A late August tropical depression that had formed days
earlier in the Bay of Campeche arrived in the grassy marsh and brackish waters of St. Mary Parish at 3:30 pm on a Thursday. Nighttime crept into the afternoon as the threatening black clouds moved slowly across ancient cypress trees that had survived the brutal assault of man and crosscut saw during the 1920’s. How many storms, hurricanes, oil company men and lumberjacks had these deciduous conifers seen and outlasted?
Nothing human moved on Main St. in Patterson. The soft glow of lights and the occasional shadow danced behind curtains, practicing nervous movements on carpet and hardwood stages. Lights in houses would dim, then return to full strength. But just as quickly, every light in every house on Main St. was extinguished when a 100-year-old oak tree was uprooted and fell across power lines after being bombarded by direct line winds.
The cracking and splintering of wood rung in the ears of the inhabitants of nearby homes but settled quickly as the cracked tree settled into the soggy soil. Howling winds and claps of thunder would orchestrate the symphony of storm and Mother Nature for the next hour or so. White caps raced each other over the surface of the lower Atchafalaya River as Tommy Messina stared anxiously from the kitchen window of a raised Acadian cottage that sat back 100 yards from the deserted street.
Alone with his thoughts Messina realized he was never really alone anymore. No, there was someone always nearby. Watching. Waiting. Talking. Planning. Even in the middle of a tropical depression in a house that was of average size in an average small town in South Louisiana, at least a dozen people had come and gone throughout the last two days. Even if the number of people in the house dwindled, Thomas knew others were outside or in nearby buildings, watching, waiting.
For someone who had recently graduated high school, Thomas was growing up at a pace that far exceeded those of his friends from the class of 1961. The more time he spent with his boss and his associates, the more he was accepted and trusted. Acceptance and trust brought on more responsibility, and so Thomas Messina found himself falling deeper and deeper into the abyss of the mafia underworld. Like a late afternoon summer squall that forms quickly and then dissipates before the sun disappears over the calming blue Gulf waters, Messina was confident this period in his life would come and go quickly with any evidence or emotional toll washed away.
“If Marcello is just a simple tomato salesman, I’m just a simple chauffeur for another old rich guy in New Orleans,” Messina muttered under his breath before leaving his perch by the kitchen window to start lighting additional candles that were scattered around the house in preparation for a long night without electricity. He had already been told to be ready to load the car and make the drive back to New Orleans as soon as the storm passed and the roads were clear enough to drive. This would have to wait until daylight, when Messina would try to navigate Highway 90 and the hazards the storm created as it meandered across sugarcane fields, bayous, roads and bridges of South Louisiana.
After a restless night of listening to the rain and wind created by the outer bands of the storm, Messina eased out of the sleeping bag in the corner of the large living room of the cottage. His muscles were stiff and the bones in his back and neck cracked as he stretched and twisted in an effort to wake up and get his body ready for the drive to New Orleans.
The stretching helped but the smell of Community Coffee, eggs, bacon, biscuits and grits wafting from the kitchen alerted Thomas’ mind and senses faster than any amount of calisthenics would ever do. Without hesitation, the smell lead him to a bountiful display of hot, delicious food that had been prepared by Ms. Catherine, the woman who owned the house where Marcello hid out in when he was passing through or doing business in Patterson.
The elderly widow had immigrated to the United States from Sicily in the early 20’s with her husband. They did not have any children and her life revolved around her husband and St. Joseph Catholic Church where she prayed with the rosary each morning at mass and volunteered three or four times a week. Her husband was killed in a freak accident at the Patterson Cypress Mill less than 10 years after the couple arrived in their new country. The rumor that circulated around town (but never confirmed) was that Ms. Catherine was a distant cousin to Carlos Marcello. Following the death of her husband, Carlos became a fixture in her life and made sure the woman was taken care of and protected. As a result, Ms. Catherine, simply by the time spent with Carlos and his men, soon became a trusted member of the family, a holder of secrets and the unofficial home away from home for the mafia man. Her delicious, calorie-drenched meals also may have been the cause of the added pounds that Marcello accumulated over the years.
Helping Messina’s standing with Marcello was the work Thomas had been doing for Ms. Catherine over the years. When Thomas was a young boy, he would just show up and cut her yard and trim the Boxwood hedges that lined both sides of her driveway. He never expected to be paid but wanted to help the woman that he saw always giving her time and energy helping others and taking care of the church she deeply loved. Later when he started driving, Messina would pick up Ms. Catherine and drive her to mass each Saturday night.
“You’re a good boy Thomas. Maybe you should think about going to that college over in Baton Rouge,” Ms. Catherine quietly said to the young man as she filled his plate with a second helping of eggs and grits.
Making sure Messina was looking into her eyes, the woman continued, “You understand what I’m telling you, right Thomas?”
“Yes ma’am, Ms. Catherine. I do,” Messina said, trying to eek out a smile but his heart was not in the words he had just spoken.
Later, while making the drive to New Orleans, Messina daydreamed about pretty coeds, football games on Saturday nights in Death Valley at Louisiana State University and most of all, he wondered if an Italian kid from Patterson, La., could actually one day go to college and earn a degree at that big school on the Mississippi River in Baton Rouge.
“Watch the road and stop daydreaming boy,” Marcello sharply said to Messina after for a split second the car veered slightly onto the shoulder of the road.
Yes, there was always someone watching, waiting.
Pinball & Preachers 