"We have an uncle?" It was as if Philomene had to play with the idea in her mind for a few moments before she could accept Elisabeth's word as fact. "Are you sure he's who he says he is?"

"A mother knows her child."

"How did he find us?" Philomene was beginning to warm to the notion of an unknown family member presenting himself. "Is he by himself? Weren't there two boys?"

"This one is Yellow John. Jacob has a family in Virginia."

"Has he come to stay?" Gerant asked.

"My boy walked here all the way from Virginia. I hope so."

Elisabeth wanted to tell Philomene about Clement before Yellow John woke. She took Philomene's hand. "Sit down, child. There is something to be said."

Philomene obeyed, growing solemn at Elisabeth's manner. Gerant pulled up a chair too and sat next to his sister.

"Philomene, there's no way to say this but straight and fast. Yellow John is from the same place they sent Clement. Baby girl, Clement is dead."

It was as if Philomene hadn't heard. "I'm not the same girl as when Clement left," she said. Her back was stiff and her eyes dry. "He'll be disappointed."

Elisabeth and Gerant exchanged a quick glance in an attempt to make sense of Philomene's response. Elisabeth tried again. "Clement has gone on beyond this world, to a better place. Do you understand what I'm telling you?"

Philomene just sat. Elisabeth thought she might scream or cry or fly apart, as she had when Clement was sold away. Or retreat into silence. She tightened her grip on Philomene's hand, but it was limp inside her own.

"Was it by water?" Philomene's tone was as flat as her eyes.

"Yellow John said Clement drowned, but he was planning to come back to you."

"After a while, I couldn't feel him anymore."

Philomene stood and walked toward the kitchen to dish up the supper Elisabeth had prepared.

"At least he never knew about Bet and Thany and the yellow fever," Philomene said, as much to herself as anyone in the room. "At least Clement never knew about Narcisse Fredieu."

26.

A neatly dressed, fresh-cheeked young man the color of oatmeal pulled up in a buggy alongside Suzette's cabin in the quarter and brought the horse to a halt. With the quickness of youth he jumped down and was by her side, helping her up into the seat beside his. neatly dressed, fresh-cheeked young man the color of oatmeal pulled up in a buggy alongside Suzette's cabin in the quarter and brought the horse to a halt. With the quickness of youth he jumped down and was by her side, helping her up into the seat beside his.

"Good afternoon, Madame Jackson," he said.

"Good afternoon, Monsieur Valsin," she replied in her best voice, savoring the exchange. Suzette had been ready since noon. After she'd fixed Sat.u.r.day dinner for Augustine Fredieu's family, the rest of week's end was her own. She had changed into her good dress, a shabby calico but freshly ironed, and carefully rewrapped a spotless bleached tignon tignon around her head. Then she'd waited for Doralise's grandson to come for her, watching out for the buggy the way a child waits for a promised candy. But she was nervous, too. To be invited to Doralise's home with a gathering of around her head. Then she'd waited for Doralise's grandson to come for her, watching out for the buggy the way a child waits for a promised candy. But she was nervous, too. To be invited to Doralise's home with a gathering of gens de couleur libre, gens de couleur libre, to ride in the front seat of a buggy like a grand lady all the way to Cloutierville, to be addressed with such respect by her new last name. Cane River was topsy-turvy. to ride in the front seat of a buggy like a grand lady all the way to Cloutierville, to be addressed with such respect by her new last name. Cane River was topsy-turvy.

She had to keep reminding herself that the gens de couleur libre gens de couleur libre were no more. They were all free now, although Doralise's house was one of the few places former slaves mingled regularly with former Cane River colored royalty. Most of the were no more. They were all free now, although Doralise's house was one of the few places former slaves mingled regularly with former Cane River colored royalty. Most of the gens de couleur libre gens de couleur libre refused to mix with any but their own, but Doralise pulled in a stream of visitors and went out of her way to make Suzette welcome. Especially since Yellow John had come to Cane River. refused to mix with any but their own, but Doralise pulled in a stream of visitors and went out of her way to make Suzette welcome. Especially since Yellow John had come to Cane River.

In the first few months after the war, little seemed to change for Suzette, but in important ways everything changed. She worked hard as ever in Augustine Fredieu's kitchen, living in the same cabin she had shared for the last few years with another family. When Augustine Fredieu came back to his farm, he asked each of his former slaves left on the property to sign up to stay for a year. The contracts called for a small bit of money to change hands at the end of the season. Augustine explained that there wasn't much money to be had until the farm was built back up.

"My daughter wants me to move in to sharecrop with her on Richard Grant's plantation down near the lower part of Natchitoches Parish," Suzette told him. "And Madame Oreline has asked me to move to her farm, too." Like the gens de couleur libre, gens de couleur libre, Augustine wrapped himself in old habits, still expecting to be treated in the same way he had before the war. Suzette didn't care one way or the other, willing to do whatever would make things smooth. "You and I don't need a paper, M'sieu Augustine," she had said. "We can keep on like we always have until I finish my planning. I'm not ready to put my X on anything yet." Augustine wrapped himself in old habits, still expecting to be treated in the same way he had before the war. Suzette didn't care one way or the other, willing to do whatever would make things smooth. "You and I don't need a paper, M'sieu Augustine," she had said. "We can keep on like we always have until I finish my planning. I'm not ready to put my X on anything yet."

Madame Jackson. Suzette silently rolled the words over her tongue again.

When for the first time they were allowed to create a last name for themselves, it was her mother, Elisabeth, and not Suzette who decided that the name would be Jackson. There was no hidden meaning to the choice, no long a.s.sociation with some significant event or person. Elisabeth merely said that she liked the clean sound of Jackson, that it didn't sound so French, the way everything along Cane River had her whole life. If she got to choose her own last name, she wanted it simple, a new beginning.

For a time Suzette tried to persuade Elisabeth to consider DeNegre, a last name she had invented as far back as Rosedew, but her arguments were of no use.

"My name is Jackson," Elisabeth had said. "I hope you see your way to carry the same name."

Suzette wanted that tie, a thread between her mother and herself that everyone could see, so she became Suzette Jackson, finally one of the Ones with Last Names.

Suzette took pleasure in the taste of freedom, wanted to savor it without committing to anyone, at least for a while. Philomene had managed to collect eleven of the family close together in bordering sharecropper cabins: Philomene, little Emily, and Philomene's youngest, Eugene, born right before Easter; Elisabeth and Yellow John; and Gerant, Melantine, and their children. It comforted Suzette to know they were all so close, but as powerful as the temptation to drift back into the comfort of family was, Suzette hesitated, at a crossroads.

Stay on Augustine Fredieu's farm, go to her daughter, or go to Oreline. There was something so delicious about having choices that she found she couldn't let go just yet. Suzette preferred to remain where she was, making plans, weighing her options, humming her way through work that demanded more of her hands than her mind.

Madame Jackson.

By the time they reached Cloutierville, Suzette's excitement had turned to quiet reflection. By the time they came to Doralise's house, it had turned to dread.

Her G.o.dmother's house was plain, not unlike the other houses in the town, but well kept up. Clumps of jasmine were planted beside the front steps leading up to the gallery, and bright scarlet tufts of early-bloom azaleas poked up from window boxes on either side of the front door.

Suzette and her young escort entered Doralise's front room. Six or eight people were there already, some seated, some standing, talking among themselves. It was a blur to Suzette, but she immediately noted everyone in the room had lighter skin than she. The darkest before she walked into the room was the color of honey.

"Suzette." Doralise called to her, waving her over to where she sat in her favorite chair, an overstuffed plush green. She was flanked on one side by a man of middle age and on the other by Yellow John. Since Yellow John had come to Cane River, he and Doralise had become as comfortable with each other as a pair of old slippers. The sight of her half-brother gave Suzette more confidence, and he greeted her warmly, but she knew she wasn't the match of the people in this room. They had lived a different life, had a different future in store. The only one she saw who didn't carry the shame of slavery was Yellow John, and even he could read.

Then she recognized him. The man sitting calmly on Doralise's other side. He was older, more heavyset than she recalled, his shortcut graying hair receded and thinning at the top of his head, but he had the same sleepy-eyed kindness to his face. Nicolas. Nicolas Mulon. She still owned the old strip of cowhide he had given her when she was a girl. It was a miserable, shapeless piece now, worn beyond any possible use. The stubborn stiffness of the sc.r.a.p rea.s.sured her each time she rubbed it for luck. He had been staring at her, she realized, since she'd walked into the room. Suzette knew how much she had changed and chafed at how disappointed he must be to see her here. She wanted to turn tail and run, spare them both the embarra.s.sment.

"Suzette, you're here at last," Doralise said. "Monsieur Mulon has asked about you often. I thought to invite you both so you could become reacquainted."

The room grew small for Suzette, devoid of air, until Nicolas Mulon gave Suzette the shy smile she remembered from so long ago.

Sunday was reserved for church and Philomene's farm.

"I don't understand why you won't move in with us, Maman. Maman."

The supper dishes were cleared away, and Suzette, Philomene, and Elisabeth sat talking on the front porch, which was cooler than indoors. Gerant and Melantine had gone for a walk, and the children were off getting into their own mischief. Suzette came to Philomene's house as she did every week, continuing to resist the invitations to move in, nursing her joyous secret. Surrounded by most of the people she loved best in the world, she smiled to herself. One was noticeably absent, she thought.

"It is comfortable enough where I am, for now," Suzette told Philomene. "I'll decide where to go when I finish my planning."

"I'm going to pull us all back together again," Philomene said. "On our own land. I don't know how long it will take, but we can work our own place better than we can someone else's."

"How are you going to get your own land?" Suzette asked. "There's no money. Everyone around here is scratching just to get from one day to the next. Be grateful for what you have."

"Sharecropping is slavery with a different name." Philomene looked combative. "Even when money changes hands, it goes back to settle debts."

"Not even Madame Oreline has land anymore," Suzette said.

"We're family, and we'll find a way to take care of our own. What Madame has or doesn't have isn't our worry. We can all take in washing, ironing, and sewing while we sharecrop. We can save. I'll put myself behind a plow again if it means that girl over there will never have to," Philomene said, nodding in Emily's direction.

Little Emily sat cross-legged on the far side of the porch, absorbed, dangling a twisting slip of green ribbon between her small, thin fingers in front of a tomcat that batted at the moving target with his paw.

"Keep her out of the sun," Suzette scolded. "You know what it will do to her skin. That's her future. She's meant for better."

Philomene nodded in agreement and kept at her mending. "We can grow most of our food, fish and trap the rest. We'll make out."

"I have a different plan for what comes next." Suzette sat back in her chair, enjoying the look of bewilderment that crossed Philomene's face.

"What plan is that, Maman? Maman?"

Suzette sported a slow grin, the gap between her front teeth prominent. "I have a gentleman who wants to marry me. In the church. A real marriage they put down in a book, not one of those slavey things."

Philomene's face seemed to go slack for a moment, and Suzette's smile withered as she realized what she had said. "I'm so sorry, Philomene. You had as real a marriage as there could be. This old woman has gotten foolish and hurtful. That's what happens when G.o.d hands you a gift long after you stop hoping."

Philomene gave Suzette a careful, appraising look. The same long look Suzette had given her own mother after Yellow John had arrived in Cane River and she'd realized Elisabeth had a life she knew nothing about. "Maman, what gift?" what gift?"

The timid smile crept back into Suzette's voice. "Before you were born, a boy lived next door to us on Rosedew." She turned to Elisabeth. "You remember him, Mere. Mere. Nicolas Mulon. Now he's a colored shoemaker set up in Cloutierville. We were confirmed at the same time and took first communion together." Nicolas Mulon. Now he's a colored shoemaker set up in Cloutierville. We were confirmed at the same time and took first communion together."

Elisabeth nodded.

Suzette turned back to Philomene. "When I was a girl, I wished so hard that Nicolas and I would grow up and get married that sometimes I actually thought it was true. It was not possible then. He was gens de couleur libre gens de couleur libre. Later, Nicolas married a free woman of color, just the way Mere Mere always said he would." always said he would."

"Go on, Maman, Maman," Philomene said.

"The war brought some down, and raised others up. Most of the gens de couleur libre gens de couleur libre still play at being grand after losing everything, because they were free before the rest of us. still play at being grand after losing everything, because they were free before the rest of us. Marraine Marraine Doralise was never like that. Or Nicolas. I saw him again for the first time in over twenty years when I visited Doralise. His wife died this year, leaving him with three children to take care of, one still in breechcloth. Nicolas ... remembered me." Doralise was never like that. Or Nicolas. I saw him again for the first time in over twenty years when I visited Doralise. His wife died this year, leaving him with three children to take care of, one still in breechcloth. Nicolas ... remembered me."

Suzette turned shy, all at once hot, using her embroidery hoop as a fan. "And I remembered him. He has a little piece of land near Cloutierville, and we've been talking about me living with him on it, becoming stepmother to those children."

"I never thought of you living with a man, Maman, Maman," Philomene said. She paused, carefully unwrapping the unexpected turn of events, examining each fold. "Do you love him?"

"I never had a man for more than an hour at a time all my days on this earth," Suzette said. "I wouldn't mind somebody to make a life with, without what you call love. But yes, I love Nicolas. I want to be with him, and do for him, and I want him to do for me. I knew the first evening over at Madame Doralise's, and so did he, like time skipped back and we got a second try."

Philomene didn't hide her puzzlement, her thick eyebrows knotted in concentration, her lips pressed almost to a grimace. "Did you love my papa at all?"

Suzette shifted uncomfortably. The mood had turned strained, with too much talk. Three generations of women out on the front porch, four counting little Emily, trying to put words around a past and a future that could never be explained. But the rawness in Philomene's face persuaded Suzette to make the attempt.

"No. There were no parts of love there, except you and Gerant that came out of it. That was a different time. Philomene, I saw how you were with Clement. That was young love. Mere, Mere, you and Gerasime, that was love, too. Gerant and Melantine, still more love. I've been surrounded by it, but never thought I'd get a taste myself. Eugene Daurat and me, there was no choice. Love is pull. That was all push." you and Gerasime, that was love, too. Gerant and Melantine, still more love. I've been surrounded by it, but never thought I'd get a taste myself. Eugene Daurat and me, there was no choice. Love is pull. That was all push."

The light outside was beginning to fail. They would need to call the children in soon.

"So you're going to marry Nicolas Mulon?" Elisabeth asked.

"As soon as we get enough money saved," Suzette answered. "Others have the same idea. Folks already living as man and wife can make it proper now. Doralise and Yellow John will marry when we do, and we thought we would share a party together after. Gerant and Melantine may want to consider coming forward, too."

Suzette sat back in her chair, enjoying the surprise around her. There was nothing more satisfying than having plans.

27.

E ven with both the front and back doors open to encourage a breeze, the air barely stirred at all in the sweltering heat of Philomene's four-room cabin. She turned the heavy pressing iron on end to cool, brushing the sweat from her eyes with the back of her sleeve. It wouldn't do to scorch the starched, delicate lacework she needed to deliver to Widow Greneaux by afternoon. Fancy ironing generated more money than flatwork and required full attention. With two children and a grandmother depending on her, and two years of freedom gone, Philomene had learned to navigate the world of money paid for service. She glanced outside to check on the children. ven with both the front and back doors open to encourage a breeze, the air barely stirred at all in the sweltering heat of Philomene's four-room cabin. She turned the heavy pressing iron on end to cool, brushing the sweat from her eyes with the back of her sleeve. It wouldn't do to scorch the starched, delicate lacework she needed to deliver to Widow Greneaux by afternoon. Fancy ironing generated more money than flatwork and required full attention. With two children and a grandmother depending on her, and two years of freedom gone, Philomene had learned to navigate the world of money paid for service. She glanced outside to check on the children.

"Emily Fredieu, how many times do I have to tell you not to let the sun get to your skin?" she called through the window. "March yourself and your brother inside. That sun will make you common."

"Aunt Melantine lets Cousin Alice and Cousin Adolph play in the sun," Emily said.

"I know I don't hear sa.s.s in your voice," Philomene said. At six Emily was old enough to know the consequences of talking back.

"No, Maman. Maman." The girl brushed dust from her shiny black shoes with one hand and took Eugene by the other to lead him into the house.

"You're meant for better, Emily Fredieu. Just stay where I can see you."

"Yes, Maman. Maman."

"Your papa comes this afternoon to carry you visiting. Take Eugene Fredieu to Memere Memere to clean him up." to clean him up."

"Bring the baby to me, Emily." Elisabeth took off the girl's bonnet and hung it on the peg by the front door and had Eugene lift up his arms to slip off his soiled undershirt. "You're as color-struck as Suzette," she said to Philomene.

"Fair skin will give them advantage," Philomene said. She looked at her children. Their sandy brown hair was straight, and all their features were French, not African. "Either could pa.s.s."

Elisabeth grunted. "That kind of thinking breaks up families."

Philomene knew she would be an immediate giveaway if she ever tried to lead her children into that kind of life. The olive in her skin darkened with the slightest exposure to the sun.

"Emily and Eugene do fine right here," Elisabeth went on. "Even M'sieu Narcisse doesn't fuss when you call them Fredieu to his face."

"Emily Fredieu and Eugene Fredieu will have choices," Philomene said to her grandmother, carefully folding the frilled collar piece, still warm, and adding it to the pile.

The evening cooled down almost enough to be pleasant, with an occasional short-lived breeze. Philomene and Narcisse stayed out on the porch of the cabin after everyone else had gone to bed. Smoke curled around the tip of Narcisse's fat cigar, and Philomene embroidered by the unsteady light of the oil lamp.

"Is that from the general store?" Narcisse used the cigar's smoldering tip to point to the cloth in Philomene's lap.

Philomene held up the small blue garment for Narcisse to admire. "A new visiting dress for Emily Fredieu," she said.