House of Rougeaux(38)
“It sure is good to see you, Martine,” said Lucille. “You were always kind to me.” Martine shook her head, actually she was not and she hadn’t been. But Lucille didn’t seem to notice the gesture. “Folks used to look at me like I was some kind of wild animal,” she went on. It appeared being spurned by people in the neighborhood still hurt. Martine’s shame returned and her cheeks flushed. No wonder Lucille had quit church.
“I suppose I seem a little wild to you,” said Lucille, her eyes on the ground. “I know what folks said about me. I try not to think about it too much. Somebody’s got to pay the bills, take care of my momma, keep my brother in school.” Lucille looked up at her. “Do you think I’m a bad person? Aw, you probably wouldn’t tell me even if you did. You must think I’m crazy, going on like this.”
Martine was duly overwhelmed. “No, surely I don’t,” she said. “I admire you.”
Lucille met her eyes in a grateful look.
“You should be proud,” continued Martine, “taking care of your family all alone. Why is it anyone else’s business how you get your money? I saw you in that dance hall. I can see you work hard. And you’re good at it too. You dance like an angel. You’re beautiful!”
At that Lucille covered her whole face with her hands and hunched forward. Her shoulders shook. Martine wiped at her own eyes.
“Listen, I’ll tell you something,” Martine said, hurrying to give Lucille her last clean handkerchief. “I’m out of a job because the man of the house tried to get too friendly today. Scared the living life out of me.”
Lucille dabbed at her face with Martine’s handkerchief and blew her nose.
“That dirty dog,” she whispered. “Believe me, I know the kind.”
The two girls were quiet a minute. Lucille twisted the handkerchief.
“Martine,” she said, “I could use some help at my house. My momma is getting weaker and I need someone to help look after her and Tony while I’m working. Someone who could stay over the night a few times a week. I can pay.”
“You all need someone to help?” said Martine, suddenly feeling as if she were floating.
Martine walked away in a daze. Why was it the Rougeaux household could contribute music and alcohol to places like nightclubs but drew the moral line at associating with dancing girls? If she was going to work for Lucille she was going to have to get her parents’ permission. To convince Papa, she’d have to get Momma on her side first, and for that she’d need Didi again.
But she didn’t go straight to her sister’s house this time. It was the money, Mr. Alain’s five-dollar bill tucked away in her handbag. It became another live thing, like the grand piano, chirping with a song only she could hear. This money was of a different kind than the money she knew; gained so easily and illicitly, it seemed both sin and windfall. She should donate it to the church, that’s what she should do. And that’s what she resolved to do, even as she realized she stood before the ornate, polished doorway of the Blanc et Levesque Bookshop.
She could see stacks of books, visible through the gilded letters on the shop windows, great shelves of books that disappeared into the shadowy ceiling. Something beautiful in there could be hers.
When she emerged again she carried a thick volume of the great English poets, bound in sturdy, charcoal-colored cloth. Her cheeks burned. She had the book, wrapped in paper and now squeezed into her handbag, and she had two dollars and thirty-five cents left over. That she would give to God.
Martine’s feet flew. In under twenty minutes she rounded the corner onto Rue Delisle, where the stately grey stone of the Union Congregational Church came into view. A man was busy with a broom, sweeping the sidewalk around the two linden trees that flanked the arched entryway. Martine hopped up the three stairs to the door and skipped inside.
The collection box was kept in the church office on weekdays. Martine heard the voice of the new young minister, the Reverend Charles Este, finishing up a conversation with his secretary and two women from the community, about plans for renovating the basement. The Reverend had only been instated that month, but already initiatives were afoot for numerous new projects. He was a person who inspired tremendous confidence in those around him, and he did so with great warmth.
Martine hesitated in the foyer, outside the half-open office door. Reverend Este caught sight of her as he followed the ladies to the door.
“Miss Rougeaux,” he said, treating her to his wide smile. He already knew most of the congregation by name. “What brings you here on a weekday?”
“Just a donation,” she said. The Rougeauxes gave to the collection plate each Sunday, so it was unusual to be bringing money now. “I have something extra, Reverend,” she tried again, “I wanted to bring it in before I was tempted to spend it.” She dug in her pocket for the two dollars and change, and then held it out to him.
“Very thoughtful of you,” Reverend Este said, taking the money to the collection box and waving her inside the office toward a chair, “to give us your extra.” He took his seat behind the desk. “Have you something on your mind, Miss Rougeaux?”
His look was so kind, that despite herself she sat down and told him she’d run into an old friend, and that her friend just sort of worked at a nightclub, and that she was kind of thinking about helping her out at home.