling service. He cleared his throat,

Lawrence here, he paused.

Mr. Lawrence, this is the office of Lee and Leigh. We have an appointment scheduled for eleven o’clock a. m., is that time convenient for you?

Yes, eleven a. m., I will see you then. The line went dead. He looked at the receiver in his hand as if it was a foreign object, then placed the receiver in the cradle., His mind was on the coming event. As he crawled back into his man cave, his mood changed. The brooding man who never let the outside into his private world took over. His mind raced ahead wondering what was in store for him. He could not imagine what a lawyer in this mud-hole could have for him. He did not know anyone who had anything to leave him, much less anybody that would want to. He sat on the side of the bed, and like a computer screen, pulled the letter from the lawyers into focus. Come to New Orleans, why? He went over the letter in his mind word for word, line by line—nothing, not a clue, just come here for a reading of a will. But from whom, he tried to remember what relatives—there was the old man from Barbados; he could not remember his name. Then there were those people that he was not supposed to talk about. He never bothered about such things in the past. He was not supposed to know what they were talking about. Children were supposed to be seen and not heard. Every time a conversation came near the subject, the room fell silent, so he tried not to be seen as well as not heard. Those were strange times, especially for a young, inquisitive boy who never got an answer, so the next best thing was to put such things out of his mind. That was just what he did. That must have been when he stopped asking questions and developed the attitude of ‘if they want me to know, they will tell me.’ He turned on the television and started hunting. The remote control gave him a little security. At least he could control that. Sports, that usually took his mind off his problems. As he flipped from channel to channel, his mind drifted back to the question at hand. He started over looking for