A Widow on Cambronne

By David A. Myers

Our nation has lost a president. Our world's stars are realigning. Yet the 'Sweet Lady' at the Mississippi River crescent remains a city averse to change.
This is the story of a New Orleans family negotiating life in a changing world. The story is set in the city's 'old' neighborhoods: the Irish Channel, Old Jefferson, the Vieux Carre`... This is a story of tragedy, love lost, love found, and of duty.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Feb 8, 2023
• ISBN: 9781387350001

Book preview

Prologue

What’s your take on Louisiana bayou water? There’s a general perception that bayou water is dirty. That’s not exactly accurate. It certainly appears dirty on the surface. It’s doesn’t necessarily have a good smell. No, it’s not pleasantly aromatic and certainly not crystal clear. It’s teeming with a variety of biological activity. As is, it’s certainly not potable. It’s not clean, but not necessarily dirty.

These were the ramblings that flashed through his mind as the car sank. Once you get below the algae on the surface the water doesn’t look much different than the water in the lake. Somehow, the car’s headlights were still shining. Visibility beneath the surface was surprisingly good. There was a lot of vegetation, some of it pretty. He thought he saw fish swimming by, even looking into the window.

That looked like a damn green trout.

It was almost a Jacques Cousteau experience.

The last thing he remembered was someone in a pickup trying to pass him, somewhat aggressively.

The driver of the sinking car wasn’t a young man, nor was he elderly. There was no panic. He knew exactly what he needed to do. He’d been in tight situations before, in the war and after.

Yes, after the big one - World War II. His winning streak was long. As an undercover agent he’d brought down a Soviet spy ring in Huntsville, Alabama. His work was key in Bobby Kennedy’s, then the U.S. Attorney General, efforts against organized crime. They had cut deeply into the collective pockets of the Cosa Nostra, the ‘Mob.’ Inner circles within the government had him heavily involved in subsequent studies into the assassination of President Jack Kennedy. He was currently running with a success record of one hundred percent.

There was a Bowie knife in a sheath hanging from the front seat, very comfortably within reach. This was by design. A holstered .45 caliber handgun hung under his left arm, but he couldn’t feel it.

Yes, he knew exactly what he needed to do.

It flashed through his mind very clearly, step by step.

Stay calm.

Reach down and grasp the handle of the knife.

Cut the seat belt.

Use the butt of the Bowie to break the driver’s side window.

Exit through the window and, if possible, swim under water away from the vehicle for as long as he could hold his breath.

Surface, assess, hide.

Was he really thinking clearly? He didn’t remember going into the bayou.

Piece of cake – another day at the office. There was one problem. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t reach for the knife, couldn’t move his arms or legs. The mental commands were straightforward and lucid, directing the limbs to action. The commands produced nothing akin to movement. He felt like his back should have hurt like hell, but he couldn’t feel a thing.

Water was filling the car now. His sense of smell was intact, bayou water with an oily odor. Water had splashed into his eyes and caused them to sting so he closed them. A taste in his mouth reminded him of gasoline. His thoughts shifted to Debbie, to young Jimmy.

Damn! We’ve been eating crawfish out of this water?

I’ve been giving sackfuls to those dagos down in the Channel. And they been eating them like there’s no tomorrow. Deb and Jimmy too!

Once the car settled on the bottom of Irish Bayou, visibility receded.

Bayou water is dirty.

His mind was all he had, and, for the moment, his heart and lungs. His heart beat rapidly and his breath came in short gasps. There was still no panic.

What of all the dreams? The ones everyone has: a nice place in the parish, retirement with a good government pension, more time with Debbie and young Jimmy?

I wanted to invest some money in the stock market. Maybe make enough to get us a camp out by Lake Catherine. Maybe even Ponchartrain. Catch crabs grandma. Or get a little place across the lake around Covington or Slidell.

More water coming in.

I won’t encourage Jimmy to go into the military.

In his mind he saw Debbie and young Jimmy again, almost as if they were in front of him.

There’s nothing the matter with the crawfish. The oil and gas are from my car.

Funny the things that go through one’s mind.

Shoulda spent more time at home. Always giving it to the country. Not enough left for my wife. Wouldn’t be surprised if she was ready to get on with something else. Wouldn’t blame her.

He went black before he actually expired. He didn’t realize that his lungs were filling with Irish Bayou brackish water. The ordeal was essentially painless.

That was it.

Chapter 1

Debora Torretta Mason occupied a bench in the Corridor of Blessings directly facing an open crypt. A boy leaned against her. Debbie wore a black dress and a black hat with netting hanging from the front, hiding her face. Everyone there knew her. They were family. She patted her eyes with the sort of regularity indicative of a steady flow of tears. Every once in a while, she’d let loose a good blow. The casket had not been brought into the mausoleum yet. She sat there, surrounded yet alone. Her son fidgeted next to her. Men in dark suits and dark raincoats stood around her. No one spoke to her, but one of the men had placed a hand on her shoulder and kept it there. The man’s other hand rested on the shoulder and back of the fidgeting boy.

The Corridor of Blessings was not an unfamiliar place to Debbie. Nor was it to many family members and friends. If one walked the corridors of the mausoleum, it would be very likely that a familiar name would be noted: DeGlandon, Schmalz, Aupied, Breaux, Tortorich. Debbie pondered it.

The crypts in the Corridor of Blessings remain in-family for generations. Debbie knew that a day would come when the crypt would be opened, she would be interred, and the crypt resealed. During that process, the same thoughts would likely be running through young Jimmy’s mind. This reuse of crypts was typical in New Orleans where cemetery space was at a premium. Jimmy had already sneaked a peek into the open crypt. There was nothing to see.

The man leaned down and spoke quietly into her ear.

The hearse just pulled up.

The hearse was at the curb, just outside of the mausoleum entrance. There were six pallbearers positioned at its rear. Of the six, only one was not in military attire. One of the pallbearers addressed the man in civilian clothes.

You ex-military?

Yeah. Marine Corps.

Okay. I gotta do this, he said, stepping back. Ten-hut!

The men came to attention. The rear door of the hearse opened. All six pallbearers exhibited military bearing, including the man in civilian attire. A flag-draped casket was rolled from the hearse’s rear and the pallbearers took hold. They stepped back, turned toward the corridor where a small crowd had gathered, and moved slowly and reverently into the mausoleum. They stepped in unison, one step at a time. They turned into the Corridor of Blessings.

Jimmy tugged on his mother’s arm.

Here they come. Here comes Dad.

Debbie Mason didn’t turn to look. She was deep in thought. Her thoughts were rambling and scrambled.

This was a man who had served his country in foreign theater.

This was a man who had served his country, even to the point of the ‘accident.’ Accident my ass.

What is it worth now? He should have had many years left. He deserved more time with his son. He deserved more time with me. We deserved more time with him.

He deserved more time with me. We deserved more time with him.

What, Mom?

She hadn’t realized she’d spoken aloud.

There had been glory. They’d spent time with other returning servicemen and their gals, drinking beer and singing at the top of their lungs. The young women loved the returning fighters. They all wanted one of their own. What was it worth now? The point was driven home when she opened her eyes to an American flag, directly in front of her. Beneath the flag, lay the corpse of the man that had devoted himself to country and, to an equal extent, to her and her son - to their son.

She lowered her head. Jimmy looked toward her, toward the casket, and stood. He walked slowly and deliberately to the casket and saluted. Jimmy used the Boy Scout salute, three fingers to the brow. The boy sat back at his mother’s side and two of the uniformed pallbearers proceeded in the folding of the flag. They knew the protocol. They had performed it before, for other comrades at arms. The flag was slowly, carefully, methodically folded into a symbolic three-cornered shape. The flag was folded thirteen times on the triangles, representing the thirteen original colonies. When they had finished, no red or white stripe was evident, leaving only the blue field of stars. The funeral director performed a salutation and presentation appropriate for a veteran of the United States Marine Corps.

Mrs. Mason, on behalf of the President of the United States, the Commandant of the Marine Corps, and a grateful nation, please accept this flag as a symbol of our appreciation for your loved one's service to Country and Corps.

*****

The lights in Whitey’s bar were dim. The mood was somber. The patrons had split into small groups, spread throughout the barroom. Every so often, a low chuckle would resonate, assumedly concerning a pleasant memory of Dutch Mason. Every so often a fist would slam a table.

These men were still in black pants but many had hung their jackets at the door. White sleeves had been rolled up to just above the elbows, revealing dark, hairy and muscular forearms. Many of the forearms displayed tattoos. The Torretta men lined the bar, waiting for cocktails. They had already eaten dinner and gathered uptown to drink to the passing of a friend.

Dutch Mason was not a Dutchman. Neither was he of Italian, Sicilian nor even Greek descent. Mostly French, Irish surnames also occupied his family tree including ‘Burke’ and ‘Sullivan.’ His grandfather had proclaimed himself to be a descendent of the great heavyweight fighter John L. Sullivan, but it had never actually been substantiated.

Whitey’s was in the old New Orleans Irish Channel.  It occupied a structure at the corner of Annunciation and Lyons, across the street from Wisner Field. Whitey started lining the bar.

Amaretto and Scotch. Y’all know that’s the only dago drink I know how to make.

The men drank to Dutch.

Dutch.

They dispersed to the only open table in Whitey’s. This was a corner table, round, with a ‘reserved’ tag in the center.

Joe ‘Beef’ Torretta took a seat with his brothers: Pete, Gus and Tony. He sat in his usual place, between Gus and Tony, the youngest. Pete would occupy the chair next to the family patriarch, their father Giuseppe Torretta. Giuseppe’s seat was vacant at this time. From where they sat, they could see out onto Annunciation Street with Wisner Park across the street. The park was crowded. A softball game was just getting started. The Wisner Old Timers were playing a team from Westwego. The Old Timers were playing for Dutch. They’d beat the west-bankers handily.

We got a Momma with a boy and no father, Pete said. That’s no good. Joe, you’re the boy’s Godfather. You up for it?

Yeah. I’ll do what I gotta do.

Dad talked with you about it? Pete asked.

No.

He will.

Pete leaned back in his chair, his eyes closed and his hands interlocked behind the back of his head. He stretched his arm and shoulder muscles and anything else he could hit from that position. When he opened his eyes, he was looking straight out of the window facing Annunciation Street.

Who the hell’s that?

A couple of guys, neither recognized by the brothers, were crossing the street, coming from the direction of Wisner Field. They were moving toward Lyons Street and toward the front door of Whitey’s bar. A minute later the door opened and the two men came in. The bigger of the two, a man well on his way to obesity, looked around the room until his eyes rested on Joe Beef. He nudged his companion and crossed to where the Torretta brothers sat.

You’re Joe Beef. Right? looking at Joe.

Who the hell are you?

My name’s Tony Xavier.

Xavier? That don’t sound Irish and this is an Irish bar, Gus said. And it sure the hell ain’t Italian.

Does it matter?

You’re damn right it does, Gus said.

It’s Portuguese.

Take it easy, Gus, Joe said.

Hey, fellas. I’m just here to talk some business, Xavier said. We’re not looking for confrontation. This here is Mr. Smith, from, uh, a local university down the avenue. He’s a math whiz. I think you might like to hear something he’s come up with.

No business today, cap, Gus said. Take it outta here. Take it back to the university.

He threw a couple of dimes on the table, assumedly streetcar fare.

Tony was set back for a moment. Then he noticed black armbands around the brothers’ biceps and, after a pause, figured it out. He looked around and noticed that everyone in the bar wore likewise. He also noticed that he had drawn everyone else’s attention. Without another word, he and Mr. Smith turned to the door they’d come in. Mr. Smith picked up the dimes Gus had thrown down.

Put the damn dimes back, numb-nuts, Tony Xavier said.

The kid did as he was told, setting the dimes carefully on the corner of the table with one atop the other. They left quickly, crossing the street and walking across Wisener Field.

What was the problem with those guys? the kid said to Tony Xavier once they’d cleared the park. They sure were in a bad mood.

Noticed the arm bands?

Yeah.

I’d say one of them dagos got whacked. They always make a big deal out of it.

I can understand that.

Tony glared at the college boy; the indifference obvious in his expression.

We’ll catch them later. Our plan still has merit.

Chapter 2

By six the crowd was mostly family. The Torretta brothers still shared a table. Other family members and friends were scattered either at tables of their own or at the bar. Whitey moved back and forth, tending to the needs of the patrons.

You suspect any funny business with this accident out at Irish Bayou? Pete asked. I mean, what the hell’s he doin’ out there at Irish Bayou?

He’s been doing some crawfishing lately, Joe said.

Gus looked at him directly, a somewhat puzzled look on his face.

Dutch Mason has always been a standup guy. Definitely not the type to crawfish on anything, Gus said.

I mean really crawfishing. Bringing ‘em home by the sack. It was Dutch who brought us two sacks Friday, Joe said.

I wouldn’t have thought Dutch would want any part of crawfishing, or the swamp; not after that time he got lost out at Honey Island.

This drew scattered laughter, more like low chuckles.

Dutch was head to toe in mud. It was almost dark when Dad found him. I hate to think what would have happened if he had to spend the night with the Loup Garou or who knows what else out there, Tony said.

"Or who lives out there," Pete said.

"He ain’t been going in the swamp. You know how it is when the tide comes in off the lake. This time of year, the crawfish make a bee-line for the other side of the road to get fresh water. All you