Nancy K. Duplechain - Dark Trilogy 01 - Dark Bayou Read Free Page B

necklace,” said Jon.
     
    “Beads,” Lucas corrected as he pulled a small, brown rosary from his pocket. I recognized it as the kind our high school gave out to the juniors every year at the confirmation ceremony, when they were blessed by the current bishop. He handed it to Jon, who carefully clasped it in his hands as though it were a rare treasure.
     
    “You still have that old thing?” I asked.
     
    Lucas nodded meekly. “Nothing wrong with this one, so why get a new one?”
     
    “Please. The two of you go in. I promise I’ll be here when you get out.”
     
    He hesitated and then said, “Okay. Come on, Jon.” They entered the chapel, and I was alone in the lobby. I headed to the kitchen for some coffee and smiled as soon as I saw what was on the counter: doughnuts and boudin, funeral food staples. I hadn’t had boudin in years, but I was always fond of the delicacy, which consisted of ground pork and rice in a thin sausage casing. I’d been raised on it.
     
    There was one aspect of Cajun culture I simply could not ignore, no matter how much I tried, and that was the food: chicken gumbo, seafood gumbo, hen gumbo, sausage gumbo, crawfish étouffée, rice and gravy, boudin, cracklins, and my favorite, boiled crawfish. If I traveled out of state or even to northern Louisiana, the food never tasted the same. Everything was so bland compared to the spicy dishes I grew up on in Acadiana. It was only a couple of weeks after arriving in Hollywood that I was craving gumbo. I learned to make it and would cook it sometimes, but it never tasted the same, because the meat was different from the wild game flavor of Louisiana gumbo. I lost a lot of weight that first year of living there and soon grew used to the boring flavors of the local cuisine.
     
    I wanted to grab a couple of pieces of boudin, but knew I would just be forcing myself. I wasn’t hungry. Instead I poured myself a cup of coffee and sat at the small table near the fridge. As I sipped, I could hear the rosary start. I listened to the familiar recital of prayers: the Hail Mary, the Our Father, the Glory Be. How many times had I said those very prayers in school and church? The English rosary eventually gave way to the French rosary, as was customary in Acadiana.
     
    Acadiana comprises several parishes in the south western and south central part of the state with Lafayette being the biggest city. It never felt big to me, though; it always felt small and confining, and I was often embarrassed by the Cajun citizens. I refused to have a Cajun accent, opting for a generic tone, rather than the flat, thick assault of syllables and the occasional French word thrown into a perfectly English conversation. I often claimed my German heritage over the French. I refused to take French in high school. What little of it I did know was what Clothilde taught me and that was when I was about eight years old.
     
    I heard Clothilde leading the French rosary and was taken back to when I was still a little girl, helping her make biscuits for her coffee parties, when she would teach me how to say each prayer in French. At the beginning of the coffee parties, Clothilde and her lady friends would begin with the rosary, and I was so proud to join them in my new-found language.
     
    Today, I hid out in the kitchen, drinking coffee, until I no longer heard the group prayers. I heard the shuffling as the guests left the chapel and went out the lobby doors. I peeked out of the kitchen and down the hall. There was only a handful of people in the lobby, including Carrie, Lucas and his son, and Clothilde, who would be the last to leave, save for the funeral director and his assistants. I joined them in the lobby just as Clothilde was thanking the last guest for coming.
     
    “I have to go. I’m leading the procession with my cruiser,” said Lucas, as he put on his jacket and buttoned up. “Jon, Miss Carrie will bring you to the cemetery, okay?”
     
    “Okay, Daddy.”
     
    Carrie