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Later, I went to Molly's cottage on the bayou. There was probably every reason not to go there, but I had tired of wearing the scarlet letter and seeing others try to sew it upon Molly's blouse as well. The truth was Molly had no official or theological status as a nun
and in the eyes of the Church was a member of the laity. Let Val Chalons and those who served him do as they wished. I'd take my chances with the Man on High, I told myself.
My father. Big Aldous, spoke a form of English that was hardly a language. Once, when explaining to a neighbor the disappearance of the neighbor's troublesome hog, he said, "I ain't meaned to hurt your pig, no, but I guess I probably did when my tractor wheel accidentally run over its head and broke its neck, and I had to eat it, me."
But when he spoke French he could translate his ideas in ways that were quite elevated. On the question of God's nature, he used to say, "There are only two things you have to remember about Him: He has a sense of humor, and because He's a gentleman He always keeps His word."
And that's what I told Molly Boyle on the back porch of her cottage, on a late Saturday afternoon in New Iberia, Louisiana, in the summer of the year 2004.
"Why are you telling me this?" she said.
"Because I say screw Val Chalons and his television stations. I also say screw anyone who cares to condemn us."
"You came over here to tell me that?"
"No."
"Then what?"
The sun went behind a rain cloud, burning a purple hole through its center. The cypress and willow trees along the bayou swelled with wind. "I say why do things halfway?"
"Will you please take the mashed potatoes out of your mouth?" she said.
"How about we get married tonight?"
"Married? Tonight?"
"Unless you're doing something else."
She started to remove a strand of hair from her eye, then forgot what she was doing. She fixed her eyes on mine, her face perfectly still, her mouth slightly parted. "Get married where?" she asked.
"In Baton Rouge. I have a priest friend who's a little unorthodox. I told him we wanted to take our vows."
"Without asking me?"
"That's why I'm doing it now."
She was wearing jeans without a belt, a Ragin' Cajun T-shirt, and moccasins on her feet. She made a clicking sound with her mouth, and I had no idea what it might mean. Then she stepped on top of my shoes and put her arms around my neck and pressed her head against my chest. "Oh, Dave," she said. Then, as though language were inadequate or she were speaking to an obtuse person, she said it again, "Oh, Dave."
And that's the way we did it — in a small church located among pine trees, twelve miles east of the LSU campus, while lights danced in the clouds and the air turned to ozone and pine needles showered down on the church roof.
Chapter TWENTY-ONE
We slept late the next morning, then had breakfast in the backyard on the old redwood table from my house that had burned. I had forgotten how fine it was to eat breakfast on a lovely morning, under oak trees on a tidal stream, with a woman you loved. And I also had forgotten how good it was to be free of booze again and on the square with my AA program, the world, and my Higher Power.
At first Tripod had been unsure about Molly, until she gave him a bowl of smoked salmon. Then she couldn't get rid of him. While she tried to eat, he climbed in her lap, sticking his head up between her food and mouth, turning in circles, his tail hitting her in the face. I started to put him in his hutch.
"He'll settle down in a minute," Molly said.
"Tripod has a little problem with incontinence."
"That's different," she said.
But before I could gather him out of her lap, his head lifted up suddenly and his nose sniffed at the wind blowing from the front of the house. He scampered up a live oak and peered back down at us from a leafy bough. I heard the doorbell ring.
"Be right back!" I said to Molly.
Raphael Chalons was at my front door, dressed in slacks and a sports coat out of the 1940s, a Panama hat hooked on one finger, his shoulders and back as straight as a soldier's. "You were very thoughtful in paying for my purchase yesterday at the Wal-Mart store. But I forgot to reimburse you," he said. He held up a five-dollar bill that was folded stiffly between two fingers.
