15.1 A Load of Crapes

25^th Saturday, she crossed Mississippi River and drove over the notorious Wilkinson Bridge to the Capital of Louisiana. She booked Hotel Indigo in advance. It was a small room she got, extremely clean with a double bed. Natalia went for a ride that afternoon, took photographs around the town, particularly the tallest State Capitol in downtown Baton Rouge.

Next morning, she stepped out wearing the deep red bodycon dress and ankle strap heels. When the valet brought her car, she drove ten miles up Florida Boulevard and turned into Flannery Road. There she was looking for a house. She passed the lane and drove a mile until she reached a church. At the hour, church service was taking place, vehicles parked in the churchyard. Natalia turned back and passed the lane again.

Finally, she figured the lane hidden behind trees. She stopped the car on the curb and strutted up the path to climb a flight of stone steps and further still the house 555 with a rusty roof. She climbed the porch and knocked on the door.

A white woman answered the door, “Yes!”

“I’m looking for Mr Wellinois,” Natalia enquired holding her black purse meticulously in the crotch, “Noth Edwidge Wellinois.”

“He doesn’t live here!” uttered the woman.

“Where does he live?” asked Natalia.

“On this lane,” she pointed to the south.

“This is the address I’m given,” she said, “Do you know him?”

“Yes,” replied the woman.

“Are you from his family?”

“Yes.”

“Who is Mr Daylen Crape?”

“My dad.”

“Where can I find him?”

“He’s gone to church.”

“Which one is that?”

“Down the road near Old Hammond.”

“Do you think Mr Wellinois is in town?”

“I don’t know,” replied the woman.

“Thank you.”

Natalia ran back to the Bronco, took a U-turn and sped to the church. She looked for the Country Squire in the parking. Soon the church service was over and every car in the park moved out leaving behind the four wheels of her shadow blue Bronco touching tyres on the ground. She sat there resting her head on an elbow wondering if she came this far to find nothing.

She moved out slowly, driving north on Flannery Road, when she saw a dirt pitch with a number of motorhomes. She turned and drove on dry surface as far as she could go. There were broken down trailers, lots of people and children.

Her eyes crossed that old camper several times but it didn’t strike her. She wondered what didn’t. But of course, it was the sign of ‘Selenelion’ on its side, partially discoloured and washed-off. A white trailer with two blue stripes lay across the dirt. She snapped a few photos and dropped the camera. She drove the off-road Bronco with its narrow wheelbase and good ground clearance to the other side through the dirt.

She took more pictures before getting down. She stepped up to the camper. Some loud music played in it. Natalia tapped the door.

As soon as the door swung open, she crouched holding a knee, “Excuse me! Ma’am! Can you get me some sodium chloride?”

“What happened to you?” exclaimed the woman who appeared at the door and grabbing her arm.

“Ouch! Ouch! I have a cramp in my leg,” Natalia faked a motion bending down.

“Come!” said the coloured woman, “You need to stretch your legs. Get inside!”

“I can do with some salt.”

That woman helped her over the steps into the coach and laid her on a couch. “Lie down! I will give a tuck to your legs!” Someone turned down the music.

“Have you got a rehydration pack?”

“Danny! Have you any?” she undid Natalia’s shoe and began to stretch her leg.

“I have pepper and salt!” called Danny.

“That will do,” said Natalia.

“No, no,” cried the woman, “you can’t walk!” She extended her leg up and over her shoulder holding to her toes firmly. “You don’t live here?”

“I came looking for Noth,” said Natalia looking around trying to catch anything familiar inside the coach, perhaps…a rug. This interior looked comfortable with a glass-fitted minibar topped with beers and a selenelion little sticker on its glass.

“Noth? Who is Noth?”

“Noth, Mr Wellinois, he is short.”

“Oh yes, Noth,” said the woman, “Charlie’s Noth. He lives in Lafitte or in Rushmore.”

“I have an address, Flannery 555.”

“Daylen’s…house to the north.”

“Where is Rushmore?” asked Natalia.

“To the north of the highway.”

“And Lafitte?”

“You take this backside lane to Lafitte,” said the woman, “beside the campers.”

“Can I drive around?” Natalia took a pinch of salt straight up squinting her eyes.

“Yes.”

“I feel much better now,” said Natalia, “I see a lot of kids around.”

“It is Sunday. Where are you from?”

“California,” replied Natalia buckling her heels, “I come looking for the circus people.”

“Circus people?”

“Oh yes, some circus in Corpus Christi.”

“The Selenelion. My uncle was part of it.”

“Who is your uncle?” asked Natalia seriously.

“Joseph Fellon.”

“Joseph Fellon?” she was shocked.

“Do you know him?”

“No. Where is he?”

“He lives in Rushmore.”

“Address?”

“Forty-five.”

“What is your name?” asked Natalia.

“Rosemary Handley,” replied the woman.

“Who is your father?”

“Raymond Handley. He died two years ago.”

“I’m sorry. What is your mother’s name?”

“Caroline Handley.”

“Maiden name?”

“Caroline Crape.”

“Where is she?”

“She lives in Baton Rouge.”

“Who is Daylen Crape at 555?”

“He is not a Crape. His wife is Charlotte Crape, a great-aunt of ours. Mr Daylen has been in the family for a very long time. Everyone calls him Crape. We treat him like a godfather.”

“How many Crapes are there?”

“In Rushmore…five Crapes. Jackson, Jenny, Lily, Jacob and John. Two in Lafitte, George and Charles. Some more in Port Allen. I have a sister in Baton Rouge.”

“And Danny?”

“He’s my youngest son,” said Rosemary.

“You seem not to know Noth?”

“I know he is a Crape. He came from Dillon with Charles Crape. There are many Crapes in South Carolina. I don’t even know them.”

“Alright,” Natalia took a breath, “You are a very kind lady. Did you see your Grandfather Crape?”

“I did when I was young.”

“What was his name?”

“Christopher Crape.”

He was white, she knew. “Thank you, Rosemary. I must go now.”

“You’re welcome!”

“Which way I go to Lafitte?”

“Take this lane through the woods. There is only one way.”

“Thank you.”

Natalia climbed the SUV and picked the cassette recorder. She began to read all she heard from Rosemary Handley. “Little world!”

She drove through the trees and reached a park clearing. There were several motorhomes in this area too. She drove slowly looking for the Country Squire or a sign. She reached the end, Florida Boulevard in front and there lay an RV camping ground to her left. She stopped under the trees and looked at the signpost ahead; ‘Rushmore – Land For Sale’. Another lane into the woods.

She crossed the highway and entered the lane, looking for the Ford wagon and signs, driving slowly in the dirt road. She felt hungry. She found 45 and stopped the car. She climbed down with her black purse, corrected her extremely short dress pulling at the hem and walked up the steps holding the black purse meticulously in the crotch. That was the politest way she knew to approach someone. She knocked the door.

A coloured male, around forty years, opened the door. She asked, “Is Mr Fellon at home?”

“Who are you?” he glanced down her thin legs.

“I am looking for Mr Joseph Fellon.”

“It’s me.”

“I am Natalia, here is my card…”

“You’re not that! Moron! Get the hell out of here! I don’t talk to your kind! Sick in the brain! Sick in the ass! Get out of my home!”