T. Johnson - Hold It 'Til It Hurts

Troy would choke on his drool if he got one look at Ines’s mother. Even Achilles was enchanted by Mrs. Delesseppes, still as striking as her daughter. A graceful woman with hair like Jackie O, her right forearm suspended haughtily at her side in defiance of gravity, as if carrying a purse, her long legs confidently sliced the air. Like Ines, she had ripe lips, and when in thought, she bit the lower lip hard enough to leave two tiny indentations, an M in Morse code. If he ran his tongue over those two faint lines, neat as stitches, would they feel slight as a whisper, pronounced like gouges, or nothing at all? He was mesmerized by her melodious Southern accent, the carnivorous smile, and the deeply channeled shadow of her bosom. There was gravity defied.

“Those Cajuns had a quaint shotgun, with fleurs-de-lys stenciled in the front windows,” said Mrs. Delesseppes. “I remember it clearly. They lived below the industrial canal.”

“Really? When were you in the lower Ninth Ward?” asked Boudreaux, always smiling, always drinking, never drunk.

Mrs. Delesseppes answered her brother in what sounded like French, eliciting the censure of her family.

“Mama!”

“Heloise!”

She ignored them and asked, “Tell me A-sheel , how do you find New Orleans?”

Achilles hesitated. Most people seemed to assume there was no more natural destination than Nawlins. When people did ask, he usually mumbled a line about school or work or friends. Fortunately, Ines cut in.

“Achilles, Mama, like the warrior. And, you didn’t answer Uncle B’s question.”

“Certainly you don’t mean like the heel. It’s A-sheel ,” said Mrs. Delesseppes. “Trust me, darling. I’ve lived here all my life.”

Ines huffed and winked at her uncle, plopping her elbows on the table. “Well? When did you see the lower Ninth Ward from anything but an aeroplane ?”

Mrs. Delesseppes regarded her plate for a moment. “Bogalusa is no longer a reliable source for sausage. I must instruct Monique to start shopping at Basheman’s again.” She pointed to Achilles’s empty plate and snapped her fingers.

Before he could object, a servant in a white coat as tight as a straight-jacket was at Achilles’s side, serving tray in hand. The servant’s neck spilled out over a bowtie tied so tightly that Achilles knew if he pulled it, the man would explode.

“ A-sheel , did Ines tell you we always outlive our men?” asked Mrs. Delesseppes.

And that was only the entrée.

The waiters held their breath like marksmen as they served course after course. After the oysters Rockefeller came turtle soup, then grilled andouille, then crabmeat mirlitons. The main course was a Creole bouillabaisse: lobsters, oysters, mussels, and scallops cooked in a tomato-based broth garnished with a yellow violet and swathed in wisps of steam, so spicy and sweet that Achilles had an urge to raise the dish and slurp the last drops trapped by the cursive D etched in the bottom of the wide, shallow bowl.

And for dessert, Mrs. Delesseppes asked, “Where is your family from?”

When Achilles said Maryland, she replied, “Oh, the southern state with the identity crisis.”

Achilles had never thought of the “old line” state that way, and didn’t know how to respond.

“Mama, have you talked to Aunt Harriet recently?” asked Ines.

“You know, dear, I’ve been so busy, I haven’t time for charity, dear. I’m already paying Sammy’s tuition for that fancy school in Atlanta. And for Saturdays, I’ve taken to attending morning mass. Besides, tears age one prematurely.” Mrs. Delesseppes zeroed back in on Achilles. “How long has your family been in Maryland?” She stretched out the last word, tasting each syllable, Mare-ree-land.

“Generations,” said Achilles.

“His grandparents are dead. His father just died, when he was on the way back from active duty. I mentioned this.” Ines looked to Boudreaux for help.

Boudreaux nodded solemnly.

“I meant before then. I don’t mean to upset. It was only a casual question.” She dropped her hand to the table, ending the discussion, then tapped her fingers as if to say, For now. “You know she does things just to spite me. Like writing on herself. Look at that horrid black smudge on her arm. Pitch. Pitch, I tell you. I raised her better than that.”

After dinner, Mrs. Delesseppes suggested they retire to the drawing room, where Ines cringed when her mother handed Achilles The Delesseppes in the New World, which she had commissioned to document their many cultural and commercial contributions to the New World. Achilles didn’t dare meet Ines’s stare as he made a show of licking his finger and settling into a chair to leisurely peruse the very book Ines had slapped from his hands only days before.

Parasols, stiff collars, buttoned boots. Blurry kids. A few death masks. Old shops and bars with French names. Delesseppes Brasserie. Café Delesseppes. Businesses. Delesseppes Tackle and Feed. Delesseppes & Son. Delesseppes & Co. Delesseppes Chicory and Tobacco. Delesseppes & Delesseppes Ltd. Stately couples in horse-drawn carriages. Large estates. Farms. In the middle of the book, a few Asians, and then a few Spanish, or very light-skinned blacks of the kind he had never before seen. Button boots, walking sticks, and horses with regal accessories.

As he leafed through the pages, Mrs. Delesseppes recounted the family history. The Delesseppes bought pews for slaves when St. Augustine was built in 1842. Ines said they should have bought their freedom. The Delesseppes first invested in Jax Brewery when it still made beer, and again when it became a tourist attraction of cultural and historical import. Capitalistic self-interest, said Ines. The Delesseppes fought in the battle of Chalmette Plantation, as they called the Battle of New Orleans. On the wrong side, according to Ines. They had varied relations of note , whatever that meant, but Mrs. Delesseppes was proudest of her father, Paul Delesseppes. Paul, or Papa P as they called him, was the first councilman in St. Bernard Parish with African American blood and a leading critic of the plan to blow up the Caernarvon Levee. Ines giggled, then whooped until her cheeks shone with tears. Mrs. Delesseppes steadfastly continued her advance, making it clear that her family had a long and proud history. Ines conceded only that it was long, making it clear that unless you wrote it, history was hateful. Boudreaux, between sips of bourbon, murmured his agreement with both of them.

Mother and daughter flashed perfect teeth. The conversation waned, the remainder of the hour like watching a poorly dubbed movie. Eventually, Achilles understood that Ines and her mother got along like snipers. If he followed Boudreaux’s example, and stayed out of the line of fire, they would only shoot each other.

It was his first time around old money. The rich kids he’d known — or known of — from childhood lived in gated communities where the homes were built from one of three standard floor plans, and they all had identical front yards of bermuda grass cut as neat and clean as carpet. Each front door was one of four acceptable colors. In the Delesseppes’ neighborhood, each home was unique but they all fit together. The houses in New Orleans were older, larger, self-confident. Not unlike Mrs. Delesseppes.

Still reading, Achilles found himself stealing glances at Mrs. Delesseppes. In some photos he saw her resemblance, and in others none at all. She and Ines both looked remarkably like Papa P. His skin was very light, lighter even than Troy’s. White, actually. If they were always free, as Mrs. D had contended, how did they get the black in them? In 1850, Do you want any black in you? were fighting words. Had a free black married into the family? Were there free blacks? What was it like being a free black in a country where slavery was legal? Achilles would have never left the house.