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Authors: The Love Charm
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not quite fast enough to hide her distress.
He wanted to come to her defense. He wanted
to demand to know what was said. He wanted to wash young Karl's
mouth out with soap. He wanted to do something. But he didn't know
what it could be.
"I brought my cards," Laron piped up,
pretending to have missed the undercurrent in the room. "I promised
to teach you bourre. If you aren't tired, we can play."
Karl hesitated a long moment. Finally he
shrugged. "All right, I have nothing else to do."
Laron pulled out his cards and smiled at
Helga. "You go ahead and finish with your work," he said. "We men
will do our best to stay out of your way."
She raised her eyes, which still glistened
brightly. "Karl has said many times that he wanted to learn the
cards," she said, forcing a smile.
Laron nodded and stepped past her.
"Let us go outside," he said to Karl.
"Why?"
"I want to smoke my pipe," he answered. "And
I would never offend your mother by doing so inside her house."
Walking outside alone, Laron waited on the
porch, wondering if the boy would follow him. The way things were
going the last several weeks, he would not have been surprised if
the boy was too stubborn to even do that.
It was simply a part of growing up, Laron
reminded himself. Karl was young and confused and testing the
waters. Boys grew up early in the bayous. And a boy with no father
grew up quicker than most.
The youngster did come out to the porch,
still puffing enthusiastically on the hand-hewn pipe. They seated
themselves on slat-back chairs before a low table.
"Where did you get the pipe?" Laron
asked.
"Traded for it," Karl answered.
"Hmmm." Laron nodded with interest.
"The Arceneaux brothers, Jacques and Duclize.
I gave them a couple of fine turtle shells."
"Seems like a fair trade," Laron agreed.
"They know you," Karl said, looking at him
closely.
Laron raised his eyes to look at Karl
directly. "Yes, they are my cousins. They are a little older than
you."
Karl shrugged and puffed heavily on his pipe.
"I'm old enough," he stated.
Laron didn't argue. "Let us play," he
said.
He spread the cards out upon the table and
showed him the four suits and identified the face cards. Neither
could actually read the printed numbers, but both could adequately
count the hearts, diamonds, clubs, or spades printed there.
Laron showed him the trick of shuffling to
make the cards stack randomly. As the boy practiced the new skill,
Laron lit his own pipe and watched.
After several minutes the boy set the cards
in a stack in the middle of the table.
"I'm ready to learn," he said.
Laron nodded. "First the rules," he said.
"All right."
Laron reached across and took Karl by the
wrist. His hold was not bruising or confining, merely firm. The boy
looked up, startled.
"Rule one," Laron said quietly. "A son does
not say things to his mother that make her cry."
Karl's eyes narrowed and his jaw firmed.
The moment lingered, dark brown eyes staring
into blue ones. The intensity growing to unbearability before it
began to wane.
"I am sorry," Karl said finally.
"You should say that to her and not to me,"
Laron pointed out.
After a long hesitation the boy nodded.
"Deal."
He did.
An hour later Karl was yawning into his cards
and Laron called the game to a halt. When they returned to the
interior of the cabin, the boy didn't relight his pipe, but he did
sprawl into a chair.
"Aren't you going to bed?" Helga asked
him.
"No, I'm still wide awake," he proclaimed,
although his eyelids appeared heavy.
Laron and Helga exchanged a disbelieving
glance. She shrugged and began bustling, rather tiredly, around the
kitchen once more. Laron looked longingly at the comfortable
rope-sprung bed in the corner of the room and then turned back with
purpose to the boy yawning before the fire.
"I must tell you the story of how my people
came to this place," he said.
"I've heard it," Karl answered, his tone
sarcastic and bored. "You've spoken of the Grand Derangement
not quite fast enough to hide her distress.
He wanted to come to her defense. He wanted
to demand to know what was said. He wanted to wash young Karl's
mouth out with soap. He wanted to do something. But he didn't know
what it could be.
"I brought my cards," Laron piped up,
pretending to have missed the undercurrent in the room. "I promised
to teach you bourre. If you aren't tired, we can play."
Karl hesitated a long moment. Finally he
shrugged. "All right, I have nothing else to do."
Laron pulled out his cards and smiled at
Helga. "You go ahead and finish with your work," he said. "We men
will do our best to stay out of your way."
She raised her eyes, which still glistened
brightly. "Karl has said many times that he wanted to learn the
cards," she said, forcing a smile.
Laron nodded and stepped past her.
"Let us go outside," he said to Karl.
"Why?"
"I want to smoke my pipe," he answered. "And
I would never offend your mother by doing so inside her house."
Walking outside alone, Laron waited on the
porch, wondering if the boy would follow him. The way things were
going the last several weeks, he would not have been surprised if
the boy was too stubborn to even do that.
It was simply a part of growing up, Laron
reminded himself. Karl was young and confused and testing the
waters. Boys grew up early in the bayous. And a boy with no father
grew up quicker than most.
The youngster did come out to the porch,
still puffing enthusiastically on the hand-hewn pipe. They seated
themselves on slat-back chairs before a low table.
"Where did you get the pipe?" Laron
asked.
"Traded for it," Karl answered.
"Hmmm." Laron nodded with interest.
"The Arceneaux brothers, Jacques and Duclize.
I gave them a couple of fine turtle shells."
"Seems like a fair trade," Laron agreed.
"They know you," Karl said, looking at him
closely.
Laron raised his eyes to look at Karl
directly. "Yes, they are my cousins. They are a little older than
you."
Karl shrugged and puffed heavily on his pipe.
"I'm old enough," he stated.
Laron didn't argue. "Let us play," he
said.
He spread the cards out upon the table and
showed him the four suits and identified the face cards. Neither
could actually read the printed numbers, but both could adequately
count the hearts, diamonds, clubs, or spades printed there.
Laron showed him the trick of shuffling to
make the cards stack randomly. As the boy practiced the new skill,
Laron lit his own pipe and watched.
After several minutes the boy set the cards
in a stack in the middle of the table.
"I'm ready to learn," he said.
Laron nodded. "First the rules," he said.
"All right."
Laron reached across and took Karl by the
wrist. His hold was not bruising or confining, merely firm. The boy
looked up, startled.
"Rule one," Laron said quietly. "A son does
not say things to his mother that make her cry."
Karl's eyes narrowed and his jaw firmed.
The moment lingered, dark brown eyes staring
into blue ones. The intensity growing to unbearability before it
began to wane.
"I am sorry," Karl said finally.
"You should say that to her and not to me,"
Laron pointed out.
After a long hesitation the boy nodded.
"Deal."
He did.
An hour later Karl was yawning into his cards
and Laron called the game to a halt. When they returned to the
interior of the cabin, the boy didn't relight his pipe, but he did
sprawl into a chair.
"Aren't you going to bed?" Helga asked
him.
"No, I'm still wide awake," he proclaimed,
although his eyelids appeared heavy.
Laron and Helga exchanged a disbelieving
glance. She shrugged and began bustling, rather tiredly, around the
kitchen once more. Laron looked longingly at the comfortable
rope-sprung bed in the corner of the room and then turned back with
purpose to the boy yawning before the fire.
"I must tell you the story of how my people
came to this place," he said.
"I've heard it," Karl answered, his tone
sarcastic and bored. "You've spoken of the Grand Derangement
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