Editor’s note: This is the third of five installments of the serialized novella, “Willie,” by local author Bill Hunt. Part 3 is illustrated by the author’s daughter, Carole Forét. Read Parts 1 and 2 online at: www.enewscourier.com

What has gone before

Willie London has died and the adult children of John Abbott, in whose home she worked as a domestic servant, remember Willie in John Abbott’s words. Abbott has described how Willie delivered the eulogy for her dead husband, George London, and in so doing delivered herself into a new life. The News Courier omitted a scene break in the first installment between the opening scene at Willie’s graveside and when John Abbott begins his narration. We regret any confusion this might have caused readers.

The story continues….

“But Margaret, I understand how you want to take care of Donald and keep this big house, but you’re certainly not up to doing it right now,” and I waited to hear the expected denial. Donald was an active two-year-old with eyes as blue as mine, and hair like his mother’s.

Again, Margaret was in a family way and would be delivering our second child in less than two months. Girl’s names were plentiful to honor a mother, an aunt or cousin in Margaret’s family or in mine, and we wanted a girl this time.

“John, darling, I’m going to walk to the market today and pick up a nice chicken, and tonight we’re going to have baked chicken every much as delicious as any you ever had at Willie London’s house, and you’ll see, I can do it. Yes, I admit my cooking isn’t so great, but I can learn, and while I’m learning, I can still raise our two children. Please be patient, John, and give me time. I just need time, that’s all.”

I set my coffee cup in the saucer near my plate, stood up and glanced to the dirty dishes crowding the tops of the cabinets near the sink, and a sink full of pots and pans needing to be washed, having been left from the night before. Sighing deeply, I angrily pronounced, “You see, if we had some good help in this house, the kitchen wouldn’t be in such a terrible shape.”

Margaret looked to the floor and began to cry softly. While a cooling morning breeze moved the limp curtains in the kitchen windows, I stood at the table, leaned and kissed her cheek, and left for my office in the Vieux Carre.

Heat and a late afternoon shower hung heavily in the still air, and not even the palms lining each side of the street moved. The streetcar was several minutes late by the time I stepped from it, a half-block from our home on St. Charles Avenue. The squeaking iron gate into our yard had been left unlatched by the last person who entered. Before I could close it securely, a terrible odor hit me head-on.

Hurriedly, I crossed the porch and stepped into the foyer, then quickly moved into the parlor. At the far end, Margaret leaned to one side while holding Donald on her hip as she fanned the wave of acrid odor coming from the dining room and kitchen.