Page 30 of The Cajun Doctor

Lawdy was a strange kind of word. Louise realized that she missed it. The word could mean, “Lawdy, that is such a good idea!” Or “Lawdy! Are you crazy?”

“Are we gonna enter a belly dancin’ contest again?” Charmaine asked. “We haven’t done that in ages, but I don’t think I’m in shape for that anymore.”

Hah! Who is she kidding?

Charmaine had been Miss Louisiana at one time, and even now, in her forties, she looked darned good . . . and knew it. Today, she wore a red halter top that stopped just above her belly button where a little diamond stud sparkled, like a blinking neon sign saying, “Look at me! Look at me!” Her white capri pants might have been painted on, they was so tight. There were no panty lines, for sure, and no shadow at the crotch. She must be wearing a thong, or maybe she got one of them Brazil thingees that were offered by one of the five beauty salons and the ranch spa that Charmaine owned.

Louise was thinking about trying one herself (the Brazil thingee, not the thong. Thongs jist got caught up in her crack). But she had this odd reservation about being hairless down there. Some folks made sure they always wore clean underwear in case they had to make a sudden trip to the emergency room. She, on the other hand, didn’t want to arrive at the Pearly Gates and have to explain to St. Peter why she . . . (Well, you get the picture.) Better yet, how would she explain it to Phillipe? The only Brazil they knew about back then had been the country . . . and Carmen Miranda. In those days, women just sprinkled on a bit of talcum powder . . . snow on the forest, so to speak . . . and that was that. In any case, she didn’t have much left down there anyhow.

Back to Charmaine. Her dark brown, almost black, curls were piled on top of her head (The higher the hair, the closer to God, dontcha know?) in a deliberately sexy mess, and she had a bunch of gold chains with dangly pearls hanging from her ears like chandeliers. Her white wedgie sandals, on top of all that hair, made her about six feet tall. A self-proclaimed bimbo with class, that’s what Charmaine always said. That, and bimbo with a brain. Same thing.

Daniel LeDeux about went bug-eyed when Charmaine had first stepped out of her car back at the plantation. Charmaine had that effect on men, all men, but especially her husband Rusty. That would be Raoul Lanier, who had to be the best-looking man in Louisiana. Whoo-boy! Louise even got a tickle down yonder looking at him. When he walked down the street in those tight jeans and scuffed boots and cowboy hat, the ladies about swooned. Not that he noticed. The boy . . . who was on his way to fifty now, too . . . had eyes only for Charmaine, which was as it should be. While Charmaine’s favorite expression was “Lawdy!”, Rusty’s was “Mercy!” and he was usually saying it when he saw his wife in one of her get-ups.

“No, we are not entering any more belly dancing contests,” Louise said. “Not that I couldn’t. The last time we did any belly dancin’, you decided ta become a ‘born again virgin.’ And ya married fer the fifth time.”

“I only had four husbands, Rusty being mah first and last,” Charmaine said indignantly. Her many marriages were a sore point with Charmaine. “And the other three didn’t count since it turned out mah first divorce from Rusty was never valid.”

“Don’t be pitchin’ a hissy fit. I was just teasin’.”

“Are we gonna put a voodoo curse on someone, then? Powwow sounds sort of hoo-dooey.”

Louise gave her the stink eye. Charmaine knew better than that. Being a devout Catholic and even devouter follower of St. Jude, Louise didn’t believe in none of that voodoo-hoodoo.

Louise swatted her on the arm with a bunch of cattails she’d picked down by the bayou at Bayou Rose just before they’d left. Cattails were good for just about anything in her traiteur business . . . a natural antiseptic, pain reliever, blood coagulant, and so on, but they also made good eating, her favorite being the roots sliced raw into salads.

There wasn’t much that Louise didn’t know about bayou plants and how they could feed and heal the human body. She’d learned at the knees of her mother and grandmother, who had been folk healers, too.

“Sorry,” Charmaine said, even though she didn’t mean it, not one bit. Else, she wouldn’t be grinning her way like a drunk possum. “But, ya gotta admit, auntie, Native American powwows do usually involve singin’ and dancin’ jist lak voodoo rituals.”

“Powwow also means a planning session. I do declare, Charmaine, cain’t ya jist listen?”

“I’m listenin’. And stop shakin’ those cattails around. Yer gonna make a mess in mah car.”

Hah! The inside of Charmaine’s ess-you-vee was messy enough as it was with her makeup case and a Charmaine’s Health Spa carry bag on the console between them, and odds and ends of beauty salon pamphlets and samples and such lying on the floor and backseat, even clipped to the sun visor and in a cup holder. Despite those scented products, the vehicle smelled a bit like cow poop which was understandable, considering that Charmaine lived on a ranch. In fact, the car doors on both sides had the logo “Triple L Ranch” imprinted on them.

“Time fer some matchmakin’,” Louise declared. “Thass what we’re gonna powwow about. I been hearin’ thunderbolts in mah dreams, which is a sure sign love is on the horizon. Plus, I’m bored.”

Charmaine pulled into the crushed shell driveway of Louise’s cottage, which originally was built in the old Cajun style . . . an exterior of half logs with a chinking of bousillage, or fuzzy mud, a mixture of clay, Spanish moss, and crushed clam shells. Later, the structure had been stuccoed over. Then last year, she’d painted it a pretty yellow color with green shutters and a green metal roof. The colors made her happy.

Rock-edged flower beds surrounded the house, and a wire-mesh fence enclosed neat rows of her vegetable and herb gardens. And then there was a stretch of lawn that led down to the water’s edge, centered by a St. Jude birdbath and a spreading fig tree heavy with ripe fruit that would soon have to be picked. She saw many fig dishes on her horizon: roasted figs with shallots, fig jams and preserves, and her MawMaw’s fig cake topped with caramel icing and chopped pecans. She even liked figs in her salads, along with the slivers of cattail roots. Yum!

This place had been a refuge for Louise after Phillipe’s death, but also to all those who’d come under her maternal wing in the decades since.

Useless came shuffling up the lawn, seeming to sniff the air.

“Doan be givin’ the critter no Cheez Doodles t’day. He’s gettin’ fat.”

“A fat alligator?”

“Uh-huh! I need ta find that boy a girlfriend, and it ain’t gonna do no good if he’s got a big ol’ gut. René thinks Useless is a young fella of about thirty. Gators live ta be fifty or so, y’know. Mebbe even a hundred. Of course, that was before that Swamp People show on TV what makes all Cajuns seem lak dumb rednecks. They’s gonna make gators as extinct as dinosaurs.”

Charmaine rolled her eyes and grabbed for Louise’s carry bag. “Lawdy!” she exclaimed as they both exited the car, Louise using her cattails to shush away the gator. “What have you got in this bag? It’s so heavy.”

“Nothin’ special. Mah makeup. Mah herbs. Mah wallet. Mah cell phone. Mah revolver.”

“Whaaat? I thought Luc confiscated that weapon.”

“He did. I bought another one. A gal cain’t be too careful with all the druggies around t’day. Besides, it came in handy las’ week when I had ta shoot a water moccasin in mah shower. By the by, kin Rusty come by one day and repair a broken tile fer me?”