drive you back?”
“Eddie, my hotel is right next door.” She laughed.
“How about that nightcap,” he said, “in your hotel room?”
“Maybe some other time. I’m ready to go.”
Eddie didn’t understand. “Have you got something against me?”
“Of course not. I’m just interested in…” Reconsidering, she tried to let him down easily. “Let’s see what happens after a
couple of days, okay?” It was rare that Eddie was turned down on a first date.
He stood, plainly disappointed. “I’m sorry, Wilma, but it’s my way.”
“No need to apologize. Care to see me to my room?”
Eyes brightening again, he said, “May I see you inside?”
“The door will be just fine.”
He even tried for a light good-night kiss, flatly refused.
Cascading out of tranquil, quiescent sleep, and forward into the vivid glare of day, Wilma awoke to the telephone’s unwelcome
buzzing. It was Eddie.
“Who wants me at nine-fifteen?” Her brain was still a little blurry.
“C’mon, c’mon, hop in a cab right away, get down to the office.” He was in a state of feverish incoherence.
“Back up and start at the beginning.”
“I’m calling from a pay phone—can’t talk now—meet me in a half hour.”
Wilma recognized Eddie’s car in the new bureau parking lot as the cab let her off at the corner of St. Philip and North Rampart
Street. A dilapidated Ford truck, with both fenders missing and its tailpipe hitting the pavement, was nearby, parked at a
shabby angle.
She bounced inside. “I hurried as fast as I… could.” In front of Eddie’s desk stood an Indian, Jacques Telemacques, an Acadian
who lived in the backwater of sugar cane fields and alligator traps of the bayou.
Seemingly ageless, weathered and worn by sixty years of hardship on a wilderness homestead handed down for generations, Telemacques’s
face embodied the pioneer durability of the French-Indian heritage well-known in the swamps. His hands were calloused by the
plow and shovel, his eyes robbed of their vigor and strength by a life of hard work in the sun as a cane farmer. Standing
next to him, almost in his shadow, was a teen-aged girl, Orial. Her impoverished, ragamuffin attire belied an unspoiled beauty,
haunting blue eyes and dark brown hair falling down her back in soft waves. This was Telemacques’s daughter.
Wilma turned to Eddie, who, wearing an impudent grin, was quite amused by her puzzlement. “Who are they? What’s going on here?”
she asked.
After introductions, Eddie paced the floor and explained, “Mr. Telemacques lives about twenty-five miles west of Morgan City,
in the heart of the swamps. He was in town getting supplies and buying a transistor radio for his little girl. I was buying
stamps at the post office and overheard him talking to one of the clerks—he was sending a letter to the newspaper, all about
this military fortress out where he lives.”
Wilma almost leaped out of her shoes. “What did he say? What did you tell them, Mr. Telemacques?”
“I told the man,” began the Acadian, “that the Army was buildin’ this fort in the swamp. They come to my home, bother Orial
and me. We don’t like them.”
“Do they have weapons? Guns?”
“Machine guns,” he smiled, rocking back and forth. “I know what machine guns look like.”
“Do you know how to find this place?”
“I know. They tell me to forget all I see. They say we leave them alone, they will leave us alone. But they watch us all the
time. Perhaps I should not say these things, but the ghost of my dear wife makes me. The fort, it is a castle of wood, rising
out of the water.” He gestured, spreading his arms wide, suggesting a building of enormous size.
Wilma walked over to Telemacques daughter. “And what about you, honey. Did you see it, too?”
Eddie butted in. “Don’t patronize them, Wilma. These are intelligent people. Old Telemacques here admits to a little witchcraft
now and then, but
“Eddie, my hotel is right next door.” She laughed.
“How about that nightcap,” he said, “in your hotel room?”
“Maybe some other time. I’m ready to go.”
Eddie didn’t understand. “Have you got something against me?”
“Of course not. I’m just interested in…” Reconsidering, she tried to let him down easily. “Let’s see what happens after a
couple of days, okay?” It was rare that Eddie was turned down on a first date.
He stood, plainly disappointed. “I’m sorry, Wilma, but it’s my way.”
“No need to apologize. Care to see me to my room?”
Eyes brightening again, he said, “May I see you inside?”
“The door will be just fine.”
He even tried for a light good-night kiss, flatly refused.
Cascading out of tranquil, quiescent sleep, and forward into the vivid glare of day, Wilma awoke to the telephone’s unwelcome
buzzing. It was Eddie.
“Who wants me at nine-fifteen?” Her brain was still a little blurry.
“C’mon, c’mon, hop in a cab right away, get down to the office.” He was in a state of feverish incoherence.
“Back up and start at the beginning.”
“I’m calling from a pay phone—can’t talk now—meet me in a half hour.”
Wilma recognized Eddie’s car in the new bureau parking lot as the cab let her off at the corner of St. Philip and North Rampart
Street. A dilapidated Ford truck, with both fenders missing and its tailpipe hitting the pavement, was nearby, parked at a
shabby angle.
She bounced inside. “I hurried as fast as I… could.” In front of Eddie’s desk stood an Indian, Jacques Telemacques, an Acadian
who lived in the backwater of sugar cane fields and alligator traps of the bayou.
Seemingly ageless, weathered and worn by sixty years of hardship on a wilderness homestead handed down for generations, Telemacques’s
face embodied the pioneer durability of the French-Indian heritage well-known in the swamps. His hands were calloused by the
plow and shovel, his eyes robbed of their vigor and strength by a life of hard work in the sun as a cane farmer. Standing
next to him, almost in his shadow, was a teen-aged girl, Orial. Her impoverished, ragamuffin attire belied an unspoiled beauty,
haunting blue eyes and dark brown hair falling down her back in soft waves. This was Telemacques’s daughter.
Wilma turned to Eddie, who, wearing an impudent grin, was quite amused by her puzzlement. “Who are they? What’s going on here?”
she asked.
After introductions, Eddie paced the floor and explained, “Mr. Telemacques lives about twenty-five miles west of Morgan City,
in the heart of the swamps. He was in town getting supplies and buying a transistor radio for his little girl. I was buying
stamps at the post office and overheard him talking to one of the clerks—he was sending a letter to the newspaper, all about
this military fortress out where he lives.”
Wilma almost leaped out of her shoes. “What did he say? What did you tell them, Mr. Telemacques?”
“I told the man,” began the Acadian, “that the Army was buildin’ this fort in the swamp. They come to my home, bother Orial
and me. We don’t like them.”
“Do they have weapons? Guns?”
“Machine guns,” he smiled, rocking back and forth. “I know what machine guns look like.”
“Do you know how to find this place?”
“I know. They tell me to forget all I see. They say we leave them alone, they will leave us alone. But they watch us all the
time. Perhaps I should not say these things, but the ghost of my dear wife makes me. The fort, it is a castle of wood, rising
out of the water.” He gestured, spreading his arms wide, suggesting a building of enormous size.
Wilma walked over to Telemacques daughter. “And what about you, honey. Did you see it, too?”
Eddie butted in. “Don’t patronize them, Wilma. These are intelligent people. Old Telemacques here admits to a little witchcraft
now and then, but
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