Jolie Blon's Bounce (Dave Robicheaux 12)

“In New Iberia.”

“No, I mean what was the name of the school?”

“I got a certificate from plantation school. I went to St. Edward’s, too.”

“I see,” the woman said. Her eyes seemed to cloud. “Fill out this application and return it with your transcripts. You could have done this through the mail, you know.”

“Ma’am, is there somet’ing you ain’t telling me?”

“I didn’t mean to give that impression,” the woman replied.

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When Ladice walked outside, the air was sunlit and cool and smelled of burning leaves. A marching band was practicing beyond a grove of trees, the notes of a martial song rising off the brass and silver instruments into a hard blue sky. For some reason she could not explain, the expectation of football games and Saturday-night dances and corsages made of chrysanthemums and gin fizzes in the back of a coupe had become the province of others, one she would not share in.

One month later the mail carrier told Ladice he had left a letter from Southern University for her at the plantation post office. She walked down the dirt road in the dusk, between woods that smelled of pine sap and dust on the leaves and fish heads that raccoons had strewn among the trunks. The sun burned like a flare on a marshy horizon that was gray with winterkill.

She took the envelope from the hand of the postal clerk and walked back to the garage apartment and put it on her breakfast table under a salt shaker and lay down on her bed and went to sleep without opening the letter.

It was dark when she awoke. She turned on the kitchen light and washed her face in the bathroom, then sat down at the table and read the two brief paragraphs that had been written to her by the registrar. When she had finished, she refolded the letter and placed it back in the envelope and walked down to Julian LaSalle’s front door, not the back, and knocked.

He was in slippers and a red silk bathrobe when he opened the door, his reading glasses tilted down on his nose.

“Is something wrong?” he asked.

“My credits from plantation school ain’t no good.”

“Beg your pardon?”

“Southern will take my credits from St. Edward’s. The ones from plantation school don’t count. You must have knowed that when you said you would get me a scholarship to Southern. Did you know that, Mr. Julian?”

“We provide a free school on Poinciana. Most people would find that generous. I’m not familiar with the accreditation system at Southern University.”

“I t’ink I’m gonna be moving back to the quarters.”

“Now, listen,” he said. He looked over his shoulder, up the curved stairs that led to the second floor. “We’ll talk about this tomorrow.”

She wadded up the envelope and the letter and threw it over his shoulder onto his living room rug.

The following Thursday, the one night he always spent playing gin rummy with his wife, Mr. Julian drove to Ladice’s house, where she now lived with her mother on a dead-end, isolated road lined with slash pines. It was cold and smoke from wood fires hung as thick as cotton in the trees. She watched him through the front window as he studied her vegetable garden, thumb and forefinger pinched on his chin, his eyes busy with thoughts that had nothing to do with her garden. When he entered the house, he removed his hat.

“There’s a Catholic college for colored students in New Orleans. I had a talk with the dean’s office this morning. Would you be willing to take some preparatory courses?” he said.

She had been ironing when he had driven up to the house, and she picked up the iron from the pie pan it sat in and sprinkled a shirt with water from a soda bottle and ran the iron hissing across the cloth. She hadn’t bathed that day, and she could smell her own odor in her clothes.

“If I take these courses, how I know I’m gonna get in?” she asked.

“You have my word,” he replied.

She nodded and touched at the moisture on her forehead with her wrist. She wanted to tell him to leave, to take his promises and manipulations and mercurial moods back to his home, back to the wife whose cancer of the spirit was greater than the disease that attacked her body. But she thought about New Orleans, the streetcars clattering down the oak- and palm-lined avenues, the parades during Mardi Gras, the music that rose from the French Quarter into the sky at sunset.

“You ain’t fooling me, Mr. Julian?” she said.

Then she knew how weak she actually was, how much she wanted what he could give her, and consequently, when all was said and done, how easily she would always be used either by him or someone like him. She felt a sense of shame about herself, her life, and most of all her self-delusion that she had ever been in control of Julian LaSalle.

“I passed your mother and uncle on the road. Will they be back soon?” he said, and rubbed her arm with his palm.

“No. They gone to Lafayette,” she said, wondering at how easy it was to become complicitous in her own exploitation.