July saw hot days of fishing and swimming. Most nights, they’d prowl the nightclubs and speakeasies of the French Quarter, from Joe Cascio’s Grocery Store, where all the bohemians came to dance and drink, to Celeste’s, where the proprietor, Alphonse, served them bootleg beer in teacups. Sometimes they’d buy a jug of homemade hooch, strongly scented with juniper berries, from an Italian widow who’d taken over the bootlegging business from her late husband. Then they’d take the Canal Street trolley out to the cemeteries to drink, talk, and dream. Surrounded by stone angels and appeals to God’s mercy set in marble, a half-drunk Henry would spin out grand plans for them both: “We could go to St. Louis or Chicago, or even New York!”
“What’d we do there?”
“Play music!”
“Same thing we’re doing here.”
“But no one would know us there. We could be anybody. We could be free.”
“You’re as free as you decide to be,” Louis said.
“Easy for you to say,” Henry said, hurt. “You’re not a DuBois.”
Being a DuBois wasn’t a legacy; it was a noose. They were one of the first families of New Orleans society, with a grand antebellum mansion, Bonne Chance, to show for it. White-columned and flanked by strict rows of stately oaks, Bonne Chance had been built by Henry’s great-great-grandfather Mr. Xavier DuBois, who’d made a fortune in sugar off the backs of slaves. His heir, the first Henry DuBois, grabbed land from the Choctaw during the Indian Removal Act, and Henry’s grandfather had accepted a commission as a colonel in the Confederate Army, marching with General Lee to protect all that stolen land and the stolen people who came with it. Henry often wondered if there had ever been a DuBois who’d done a single noble deed in his life.
The only war Henry’s father seemed interested in fighting was the one with his son. It was a bloodless war; his father’s infallibility bestowed a certain calm confidence. He never questioned that his edicts would be followed, so there was never any need for him to raise his voice. That was for lesser men.
“Hal, you will not upset your mother.”
“Naturally, Hal will matriculate from Ole Miss.”
“Law is what you should pursue, Hal. Perhaps a judgeship from there. Music is not a noble profession.”
“These jazz and riverboat riffraff are not suitable companions for a young man of your breeding and position, Hal. Remember that you are a DuBois, a reflection on this family’s sterling reputation. Comport yourself accordingly.”
Henry’s delicate, unbalanced mother had long since been worn down by his father’s domineering manner. When she’d had her first breakdown, Henry’s father refused to send her to the sanitarium for fear of gossip. Instead, the family doctor had prescribed pills, and now his mother wandered the endless halls and rooms of Bonne Chance, a lost bird unable to alight in any one spot for long, until, finally, she’d take refuge in the family cemetery. She’d sit on the weathered bench, staring into the garden, thumbs working the beads of a rosary.
“It was the vitamins. I never should’ve taken them,” she’d say to Henry in a nervous voice. “I was afraid I’d lose another baby. So many lost babies. The doctor said the vitamins would help.”
“And they did. Because here I am, Maman,” Henry would say.
“She sent me a letter and told me I have to hide the bird,” she’d say, worrying the black beads between her frantic fingers.
Flossie would come out and lead Henry’s mother back to the big white house. “Come on, now, Miss Catherine. The saints won’t mind if you have your lunch.”
Henry would sneak away to Louis once more, and the two of them would hop the Smoky Mary out to the West End of Lake Pontchartrain, where they could fish from a pier in Bucktown, take a picnic near Old Spanish Fort, or play music in the Milneburg resorts and camps.
Louis never called him Hal. It was always Henri, said in a drawl as sultry as the air over the Quarter: “Let’s get us a mess of crawfish, Henri.” “You hear the way he laid out that line, Henri?” “Henri, don’t be a slowpoke. Ever’body’s waitin’ on us down at Celeste’s.”
And Henry’s favorite: “Moi, je t’aime, Henri.” Henry never wanted the summer to end.
Then, on a terrible, still day in August, Gaspard died. Before Louis could stop him, the sweet hound tore after an alley cat and was struck by the ice man’s truck as it rounded the corner of Rampart. There was a screech of wheels and one awful yelp. Louis and Henry pushed their way through the crowd. With a howl of his own, Louis sank to his knees and cradled his dead dog. The driver, a kindly man with a jowly face, removed his hat and patted Louis’s shoulder like a father, sorry as could be. “He just come outta nowhere, son. Wadn’t time to stop. I’m real sorry. Got three dogs, myself.”
