A Twisted Ladder Read Online Free Page A

while keeping out the rain. From the rails of the gallery, Rémi could see the river, rows of sugarcane, and all the workers of Terrefleurs.
    “
Il va pleuvoir
,” he said as he dragged his knife along the wood, pulling a long thin curl, then revised, “
Mais non
, I’ll say it in English: It will rain.”
    Jacob took a sip of cherry bounce. “Now how in the hell am I ever gonna learn French if y’all insist on speaking English?”
    “My friend, you will never speak French. You are too thick in the head. At Terrefleurs, we speak only English now.”
    “You just switchin because of my pretty little sister.” Jacob offered a wink. “She always gets her way with you.” He paused and eyed Rémi. “You know, I been meanin to say, I’m sorry about Mama.”
    Rémi shrugged. At the wedding reception, he had overheard Mrs. Chapman refer to Rémi’s family as Creole savages.
    Jacob sighed. “I just wanted you to know I’m glad you’re part of the family now. I guess we all must seem kinda arrogant to you.”
    Rémi smiled. “I understand how it is. As Creoles, we have our ways, and your parents are not used to it. But with each generation, our differences get smaller and smaller.”
    “I s’pose eventually we won’t be able to tell who’s who.”
    The air hung thick. The sky shone in a hazy light blue and the evening sun illuminated the yellow paint of the gallery, but rain was coming. The two men sipped their drinks, Tatie Bernadette’s homemade cherry bounce. And as the breeze escalated, Tatie’s voice rippled from inside as she instructed the other servants to close the shutters. Rémi watched the workers of the field swinging their cane knives in time to the line boss’ cadence.
    “Seem like they’re moving faster than usual out there today,” Jacob said.
    “They’re excited. It’s almost
roulaison
, the celebration at the end of cutting season.”
    “Roolay-who?”
    “
Roulaison
. The people have worked hard. We’ll have a big feast. They’ll make hot punch of boiled cane juice and brandy.”
    “Sounds like my kind of tradition.”
    Rémi eyed him. “If you had planted cane this season, you could celebrate your own harvest.”
    Jacob shrugged. “I know, I know.”
    “If you’re not going to plant, you might as well pull out altogether.”
    “We’re gonna plant. I know you have a lot of your own assets tied up in helping us get started. We’ll get around to it.”
    Rémi said, “I just think you should either plant or not plant. I don’t know what you’re waiting for. And to tell the truth, I say forget about sugarcane. It’s too demanding. Even the Americans know this. They don’t call it ‘growing cane,’ they say, ‘raising cane.’ ”
    “No, you got it all wrong. You’re quotin the Bible there. It’s ‘raising Cain,’ as in Cain and Abel, not sugarcane. Cain was the bad seed. So when we say ‘raising Cain,’ we mean raising hell.”
    Rémi nodded, smiling. “Yes, it’s true, just as it says in the Bible. And raising cane is the same as raising Cain.”
    The door to the ladies’ parlor opened, and Helen emerged with her servant, Chloe. Helen stood slender and handsome, pale-skinned with soft black hair and clear green eyes. Chloe’s wide eyes shone from the black skin of her face, her body more skinny than slender, her dress overworn. She carried a silver tray with a fresh carafe of cherry bounce.
    “There’s my little sister,” Jacob said, and he rose to kiss Helen.
    Chloe set the carafe on the round wooden table without pouring. She raised her head and sniffed the air, but her gaze did not lift toward the clouds amassing in the west. She looked instead toward the eastern well, and as she turned her head, her dress moved to reveal a scar at her shoulder, a long, pale zipper across her African skin.
    She had appeared at the plantation a few years ago, half-starved and looking for work. She’d spoken only Creole. Rémi never asked about where she came from. He set