Mama Jean's Justice

Mama Jean Duquesne, head of housekeeping at the mainland's one and only grand hotel for some 30 years, ruled by bulk, intimidation and loyalty. Weighing just under 300 pounds and not having been blessed with a sweet temper, she kept her staff in line by her size. She had, so it was said, been through a succession of husbands, going through men like fire in a dry cornfield until she met Earl, a matchstick of a man, a seiner from Church Point way with two ex-wives, carrot red hair and a fast car. It was, so Mama claimed, love at first sight and in no time Earl had moved in to the rustic cabin on the far side of Lighthouse Road, a cabin one of Mama's husbands - she couldn't rightly remember which one exactly - had built as a wedding gift. It was here, on Friday nights that Mama scrubbed down her old workhorse of a kitchen table, doused it with disinfectant and covered it with plastic tarp. It was here that for the right price, she performed abortions for a steady stream of desperate women who had been careless or too much in love to see straight or just not strong enough to face another mouth to feed. Trouble finds them, she had been overheard to say, and they find me. But this ain't no birth control club and I only fix one mistake per girl so they'd best be takin' a mite more care from here on in.

There were cases that needed extra care and for these infrequent few and far between, Mama did not charge. She considered rape and incest to be violations of every law of man and God and those who perpetrated such acts the lowest and most evil of men. Rumor had it that in some situations, she and Earl made actual follow up visits to the homes of the girls - Earl carried a small pistol in his belt and Mama Jean wore a wicked blade over her shoulder. I ain't looking for no repeat customers, she would say grimly, if you take my meanin'. Most did.

She made her only trip to the island the summer I was thirteen, arriving on the third day of an intense fog and making her way to my Uncle Norman's small general store. Like a gunfighter with a chip on his shoulder and havin' a real bad day, Uncle Shad told my grandmother, why, Norman went white as a sheet when she come in and made up some business needed to be done in the backroom. Mama Jean had followed him while Earl, one hand resting lightly on the butt of his pistol, made small talk with the handful of customers. She emerged several minutes later, unsmiling and silent and with a nod to Earl and a contemptous look at the surroundings, marched out the door and into the dense fog. Norman, badly shaken by the encounter and still white faced, followed. He rapidly undid his storekeeper's apron and tossed it on the counter, shouted at Jenny to mind the store, and as Uncle Shad reported, Ran for the hills like a scared rabbit with a pack of hounds on his trail.

Mama Jean's justice had come too late for Norman's daughter, Ruthie - she was eventually to take her own life many years later while Norman met a mysterious and bad end that led to an unmarked grave on the rocky coast of Peter's Island. His disappearance was never looked into much less solved and those who knew anything about it kept their silence and took it to their graves. No one came to look for him. On the day of Mama's visit though, the news reached everyone by sunset and even his most loyal defenders deserted, no longer able to deny the ugly secret that had been brought to light. Just a few short months later, Aunt Pearl wrote Nana that Ruthie had packed her meager belongings and caught a ride to the mainland in the mail car. She became a maid at the grand hotel, living with a handful of other girls in a converted guest cottage under Earl's watchful eyes, out of the shadows for a time, secure and safe if not happy.

Depending on your point of view, Mama Jean Duquesne was either an answered prayer or the voice of Satan whispering in your ear. Either a savior with a bloody miracle in her apron pocket or a sinner doing the devil's own handiwork. Either a determined advocate for women's rights or an unrepentent backroom baby killer. You paid your money and took your choice.