Fat Tuesday(85)

Gregory made every attempt to appear harmless, which wasn't difficult, because he wasn't only harmless, he was utterly helpless.

Besides, he doubted Old Nick himself could have intimidated these folks.

They might slit his throat for entertainment, but not because they felt threatened.

As for himself, his bowels were quaking with terror. They could probably smell his fear over the tantalizing aroma of the gumbo that bubbled in a pot on the cook stove. The woman of the house brought him a bowl of it, ungraciously setting the crockery down on the table with a decisive thunk.

She was no friendlier than the menfolks her husband and teenage son, Gregory surmised who'd virtually dragged him through the woods to this house where the woman and two younger girls had subjected him to suspicious scrutiny. He supposed he should be grateful that he'd been rescued before he became gator chow, or succumbed to hunger, thirst, or exposure.

They'd saved him from the perils of the swamp, but their hospitality left much to be desired. At any moment their misgivings could give rise to menace. These were the kind of people you did not mess with.

The movie Deliverance came to mind.

Trying to establish a friendlier mood, he smiled up at his hostess.

"This looks delicious. Thank you, ma'am."

She practically snarled, revealing a gap where several teeth should have been. She said something to her husband in Cajun French. He grunted a surly response. The children were as taciturn as their parents.

They stood by silently and watched Gregory spoon the gumbo into his mouth.

He was ravenous, but after a couple of bites, he realized that he should have given the gumbo a trial run before gobbling. It was dark and thick with various shellfish, onion, tomatoes, okra, and rice, but the cook had been liberal with spices that seared his esophagus.

After taking a long drink of water, he ate more slowly. His stomach had shrunk over the last couple of days, so he got full quickly and finished only half the portion."Thank you very much," he said, patting his tummy."It was delicious, but I'm full."

Without comment, the woman removed the bowl and his utensils but left his glass of water. The man sat down across from him. He was a hairy cuss. Coarse black hair sprouted from his nostrils and ears and knuckles. The hair on his head had been plastered down by his dozer cap, but his chin was obscured by a thick beard that extended all the way down his neck to meld with the pelt that filled the V of his collar.

"What's your name?"

Gregory, upon hearing him speak English for the first time, stammered, "Uh, Gregory."

"Father Gregory?"

Momentarily taken aback, Gregory then remembered that he was still wearing the reversed collar."Uh, yes. Yes. Father Gregory." A priest might be treated with deference. For instance, his death might be quick and painless as opposed to slow and torturous.

His lie evoked the hoped-for response. Impressed to have a man of God in their midst, they began talking excitedly among themselves.

Eventually the head of the house whistled shrilly and the others fell immediately silent.

He eyed Gregory with blatant distrust."What happened to your face?"

"Tree branch."

Two eyebrows that looked like caterpillars glued to his forehead came together to form a suspicious furry frown.

"See, I got lost," Gregory said. Their expressions remained immutable.

He elaborated."I, uh, a friend and I were camping. He went on ahead in the car with our supplies. I was supposed to take the boat and meet him at a designated spot. But I got lost. Wasn't watching where I was going and plowed right into a tree. Knocked myself silly. I drifted for I don't know how long until the boat got caught up where you found me." He formed the sign of the cross between them."Bless you, my friend."

Then, to cap off the monologue, he added, "My fellow priest is probably worried sick by now. He's probably organized a search party."

The hirsute man looked up at his wife and grunted noncommittally, she sucked the empty space where an incisor should have been.

Gregory took their rejection hard. He felt like crying. He'd reached rock bottom, leaving him only one viable option throwing himself on the mercy of his parents. They'd washed their hands of him a dozen times, but they always came through when the situation was desperate, and he couldn't imagine a situation more desperate than this.

Surely he could think of something to tell them that would strike a chord of parental concern, or, short of that, obligation. After all, they'd spawned him. They would gladly finance a trip. Maybe to Europe or the Orient. They would send him far, far away just to get rid of him and avoid any embarrassment his presence in New Orleans might cause them.

He would leave tomorrow. His daddy could make it happen. In a matter of hours, he would be safely away from Burke Basile and Pinkie Duvall and the whole damnable mess. He rued the day he had become involved, but now he'd seen the light and salvation was only a telephone call away.

"You've been awfully kind. Now, if I could please use your phone "

"No phone," the man said brusquely.

"Oh, okay." There was a telephone in plain sight not ten feet away on the kitchen wall, but Gregory thought it prudent not to point that out, especially since another heated family discussion was underway. He knew a smattering of French, but none he'd studied sounded like this, so he was unable to follow the debate that continued until, again, the father motioned for silence.