Jambalaya (On the Bayou)

by Ian McDuff

For my own Food of Love Challenge. And an entry in the Songbook, if y’all don’t mind a little Hank, Sr.

James Lance Bass was a man of definite tastes – and distastes. Of likes and dislikes, and no damned grey areas. And among the items on the front page of his personal shit list was what more kindly-disposed persons would call ‘surprises.’ They always smacked, to him, of poor planning. And they were in any case an upset to his routine, than which few things were better calculated to set his jaw and make him bull his head in stubborn resistance and cold fury.

On the other hand, not all his dislikes in the world were a match for the primary and overriding entry in his good-books, which entry was incarnate in one JC Chasez. So when his JC rousted him from his Saturday morning slumbers – an event in itself, in that JC clearly had not been up all night, as happened upon occasion, but had, rather, actually been to bed, and awakened before Lance – when JC had swanned in and urged him, chirpily, to get dressed and ready to hit the road, he had not erupted. He couldn’t: several large, beneficent presences in the hallway, their own familiar bodyguards, cued him in immediately to the fact that this was no whim, but some patented Chasez Adventure that he’d been kept in the dark on – so JC could ‘surprise’ him. And despite their being closer to one another, these long-time lovers, than their own heartbeats, JC had, Lance knew (and accepted), always remained blithely unaware of just how much and how thoroughly Lance despised surprises.

Besides. When JC turned the full radiance of that JC Grin on him, eyes crinkling with excitement and joy, it was impossible for Lance to grumble. Or resist.

‘You’re already packed,’ JC said, proudly. Lance smiled at him until he could get safely into the bathroom and close the door. Oh, well, at least we have money. I can buy another ’un of all the things he’s sure to have forgot to pack. From outside, JC chirruped, ‘Casual and cool, baby, and I’ve got sunscreen waiting!’

God only knows, Lance thought. And, because this was so quintessentially JC, he reflected, he wouldn’t – not that he’d admit it, but – he wouldn’t have it any other way.

When they’d boarded the charter at LAX and started heading eastwards, all JC would tell him was, ‘You need to get out of LA, baby. Your roots aren’t showing.’

Which did not explain why they had three equally bewildered guests aboard: a still sleepy, slightly grumbly Nick Carter, a somnolent Howie Dorough, and a confused but tentatively-excited Aaron.

‘Numbers so bad you’re turning to kidnapping, C?’ Nicky was a not a morning person. ‘You might get some cash for AC, but I don’t think anybody’ll pay up for the rest of us. Shoulda sandbagged J, man, you want the real bucks.’

Howie kicked him lightly in the shin.

‘C’mon, Howard, this is crazy. We got commitments, all of us, and.’

‘Actually, we don’t. JC asked me to clear our schedules for a few days, yours and mine, and I did, you know you never look until the morning of the day itself. What he did not tell me was why,’ Howie said. ‘So. ¿Por que?’

JC just smiled, and stretched out on his banquette, yawning. ‘You’ll see. It’ll be fun. I’m going to nap now, ’mkay?’

‘I like his style,’ Aaron grinned.

‘And that’s another thing,’ Nick said. He was verging on a whine. ‘I tried, even Howie tried, for weeks to get Herself to let AC come see me out in LA, and she wouldn’t, and then he just, like, shows up night before last, and now, what, tell me this plane is not headed back to Florida, C –’

‘Naw. Chill, man. ’S all good. And Jane’s easy to get to do things.’

Nick couldn’t speak.

‘I simply had Kevin call her and … suggest it was in her best interest to change her mind about AC comin’ to see you, dude. He, um, may have threatened her with D and James Lance, possibly, as well; I find that most people have a healthy fear of your baby, my baby, and Kevin, especially together.’

‘Jesus God, C, what did Kev threaten her with?’

Lance snorted. ‘Seen him in action, Nick. He and I have the same general technique, as does D. Never spell it out: then whoever you’re negotiatin’ with assumes you know the worst, the guiltiest thing on their whole damn conscience. Learn it, use it, Nicky.’

‘Damn,’ Nick said, and then, with a start, ‘wait a damn minute, though, this little seminar on the art of the deal isn’t answering my question. What –’

JC uncoiled himself lithely and stood up, perfectly balanced as the charter jet clove the empyrean; hands on hips, his mane tossed back, and his jaw set forward in a kittenish obstinacy that hinted at the panther within. At that point, Lance privately resigned himself to whatever JC had planned: he knew full well he would never succeed in resisting the sheer adorability that was his spouse.

‘In the first place, Nicky, this is just paying it – well, back, but not, like, payback, that sounds like revenge, it’s a paying-forward instead, but back to you two, because it was you and Howie, when we needed it, made me and Lance learn to relax and be spontaneous and take time for ourselves, and on top of that it’s because we love you guys and you need this after what you’ve been through, and I wanted you to be along, and so when Dad called, yes, and as for Aaron, I knew you needed this, and I know he needs it, and as for you, mister,’ he said, still on the same singer’s breath, slewing around to pin Lance with a glare, ‘you need this more than anybody, because you know I love you and no matter what comes I always will but that doesn’t mean I don’t have my own ideas about what is best in you and I’ve been worried for a good long while that maybe you can take the country out of the boy if you leave him in Lost Angels long enough, so you can just as well lay back and enjoy this, because, there.’

‘Damn, that boy has breath control,’ Howie whispered to Nick.

Lance just cocked an eyebrow at JC, who was still standing his ground, his cheekbones faintly blushed with rose. ‘Well, then, I reckon as we won’t need to refuel, will we. We flyin’ into Bush, or Nawlins – or Lake Charles, I guess? Any which way, should leave me time to get some work done on my…. JC.’ Lance’s voice dropped an octave, and JC’s chin raised some more. ‘Joshua Scott Chasez, where is my laptop.’

‘At home where it belongs.’

Lance opened his mouth to say something, but couldn’t: there were too many choices. Aaron, after years of dealing with the Carter clan’s nitroglycerine dynamics, intervened hastily.

‘Um, J- JC? I’m … well, you know, when you’re up, you’re up, and, um, is there anything to do on here while we’re airborne?’

JC’s expression crinkled back into sunniness. ‘You bet! I think Nick and D need some more shuteye (your brother’s certainly grumpy enough to where I think he needs a nap) – there’s a big round bed in the aft cabin-ette, guys – so, no games yet, or at least no opponents, maybe in a bit, but there’s a widescreen and DVDs, so.’

‘Cool! Any Jackie Chan?’

JC ruffled Aaron’s poll. ‘AC! Today’s Saturday. You know what Saturday morning’s for.’

‘Cartoons? Um, JC, I’m a little bit older than when I first started hanging with you guys –’

JC shook his head, grinning. ‘You’re never too old for the complete – and I mean complete – works of Chuck Jones.’

‘Complete?’ Lance’s tone was one of grudging interest.

‘Um-hmmm.’

‘Sam and Ralph?’

‘Yep.’

‘Ralphie Phillips?’

‘Yes. Ralphie Phillips, too. Even Inki. And Timber Wolf.’

Lance put his hands on Aaron’s shoulders, gently spun him around in the direction of the forward cabin where the DVD player and widescreen TV were, and said, ‘Set us up, AC, you and I are watching the greatest cartoons ever made.’ And having sent Aaron off with a swat on the posterior – ‘Stop copping a feel, Bass,’ Aaron had quipped – Lance grappled JC to him by his belt loops. ‘You left my laptop at home.’

‘No. With Beth. She and I spent the last two weeks making sure you were caught up, and I made sure everything but what she already has access to is encrypted on your laptop. You have a free week for once in your life, baby. Try to pretend you’re enjoying it.’

‘What I’m trying to pretend is that I can wait until we don’t have a minor staring at us, to thank you properly.’

‘Go watch Bugs sing Wagner, babe. We’ll take this up toni– ’ Skilled though JC was, he’d long since realized there was no point in trying to talk with Lance’s tongue tickling his adenoids.

As he arranged himself fluidly on the banquette and Nick and Howie stood to go aft and take his advice about a nap, they could hear, through the curtain, Aaron ask Lance, ‘How’d you guess where we’re going, anyhow?’

‘Guess, hell. JC mentioned this was Roy’s idea, and that I needed some time in the country. I’ll kiss a fat man, that don’t mean we’re a-haided for darkest Acadia, spending our days eatin’ mudbugs and our nights down t’ the fais-do-do at the nearest dance-hall.’

Roy met them at the Baton Rouge airport, all smiles. ‘Hey, son. Son Two. Howard, Nick. Good Lord, is this Aaron? You’re growin’ like a weed, boy.’ And to the bodyguards: ‘Thanks, we’ll take it from here. No, I know, but I’m not yet too decrepit to carry my own duffel. See y’all next week.

‘We’re the big-ass SUV-and-half right over there, boys. I could’ve had y’all fly in to Houma or Lake Charles, but I wanted us to have some time to acclimate. Aaron, you get shotgun, and Lord’s sake, try and keep me awake. Can you read a map? Good. We’ll make the superstars – the other superstars – ride in the back with the hounds.’

‘Hounds?’ Lance’s voice was carefully neutral.

‘Ah, beau-fils, I know you, you were thinkin’ we’d put up at Madewood or take over the historic district in Crowley, non? We’re gonn’ t’be roughing it, us.’ Five minutes on the soil of la Belle Louisianne, and Roy was in full Cajun mode, all his years of polish stripped away and the ways of his earliest youth upon him.

Roy had been kidding about the hounds. He had not been kidding about roughing it, judging from the interior of the SUV, and the contents thereof.

‘Who-all coming, p’pa?’ Josh was almost thrumming with excitement.

‘Half Sout’ Lou’sian’, cher’. As many Chasezes as can make it, of course; and the usual suspects, tu connais. Whole bunch of Arceneauxs, a raft of Heberts, plenty Guidrys, mo’ Thibodeauxs’n you can shake a stick at, some Tegres, most of da Theriots, Savoies, mos’ near all da Prejeans, Landrys, Dugases, Aucoins, plenty Cormiers, Breauxs, Babins, Aurys, Orys, and Orrys, Lejeunes, Cyrs, Michauds, Rodrigues, Pitres, Falgouts, Billiots, Doucets … have us a time.’

‘Raise a potain, sure. Good thing we’re in the pays. Run us plomb out of a city.’

Nick and Howie exchanged an eloquent glance, and Lance just buried his head in his hands. This could be a very long trip.

‘M’mere, she been cookin’ till the worl’ is flat.’

That, at least, sounded promising.

‘I’ve never had Cajun food,’ Aaron chirped, all eagerness.

‘Dit mon la verité!’ Roy cried. ‘We gonn’ have to fixe dat, sure.’

Nick leaned over to where Lance was slumped against a cooler. ‘Psst. I thought. You speak French, right, Bassman?’

‘I do. They don’t.’

Roy’s ears, as Nick had somehow forgotten, were sharper than most. ‘Da beau-fils, he speak dat Paree French, not good Cajun, him!’ Roy’s voice became plummily formal, every consonant enunciated as if he were reciting a line of Racine on the stage of the Comedie Française. ‘“Dites-moi la vérité,” ’s way dey’d say dat in d’ Ol’ Co’ntry. But not in Lou’sian’.’ You try dat French down here, les gens will pomée.’

Fairly soon, Roy and JC had tacitly agreed that they were just confusing their guests. Time enough for that later, when most of the Acadien parishes could gang up on the étrangers. There was one language, at least, that they knew all the young men had in common, and Roy knew as well as JC did that the main object of this trip was to get Lance to unwind from his watch-spring tightness. It was easy enough for Roy to coax his son-in-law’s vanity a bit, as being the one there who knew the most country music. By the time they hit Des Glaise, Lance was leading them all in every song he could think of that mentioned Louisiana. They sang ‘Louisiana 1927,’ and ‘Miles and Miles of Texas’ because its protagonist had been born ‘down on the ol’ bayou,’ and ‘Gatemouth’ Brown’s ‘Going Back to Louisiana,’ and even ‘Take Me Back to Tulsa’ because that Girl With the Red Dress On, whom some folks called ‘Dinah,’ had broken the main character’s heart ‘way down in Louisiana.’ All the way to Bayou Lacassine, they sang, and the tensions in them leached out with every note, and Roy smiled to himself, listening.

Roughing it had never been so good. The Chasezes and allied families – and God knew, everyone in Acadia was related to everyone else about eight ways from Sunday – had a private campground on Bayou Lacassine not far from the wildlife refuge, with acres of room, a score or more of snug cabins, a huge tin-roofed dining hall that doubled as a dance hall, and plenty of bayou frontage, dominated by a fair-sized boathouse. But what first got their attention when they stepped out of the char – some miles back, when they’d stopped to fill up and to hit the pissoirs, Lance had called it a voiture, and Roy had had to break it to him that in Louisiana, a voiture was what the horses used to pull, back in les bon vieux temps – what first got their attention, particularly Nick’s, was the aroma of cookery that seemed to waft from every quarter, toothsome, dominant, seductive. What got their attention next – Aaron’s especially – was the blonde blur that took them in flank as they stood gawping at the campsite, even as Roy was hollering out for relatives (‘T’Jean! Where you at, cuz?’).

Lance was the first to regain the power of speech, as JC grinned with the glee of a man whose subtle plans had all worked out perfectly.

‘Brit?’

‘Oh, thank God y’all are here! Finally, someone who speaks English!’

Roy just winked, and chucked her under the chin. ‘Ah, beb’, you from da wrong side da rivière, from parts ain’t hardly Lou’sian’ some at all.’ Meanwhile, Lance, from over Britney’s shoulder as she hugged him until he thought his ribs would crack, just gave JC a long, steady look. JC shrugged. ‘I had a lot of friends in need of some, like, spiritual triage, man.’

Brit had dragged Lance and Howie over towards the cabins, to show them where everyone was staying, as JC, Nick, and Aaron helped Roy unload the luggage and supplies. Aaron’s eyes followed her.

‘Aaron,’ Nick said, warningly.

‘What?’

JC chuckled. ‘I think she’s a little old for you, pal.’

‘Less of an age gap than Justin and Cameron Diaz,’ Aaron muttered. ‘Or Ashton Kutcher and –’

‘Aaron. Don’t go there.’

‘Give it four years, sport, at least,’ JC said. ‘When you’re street-legal, man. I’d hate to see Brit doing time.’

Roy laughed. ‘Possedé.’

JC nodded. ‘You behave, cher’.’

The afternoon and evening passed in a whirl. Aunts and uncles and cousins at various removes and godparents, and all of them more interested in one another’s heretical views on roux and the proper amount of filé powder, if any, than in so much as raising an eyebrow over the fact that Roy’s beau-fils was a, well, beau-fils, a son-in-law, JC’s mari, much less the fact that Nick and Howie were obviously together; and not at all interested in the fact that six major popstars were in their midst.

They were much more interested, in fact, in the plans for the next evening, when the Balfa Brothers were due to play for the family reunion fais-do-do.

And most of all, they all seemed to be interested to the point of fanaticism in having les étrangers, les Américains, eat at least un peu, un p’tit brin, of their competing show-dishes. His cardiologist would have a fit, Lance reflected, but maybe he could pretend he was on Atkins: he’d never seen more meats, from steaks to hams to sausage, in his life.

Groaning with repletion, they all found themselves fading fast, and turned in long before Camille Doucette was through fiddling or T’Jean Landry finished with telling tales by firelight or anyone else done eating, drinking, and laughing under the stars.

It was just as well they’d turned in early. Morning came with the dawn, and perhaps a little before, and breakfast was surprisingly scant: couche-couche, mainly, and a brin apiece of grillades-and-grits, with no pain perdu for Lance in sight.

‘You want to keep your teeth eager,’ Roy said, and before they were fully awake, they found themselves put to work. None of it was exciting, either: not a soul there was going to trust the six, not Brit, not even Roy’s boy, to help make a roux or to have sense enough not to ruin a catfish courtbouillion by stirring it, though the old women in their gardes-soleils at least gave her the courtesy of explaining the steps and promising recipes; and she, for her part, felt more real than she had in years. Instead, they shelled peas and shucked corn and fetched and carried until they thought it would never end, recruiting themselves in brief respites with boudin and andouille sausages on waxed paper; until, with the sun low in the sky and everything miraculously ready at once, Roy himself rang a cowbell and everyone pitched in to set the tables.

Old Monsignor Guidry said Grace, and then it was devil take the hindmost. There was shrimp and collard gumbo, the great suckling showpiece cochon de lait, maquechoux from the corn they’d helped shuck, round steak and onions with gravy, gumbo vert, broiled crawfish, crawfish étoufée (in the country style: no roux, no tomato), catfish courtbouillion, a chicken, sausage and tasso jambalaya (brown, au pays) that brought tears to the eyes, baked beans, black-eyed peas, dirty rice, pickled okra, and of course mounds of sweet potatoes fixed in every fashion known to Cajundom. And dessert centered on gateau de sirop of surpassing, enamel-scouring sweetness, and sweet potato pie that called up memories for the Bass-Chasezes and Carter-Doroughs; and even Aaron paid more attention to his plate than to mooning over Britney, mostly.

By the time it was over, the six could barely move; but move they were going to have to, as the benches and the trestle tables were stacked against the wall, and the first notes of fiddle and accordion rang out in the soft night air; and by the time the night was over, all six had been dragged up front to sing along on hastily learnt lyrics, and Lance and Britney had even been suckered into reprising a non-traditional tune that JC thought was inspiredly funny – the old Conway Twitty - Loretta Lynn duet, ‘Louisiana Woman, Mississippi Man.’ And they danced until they couldn’t bear it a minute longer.

‘You know, though,’ Lance said. ‘That was the best meal I ever had. I’d. I had actually flat forgot what it’s like to work for something simple, and then enjoy the result.’

And JC, who had intended that all along, beamed, and Roy nodded, winking at his son. ‘Of course, it is work, dat, and you notice Karen, Ty, and Heather, they all found themselves with something else to do.

‘Now I t’ink y’all best get to bed.’

Lance nodded, vigorously, glancing first at JC and then, eloquently, towards their cabin, which they had been too tired to christen, the night before; and Nick’s eyes became lambent with intent as he and Howie exchanged a glance of their own. ‘Bonne idée, beau-père,’ Lance said.

Roy grinned again, slyly, enjoying the pay-off. ‘Vraiment. Because if you want to eat tomorrow, we need to be up at dawn to catch dem catfish. You boys gonn’ need every minute of sleep tonight, and nothing but, sure.’

JC looked up, startled at his own father’s double-cross, while Howie blinked and Nick did a spit-take with his beer. Lance appeared to be counting to ten, slowly, in his head.

‘And Lance, cher’? It’s the same word in Cajun French. Foutre. Any language you use, still means, you been screwed.’

Lance just looked at him, clearly biting his tongue, and stalked off, as Roy, Britney, and Aaron laughed themselves sick, under a Cajun moon.

END