Free Courir De Mardi Gras by Lynn Shurr Page A

cottages. The road sloped gradually downward, the housing having less paint and more peeling the lower the street went. Trailers sat in the yards behind gray wooden shanties. She passed the Pilgrim Baptist Church with its one pane of stained glass shining like a ruby in the forehead of a Buddha over the narthex.
    Suzanne experienced the same feeling of anxiety she might have if she’d wandered innocently into the black ghetto of Philadelphia, but no one threatened her. The elderly sat on porch steps or tended the remnants of their winter gardens. Tiny, dark children stared as she passed, but the elderly nodded pleasantly enough.
    The sky clouded over again and grew as black as her surroundings. She had no desire to bring attention to herself by returning the same way she’d come, but St. Julien Street appeared to have no crossroads. The street transformed into a rural route where a few shabby lounges hugged a curve in the road.
    Resigned, she crossed the street, and marched purposefully up the other side as if she were late for a very important engagement. Most of the children had gone inside when the weather threatened. She approached the Pilgrim Baptist Church when the deluge let loose. In moments, water cascading down the decline lapped over the low curbs. She shoved the parish history book under her top to protect it, but her shoes grew soggy. Her hair plastered to her skull in wet ringlets. She kept walking directly into the rain, back toward the security of Main Street. A woman, middle-aged and medium brown, hailed her from a screened porch where she sat watching the storm.
    “Come on in, come on in! Get yourself out of that rain.”
    Suzanne hesitated and then made her way up the walk and the three cinder block steps leading to the porch. Her hostess wore a brightly striped caftan over her ample body and covered her gray hair with a stiffly styled black wig.
    “I saw you pass and wondered what would happen to you when the storm broke. It wasn’t likely you were visiting anyone on this end of town. Why, you looked as out of place as a crawfish in an oak tree. I saw that once back in the big flood. Come in and dry yourself. I’m Odette St. Julien.”
    “Suzanne Hudson. Thank you for inviting me.”
    “Just being Christian. Let me make you some hot mint tea. Take off those wet shoes and get a towel out of the bathroom to dry that hair.” She hesitated a moment, then suggested cautiously, “You could put on my robe hanging there on the peg. It’s clean. I have an electric dryer, and we could get the wet out of your clothes.”
    Suzanne put on the warm, red flannel robe even though it wrapped twice around her and padded barefooted into the living room where she exchanged her dripping clothes for the cup of mint tea and a seat on the sofa. Despite the sagging porch and flaking paint that made Mrs. St. Julien’s home blend with the rest of the neighborhood, the interior was clean and cozy on this dreary day. A burnt orange area rug covered the gray linoleum of the floor, and a hand-knit afghan of umber, green, and yellow yarns fanned across the divan. A large single room air conditioner, not operating this moist January day, filled one window. An immense television took up most of the wall opposite the sofa.
    The air conditioner served as a stand for potted plants: begonia slips wintering over in small clay pots; an avocado grown from seed in a Mexican jar; broad-leaved house plants set in baskets like the ones the old man wove. The television had its own burden of framed photos: large and small snapshots of children and grandchildren; a very tall young man in cap and gown; a couple with the bride in white lace, the groom in a tuxedo; and one that looked like a black and white publicity still of a sports figure kneeling by a basketball. She got caught examining them more closely when Mrs. St. Julien returned with her own cup of tea.
    “There now. Let’s have our tea and talk while your things dry.”
    She could