James Burke: Purple Cane Road

"My mother ran off with a man named Mack when I was a little boy," I said to Clete. "She came back for me once and we stayed in one of those cabins behind the nightclub."

"Let it go, Streak," he said.

"My father was in jail. Mack dealt cards at that club. My mother was a waitress there."

"That was a long time before she died, big mon. Don't hurt yourself like this."

We had backed out almost to the front gate. I stopped the truck and walked to the front door in the rain and knocked loudly on the door.

Jim Gable opened it with a turkey drumstick wrapped in a paper napkin in his hand. He was grinning.

"You forgot something?" he said.

"You're from Lafourche Parish, Mr. Gable?"

"I grew up right down this road."

"My mother's name was Mae Guillory. I think she was murdered somewhere close by. Zipper says it was around '66 or '67. Did you know a woman named Mae Guillory?"

His face transformed itself into the smiling, disingenuous countenance that all dishonest people know how to affect, the light in his eyes deliberately unfocused, the lips parted solicitously.

"Why, no, I don't think I ever knew anyone by that name. Mae? No, I'm sure of it," he replied.

I got back into the truck and backed into the road and headed toward the crossroads.

Clete reached under the seat and removed his half pint bottle of whiskey and unscrewed the cap with one thumb, his eyes on the sugarcane and the rain ditches that swept past both sides of the truck. He took a sip from the bottle and put a Lucky Strike in his mouth.

"How about eighty-sixing the booze while we're driving?" I said.

"Gable knows something about your mother's death?" he said.

"Put it in the bank," I said.

ON MONDAY I DROVE to the women's prison at St. Gabriel, ten miles south of Baton Rouge, and waited for a female guard to walk Letty Labiche from a lockdown unit to an interview room. While I waited a television crew and a male and female journalist from a Christian cable channel were packing up their equipment.

"You interviewed Letty?" I asked the woman.

"Oh, yes. Her story's a tragic one. But it's a beautiful one, too," she replied. She was middle-aged, blond and attractive, her hard, compact body dressed in a pink suit.

"Beautiful?" I said.

"For a Christian, yes, it's a story of forgiveness and hope." Her face lifted into mine, her blue eyes charged with meaning.

I looked at the floor and said nothing until she and the other journalist and their crew were gone.

When Letty came into the room with the female guard she was wearing prison denims and handcuffs. The guard was as broad as an ax handle, pink-complected, with chestnut hair, and arms like an Irish washerwoman. She turned the key in the handcuff locks and rubbed Letty's wrists.

"I got them a little tight. You gonna be okay here, hon?" she said.

"I'm fine, Thelma," Letty said.

I could not tell the difference between Letty and her twin sister, except for a rose with green leaves tattooed on her neck. They had the same skin, the same smoke-colored, wavy, gold-streaked hair, even the same powerful, physical presence. She sat down with me at a wood table, her back straight, her hands folded in front of her.

"You're going to be on cable television, huh?" I said.

"Yes, it's pretty exciting," she said.

But she caught the look in my eyes.

"You don't approve?" she said.

"Whatever works for you is the right thing to do, Letty."

"I think they're good people. They been kind to me, Dave. Their show goes out to millions of homes."

Then I saw the consuming nature of her fear, her willingness to believe that exploitative charlatans could change her fate or really cared what happened to her, the dread and angst that congealed like a cold vapor around her heart when she awoke each morning, one day closer to the injection table at Angola. How much time was left? Six weeks? No, it was five weeks and four days now.

I remembered a film clip that showed Letty at a religious service in the prison chapel, rising from her knees in front of the cross, her clasped hands extended high above her head in a histrionic portrayal of prayer. It was almost embarrassing to watch. But I had learned long ago that unless you've had your own ticket punched in the Garden of Gethsemane, you shouldn't judge those whose fate it is to visit there.

"What can you tell me about a black woman named Little Face Dautrieve?" I asked.

"Tell you?"

"You know her, don't you?"

"The name's not real familiar," she said.

"Why do you and Passion refuse to confide in me?" I said.

She looked at the tops of her big-boned hands. "The information you're after won't help. Leave it alone," she said.

One hand opened and closed nervously on the table-top. Her palm was gold, shiny with moisture, her nails trimmed close to the cuticle. I took her fingers in mine.

"You all right?" I asked.

"Sure."

But she wasn't. I could see her pulse beating in her neck, the white discoloration on the rim of her nostrils. She swallowed dryly when she looked back into my face, her eyes working hard to retain the light that the reborn seemed to wear as their logo.

"No one has to be brave all the time. It's all right to be afraid," I said.

"No, it's not. Not if you have faith."

There was nothing for it. I said good-bye and walked outside into the world of wind and green lawns and sunlight on the skin and trees bending against the sky. It wasn't an experience I took for granted.

When I got home that evening Clete Purcel was leaning on the rail at the end of my dock, eating from a paper sack filled with hog cracklings, brushing the crumbs off his hands into the bayou. The sun was red behind the oaks and pecan trees in my yard, and the swamp was full of shadows and carrion birds drifting above the tops of the dead cypress.

I walked down the dock and leaned against the rail next to him.

"The moon's rising. You want to try some surface lures?" I said.

"I got a call from Zipper Clum today. He says a shit-load of heat just came down on his head and we're responsible for it." He pulled a crackling out of the sack and inserted it in his mouth with his thumb and forefinger.

"Gable sicced some cops on him?"

"They rousted him and put him in a holding cell with a bunch of Aryan Brotherhood types. Zipper left a couple of teeth on the cement."

"Tell him to give us something and we'll help him."

"The guy's a bottom-feeder, Dave. His enemy's his mouth. He shoots it off, but he doesn't have anything to give up."

"Life's rough."

"Yeah, that's what I told him." Clete tore the tab on a beer can and leaned his elbows on the handrail. The wind rippled the bamboo and willow trees along the bayou's edge. "Zipper thinks he might get popped. I say good riddance, but I don't like to be the guy who set him up. Look, the guy's conwise. If he's wetting his pants, it's for a reason. Are you listening to me?"

"Yeah," I said abstractly.

"You stuck a broom up Jim Gable's ass. He plans to be head of the state police. You remember that black family that got wiped out with shotguns about ten years back? Out by.the Desire Project? The husband was snitching off some narcs and they wasted him and his wife and kid. I heard Gable ordered the clip on the husband and it got out of control."

"Let me tell Bootsie I'm home and we'll put a boat in the water," I said.

Clete finished his cracklings and wadded up the sack and popped it with the flat of his hand into a trash barrel.

"I've always wondered what it was like to have a conversation with a wood post," he said.

At that time the governor of the state was a six-foot-six populist by the name of Belmont Pugh. He had grown up in a family of sharecroppers in a small town on the Mississippi River north of Baton Rouge, feckless, illiterate people who sold pecans off the tailgates of pickup trucks and pulled corn and picked cotton for a living and were generally referred to as poor white trash. But even though the Pughs had occupied a stratum below that of Negroes in their community, they had never been drawn to the Ku Klux Klan, nor were they known to have ever been resentful and mean-spirited toward people of color.