Normal Louisiana Ladies Club

Miss Marie LeBleaux tried to appear unhurried as she walked out of the front door of her house, across the small front yard, and through the gate. She turned left and began the five block walk down the hill from her home to the Normal Louisiana Ladies Club. She couldn’t be late for the meeting on this day of all days. 

She would be the center of attention at this meeting. She suspected that what she planned would erase any bad feelings the other ladies harbored against her. At least she knew they were supporing her effort. After all, the arrangements had been made, the coffin delivered, the invitations sent out. RSVPs had been collected. Understandably, nobody, not even the local clergy, had sent regrets. It would be a full house.

Marie’s black velour ball cap, pulled low on her brow and capturing her raven black, almost shoulder length hair, sported Who Dat? in vibrant white across the front. Beneath that in smaller letters it read, A’ight’en, who dat?

Beneath the bill of her ball cap, her bangs hung to her eyebrows. A half-block into her trek, she tilted her head forward to look down. Her hair swung slightly forward as she smoothed her black silk blouse from beneath her well-rounded breasts to her trim waist.

She grinned. “I got no right to be lookin’ ‘is good.”

Untucked, the blouse lay snugly down over her jeans, yet it looked as if it were draped, much as the top of a perfume bottle appears to have melted down over the glass. The whole thing was positioned perfectly, despite looking as if it had been blown randomly into place. Nor did she have to consciously remember to keep her shoulders back as she walked, especially when anyone else was around. That and the unbuttoned top two buttons of her blouse would ensure the rapt attention of those in attendance.

It was going to be a banner day for Marie, and for the whole town.

She had announced her intentions to the Normal Louisiana Ladies Club two months earlier, wanting to leave ample time for planning and publicity. She could easily have done what she needed to do and found out what she needed to find out for her latest novel privately with the help of a trusted friend in the business, but that would have served only her own benefit. Whenever possible, she liked to conduct her research in a way that would also gain publicity for the community, and this would be a big one.

She also liked to play to a crowd.

Thanks to a friend of a friend, she knew the Ladies themselves had met privately, meaning without Marie being present, several times over the past few weeks. No doubt they were planning something special as a thank you. That was one more reason she didn’t want to be late.

She ran over the unscheduled intinerary in her mind.

First there would be her approach. There would be a few men, no doubt those with more secure wives, lingering outside with cigarettes and small talk. Lookouts, all of them. Her heels would announce her proximity and they would glance casually in her direction, as if she were only a minor distraction.

One or two of them would take one more drag or utter a final comment, taking the occasion to peer a bit longer and more closely, as if to convince each other they were unsure it was her. She could almost feel their eyes on her already. Then a couple of them would hastily heel-out their cigarettes and go inside to spread the word.

During her final approach, Marie would slow, though certainly not noticeably, to give the criers time to make the announcement of her imminent arrival. She would nod lightly to those few who were still outside. As she passed, they would fall in behind her as if to bar her escape. It was a self-construced ambush she had walked into many times.

Then there would be her entrance and the pre-event questions from a receiving line that appeared to be impromptu but that formed within a few seconds of the first scout reporting in.

To most of the questions they asked she would say, “Oh yeah, yeah, I ‘spect it will.” To a few others, she would say, “Prob’ly, but we cain’t never be all the way sure, no.” To the rest, she would respond, “Yeah, y’know, unfortunately that ain’t gonna happen ‘is time.”

She would plaster her best fake smile on her face, and most of them would not notice it died somewhere south of her eyes. The ones who did notice wouldn’t care because it was all just part of the same game they were playing. And in that way, she would make it through the line.

Toward the end of the receiving line somebody—and this somebody would always be a woman—would offer her a glass of punch. It was why Marie always wore black to such occasions, just in case. Nonetheless, she would smile graciously and say something like, “Thank you so much!” as she accepted the apparent gift. Then she would sip quickly from the plastic cup and set it on the nearest horizontal surface before turning away to smile and nod and shake hands with the last person or two in line.

A quick look of disappointment would flicker across the face of the woman who handed her the cup, but not because Marie obviously had not wanted it. The disappointment would flash because Marie had divested herself of it before she could be jostled and spill its contents on herself.

Then she would be through the line.

A few select businessmen, the police chief, the parish sheriff and the clergy would not have deigned to meet her in the receiving line. The prominent laiety would serve to garnish the room, standing off to one side or the other, filling in the corners and speaking in careful, guarded tones among themselves. These were the elite, partly because of what they knew about Marie, and more importantly because of what she knew about them.

And that she knew it biblically.

The clergymen would be lined up on either side of the coffin, which of course was the primary station of their profession. The more prominent and appropriately garbed members would stand near the head, and the lesser would stand near the foot. It would be their own personal receiving line. In a way, this would be like practice for them.

She giggled as she thought of the clergymen. Given the location of their line to either side of the coffin, it would be more for the purpose of wishing her bon voyage than welcoming her. But again, that was befitting their role in life, to escort other human beings out of it. It was a terrible waste of breath.

And there probably would be six of them, the clergy. No doubt Father Ricardo Pastorelli would be the first to the left, near the head. Next to him probably would be the Anglican pastor—Lucas Frenchman, was it? And then the Lutheran, the Most Reverend High Mucky Muck John Albers Smith, who absolutely was hiding nothing at all and that really was his name, especially Albers.

Again she giggled.

From the foot of the coffin to the right, the pecking order probably would be the Baptist pastor, Reverend Robert Powell, then the Methodist—Andrew Something or Other—and the Nazarene, whose name she couldn’t remember even vaguely and whom the others only tolerated because his version of religion was a johnny-come-lately offshoot of theirs.

Word was, some annoyed Baptists and some disgruntled Methodists were walking along grumbling one day in two separate but perpendicular groups. Some thought it was pure kismet that they met on a corner. As disgruntled and annoyed people often do, they engaged in a lively game of Get Out: Mine’s Obviously Bigger Than Yours and thereby inadvertently compared their grievances. As an upshot, they walked away together with a whole new way of subjugating people on which they could all agree.

She grinned and said, “But a‘course, ‘at’s only th’ lay version,” then laughed briefly.

She returned her thoughts to the coffin and its escorts.

The three to the left would be dressed in black robes. The three to the right would be dressed in dark (if not black) suits. Then it struck her that the coffin itself was about the same length as the width of three representatives of God on either side. If you took the handles as spaces, it was like three dashes.

She grinned at the thought. “T’ree black dot, t’ree mahogany dash, an’ t’ree mo’ black dot.” She shook her head. The whole thing would look like a massive cosmic SOS signal. Not entirely inappropriate, given the purpose of the get together.

Her low heels clacked on the sidewalk, such as it was, their steady rhythm interrupted halfway down the hill and again near the base of the hill when she was forced to step over the cracks and bulges created by the roots of trees and bushes. Her mother had been gone all these many years. Still, if stepping on a crack could have traumatic consequences while the woman was still alive, there’s no telling what it might do now that she was lying in that box all brittle.

She didn’t bother trying to avoid stepping on the depressions that divided one bit of concrete from the next. Those were not actually cracks, and Marie was not that easily fooled.

There would be cameras galore, of course, and more requests for photos than she had time to grant. And anyway, there would be a cacophony of clicks and flashes from the cameras of those who didn’t bother to ask, choosing instead to purloin a bit of her fame for themselves.

 “Curiosity seekers, ever’ las’ one of ‘em,” she muttered. Then she smiled broadly. “I jus’ keep a smile on my face an’ let ‘em do what they want. Ain’t gonna ‘fect me none.”

In all her dealings with agents and publishers and conference and convention directors and even attendees, she always had been able to maintain that smile until she slipped into her room and closed the door behind her. Most of them, she was sure, didn’t know the smile was fake. If they suspected, they didn’t let on. They clung to the belief there was a slim chance she might be available for drinks later.

Of course, often she was.

Too often, according to some of the members of the Normal Louisiana Ladies Club.

She rounded the corner at the bottom of the hill. Only a block and a half to go.

With no more cracks to step over or bulges to go around, again she listened to the rhythm of her heels clacking on the sidewalk. She’d be more comfortable in her tennis shoes, but some of the women had insisted she must wear heels.

The most insistent was the matronly woman who thought Marie had enticed her husband to do things she thought he wouldn’t normally do. “Looky here, Marie,” the woman said, “you gonna do this thing right here, then you gotta dress th’ part. All  th’ men swear by them heels’a yours. I know my Hébert do.”

Marie said, “Yeah, yeah, you know, I wanna agree witchu, I really do, only I ain’t doin’ this ‘cept to fine out what’s it like, yeah.”

“Oh, but then, ‘specially if you jus’ gonna fine out what it’s like, then you gotta do it right, done. You gonna play a role, then you gotta play it to th’ hilt, girl. Either that r’go home.”

She finally agreed to the heels because they added to her height—which became her length when she reclined—and because it was an easy enough bone to toss to detractors.

She crossed the last street and the Normal Louisiana Ladies Club was only a half-block away. She checked her posture, but there was no need. Everything was working precisely as it was supposed to.

The men were there, five of them. They were all smoking. Two looked more closely for a moment, then dropped their cigarettes and crushed them as they turned on their heels to go inside. The other three remained outside, glancing in her direction only occasionally as she neared.  

Then she turned up the driveway and stepped on the grass. The lack of clacking was almost ominous. She smiled and nodded at the three men who were still in the yard.

One, Roger, said, “Gonna be a thing today, eh Marie?”

She grinned as if he and she shared some inside knowledge. “Gonna be a thing fo’sure, Rog.” She winked and passed through the front door.

The men fell in behind her.

The receiving line was there as she predicted. One well wisher after another asked the same questions they always asked.

“Marie, this gonna be a big-deal first-time-ever thing, ain’t it?”

She smiled. “Oh yeah, yeah, I ‘spect it will.”

“Marie, you just gonna go right in an’ come right back out, right?”

She smiled. “Prob’ly, but we cain’t never be all the way sure, no.”

“Marie, Marie, hey, you gonna make a speech, let us all know what it was like when you get done?”

“Yeah, y’know, mebbe nex’ time. Unfortunately that ain’t gonna happen ‘is time.”

“Marie, this scene gonna be in you nex’ book, right?”

She smiled. “Oh yeah, yeah, I ‘spect it will.”

And a woman was handing her a cup of vibrant red punch.

Marie smiled broadly. “Thanks!” She hefted the cup as if to toast the woman, then sipped from it and set the cup on a small table next to a candle.

Then she was through the line. To her left front near a corner of the room was a banker and a hotel owner. To her right front in another corner was a dangerous gentleman from New Orleans she’d seen in town only two or three times. He was chatting amicably with an associate. Alphonse Babin, the owner of the most prominent funeral parlor in town, was standing nearby.

No law enforcement officials were present.

The clergy, however, were precisely where she expected them to be, except the Methodist minister was nearest the foot of the coffin and the Baptist minister was next to him. The Church of the Nazarene pastor was standing off a few feet, looking as alienated as he probably felt.

She approached the foot of the coffin and silence descended over the room.

She imagined the attention of all the men behind her was riveted to her jeans. She was certain the attention of all the men to the front was riveted to her blouse. None of them could swear in court that she even had a face. She would bet on that.

The thought caused a quirky smile to tug at the left corner of her mouth.

At the foot of the coffin, she lay her right hand on it, then turned and walked toward the head, allowing her palm to trace a path. The polished mahogany was smooth and cool to the touch.

As she walked toward the head of the coffin, the ministers who had been at the foot of the coffin turned and quietly left the room, single file.

She turned around and lay her left palm on the wood, then walked back toward the foot.

As she did so, the clergymen who had been at the head of the coffin passed through the crowd, again in a single file, and left the room.

As Marie walked toward the foot of the coffin, she noticed the absence of the ministers and frowned. Probably they had somewhere to be. At the foot of the coffin, she paused for a moment.

Then she turned to walk back to the center and noticed the clergymen near the head of the coffin were gone as well. That was a little troubling. How would they feel if she just got up and walked out of their service right in the middle? Not good, that’s for sure. Still, she shouldn’t be so distracted. She had a show to put on.

She turned her back to the room, put her fingers under the edge of the coffin lid and lifted it.

The inside was startling. It was soft, even plush, and even the sides and lid were thickly quilted. She sucked in a breath. Quietly, she said, “It’s beautiful.”

Alphonse Babin approached the coffin from the other side but stopped a few feet away. He nodded, and almost as quietly as she had spoken, he said, “We... uh... that is, we thought you would want the best.”

She just looked at him for a moment. In a subconscious gesture, she canted her head slightly to the left and shrugged her left shoulder. Her voice barely above a whisper, she said, “Thanks... thank you.”

She turned to face the room. “As you know, this ain’t no publicity stunt. In my nex’ book, there’s a scene where th’ heroine is gonna get herself locked inside a coffin. Now I’m writin’ th’ thing from her point of view, only I can’t really do that ‘cause I ain’t never been locked inside no coffin before. So that’s what this is all about.

“Thanks to Alphon— Mr. Babin for gettin’ me a comfy bed.” She grinned broadly and everyone laughed. “I guess he’s also gonna put me in it.” She glanced behind her. “That right, Mr. Babin?”

He nodded.

A man in the back of the crowd, just loudly enough to be heard, said, “Lucky stiff.”

Everyone laughed. Marie chose to ignore the joke.

She turned to face the crowd again. “An’ special thanks to th’ Normal Louisiana Ladies Club for lettin’ me get all this set up right here in their place.” She paused. “Well, our place, I guess, since I’m one’a the Normal Ladies too.”

In the back of the crowd, a female voice muttered, “Not by half you ain’t.”

Marie frowned. She craned her neck, trying to see deeper into the crowd. “What? What was that again?” She cupped her right ear with her hand. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t make that out.”

She continued to look for a long moment. “No? Okay, then here we go. I guess I jus’ ought’a say thanks to all’a you for comin’ out for my funeral today.”

While most everyone was laughing, she turned her back to them and gestured to her friend, Alphonse, pinching her thumb and forefinger together and turning her hand as if turning a key in a lock.

Alphonse walked around to the front of the coffin. He stood with his back to the crowd.

Marie turned to face the foot of the coffin. She said quietly, “Ready?”

Alphonse said, “Ready.” He put his left arm behind her back at about her shoulder blades. Then in one smooth motion he crouched, swept his right arm beneath the back of her knees and straightened.

He twisted slightly to his left, enabling her to put her feet beneath the lid, which was already closed over the foot of the coffin. Then he stepped forward and allowed her bottom to rest on the padding, then assisted her as she lay back gingerly, her head on the plush pillow.

As he slipped his arm from beneath her shoulders, she looked up at him and smiled. This smile went all the way to her eyes and filled them. She whispered, “Thanks Alfonse. See you in a bit.” She folded her hands just inside her hips. Closed her eyes.

Alfonse shook his head slightly.

He closed the lid.

Locked it.

* * * * * * *