Wayne Patrick

pwbracken@cox.net

Chapter 63

"I think we've discovered Frank Foster's silent partner," Poulet said, "or at least one of them, anyway." 

"Looks like you just might be correct in that assumption, Mr. Poulet," the sheriff said. 

Poulet had just walked into the jail and stood near the stove, holding his hands over the warmth. Deputy Barada stoked the fire, sat back down and concentrated on his whittling. The fire crackled with fragrant burning cedar, sending radiant waves of heat throughout the room.

Poulet pulled up a chair. "Mr. Emerson's gone?" 

"His wife escorted him to St. Joe to the asylum," Stiles said. "Had him committed."

"Best place for the bastard," Barada said. The deputy's eyes didn't move from his knife as it sliced through the soft wood of the pine.

Stiles leaned back in his chair. "How's Miss Meriwether, Mr. Poulet? She talkin' to you yet?"

Poulet took in a deep breath and blew it out with a whistle. "I certainly don't know, monsieur, but I'm presently on my way to find out." He stood up, buttoned his coat and made for the door. "Wish me luck, sheriff."

Sheriff Stiles nodded at Poulet. "Seems to me you got all the luck you need, but good luck, anyway."

Poulet walked across the street to McCauley's. He slipped his coat off, sat at a table near the front window and watched the fat snowflakes fall from the gray sky. They filled his view of the river with their shifting cottony specks, silently landing and padding the ground with an arctic softness.

Emily emerged from the kitchen with a plate of steaming food and walked past him. She served the food to a pair of businessmen and walked back. She stopped at Poulet's table.

"What can I get you, sir?" she said with the least amount of enthusiasm required.

"I'd like to order today's special," Poulet replied.

"Too late. All out of the special."

"No, ma'am, I don't believe that is the case. I'm sitting here regarding today's special and tomorrow's and the next day's - that is if you care to be on my own menu." 

Emily folded her arms as her foot tapped on the wood floor. "I just don't know, Antoine. I don't know that I can see myself with a Voodoo doctor and all the pagan shenanigans that go with it."

"If I join you for church every Sunday, would you reconsider?"

Emily looked away from him and got lost in the snow drifting past the window. She looked back to him. "I don't know, Antoine. I just want someone... normal and without all these complications."

"Ah, but isn't some complication infinitely more engaging than a life full of routine simplicity?"

"For some, I suppose. I'm not sure. I need some time to think. I need some time to pray on it."

Poulet stood up and looked deeply into her eyes. "Pray on it, then. Let me know when your prayers end and your life begins."

He slipped on his coat, tipped his hat to Miss Meriwether and walked out of McCauley's into the flurry of swirling snow.

 He crossed the street to the jail and found Reverend Tutwiler with the pipe-puffing sheriff and the whittling deputy. The coffeepot sat on the stove, steam billowing from its spout. A jovial banter filled the room as he made his way through the lazy clouds of smoke to the warmth of the stove. Their smiles met Poulet's confused and serious gaze as he walked over.

Sheriff Stiles blew out a smoke ring and asked, "What'd she say?"

Poulet gave him a disgusted look. "She informed me that she has to pray on it." He pulled up another chair and shed his coat.

"Nothing wrong with that, Antoine," the reverend said, rubbing his hands together. "It may take her a while. Sometimes prayers are answered swiftly and sometimes not at all."

"How well I know, Charles." Poulet got up from his chair. As he poured a cup of hot coffee, he said, "She says she doesn't know about all these 'pagan shenanigans' and wants somebody normal."

"Well, she's certainly not going to get any form of normal from you, is she?" the reverend said. The three let out titters. "Maybe I should talk to her, Antoine. Your paganism may have saved this community from more misery, and I would never have believed that even a week ago."

"Don't discount your contribution, Charles. Evil doesn't appreciate multiple opponents. In the grand scheme of things, our success is but a footnote. Let's just hope and pray the hills are now safe."

A congenial silence settled on the jailhouse office. Deputy Barada commenced whittling another piece of pine. The sheriff cleaned his pipe and the reverend tipped his mug of coffee. 

Poulet stood up to leave. "I'm heading home, gentlemen."

"I assume you now consider Big Cloud your home?" the sheriff asked.

"Yes, sheriff. They say home is where the heart is and whether intact or broken, it resides here."

The reverend stood up and approached Poulet. "You're welcome to come to Sunday service, you know."

"I may just do that, Charles," Poulet said, pulling on his coat. "But, if Emily's not there this Sunday, I may not keep coming."

"I wouldn't expect you to. She'll come around, eventually. I've seen how her eyes sparkle when she looks at you."

Poulet gave the reverend a weak smile. "Perhaps you could come by tonight Charles. We'll have brandy and you can look over my pagan books on magic and Voodoo. Of course, that will probably precipitate another theological debate."

"I welcome the challenge, Antoine. Uh, would you consider coming to Bible study this Thursday eve? I have a special speaker coming from St. Joseph and--"

"Charles, I'll come to Sunday service, but I'm not yet ready to take on the study the Good Book, as you call it."

Reverend Tutwiler grinned and nodded his head. "Fair enough."

Poulet gave a slight respectful nod. "Good day, gentlemen."

The Frenchman opened the jailhouse door and walked out. A few inches of snow had accumulated and his feet made an occasional slip on the icy ground as he made his way up the hill to 415 Main Street. He stopped at his front door, looked up at the cloud cover and stuck his tongue out to catch a snowflake. The frosty morsel tingled his tongue as he opened his front door.

He walked into the dim and chilly house, slipped his coat off and hung it by the front door. He picked up a few logs from his woodpile on the back porch and stacked them in the kitchen stove. The still vibrant blue-hot embers left over from his scrambled egg breakfast fired the logs into flame.

The altar room took on a warm glow as he lit a few candles and then knelt on the rolled up blanket. He pulled out his mojo from his trouser pocket and laid it on the altar. It lay opened, its worn and weathered emptiness crying for a filling. He closed his eyes and began a prayer, but stopped as he lost his train of thought. He got off his knees and walked into the parlor.

He stood regarding his library and then pulled out a dog ear'd volume, sat on his couch and opened it to a page that listed ingredients for a love potion. He removed his glasses, turned to the window and gazed down the street through the snowfall to the Missouri River. The muddy-brown river flowed through a blanket of frosty white, south to the Mississippi: unimpeded, strong and free. 

Antoine Poulet closed the book, tilted his head back and closed his eyes. I'm finally home.

THE END