Laissez les Bons Temps Rouler

Laissez les Bons Temps Rouler

A novel by Jay Scully

Copyright © & Publisher Statement

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including recording, photocopying, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher.

Published by Jay Scully

Smashwords Edition

Acknowledgment

This was a difficult book for me to write. It ended up being a spiritual journey, and I thank my conscience for that. During the production of the novel many components had to fall into place. Without help, the book would have remained a manuscript. I am indebted to Michel Scully, Toni Ladner, Tori Guidry, and Eprinted books--all remained a stable of thoroughbreds throughout the whole process. To Rob Stinson and his gang, Lindsey Rogers and the staff, who lay their support on the line for me every day. To Teresa for being my best fan--she read Dutch Coffee Shop like nine times. I would like to thank eighty-five year-old Lee Cody, who solved the first civil rights murder in America and taught me the essence of the 14th Amendment. Special thanks to Alex Wardlow, for being a steadfast friend, for willing to listen to my ramblings. Tony Mott and Kristen McKenzie, two people holding a special place in my heart. Moreover to Tori Guidry, who edited the manuscript with eagle eyes, giving the story a sense of authenticity when it comes to the Cajun culture. And finally, my son William and my daughter Hannah, who have allowed me to find the mental fortitude to sustain.

I thank you all.

Prologue

(2016)

Autumn

The director tells me the script is rather womblike. From a production standpoint it teeters on a nightmare, he says. We’ve got all these people confined to a small space, and frankly I’m getting as cranky as some of the cast. He’s rambling now, delirious. Not to mention, there’re just too many ‘match cuts’ and ‘montages.’

In spite of the director’s fussing, I know he looks to get my point of view. After all, the story is about me, Margie Meyn. It is the very reason for which I have been included on the set. In fact, any time a scene goes awry the director angles his eely head in my direction. He has asked for my advice more times than I can count, and I don’t think he gets it. I know he’s doing his best to put it on screen, but I don’t see the justice yet.

I hope I’m wrong.

Maybe the picture as a whole will come together, my subconscious tells me.

The director starts snapping around like a mouse spotting cheese. Actors and actresses take their positions. I think it’s the eighth or ninth take—I’ve lost count—and I can see that the director has had about enough of this scene. He says to the young girl playing me, No, no, no, Ms. Star. It’s a simple ‘voiceover,’ dear.

I look over at Ms. Star and wonder if she is about to take the director’s wrath. She says, Oh, that’s right, the scene opens up with Margie thinking about all the bad stuff that happened to her.

Great, the director snaps. Are we ready now?

Ms. Star says Yes.

The director says, Don’t forget Margie is a young American girl just returning from France. She’s been running from her problems … never finding the love she seeks.

This brings flashbacks to my mind.

While I don’t oblige everything the director says, I believe this woman will do a decent job of portraying me—to represent the distraught woman that I became that tragic night. Hollywood has certainly found it interesting enough to make a movie.

Action! the director yells.

Ms. Star begins her recitation. It’s going well for a minute, until …

Cut! the director yells. No, no, no! I told you, Ms. Star, you have to pretend you’re holding a straight face. Otherwise it’s not gonna come out right. He holds his arms akimbo, leaning forward in her face. You’re forgetting that Margie is having this epiphany as she tells the world why she became the way she did. The director smiles; not a genuine smile. Remember, it’s in this scene that Margie sees Gabe’s face for the first time, and she knows that her world will never be the same.

He is spot on here.

The director claps his hands in front of my character and says, You ready now?

I think so, Ms. Star says.

I look down at the script and hear the director shout: Okay, people, action!

ANGLE ON

Margie sauntering toward Gabe, incomprehension her face.

She can hardly believe what she sees.

EXTREME CLOSE UP of

Gabe’s BURNED FACE.

MARGIE (V.O.)

I knew when I saw Gabe’s face that it all made sense. I had confronted my demons. My problems, well (beat) I had run from them, you see … because of what happened to me. Let me put it this way—because of my problems, I was never able to trust. I had idolized my father and not known why. My mother, she was simply an enigma. Deep down, I guess I always knew.

My eyes divert back to the director, who says in astonishment, Cut! … That’s still not it!

Ms. Star appears demoralized; she doesn’t seem to understand the facial expressions which accompany the lines. She’s not doing that bad a job, I say privately. In a way, I’m glad the director has left some details out. Truly, I did love my parents. I loved them with all of my heart. I know they did the best they could. But I wanted the world to see the truth, and part of that truth meant revealing what had happened to me.

How disturbed my father had been; how fragile my mom had become.

I try to put myself in her shoes—dealing with this troubled teenager, a problematic child that she could neither save nor nurture; not under the circumstances. I think about how that must have affected her; how it hardened her. How she watched a helpless young girl and her infinite craving to be loved.

No, there was never any turning back for me.

Despite the consequences (in a metaphorical sense), I moved constantly. My childhood—its romantic dreams, its illusions, its grandeur—covered me like a blanket, keeping me warm at my coldest moments. My blackest moments. (It was true; I don’t think anyone knew how frigid my life had become. To the outside world, I was Margie Meyn—unbeatable, unflappable, the girl who had an answer for everything.) Yet when it came down to it, and in not a way that I would have ever thought, one man stood before me and my destiny.

His name was Michel Boudreaux.

The reality of my life, until I met him, had been to run from my problems.

Like going to Paris, where I found peace; where I found what I thought was the finish line; where I found ubiquitous love. Gratification. Nothing hurtful or shameful.

The script in my hand was proof enough.

Also, I now understand why my father handled me the way he did. He must have been at his wit’s end; a deep, dark place. Sometimes you’re just dealt a sorry hand, and the only way to cope is to go with what you’ve got.

I expect that was my father.

Now I can only wonder how the world will see this tragedy that took place.

Part One

Two Years Earlier

I

The scriptwriter is due to interview me later in the day. I have it all written down and I plan to tell him word for word what happened that night. I also keep wondering about what I’ve been told: If all goes well, we’ll have a movie on our hands in about two years. The possibility of this overwhelms me. The story I have to tell, if told right, could become one of the biggest chronicles ever to hit Hollywood. And because there are rumors floating around that HBO might intervene with a better offer, I feel my best option is to wait and see what happens.

Ironically it’s in my control, and I haven’t decided on anything yet.

Except one thing—to tell the story how it went down on that fateful December 23, 2012, a Sunday.

The first thing I’ll say to the scriptwriter: a quote from James Michener: ‘Only a mind steeped in true love can write irony. The others write satire.’ The second thing I’ll say: That fateful night started like every Sunday night at the Griddle House, until my friend Boudreaux, sitting across from me in a booth, reached down into his duffel bag and pulled out an old Colt 45. There was an expression on the Cajun’s face that I had never seen. I asked him what the hell he was doing, and he said, ‘I’m getting ready to hold hup the place.’"

Not five minutes later we were held captive.

The night in question started ordinarily enough. We had shared ten weeks of lonely, nothing-else-to-do Sunday nights. Yes, those same people—Sunday-in and Sunday-out—going through the same routine. I’m punctual when it comes to a routine, so I found myself seated among them for the tenth Sunday in a row.

The Sunday that Boudreaux snapped—our last Sunday together.

Now, I’m getting ahead of myself. A few months before that historic night I had returned from France, where I spent two years studying culinary arts. This was a big deal for me—for any woman. In many circles unheard of. I was very proud of myself. In fact, in Paris I found the love for which I had searched my whole life, and that delicious amour was not some gorgeous man but filling the hungry bellies of the human race. There was no doubt in my mind that I had found a home in this. I had talent. I had passion. I had a reason to go on. For the first time in my life, I didn’t need the comforting thought of a man’s love.

Under the circumstances—or rather the critical direction of Chef Pierre—I learned the art of French cuisine. And more than just cooking the dishes—I learned how to set a table, how to serve wine; how to be proficient when it came to fine-dining. Being a part of Chef Pierre’s program also meant I could work anywhere in the world. I glowed surreptitiously with pride every time he congratulated me on my skills. He told me that I had this uncanny ability to describe the ingredients once I tasted a dish. He said I had depth; I understood acidity; nuance; that my presentation skills were par excellent. I also learned to speak French well. It happened that way, waking up one fine morning and saying aloud to myself: Dang, Margie, you dreamt in French all night.

So there I was … twenty-years-old … living abroad … going after it … doing something only most women dreamed about in this business.

I thought I had made the right choice.

Yet as time went by, and in spite of my freedom in Paris, nostalgia kept pulling me back home, to Mississippi. For I was a southerner at heart, and I longed for sultry nights. I wanted to suck on crawfish heads, and eat