Chapter 7 – Helene

She tried to close the door but Bart stepped part-way in and prevented it. "I don't know anyone by that name," Helene Plessis insisted.

"I think you do, Mrs. Dupree."

She sighed heavily, as if resigned to hearing more bad news. "What are you, a Marshall? Federal or State?"

"Neither one, ma'am. I just want to talk to you. May I come in?"

Helene Dupree Plessis said nothing, but stepped back from the entry and held the door open. "Come in, Mr. Maverick. It is Maverick, isn't it?"

Bart removed his hat and stepped completely inside, closing the door behind him. "Bart, please, Mrs. Plessis."

"Bart. I'm Helene. What is it that you want?"

"I do want to find your son, Helene. But I'm not the law, and I've got some questions about him and your first husband that I need answered."

She indicated a chair to Bart, and sat down in another. "So you know about Hanford."

It wasn't a question, it was a statement, and Bart nodded in reply. "You were married, then? Where exactly? It doesn't appear to have been in New Orleans."

She shook her head and said sadly, "It was in Baton Rouge. A long, long time ago. And something I'd like to forget."

"There was no divorce?" Bart was sure he knew the answer to the question, but he waited for Helene to confirm his suspicions. And that she did.

"No. There was no divorce. Hanford swore he would get one; I assumed he had. Then when I found out otherwise . . . . . . That's why Frederick and I didn't marry until . . . . "

"Six years ago," Bart finished for her.

Helene Plessis looked surprised. "You seem to know a lot about my life."

"I've spent a lot of time looking at old records, Helene. But I still have questions the records can't answer. Would you let me ask you?"

She nodded, even if it did seem rather reluctantly. "I need a drink, Bart. How about you?" Helene got up from her chair and walked over to the sideboard, where she poured herself three fingers of Kentucky whiskey and looked to her visitor for an answer.

"No, thank you." He wondered what might prove to be so painful that an obvious member of New Orleans Creole society would find it necessary to drink. And during the daytime, too.

She commented on his noticeable surprise as she returned to her seat. "Yes, to answer your unasked question – being married to Hanford Dupree for the short period of time that I was proved an extremely disturbing experience that affected the majority of my adult life."

"I'm sorry to dredge up painful memories. So you were married to Dalton's father when he was born?"

"Yes, but not living with him. I'd finally gotten up the courage to tell my family what was going on in my marriage about six months before Dalton came, and my father showed up at our home armed with a pistol and threatened to shoot Hanford if he didn't pack and leave. Knowing what I know now, I wish he had. Shot my husband, I mean." There was no comment or question from the gambler, and eventually Helene continued. "Hanford Dupree pretended to be kind, and caring, and a true gentleman. In actuality he was a mean, depraved sub-human being. I feel very sorry for the woman he married. They had a daughter, didn't they?"

"They did. Her name is Elizabeth, and she lives in Delmont. She insists that Dalton shot and killed his father."

The woman sat there and sipped her whiskey without commenting. She'd gotten about halfway through her glass before she spoke. "Maybe. Considering the way Dalton has spent most of his adult life, it wouldn't surprise me. But if he did, he had good reason."

"What exactly does that mean, Helene? Good reason?"

"Before I give you an explanation, I'd like you to answer two questions for me. Would you do that?"

Bart nodded. "If I can."

"Do you love your father? Do you respect him?"

Those might have been difficult questions to answer in the past. Not anymore. "Yes, I do. There was a time when I didn't understand him, but I always loved him. And as I've grown older and learned more about him I respect him far more than I ever thought possible."

Helene smiled sadly at him. "You're a lucky man. My son never had that, not any of it. Dalton grew up without a father of any kind, and when he was near grown he set off to find his. What he found instead was Hanford Dupree."

Bart was momentarily confused. "But, I thought – "

"You're right, of course. Hanford was his father. But if I had to describe the man I'd call him the father from hell."

"Why, Helene? What made him so bad? Did Dalton go to Delmont hating his father?"

"On the contrary, Bart. Dalton knew nothing about his father. I never spoke of Hanford to our son. And when Dalton was old enough he decided to seek out his father himself."

"And what did he find? Someone mentioned somethin' to me about arguments and abuse and beatin's. Was that what it was? Did he come back and tell you?"

Helene shifted uncomfortably in her seat. "He came back, almost three years later. He wasn't the same, and I blamed myself. If I'd told him about Hanford, warned him, maybe things wouldn't have happened the way they did. Maybe he wouldn't have gone at all. Maybe . . . " She sat without speaking for a few moments, until she finished the end of her drink. Then she set the glass down and looked up. "But that's not what happened, is it? Dalton went to Delmont, and he found out what kind of a monster his father was."

"What was Hanford really like, Helene?" he asked quietly, almost deferentially. Not wanting to cause this woman any more pain, but needing to know the truth.

"He was . . . . . abusive. Oh not so much physically. Not at first. He whined, he yelled, he wheedled, he belittled, he damaged your feelings in any way that he could, using any means necessary. He beat you down until you felt useless, worthless, helpless. Then he turned mean. He said ugly, hurtful things, accused you of everything under the sun, things you would never, ever think of doing. And he was so convincing that after a while you began to believe him, to imagine that you were actually doing those things. And when you cowered in fear at even the sound of his voice, he started hitting you. Just a slap here or there, at first, but more and more until you'd do anything to make them stop. Anything. I know." Tears stood in Helene's eyes, but they did not fall. She held her head up and looked Maverick, her inquisitor, this stranger, right in the face. "Is that what you needed to know, Mr. Maverick?"

Bart picked up her glass from where it sat and walked over to the sideboard, pouring more whiskey. When he returned he handed it to Helene. She looked up at him and accepted the glass, taking a big swallow. "Part of it," he said gently. "What did Dalton tell you when he returned from Delmont?"

She cleared her throat and took another long swallow of the liquor. "As I said before, he wasn't the same. He'd hardened, lived with criminals, outlaws, ran with them; learned from them. He hated guns before he left New Orleans. He came back as a 'gunslinger.' He made money by being a hired gun, acting as a bodyguard, by any way he could. He stole and lied; I'm sure he killed people. My beautiful, beautiful boy turned into . . . he turned into whatever he did to survive. He gave me money, bought me a place to live. I didn't ask him where it came from. I couldn't afford to know.

"The last time I saw him was right after Hanford died. He came back here and only stayed a few days. Told me that he'd met someone, a girl who knew nothing of his past or his real profession, and that he was going to marry her. He didn't tell me if he'd shot his father or not; I chose not to ask. I heard that he lives somewhere in Louisiana, and he has a child." She paused again, almost like she was catching her breath, and took another swallow of the amber liquid. "I know who he is. I've heard all about George Henry. That man is not my son. Dalton is still in there somewhere, I pray, and I hope that his family never learns the truth." She looked up from her glass as a sad smile graced her features. "That's all I know, Mr. Maverick. My husband knows about Dalton, but not that he's George Henry. I'd prefer to keep it that way."

"Yes ma'am, I understand. I'm sorry I made you remember things you probably didn't want to." The gambler stood then, and Helene Plessis was surprised.

"That's what you wanted to know? Why did you come here, Bart? Who are you working for?"

He hesitated to give her answers, and then decided he needed to be honest. "I'm working for Bess Dupree. She wants me to find Dalton and convince him to return to Delmont. Either voluntarily or forcibly. She insists he murdered Hanford Dupree. Said she saw him riding away from the house and found her father dead, shot in the back."

"Are you a bounty hunter, Mr. Maverick?"

"No ma'am, I'm a gambler." He shook his head.

"You're a . . . then why? Why are you working for Bess Dupree?"

For the first time he was embarrassed as he answered. "She offered me a job. I was broke."

"Do you believe her? That Dalton killed her father?" She watched him curiously, waiting for his response.

"I . . . I did."

"But you don't now?"

"Honestly, Helene, I don't know."

"Alright," she said. "Fair enough." She reached out and grabbed his arm before he could leave. "Please, Mr. Maverick, don't kill him."

"I have no intention of killing him, Mrs. Plessis, and no desire to do so."

Helene Dupree Plessis nodded and let go of Bart's arm. He returned his hat to his head, tipped it to her, and left. It was almost dark outside, and he was glad he had an engagement to keep with Genevieve. Otherwise he might have gone back to Chez Georges and sat down with his own bottle.