Contrary to misinformation and bad Hollywood attempts—some from people who ought to know better—not all Southern accents were the same. You could easily peg where someone came from by the sound of their accent and the words they used. And nowhere outside of New York City was it more obvious what ward or district you originated from, how educated your parents were, and how much money they had, than here in New Orleans. Even the name of the city itself was pronounced completely different depending on what street you grew up on.
Literally.
Nick’s Cajun accent wasn’t nearly as thick as his mother’s, unless he wanted it to be. And the Cajun version of French was all their own. While they could understand the French and the French could usually understand them, the Cajun way of pronouncing things and altering French grammar could send purists into fits.
Menyara’s Creole accent was as thick as his mother’s jar of refrigerated roux, and he loved the sound of it.
He wasn’t quite as pleased with his own. No matter how hard he tried to hide his accent, it always came out in certain words like “praline,” “etouffee,” “pecan,” and any time he lost his temper. You could easily tell how mad he was by how Cajun he sounded. And if he started spewing all Cajun words, duck.
“Can I help y’all with something?”
Nick smiled as he approached her. “You must be Bubba’s mama, Dr. Burdette. It’s an honor to meet you, ma’am. I’m Nick Gautier and this is Kody Kennedy.”
At the mention of his name, her demeanor changed completely. She went ramrod stiff and arched an irritated brow at him. “Nicholas Gautier, as I live and breathe. Now there’s a name I know well. Explain to me, boy, why you want to go and shoot me in my head when you don’t even know me. What’d I ever do to you?”
Nick sputtered as he tried to come up with an explanation for how he’d shot through her portrait that Bubba kept hung on his wall. “I-I didn’t mean to. It was an accident. I swear it.”
She started laughing, then chucked him lightly on the shoulder. “I’m just joshing with you, Nick. Calm down, son. I don’t want to have to put down newspapers ’cause you wet the floor in a panic like my old hunting dog used to do every time Michael blew something up in the house. He had that poor old thing a nervous wreck until the day the Lord took her. I am absolutely not offended … much, that you blew my head off. But that’s all right, I was raised in the middle of four brothers, and with Michael for a son, I’m used to having to dodge bullets. Literally, most days.”
Without pausing or breaking a sweat, she went right into another segue. “Did he ever tell you about the time he was supposed to be napping and instead, he climbed up on his daddy’s gun cabinet, trying to get to the AC vent—whatever he was going to do up there, I don’t even want to know—I never asked. Anyway, poor boy slipped, hit the lock somehow, and popped it off. Next thing you know, his daddy’s 410, of all things, falls out and misfires. I was out in the yard with a friend, oblivious to my son’s stupidity, until a bullet whizzed right between us and shattered my birdhouse. By the time I got in the living room, Michael was trying to hide the gun behind the couch. Like I wouldn’t notice the busted cabinet hanging open and the gun missing out of its slot. Not to mention it was longer than the couch. Point being, don’t think anything about it, Nick. I am not offended,” she repeated.
Whoever said Southerners talked slow had never been around one raised in a big family. Here he’d always thought Bubba talked fast, but he had nothing on his mother.
“Hey, Michael!” she called out, finally interrupting Mark and Bubba’s fight. “You got visitors out here to see you. Stop arguing with your girlfriend and come on now.” Laughing, she winked at Nick. “The way them two carry on, I keep waiting to get a wedding invitation for them to take their nuptials. I ain’t never seen anything like it in my life, and especially not between two straight men. At least not to where it didn’t end up in a fist fight after a couple of minutes.”
“Michael is Bubba?” He felt stupid for asking, but …
His mother screwed her face up. “Oh, I hate that name he uses. Do I look like I’d name my son Bubba?” The way she said the name it sounded like the ultimate insult. “That I would gaze down upon my precious bundle that I had succored for months inside my own body and given all my devotion to and say, ‘Dear Lord, thank you for this wonderful gift. Let me call him Bubba, so that he can grow up and be mocked before he even opens his mouth.’ Did he ever tell you how he got that dang nickname?”
“No, ma’am. I didn’t even know it was a nickname. I thought his nickname was Cheese.”
“Oh, and don’t even get me started on that topic. Cheese? Really, Michael? For that I sent you to the best private school in town.” She shook her head as if to clear it. “Nah, they named him Bubba when he was in tenth grade and had gone up to Ohio State for a summer football camp program. Those snotty brats started calling my baby Bubba because of his accent that they constantly mocked him over. And instead of stomping them into the ground like he should have, he started using Bubba as a joke.”
“Mama,” Bubba said as he came out of the back. “I can’t beat up everyone in the world for being stupid. Have you seen how many of them are out there? I work retail. Trust me. The world’s eat up with it. And aren’t you the one who’s always saying, ‘you can’t fix stupid, son, so don’t try?’ Besides, I got better things to do with my time than fight every idiot I come into contact with.”
She snorted. “Please. It wouldn’t be much of a fight. Have you looked at yourself, boy?
Nick gaped at her words. He couldn’t believe she’d encourage Bubba to fight when all he did was get dogged out by his mother for even thinking about fighting.
The universe had a sick sense of humor.
Dr. Burdette shook her head, then met Nick’s gaze. “I don’t know where he gets his gargantuan size from. My entire side of the family is mutantly short. Heck, I’m taller than two of my brothers. They are truly concentrated evil which is why they’re meaner than all get out. And while his daddy is average, his daddy is average. Genes make no sense to me.”
Bubba snorted. “You know, Mama, I don’t find that comforting given the fact that you’re one of the top pediatric surgeons in the country, and have written several defining works on genetic links to diseases.” He glanced at Nick and Kody. “It’s kind of like the time she baked me cookies when I was a kid, and then came up to my room to offer them to me while I was getting dressed for Halloween.”
“Oh Lord, not that again,” his mother said under her breath.
Nick was so confused. “What’s wrong with cookies?” His mom tried to bake, but it was not her forte. They were always burnt on the outside and still raw dough on the inside.
Bubba snorted. “Nick, I’m telling you this for your own good. If a woman, even your own mother, comes up and offers you cookies while she’s wearing a black apron with a skull and crossbones on it … decline. Just saying.”
His mother laughed. “It was during Halloween. Good grief. Who knew I’d scar you for life by offering you a snickerdoodle? I can just hear that conversation with your therapist now. ‘Oh, Doctor, it was so awful. There I sat as a little innocent child, playing my video games on my little baby tummy, when all of a sudden, my mean, awful mama, who’d just come off a thirty-six-hour shift at the hospital, who had driven two and a half hours to get home so that she could finish sewing up my Gene Simmons costume for trick-or-treating after my daddy had accidentally sewed the sleeve shut, and bake me some mummy dogs and snickerdoodles, offered me one.’” She held the back of her hand to her forehead. “‘Oh the humanity, Doctor. Oh the humanity I have seen. You just don’t know my pain. You. Just. Don’t. Know.’”