Something about the car parked beside the house \u2014 a red Chevy Aveo \u2014 Alex did not like. It aroused vague disquiet, like the scent of a predator. The license plate jumped at him: the ghostly visage of Abraham Lincoln and \u201cIllinois\u201d in rolling blue script. His jaw tightened. What was she doing here today? He considered driving off before someone inside saw him. But suppose someone already had?<\/p>\n
It didn\u2019t matter. The battle lines had moved. The front had advanced. Retreat was not an option.<\/p>\n
Creaking steps announced him at the back porch. Through the screen door, he saw Sean spring up from the kitchen table. Sean\u2019s voice cracked with surprise as he unlatched the door. \u201cUncle Alex?\u201d<\/p>\n
Alex shuffled inside. \u201cHey, Slim.\u201d<\/p>\n
Across the table, eyes bright and flashing behind Oleg Cassini frames fixed him in the doorway. She greeted him: \u201cSpeak of the devil.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHi, Claire. I thought y\u2019all did this on Tuesdays.\u201d Today was Thursday.<\/p>\n
\u201cWe changed it this week,\u201d Sean said. \u201cMiss Claire had detention hall Tuesday.\u201d<\/p>\n
Claire hoisted the Bible-sized Norton Anthology of American Fiction<\/i> on her lap. \u201cI thought of you when I read this story again. The main character is a musician. And the bandleader is named Creole. Your timing just now was perfect. You came in right on cue.\u201d<\/p>\n
No. His timing could not have been worse.<\/p>\n
He gestured with the fiddle case in his hand. \u201cI was out this way, so I figured me and Sean\u2019d run through a few songs for Sunday. Sorry to interrupt.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWe can wrap this up if you want,\u201d Claire said. \u201cSean told me he\u2019s sitting in with you for a few numbers at Festival Acadiens. I think that\u2019s terrific.\u201d<\/p>\n
She sounded so generous, even flattering. But Alex always heard more than her words.<\/p>\n
They\u2019d met last July at the Creole Folklife Festival at LSU-Alexandria, where he was giving a fiddle workshop. He\u2019d stopped in to hear his old friend Lorene Broussard spin tales in the Black Storytellers Alliance tent. As they talked afterward, a woman approached, dressed in crisp khaki shorts and yellow polo shirt, with bobbing copper ponytail and freckled cheeks, peering into the grease-stained lunch sack in her hands.<\/p>\n
Lorene seemed to know her. \u201cYou get you some cracklins, boo?\u201d<\/p>\n
The reply came in a flattened Midwestern twang: \u201cYeah, I thought I\u2019d see what I been missing all these years. Anyone?\u201d She offered the bag to them, then picked out a chunk of pork skin. She studied, crunched, and critiqued. \u201cHmm. I think there was a piece of fat on this one. Deep-fried pork fat. I knew there was something I loved about this place. Seriously, Miss Lorene, it\u2019s a wonder you people have survived this long.\u201d<\/p>\n
Lorene laughed, but the remark bothered Alex. Something in her tone sounded so \u2026 Yankee. So \u2026 white.<\/p>\n
Lorene introduced them. This was Miss Claire, Claire Hopkins, come down from Rockford to teach a few years at the high school. \u201cThat far?\u201d he asked. \u201cWhat\u2019s down here to bring you all that way?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cTeach for America. I teach for a couple of years at a small-town school and get brownie points on my r\u00e9sum\u00e9. I also get to immerse myself in Louisiana culture. Pretty sweet deal, if you ask me.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cAnd what do you think of Louisiana culture?\u201d<\/p>\n
She rattled the bag of cracklins. \u201cThe more I get into it, the more I like. Except the cockroaches. One skittered across the kitchen floor last night the size of a medjool date. Indestructible, too. I gave him my best Wayne Gretzky slap shot. Barely fazed him.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cAnd the names? At first I thought half the parish was Italian. I met more Comos and Dimaggios than there are in the Rockford phone book. Then I saw it written. C-o-m-e-a-u-x. D-o-m-i-n-g-e-a-u-x. And me, an English teacher. I\u2019m learning to spell all over again.\u201d<\/p>\n
Alex smiled. But something in her humor set him on edge. Exactly what, or who, was she laughing at?<\/p>\n
Seeing her at Eva Crochet\u2019s gallery a week later salted the sore. Eva was helping her pick out a present to send to the school where she taught back home. They went through the alligator skull paperweight, the corn husk dolls, and every Floyd Sonnier sketch in the shop before Claire decided on the hand-carved miniature pirogue. All the while, she marveled at the craftsmanship, the ingenuity of the local artists. She told Eva her place was a treasure, passing on traditions to a younger generation almost a sacred trust \u2014 as if Eva didn\u2019t know that.<\/p>\n
The same with her lecture on the virtues of buying local, delivered at Lejeune\u2019s Automotive. Pete Lejeune\u2019s son Gerald had planned to take over the business, until the Walmart Tire & Lube opened on the highway west of town. Now Gerald was night manager at the Best Western in Kinder, while his wife, Eloise, bused tables and refilled steam pans at the Coushatta Casino buffet.<\/p>\n
And that was before Teresa heard from another parent what Teach for America was: bright young teachers coming to poor, failing schools. It all added up. And it made this habit of hers, which was only a nuisance on neutral ground, almost an insult here. Here in his sister\u2019s home, a converted shotgun house on Bayou des Cannes, where added rooms with sheet vinyl floors settled unevenly with the prairie soil, and wooden doors and window panes swelled and stuck, open or shut, with the humidity. Where his father\u2019s family had sharecropped into the \u201950s. And now where she came every week to tutor Sean, his nephew, his student in the Creole fiddle tradition.<\/p>\n
He should be grateful; his sister was. Sean was struggling as he started high school. Teresa had threatened to banish the fiddle to the closet as a distraction, like TV, where it might go untouched for weeks at a time, as wrist and shoulder muscles shrunk and interest waned. Then Claire came to the rescue, refusing pay, wanting only to help. Apparently, she was: Sean was still playing.<\/p>\n
Her offer now raised the ante, and she held the stronger hand. If he left and let them finish the lesson, she won. If he let her cut it short, she still won.<\/p>\n
He set down his fiddle and pulled out a stool at the counter behind her. \u201cY\u2019all take your time. You don\u2019t mind if I listen in?\u201d<\/p>\n
Claire flexed the book at its binding, a warm-up exercise. \u201cTake notes. There will be a test.\u201d<\/p>\n
With that she plunged back into the discussion, leaving Alex to piece together fragments of the story: the younger brother, Sonny, had a drug problem and wanted to be jazz pianist, the older brother was set against it. Mostly, though, it was Claire who commanded his attention. Quick, witty, intense \u2014 did she ever let up? \u2014 she led Sean through scenes and lines of dialog, laying clues to help him discover how everything fit together, how this action revealed that character and that image carried the theme. With pride \u2014 selfish pride \u2014 he thought that Sean was more adept at learning double stops from him than making literary connections with Claire.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat\u2019s the big deal about music?\u201d Claire was asking. \u201cWhy doesn\u2019t Sonny just grow up and get a real job?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cIt\u2019s too important. His music is like, a part of him. It\u2019s real to him.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cIt\u2019s real? You mean it\u2019s not real to the rest of us?\u201d<\/p>\n
Sean tried again. \u201cI mean, he\u2019s lived it.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat does that mean \u2014 he\u2019s lived his music? How can you live music?\u201d<\/p>\n
Sean was getting frustrated. Alex too. \u201cHe knows what it means,\u201d Sean said. \u201cIt\u2019s like, he knows what it\u2019s talking about.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cTalking?\u201d Claire riffled the pages. \u201cI didn\u2019t see any lyrics here.\u201d<\/p>\n
Sean sighed. Alex too.<\/p>\n
Claire cocked her head, glancing from the corner of her eye. A smile trickled across her face. She straightened her satiny violet bookmark on the page, nestling the cord in the binding, letting the gold star hang over the top. Squeezing the book shut, she pronounced: \u201cTo be continued. You\u2019re getting it, Sean. You\u2019re very close to the heart of this story. You just have to be precise. Then we\u2019ll both know you\u2019ve nailed it.\u201d<\/p>\n
Sean nodded, slumping as though winded. Alex felt his own spine loosen, his mood lighten. He reached for his fiddle case. \u201cSee you \u2018round, Claire.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou\u2019ll see me Sunday for sure. Slim, you better be good. And don\u2019t let your uncle steal your licks.\u201d Her hand was on the screen door, her foot on the threshold, when she paused and turned back, her eyes hopeful.<\/p>\n
\u201cCan I ask a favor? Is there some musicians\u2019 code against having an audience when you rehearse? Is that like watching a magician practice his tricks?\u201d<\/p>\n
The tension returned. Why didn\u2019t she just say it? \u201cYou wanna listen to us rehearse?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cIf you don\u2019t mind. I\u2019ve been to festivals and clubs and all, but there\u2019s something about being one-on-one. It\u2019s like reading a writer\u2019s first drafts of a novel. You learn more about it that way. About what makes it good.\u201d<\/p>\n
Alex looked at Sean. Sean shrugged. \u201cOkay by me.\u201d<\/p>\n
With anyone else, it would have been okay by him too. But the urge to make a new convert soured with the suspicion that the faith wouldn\u2019t grow here. She said so herself: She wanted to learn about it. For all he knew, it was something she could use on her r\u00e9sum\u00e9.<\/p>\n
It wouldn\u2019t be the first time. Obscurity had one consolation: People weren\u2019t fans of this music because it was trendy. They might come from curiosity, but it was love that brought them back. Yet for every one who stayed, who-knows-how-many shook their heads and walked away and maybe told their friends back home, with amused smiles, about that scratchy folk music those people liked.<\/p>\n
Claire to her credit had signed on for two years. That entitled her to something.<\/p>\n
He picked up the stool. \u201cWe use the back porch. The floorboards sound better.\u201d<\/p>\n
He and Claire went out front while Sean went for his fiddle. Alex scanned the shorn, burnt-umber rice fields of the neighbor\u2019s farm. White egrets speckled the marshy tractor treads, stalking frogs. Farther beyond, a few Angus cattle grazed against the backdrop of a clear October sky. Perfect for making music. He settled on the stool and bowed the strings lightly, like a vodou<\/i> conjurer in the presence of spirits, the fiddle giving them voice.<\/p>\n
Claire perched on the railing. \u201cThat\u2019s beautiful. The fiddle, I mean. Even I\u2019m not impressed by a few notes.\u201d<\/p>\n
It was beautiful: the patina on the neck worn and polished with sweat and oil from his hand; the nicks in the scroll from a car crash, re-stained by rubbing with pecans; the pegs scorched from a small kitchen fire one Mardi Gras. \u201cIt\u2019s seen some years.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cIs it true that older fiddles sound better?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cIf they\u2019re made right. The wood relaxes. The sound \u2026 mellows. And the longer you play it, the better you play it.\u201d<\/p>\n
She nodded. \u201cHave you played that one since it was a baby?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNo. I bought it from my teacher.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cIs that how most people learn, by taking lessons?\u201d<\/p>\n
Was she thinking of taking it up? \u201cAnd sitting in with older guys at jams and parties.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cDo you do that a lot down here? Do people bring their fiddles to a party instead of CDs?\u201d<\/p>\n
Alex slashed his bow across the strings. The fiddle shrieked, silencing her. He smiled. Friendly spirits. \u201cSo how\u2019s Sean doing? His grades are better?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cOh, yeah. He\u2019s a sharp kid. He could do even better if he put more effort into it, but that\u2019s true of 90 percent of the students. A lot of kids have trouble jumping from grade to high school. But he has his music, that grounds him. It\u2019s what sports or science club does for the others.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cDid you tell his mom that?\u201d<\/p>\n
A quick, fleeting lift of her brow made him sorry he\u2019d said that. He felt exposed.<\/p>\n
\u201cI tell him he should use it as a subject for an essay or a history project,\u201d Claire went on, \u201cbut he seems kind of shy about it. Maybe you would have some pull with that.\u201d<\/p>\n
Alex shrugged. He didn\u2019t involve himself with Sean\u2019s school life. Theresa kept after him enough. But he liked that idea. Her idea. Claire\u2019s idea.<\/p>\n
A sudden boom shook the air. The house trembled. Claire startled. \u201cIs someone hunting?\u201d<\/p>\n
Other than her? \u201cWild hogs,\u201d he said, calmly inspecting the fiddle pegs. \u201cBig ugly things with tusks? They run around all over out here.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThey do not. Uncle Alex.\u201d Sean\u2019s voice cracked with accusation as his fiddle case shoved open the screen door. \u201cIt\u2019s farmers, scaring off cowbirds.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYeah, they\u2019re worse than hogs,\u201d Alex said. \u201cThey eat the rice and lay their eggs in other birds\u2019 nests. They came with the buffalo a hundred years ago and never left. What do they call that? Invasive species? Sean, you remember to roll your wrists?\u201d<\/p>\n
They warmed up playing scales, Claire looking from one to the other in fascination. Alex trusted she at least knew not to ask questions while they played. \u201cAll set, Slim? All right. Let\u2019s try \u2018Allons Danser.\u2019 You lead, I\u2019ll second.\u201d<\/p>\n
Sean swung into the song. Alex, backing him, listened for technical mastery: \u201cYou\u2019re starting to saw. Keep a loose wrist. You got it.\u201d But more for the style marks of Creole fiddle, the bowing patterns, the shuffling and slurs. Occasional glances at Claire found her swaying lightly, toes tapping the air, pantomiming their own feet slapping the boards.<\/p>\n
They moved on to \u201cLake Arthur Stomp.\u201d Sean seconded Alex with understated rhythm. Together they attacked the rapid-fire trills of \u201cBernadette,\u201d as much percussion as strings, friendly rivals daring each other. In Sean\u2019s swaggering strokes on \u201cShoo Black,\u201d Alex heard hints of a personal style emerging. Without realizing it, Sean was making the song his own. It reminded Alex, with fresh amazement, how the music renewed itself, like yeast: A little added to the dough, and the bread would nourish another generation. All it wanted was someone to knead it in.<\/p>\n
\u201cSounding good, Slim.\u201d Alex would have ended the session there and left victorious, but Claire jumped in.<\/p>\n
\u201cSean, do you ever sing?\u201d she asked.<\/p>\n
\u201cNah, I can\u2019t sing.\u201d Sean\u2019s nose wrinkled. \u201cAnd they\u2019re mostly love songs anyway.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cOh.\u201d Claire nodded sagely and stage whispered at Alex. \u201cLove songs.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThe lyrics were mostly place holders,\u201d Alex explained. \u201cThe music is the important thing.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHmm. Lorene\u2019s trying to teach me a song. You probably know it. So far I\u2019ve got this.\u201d Claire sang, in a painful attempt at the characteristic, across-the-prairie cry:<\/p>\n
\u201cSoleil apr\u00e8s coucher, et la lune apr\u00e8s briller<\/i><\/p>\n
Coosh-coosh apr\u00e8s br\u00fbler, et caillet n\u2019est pas tire.<\/i><\/p>\n
Faut voir qu\u2019elle heure est-il.\u201d<\/i><\/p>\n
Alex winced. She had moxie, he had to admit.<\/p>\n
She looked at Sean. \u201cSlim. You know what that song is saying?\u201d<\/p>\n
Sean looked bewildered. \u201cSomething about the coosh-coosh burning.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYes. And why should anyone sing about burning corn mush?\u201d<\/p>\n
Sean looked at Alex. Alex looked at Claire. The teacher had returned in her voice, she had retaken center stage. Where was she going?<\/p>\n
\u201cUncle Alex, help me out here. I\u2019m out on a limb,\u201d Claire said. \u201cSoleil apr\u00e8s coucher<\/i>. \u2018The sun is setting,\u2019 right?\u201d<\/p>\n
Alex nodded. \u201cEt la lune apr\u00e8s briller<\/i>.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cAnd the moon is shining.\u201d<\/p>\n
From the end of the first verse on to the second, Alex recited in Creole French, Claire echoed in English:<\/p>\n
The coosh-coosh is burning<\/i><\/p>\n
Look what time it is<\/i><\/p>\n
The cow hasn\u2019t been milked<\/i><\/p>\n
Me, I\u2019m crying<\/i><\/p>\n
My man isn\u2019t come back<\/i><\/p>\n
Look what time it is<\/i><\/p>\n
Sean still looked lost, waiting for the point. \u201cSo. The coosh-coosh is burning and<\/i> the cow didn\u2019t get milked.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cAnd<\/i> my man isn\u2019t home and<\/i> it\u2019s after dark,\u201d Claire said.<\/p>\n
Alex saw where she was going. \u201cWhen the song was written, that was bad news, Sean. For a black man to be out after sunset.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cAnd not because his wife would lock him out of the house,\u201d Claire said. \u201cThink of her there. Fussing that the cow needs milking. Lifting the lid on that skillet of burnt mush, maybe burning her fingers, scraping it out. Complaining that her man is out late. Saying \u2018Doesn\u2019t that fool know what time it is?\u2019 She\u2019s scared to death.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cOh \u2014 yeah.\u201d Sean fingered his bow, his gaze dropping to the floorboards.<\/p>\n
Alex felt his nephew\u2019s unease. Any particular reason Claire was dredging up this humiliating piece of the past?<\/p>\n
\u201cWhy would anyone write a song about that?\u201d she said. \u201cI thought this music was supposed to make you forget hard times.\u201d<\/p>\n
Alex answered for them both. \u201cBecause some things you can\u2019t keep inside. You gotta let people know what\u2019s going on.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cBut it isn\u2019t going on. Things may not be perfect today, but from what I\u2019ve seen, nobody here worries about being out after sundown. Not the crowd at El Sido\u2019s or Blue Moon Saloon. Why do you keep singing it?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cIt\u2019s a part of who we are. You can\u2019t understand us today if you don\u2019t know where we come from.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cSo \u2026 it\u2019s important for me to know how your great-granddaddy felt about something I will probably never experience myself. Is that it? Even something as painful and frightening as being lynched?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cEspecially something \u2014\u201d Alex stopped. She was acting too dense, too na\u00efve.<\/p>\n
\u201cAnd the best way for me to do that is through his music? Sean. Any of this sound familiar? Pain? Fear? Music? Sonny?\u201d<\/p>\n
Alex corrected himself. Claire wasn\u2019t bold. She was reckless. She had entered the lion\u2019s den, waving red meat, daring him to react, provoking him to think. She could be cut to pieces, shredded like ribbon by his anger, his confusion, his rejection. Or he might open his eyes, the lion might. Her lion.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou were right, Sean. Music does talk. And sometimes \u2014 at its best \u2014 this is what it says. It tells a story. Sometimes an ugly story. But one that people won\u2019t listen to any other way.\u201d<\/p>\n
Suddenly the lion awakened, with the excitement of discovery. \u201cThat\u2019s why Sonny wanted his brother to go hear him play. His brother didn\u2019t want to hear about the drugs and prison and all. But Sonny had to tell him.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYes. And you were right when you said Sonny had lived his music.\u201d Claire\u2019s face was vivid, her eyes glistened. \u201cHis music was his life story. It was his autobiography.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cAnd why Sonny\u2019s brother has a problem with that, we\u2019ll get into next time. Alex, you\u2019re welcome to join us.\u201d<\/p>\n
The offer caught him off guard, but Claire didn\u2019t wait for a reply. She dropped from the railing and assumed a Midwestern drawl. \u201cBecause now, the soleil<\/i> apr\u00e8s<\/i> coucher<\/i>. Time for me to part\u00eer<\/i>. I\u2019ll see you tomorrow, Sean. Alex, I\u2019ll see you Sunday.\u201d<\/p>\n
She\u2019d reached the bottom step when Alex spoke. \u201cSounds like Miss Lorene taught you that song pretty good.\u201d<\/p>\n
She shrugged. \u201cI\u2019m just a sucker for a good story. Lucky for me I\u2019m an English teacher.\u201d<\/p>\n
Alex spoke loudly as Claire headed for her car. \u201cSomeday, Slim, Miss Claire is going to have to tell us her story.\u201d<\/p>\n
She answered without turning. \u201cMy story? Oh, it\u2019s not very interesting. Not at all worth putting to music. Put y\u2019all to sleep, more like.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYeah, I bet.\u201d The Aveo\u2019s door slammed, gravel crunched. The engine rumbled, then faded into the prairie.<\/p>\n
\u201cUncle Alex.\u201d Sean called him back. \u201cShould we go through a few more?\u201d<\/p>\n
Alex considered, then shook his head. \u201cNah, here\u2019s good. You get to a point where more practice doesn\u2019t help.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cAre you sure?\u201d For the first time, Sean sounded anxious. \u201c\u2019Cause \u2026 I\u2019m still kinda \u2026 scared.\u201d<\/p>\n
Scared. Alex\u2019s chest swelled, as if Sean had played one perfect, sweet, mournful, soulful note. He almost wished Claire were there to hear that. Almost.<\/p>\n
\u201cGood.\u201d<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
Something about the car parked beside the house \u2014 a red Chevy Aveo \u2014 Alex did not like. It aroused vague disquiet, like the scent of a predator. The license plate jumped at him: the ghostly visage of Abraham Lincoln and \u201cIllinois\u201d in rolling blue script. His jaw tightened. What was she doing here today? … <\/p>\n