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Running away will never make you free.—Kenny Loggins
JL
Back in the lounge,Angélique has stealthily returned, along with two skinny boys, all floppy dark hair and enormous black eyes fringed with long lashes. They move behind her chair as I walk into the room. She looks too composed as she sits primly in the fireside chair, palms flat on the arms, legs crossed at the ankles. There is no sign that she is about to erupt until…”
“You should be ashamed, JL Martin.” Sparks fly from her almost black eyes, and I feel heat rise along with my indignation.
“Ashamed of what?” I try to control my voice, even if my anger burns in my gut like live coals.
“Staying away so long. Allowing your maman to smoke when it’s so bad for her health. Bringing home a woman without warning.” She ticks off my transgressions on her fingers.
“Only three?”
She flushes at my sarcasm but quickly recovers. “Three mortal sins,” she snaps. “I’m sure you’re guilty of many venial ones, too.” The older boy pulls at her sleeve. “What is it, André?” she snaps.
He whispers something in her ear. She snaps, “Go into the kitchen. Tante Louisette has probably left you a little treat. Then do your homework.”
The two boys run off as if devils are chasing them.
I consider her carefully. “If I am such a sinner, why do you want anything to do with me?’
“To help you repent,” she says, as if the answer is obvious.
My abrupt laugh doesn’t go over well.
“You have no respect. Yet another sin.” The last syllable comes out like a cobra’s hiss.
I cast a searching look around the room. “I don’t see your basket. Or a pungi.”
Confusion spreads over her face. “Je ne comprends rien.”
“You remind me of a cobra rising out of its basket at the sound of a flute. I’m staying well back from your venomous bite.”
She huffs and looks away.
“It is true I don’t visit Maman as often as I’d like, but when you’re in business, you can’t just drop everything. As for the smoking, Maman is resolute. I have been after her for years to stop. If you have more influence, perhaps she will listen to you.”
Her eyes bug out at that thought. We sit quietly for a bit, and then, in an anxious tone, she asks, “And the woman?”
“What about her?” I’m back to belligerent, crossing my arms across my chest.
“Your maman wants grandchildren. That Micki won’t give you any. And I have two she already loves.”
“Maman doesn’t get a vote.” My voice hard, Angélique flinches.
Footsteps sound in the hallway. Maman coughs and glares at me. “What don’t I get a vote about?”
Unmoved, I glare back. “Micki. And for God’s sake, stop smoking.” Then I walk out of the room to the sound of coughing.
* * *
Micki
The twin bed is narrow, the mattress a slab of concrete. With her angular figure, Angélique would be more comfortable than I am. A scratchy gray army blanket over white sheets peeks out from under a green, yellow, and cream chenille spread. The wallpaper is made up of repeating geometric designs in the same colors. Everything harkens back to the 1960s. Only the anti-war slogans are missing.
Frozen in time. And so am I. Soft murmurs waft down the hall. I can’t make out any of the words, but I’m sure JL is back with his mother and Angélique, drinking his coffee, while Louisette sings the praises of the girl she expects him to marry. I’m not sure, in the end, if he’ll be able to resist.
So far I haven’t seen him soften, but we’ve only been here a few hours. Not because of Angélique’s looks, her malleable temper, or her children. Resisting his mother’s desire will be the sticking point, and giving up his family may break our little fairy tale.
