“I’ve brought the group from the university for their tour.”
“Oh, hello,” she bit the inside of her lip and forced herself to be cordial. “How nice to see you, Professor March.” Savannah found it almost impossible to lie, but she did. It wasn’t nice to see him.
“Shall I stay and help you? Perhaps afterwards we could go somewhere – uh – more private? I’d like to take you over to Evangeline Park for a picnic.” His oily tone spoke volumes.
If she had turned him down once, she had turned him down a half dozen times. Fred March was not a nice man. She was beginning to feel like he would love to pressure her into dating him. Her boss said he had called the Culture Center and asked about her job qualifications. He seemed like the type that would do a little arm twisting to get what he wanted. “No Professor, thank you. I believe I can handle it and I have plans for lunch,” she scrambled for an excuse, “with that soldier over there.” She pointed at the oblivious Marine who was still deep in his own thoughts.
“Oh, really,” he had the audacity to look and sound skeptical which just peeved Savannah off. Yeah, it was a lie. But she could have a date with the soldier if she wanted one – maybe. All right . . . probably not. But it was a nice thought.
Either way, she refused to have anything more to do with Professor March. “If you’ll just wait over there, I’ll take them around and return them to you shortly. You can accompany them out into the Meditation Gardens if you’d like.”
“Very well, Miss Doucet.” A flash of anger in his eyes almost took her breath away. The man had a temper. How frustrating! Even under normal circumstances, she wouldn’t want to date this man, but her circumstances were as far from normal as you can get.
Savannah didn’t date anyone – ever. There was just no use. As soon as anyone found out about her past, they turned their back on her. If she told Professor March now, he would back away also. But she didn’t want to do that. It hurt to have to confess the circumstances of her birth and watch people’s face change from friendly to appalled. The couple of times she had attempted to begin a friendship with a man had been disastrous. Either she felt compelled to level with him about Carville or he found out from someone else. The end result was the same. So Savannah was condemned to a solitary life where she touched no one and no one touched her.
Would she ever escape Carville? Did she need to? Since Savannah had grown up and chosen to study history and sociology, she had delved deeply into the history of Hansen’s disease and the travesties that had been handed down to its unlucky victims. In fact through her work at the Culture Center, she had worked on several papers to educate the public on the history of the leprosarium and what had happened to its residents. Her efforts were partly selfish; she had hoped to solve her own mystery. But that hadn’t happened. Not yet, anyway. But she had petitioned for an interview with the former Director and she had every intention of using her official capacity to get access to the patient records.
Giving the soldier one last wistful glance, she checked the students in and began her presentation. “As we look around, I want you to note how familiar the names of the refugees will be to you. Lisa, I saw on the register that your last name is Hebert.” She pronounced it the Cajun way – ‘a-bear’. “If you’ve never seen your family crest, look for it. The sidewalks in the Meditation Gardens are covered with mosaic coats of arms and Hebert is one of them.”
Several area colleges sent their history classes over for field trips to learn about the Acadian deportation. This particular group was made up mostly of sorority girls who were preoccupied with frivolous conversation. Hopefully once they listened to the audio tour, the dramatic sth; shea culture’s determination to rekindle itself would capture their imaginations.
Savannah truly enjoyed her work. It was her dream to open people’s eyes to the richness of their past. “Let’s go check out the mural first,” she instructed them as they congregated near the door awaiting her instructions. Leading them to the display, she began her lecture. “Measuring twelve by thirty feet, this mural was painted by Robert Dafford. It portrays the arrival of the Acadians to Louisiana. The figures represent actual documented refugees. Many of the models for the characters in the painting were direct descendants of those whom they portrayed.”
A chorus of girlish giggles almost caused Savannah to forget her next point. She seemed to be losing the attention of the female class members. Their eyes were riveted on Savannah’s marine who was now standing at the Wall of Names. He was checking his notes and seemed totally unaware of their whispers and glances. “Ladies, listen to me, please. We don’t want to disturb the other guests.” Savannah did her best to draw the girls back into her lecture. For the most part she was successful as she related to them the tale of the Acadian people who were the first European settlers in North America. It always amazed her to relate that the Cajuns had arrived fifteen years before the British landed at Plymouth Rock.
Walking the group to the back of the memorial, she pointed out the deportation cross and told them the horrors of the Acadian Holocaust when a whole race of people were forced to leave their homes and relocate just because the British feared anyone who spoke French would be treasonous. “One of the saddest aspects of all of this was that families were separated. The men and boys were called
