Purple Cane Road Read Free

checkered sundresses and different-colored ribbons in their hair. They sat in Carmouche’s truck, close to the door, a lackluster deadness in their eyes, their mouths turned down at the corners, while he talked out the window to a black man in bib overalls.
    “I’ve been patient with you, boy. You got the money you had coming. You calling me a liar?” he said.
    “No, suh, I ain’t doing that.”
    “Then good night to you,” he said. When one of the girls said something, he popped her lightly on the cheek and started his truck.
    I walked across the shell parking area and stood by his window.
    “Excuse me, but what gives you the right to hit someone else’s child in the face?” I asked.
    “I think you misperceived what happened,” he replied.
    “Step out of your truck, please.”
    “My cotton-pickin’ foot. You’re out of your jurisdiction, Mr. Robicheaux. You got liquor on your breath, too.”
    He backed his truck out from under the oak trees and drove away.
    I went to Provost’s and drank for three hours at the bar and watched the pool games and the old men playing bouree and dominoes under the wood-bladed fans. The warm air smelled of talcum and dried perspiration and the green sawdust on the floor.
    “Have any locals pulled in Vachel Carmouche?” I asked the bartender.
    “Go home, Dave,” he said.
    I drove north along Bayou Teche to Carmouche’s home. The house was dark, but next door the porch and living room lights were on at the Labiche house. I pulled into the Labiche driveway and walked across the yard toward the brick steps. The ground was sunken, moldy with pecan husks and dotted with palmettos, the white paint on the house stained with smoke from stubble fires in the cane fields. My face felt warm and dilated with alcohol, my ears humming with sound that had no origin.
    Vachel Carmouche opened the front door and stepped out into the light. I could see the twins and the aunt peering out the door behind him.
    “I think you’re abusing those children,” I said.
    “You’re an object of pity and ridicule, Mr. Robicheaux,” he replied.
    “Step out here in the yard.”
    His face was shadowed, his body haloed with humidity in the light behind him.
    “I’m armed,” he said when I approached him.
    I struck his face with my open hand, his whiskers scraping like grit against my skin, his mouth streaking my palm with his saliva.
    He touched his upper lip, which had broken against his overbite, and looked at the blood on his fingers.
    “You come here with vomit on your breath and stink in your clothes and judge me?” he said. “You sit in the Red Hat House and watch while I put men to death, then condemn me because I try to care for orphan children? You’re a hypocrite, Mr. Robicheaux. Be gone, sir.”
    He went inside and closed the door behind him and turned off the porch light. My face felt small and tight, like the skin on an apple, in the heated darkness.
     
    I RETURNED TO New Orleans and my problems with pari-mutuel windows and a dark-haired, milk-skinned wife from Martinique who went home with men from the Garden District while I was passed out in a houseboat on Lake Pontchartrain, the downdraft of U.S. Army helicopters flattening a plain of elephant grass in my dreams.
    I heard stories about the Labiche girls: their troubles with narcotics; the bikers and college boys and sexual adventurers who drifted in and out of their lives; their minor roles in a movie that was shot outside Lafayette; the R&B record Letty cut in prison that made the charts for two or three weeks.
    When I bottomed out I often included the girls in my prayers and regretted deeply that I had been a drunk when perhaps I could have made a difference in their lives. Once I dreamed of them cowering in a bed, waiting for a man’s footsteps outside their door and a hand that would quietly twist the knob in the jamb. But in daylight I convinced myself that my failure was only a small contributing factor in the tragedy of