The Burning

By Sam'l Irwin

Odon Bacque said hello to the security guard as he wheeled his wife through the automatic doors of the nursing home.

“Good Evening, Mr. Odon,” the burly black man said. He turned his attention to the wheelchair bound woman. “My, you sure look pretty tonight, Miss Ella.”

The elderly woman paid no notice.

“Ms. Bacque says thank you, Robert.” He pronounced his name Row-bear, in the Cajun-French manner.

It was the usual exchange, repeated every Wednesday night for the fifteen years Robert had worked at the Cypress Hollow Guest Home. Each Christmas Mr. Odon gave Robert a crisp $20 bill just for greeting the old couple and tipping his hat.

“Nice folks,” Robert remarked to Momma Ducharme the year he received his first Christmas gratuity. “It’s a shame about his wife. I hope my wife takes care of me like that if I ever end up in a place like this.”

“He’s been doing it for a long time and he’s been tipping everybody here, including yo’ ugly black ass, for as long as I can remember,” said Momma, banging about the stainless steel institutional kitchen. “And I been here, let’s see since, uh, Junior was born in ’66, then Rodney, then Ezra in ’69. He gave me a big bag of diapers the year Ezra was born. That’s how long he been coming round here taking care of Ms. Ella. Poor soul, I remember that night she come in here. Old Dr. Levasseur, he brought her in.”

“What happened?”

“I don’t rightly know, ‘cepting, she was just like she is today. She just stares straight ahead, calm and quiet like. She don’t say nothin’. Oh, I heard rumors that Mr. Odon was mean to her, but I don’t pay no mind to ‘em. He helped me get my boys in college. Paid for Junior to go to Southern, then Rodney to Grambling and Ezra played football at LSU. Mr. Odon even recommended Showanda to Senator Thibodeaux for that scholarship at Tulane. He a good man. They don’t come no finer.”

Odon pushed the wheelchair to the handicapped parking zone and helped his wife stand. He opened the door of the Lincoln and signaled for her to get in. When she remained motionless, he gently guided her into a seated position and reached over her to grab the seatbelt. The familiar click told him she was secure, and he returned to the driver’s seat to start the car. Leaving the Guest Home’s parking lot, he turned left onto Melancon Street and headed for Hebert’s Tiger Inn. This too, was part of their thirty year routine.

If Ella Abdulla Bacque knew where they were going or gave any recognition of the routine, it was lost on Odon. She simply sat upright in the passenger’s seat and blankly stared ahead.

She had graduated from the Academy of Blessed Heart in Grand Chateau more than forty-five years ago. A diligent student, she passed up a chance to go to college and married the boy next door who was three years her senior.

Odon came from one of the best families in the small farming community of LeBleu. His family had retained their interests in cotton farming but long ago had delved into banking and now the oil money was rolling in.

Ella’s father had been in the United States a short time when he bought a small general goods store in Allville. But many along the Atchafalaya River were reluctant to trade with the Lebanese immigrant. When the Great Mississippi River Flood of 1927 wiped out his holdings, Abdulla and his wife were forced to live in a refugee camp in LeBleu. At some point, the river receded and the refugees returned home. But the Abdullas stayed and built a solid business that included general merchandise and ladies apparel.

Odon steered the Lincoln into an empty parking space in the Tiger Inn lot. “Just sit tight a few minutes, chere. I’ll be right back with the treats.” Ella said nothing.

Boo Hebert, the Tiger Inn owner, was behind the counter that night. Hebert had bought the popular fast food joint twenty years ago with a personal loan from Odon and had now parlayed his modest investment into a chain of five convenience stores throughout the parish.

“Mr. Odon, it’s a pleasure to see you! What can I get for you?” the younger man asked.

“Oh my, I got the big boss to serve me. What an honor! Give me the usual. A banana split with just vanilla ice cream and strawberries and a chocolate Sunday for Miss Ella.”

The Tiger Inn’s high school help watched in amazement as their boss personally served the old man.

Odon paid for the desserts and returned to the car. From inside the store Hebert watched the old man tenderly feed his wife.

“There goes a great man.” 

“Oh, I know,” the high schooler said. “He paid for my momma’s casket and when my daddy had paid him halfway back, Mr. Odon told him to forget about the rest.”

Hebert grunted recognition. Odon Bacque’s good deeds were well known around town.

Odon finished eating his banana split and then gently cleaned his wife’s face of any chocolate residue. “Wasn’t that good, mon chere amie? I so enjoy our Wednesday night treats.”

He backed the Lincoln out of the parking lot and continued their ritual. When they reached the outskirts of the small town, Odon turned onto Bayou Road and cruised through the Beau Bassin, the beautiful valley carved from the countryside a thousand years ago by the ancient Mississippi. His final destination was Hidden Hills Lake, six miles down the road, where he had proposed to Ella so many years ago.     

“I have a special surprise for us tonight, cherie,” Odon said.

David Castille slammed the door of his mobile home and stalked to his old rusted pickup. “That’ll teach you to mess around, you gotdamn bitch,” he yelled in the direction of the mobile home.         

His wife, Charleen flung open the trailer’s sheet metal door, a .38 in her hand, her eye already swelling from her husband’s blows. As David peeled out in the loose rock, bits of pea gravel pummeled her. She emptied the chamber in the direction of the departing vehicle. “You bastard, Dahveed! At least he ain’t drunk all the time,” she cried. A light summer rain began to fall.

David laughed like a leering hyena when a bullet whizzed past his ear and punctured the windshield. The glove box opened with a squeak as the truck’s tires hit the cattleguard at the end of the long gravel drive. A half-empty fifth of Old Forester rolled out and fell on the floor.

“Aw, hell.”

David turned right on Bayou Road and rambled toward the Turf Lounge on US 167. It was a twenty-minute ride and in seconds he was doing sixty-five in a forty-five zone.

He reached over to the glove box to retrieve his bottle, then remembered it had fallen to the floor. “Gotdamn.” Grabbing the side of the steering wheel, he leaned over, extending his arm to the passenger side floor to grope for the spirits.

There...there...got it, Hot dam! Good liquor shouldn’t have to go to waste.

Sitting up with the cork cap in mouth, he saw he was driving in the wrong lane. Jerking the steering wheel to the right side, he overcorrected, causing his truck to go into a spin.

Odon’s Lincoln had just emerged from a series of twenty-five mph S curves when Castille’s truck slammed into the big car. Odon was killed instantly. David was ejected from his truck and landed in the muddy ditch. Ella survived the accident with only a few cuts and bruises.

Sheriff Butch Breaux recognized Odon’s Lincoln when he arrived at the scene of the accident. Louis Grimaldi, the parish coroner, had already made the death pronouncement.

“The old man’s got a broken neck. Looks like Odon was killed on impact. I’m not sure what killed that fool,” Grimaldi said, pointing to Castille’s truck. “Not a scratch on him. There was a bottle of bourbon rolling around the floor. Most likely he was drunk. We’ll do an autopsy, but I don’t think the crash is what killed him. Most likely he drowned in the two inches of water in that ditch yonder. I asked Miss Ella if she could tell me anything, but she just stared straight ahead."

“She’s been like that for a while, I understand,” replied Breaux.

“Your deputy found an old Smith & Wesson .38 pistol registered to Odon in the Lincoln.” Grimaldi turned away from the sheriff and continued administering to the dead. “Oh, by the way, I found this letter in Mr. Odon’s pocket. It’s addressed to you.”

Breaux watched silently as the paramedics loaded the fatalities into the same ambulance.

Word spread rapidly throughout the parish of Bacque’s death. Hollier’s Funeral Home, housed in an old historic building in downtown LeBleu, was deluged with calls about details of the arrangements.

Sheriff Breaux entered the business office through the side door. Nettie, the secretary, was busy on the phone and pointed upstairs toward the embalming room. Breaux tried the door handle to the stairway, but it was locked until Nettie pressed a button on her desk enabling the freight elevator to open. The sheriff stepped in and pushed the control button. The lift slowly cranked up to the second floor and the sheriff found himself in Hollier’s ultra-chilled preparation room.

Breaux maneuvered himself past two covered bodies that he assumed were Bacque and Castille.

“Hey, Lester. Grim business today, eh?”

“Yeah, it’s always sad.”

Lester Hollier was donning his neoprene apron to start the embalming process.

“I’m sorry for your son. He was married to Odon’s daughter, wasn’t he?”

“Thank you,” replied Lester. “It was a good match for him to marry Estelle.”

“Estelle was Odon and Ella’s only daughter, right?”

“Well, there was that time Ella miscarried after 3 months. I heard she fell down the stairs, but that was long ago.”

“Hmmn,” Butch was reflective for a moment. “There’s a situation.”

“A situation?”

“Yeah. Did you have much contact with Odon? Was he having any problems you know of?”

“No, I saw him at the Rotary and the Lion’s club and we’d have a drink there. Any problems? None I knew about.”

Hollier looked up from his preparations. The overhead surgical lamp cast a shadow from the brim of Breaux’s Stetson covering the lawman’s eyes.

“What’s this all about, Butch?” the undertaker asked.

“You know me, Lester. I’m strictly by the book. I been re-elected five times, but nobody in this parish expects or gets special treatment. It don’t matter if you’re the governor’s son or nuthin’.”

“Yeah, I know that. My boy had to pay those speeding tickets even after his grandfather pleaded with you to get ‘em fixed. I even think Pop asked Odon to prevail on you. I don’t think the old grand culotte voted for you again. So what of it?”

“Odon helped you, I mean, with your business, didn’t he?

“Yeah, he sure did. Personally co-signed a line of credit for me at the bank after those investments flopped and we almost lost the funeral home. But that was nothing unusual for Odon,” Lester said. “He helped you get through college, didn’t he?”

The sheriff nodded. “That’s what makes this all so difficult to understand.”

He reached into his shirt pocket and unfolded an envelope. Hollier knew from years of experience that the dark stain on the letter was dried blood. “Odon had this letter in his coat pocket when he was killed. It was addressed to me.”    

Breaux retrieved his reading glasses from his shirt pocket and began to read.

Dear Butch,

I’m sorry you have to read this, but I can not live with myself anymore.

I don’t know if you remember, but a long time ago a traveling preacher used to come through town every fall during the cotton and cane harvest.

“I remember that guy,” Lester interrupted. “He used to set up a little camp over near Sunset.”

“Yeah, I remember him, too. I was just a little kid. He was always yelling about getting the Holy Ghost.” The sheriff continued reading.

I don’t know how Ella ever met this Pentecostal, but one evening I came home late. I had been coming home late a lot, you see, because I had another woman in town, I’m ashamed to say. I drank a lot in those days, too.

I caught Ella in bed with this preacher, buck-naked. I got my pistol and took him outside and shot him dead. I buried him in the barn. Ella saw me shoot him and when I returned to the bedroom she said she was leaving me. I went to hit her, but she was fast and ducked. She lost her balance and fell down the stairs. She was still unconscious when I brought her to the hospital. I told Doc Levasseur she tripped. He told me she miscarried. I didn’t say anything, but she and I hadn’t had relations in some time, so the baby could not have been mine.

When she came to, she couldn’t speak. She just stared off in the distance as if I wasn’t there. I took her to all the recommended doctors but nothing helped. She’s been that way for more than 30 years.

I thought sure someone would come looking for the preacher and Ella would snap out of  it and tell the law, but no one ever came. After thirty years, he’s still buried there.

Since then, I quit drinking and stayed at home to take care of Ella until I had to put her in            the home. She never got better.

I went to confession and told the priest I had done something so bad it was unforgivable. He told me God forgives us, but only when we can forgive ourselves. He told me as penance that I must do everything in my power to help people, and I did. But even after all this time, I’m still ashamed of what I did to Ella and that poor man.

I can never forgive myself and that’s why I have decided to take my life and have Ella witness. Maybe then she can forgive me. I have decided to do it at the Hidden Hills Lake in Beau Bassin, the place where Ella and I first made love.

I have prayed to God to relieve me of this burden, but it is still there. This is the only way out.

Very Truly Yours,

Odon Bacque

P.S.: I’m using the same .38 that I used to kill the preacher.

The sheriff removed his glasses and returned them to his shirt pocket. He and Lester stared at each other in silence.

“But he didn’t commit suicide!”

“I know, I know. That idiot Castille ran into them before he could do it,” said Breaux.

“What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know. That’s why I came to you.”

“Me? But why?”

“You’re my oldest friend. We’ve done things together since we were kids and you’re the only person I can trust not to turn this whole thing into some big political nightmare. I mean Odon helped everybody, white and black, in this town. I also know he made a few enemies here and there, but I don’t want anybody to make any kind of hay out of this.”

“I don’t know what to tell you except it would hurt Estelle a lot. You know, she visited her mother every day at the nursing home since she was old enough to drive. The only time she’s ever missed is when she and Edward went on their honeymoon to New Orleans.”

“Hmm.”

“Does anyone else know about this letter?”

“No one but you and me.”

“And has anyone ever come looking for this preacher?”

“I checked all the records we got. Nothing.”

“Let’s sleep on it then, and we’ll talk after the funeral.”

“Ok,” the sheriff agreed.

Estelle decided there would be a two-day wake for her father at the funeral home. Afterwards, the remains would be transported to a crematorium. She would secretly defy Father LaRoque’s admonition and spread some of his ashes around the Beau Bassin. The bulk of his ashes would rest in a crypt at St. Landry Catholic Church Mausoleum behind the church on Union Street.

A line had formed at the door of the funeral home at 8 a.m. By 9, when the funeral home opened, it extended around the block onto Convent Street. Estelle and her husband received each visitor who came to pay their respects, personally acquainted with only a handful of the total mourners. By 10 a.m., Estelle was clutching dozens of envelopes that pledged donations to charities, each starting almost identically.

“You probably didn’t know this, but your father loaned me money when I needed it most. He let me pay him back when I could....”

 “Your father helped my son get into college and bought his books for him throughout his academic career. Please accept this donation to the United Negro College Fund in his name...”

At noon Lester called Sheriff Breaux and requested traffic control around the funeral home. At 8 p.m., he walked two blocks down the street to tell mourners lined up on North Market that the viewing would be over at nine.

“Everyone on this side of the street sign will not be able to make it into the funeral home. We are closing tonight a little later, but there will be an additional day of viewing for those that want to pay their respects to Mr. Odon. Please come back tomorrow.”

The main viewing parlor was filled to capacity when Saint Teresa’s Ladies of the Little Flower led a recitation of the Rosary. When the prayers were said, Lester invited Odon’s friends to eulogize. They all had similar anecdotes of how Odon helped them. Finally Lester said a few words about the deceased.

“It is always a difficult time when loved ones pass on, but I know that Estelle is gratified that so many of her father’s friends are here with us tonight. It looks like several thousands of his closest friends visited us today.” The gathered crowd laughed. “Judging from the number of visitors today, I can safely say that Mr. Odon and his generosity has touched all of us here in LeBleu. When we were in danger of losing our funeral home, his benevolence allowed me and my family to hold on to it. I will miss my friend and neighbor.”

He shifted his stance and looked at the sheriff. “An old French proverb says, ‘The reputation of a man is like his shadow; it sometimes follows and sometimes precedes him, sometimes longer and sometime shorter than his natural size.’ If this is the case, then Odon Bacque must have been 20 feet tall. Let no one here today besmirch the reputation of this great man.”

At midnight on the final day of viewing the last of the mourners finally left. At the entrance to the parking lot Sheriff Breaux sat in his idling patrol car with the air-conditioner on. The double doors of the parlor opened and Butch watched his childhood friend move Odon’s body into the waiting hearse. He coasted over to Lester and rolled down the window.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Securing the casket for the drive to the crematorium in New Orleans.” Lester whirled the gurney around. “I’m going tonight.”

“You’re driving to New Orleans tonight?”

“They can do the cremation at four. We’re behind schedule with the extra day of visitation. If we miss this appointment, it will be a week before they get to it. I want to make sure this gets done.”

 “I’ll give you a police escort.”

The blue lights of the sheriff’s patrol car flashed authoritatively as Lester backed the hearse up to the crematorium’s loading dock. Lester finished signing the paperwork as the sheriff joined him. The attendant began to wheel the casket away.

“Are you going to watch the cremation?” asked Breaux.

“No, I’ve seen enough of them.”

“I’d like to see it.”

Lester looked at his friend quizzically. “All right then. Let’s go.”

They caught up with the attendant and fell into step on either side of the casket.

“It’s his last mile, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

“Can I look at him one more time?” Breaux asked.

“What? You want to make sure he’s in there? I can tell you...”

“It’s the letter. It needs burning.”

Butch and Lester left New Orleans at 6 a.m.with Odon’s ashes. By the time they reached the Bonnet Carre Spillway, Momma Ducharme had just started her daily shift at the Cypress Hollow Guest Home. She opened the curtains to Ella’s room letting in the Louisiana sunshine wake the old lady.

“How you doing this morning Miss Ella?” she said softly.   

The End