The Gates of Evangeline

by Hester Young

  In a more reputable establishment, a waitress would come to get our orders. The lone Waffle House waitress, however, is speaking in hushed tones with one of the cooks. She’s large and blocky with the kind of sour, world-weary expression normally reserved for mug shots. I don’t dare wave her over.

  “He’s okay, nothing special.” I shrug. “Not really your type.”

  “So he’s young,” Rae says. “Are you guys, what, friends? You hang out?”

  “I guess. You’re making it sound way more exciting than it is.” I’m doing an amazing job at appearing blasé, but then Rae pulls her signature game-ending move, the Long Stare.

  After about a minute, I start to squirm. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

  She doesn’t answer, just looks.

  “Jesus, Rae, it’s just a guy! Why are you so stuck on him?”

  I don’t know what in this whole exchange gives me away, but her mouth drops open and she stares at me in shocked delight. “You bitch!” She shakes a finger at me. “You slept with him, didn’t you?”

  Poor Zoey, I think. I can only imagine what your teenage years will be like living with this. I glance around at the other Waffle House customers, but no one else seems to care who I’ve been sleeping with.

  Rae’s rocking back and forth, half-covering her grin with one hand. I can’t remember the last time I saw her this happy. “Well, hallelujah, Charlotte Cates, you’ve been making it with the gardener. God is good.” She thumps the table with her fist. “That’s like a porno, hooking up with the hired help.”

  “I’m the hired help, too, remember? And maybe you can lower your voice.”

  Rae discounts this last plea entirely and stands up, flagging down our ex-con waitress. “When you get a minute, can I buy this lady some breakfast?” she calls, and casts one quick, beaming glance back at me. “We’ve got a lot to celebrate this morning.”

  • • •

  I’M HOPING THAT Evangeline’s security will give Rae a hard time, but the guy barely looks at her driver’s license. Noah must have got to him. It’s the best kind of morning, sun streaming through the trees, everything a vibrant green after yesterday’s rain, air rich with the smell of the bayou. Not bad for end-of-January weather. Rae hops out of the car, already gushing about the beauty of the home.

  I’m a little nervous. Jules wouldn’t normally be around on a Sunday, yet with Andre home and the state of their relationship seemingly in flux, all bets are off. Andre seemed quite personable, but I don’t know if that extends to my traipsing through his home with my Northeastern acquaintances. Before I can explain these complexities to Rae, Isaac calls. He must’ve received the chapters I sent him last night.

  “I have to take this call from my editor,” I tell Rae. “Feel free to look around the garden.”

  She wanders off and I catch up with Isaac, who, to my enormous relief, wants me to continue with my hybrid nonfictional fiction approach. He still has some misgivings, he tells me, and it will never fit into the Greatest Mysteries series. Nevertheless, he advises me to follow my instincts. We hash through some of my chapters, and when I eventually end the call, I discover that a full half hour has elapsed.

  As I mentally craft an apology to Rae, I catch sight of something frightening in the garden. It’s Rae. Chatting animatedly. With Noah.

  Not good.

  I hurry over, trying to assess from their faces the level of damage control I need to do. How long have they been talking, and what exactly has she let slip? Has she mentioned Keegan?

  “Hey.” My smile is more flustered than friendly. “I take it you two introduced yourselves?”

  “Quit sweating bullets,” Rae says. “We’ve been having a nice little chat. Don’t worry. I didn’t tell him what you look like without your makeup on.”

  “She didn’t,” Noah affirms, although he has seen me without makeup plenty of times by now. “I was just telling her about the garden.” He studies me, uncertain, and I remember with a guilty twinge that I did blow him off last night.

  “Your boy’s got big plans,” Rae says. “This place will really be something.” Her use of “your boy” doesn’t escape me, but I let it slide. Perhaps I am compartmentalizing a wee bit much if a conversation between my best friend and boyfriend-ish person sets me into such a tailspin.

  “Glad I got to meet you, Rae,” Noah says. “I’m gonna hit the road now. Probably won’t be back until Thursday.” He leans close to me for a hug and whispers, “Sorry ’bout yesterday. That was my bad.”

  Then he’s Texas-bound. I turn to Rae, suddenly anxious for her approval. He isn’t much, not by the metrics she and I have always used. I think of the guys she set me up with after my divorce: Tom, a stockbroker who retired in his midthirties, and Elliott, whose uncanny resemblance to Richard Gere rendered me tongue-tied and blushy for the entirety of our one date. I want her to like Noah, but I can’t help but see the college degree he never earned, the gun he keeps in his sock drawer, his failure to enunciate words ending in -ing.

  Rae, however, proves a kinder judge than I. “That is a nice man,” she declares. “And that cute little Texas accent, my God. Does he wear a cowboy hat to bed?”

  • • •

  I OPT NOT TO GO inside Evangeline. There’s been enough drama for one day—why invite more by setting up a potential Jules confrontation? Rae, surprisingly, doesn’t argue. The tiny glimpse into my sex life was probably more exciting for her than a bunch of antique furniture, anyway. I do show her my cottage, and we bask in the awfulness of the lavender color scheme. Then it’s off to town, where we tour Main Street and scarf down some jambalaya and shrimp étouffée at a price that wouldn’t buy you a bowl of oatmeal in Manhattan. Running low on ideas, I suggest the Rail and River Museum. Rae, at last satisfied that Chicory is as boring as I’ve been telling her, whips out her iPhone and books us a hotel in the French Quarter.

  The drive is peaceful, miles upon miles of highway through areas that vary mainly in their degree of swampiness. Sometimes the trees are tall and scraggly. Sometimes the land is flat and watery. We cross the occasional bridge, pass dilapidated shacks and rotting docks. I tell Rae about the people I’ve met, doing my best approximation of Deacon’s thick Cajun accent. She chatters about the incredible food in New Orleans.

  Through it all, like a persistent and annoying hum, thoughts of Gabriel linger. Detective Minot is right. We have the pieces of this puzzle. We’re just coming at it from the wrong angle. The boy. The swamp. The boat. If I put these three things together, who do they point to? By the time we make it to the city, my head is spinning and I can’t wait to get out of the car.

  It’s about four, so after checking into our hotel, Rae gives me a quick walking tour of the French Quarter while we still have some daylight. A few blocks and I’m swooning. The buildings are old and charming and colorful, distinctly European in feel. I love the narrow roads, the quaint storefronts, the balconies adorned with hanging plants and beads.

  “It’s Mardi Gras season,” Rae explains. “The parades are starting up next weekend. Trust me, this city will be crazy.”

  We drop into some galleries and antique shops, ogle restaurant menus, and meander around Jackson Square, admiring the cathedral and the work of local artists. After a mouthwatering dinner, I can see why Andre would choose the bustling French Quarter as his home base, especially when Rae mentions the area has tons of gay bars. Whether or not Andre actually frequents them, it’s probably the least homophobic area in the state.

  We’re making our way back toward our hotel when Rae grabs my arm and begs, “Oh, please can we?”

  It takes me a few seconds to figure out what she’s so excited about, and then I groan. A shop window with an orange neon sign that reads PSYCHIC ADVISER. Is she serious? But it’s Rae. Of course she is. The woman checks her horoscope every day.

  Ordinarily, I would put my foot dow
n, but after everything I’ve experienced, I’m curious. Does this so-called psychic actually have an ability, or is it really a scheme, as I’ve always assumed? And if she can see things, how did she learn to harness her ability? If ever there was a time to believe in fortune-tellers, it’s here on the dim, lamp-lit streets of the French Quarter.

  “Okay,” I say. “One condition. You don’t give the psychic any hints. No matter what they say, you just nod and go with it. And I get to watch, to make sure you’re playing fair.”

  Rae accepts my terms, and so we walk over to the shop and push open the door. It’s just one tiny room with a table and two worn-out red love seats. A young, dark-skinned man slouches on one love seat, legs resting on the table. He looks up from a magazine when we enter and tries to assume a slightly more respectable position, but posture isn’t the only thing working against him. He’s got a row of earrings in his right ear, purple glitter on his eyelids, and an orange shirt that hugs his long, skinny frame. He looks like he’d rather be at a club, dancing and blowing kisses to straight boys. And he’s so young. What does he know, psychic or not?

  He quickly tucks away his reading material—a costume catalog—and comes to greet us, but not before I see the page of cop outfits he was checking out. Mardi Gras is coming. This week the entire population of New Orleans is probably making a mad dash for the stripper costume of their choice.

  Rae seems willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. “Hi!” she says cheerily. “My friend and I would like readings.”

  “You ladies got lucky,” he says. “Most nights my aunt workin’ this place, but you got me tonight, and I got twice her gift, not even braggin’. My name is RaJean. Cost you twen’y-five dollas for fifteen minutes. Which a you ladies gone go first?”

  I have to admit the flamboyantly gay drawl is pretty cute, but I’m still not sold on his dispensing advice. “We’ll go together,” I say.

  “Betta luck one-on-one,” he informs us, “so I’m gettin’ pure you, no competin’ energies. You sure you wan’ do togetha?”

  Rae hesitates, but I remain firm. “I’m sure.”

  “’Kay, then.” RaJean taps the empty love seat, inviting us to sit down. “Juss gone get centered.” Sitting cross-legged, he closes his eyes and extends his hands. He inhales, rolls his wrists around in little circles, lifts his shoulders and drops them back. Finally, he opens his eyes and stares right at me. A creepy stare, like he’s reading cue cards behind me.

  “I see a man,” he tells me. “Tall, dark, and yummy, mm-mm.”

  Well, that rules out Noah.

  “But you . . . you ain’t puttin’ in the work you need to with him. You takin’ him for granted.” RaJean shakes a finger in my direction, but he’s still looking through me, not at me. “I know he been around a long time, but that don’t mean you get to quit workin’, understand?”

  I almost pity this kid. There has never been a man in my life who stuck around a long time. Even my dad was halfheartedly there at best, his mind always on alcohol, and I put in a lot of work with him.

  RaJean squints and touches his temple. “I’m feelin’ a little girl. A daughta, maybe?”

  I nod, poker-faced, like I instructed Rae to do.

  No feedback. Just run with whatever he says.

  “You wish you got more time with her, but somethin’s in the way.” He blinks a few times. Slow, purple glitter blinks. “A job. It’s wearin’ on you, hmm? Well, the good news is, I’m seein’ a change.” He claps his hands together, grinning. “You got a promotion comin’, honey!”

  The reading continues, none of it applying to me whatsoever. My eyes wander the old wood floor and the exposed brick wall, embarrassed for him.

  Rae, on the other hand, leans forward, glued to his every word—trying to twist it around until it bears some possible relevance to my life, no doubt.

  Finally RaJean stops and takes a deep breath. “Well, I hope that helped you some.”

  I smile and nod, but I’m actually depressed by this. I wanted him to know what he was doing, to make me feel less freakish, but there’s nothing mystical going on here. Just a guy out to take our money.

  RaJean looks to Rae now, frowns, and closes his eyes. “There’s all kinds a darkness ’round you,” he murmurs. “You like a foggy night, tryin’ to shut me out.”

  I almost laugh out loud. Rae, shutting someone out? A woman who drops intimate details of her husband’s sexual proclivities into casual conversation?

  “Oh, honey,” RaJean coos, clutching at his own heart. “You hurtin’. You hurtin’ bad.”

  Rae looks directly at me then and her face is so sober, so sad, I wonder if this guy sees a part of her that I don’t.

  “You just lost the love a yo’ life now, did’n you? You poor thing. And you think that’s it, game ova. But you wrong. You dead wrong.” RaJean slaps his thigh for emphasis. “Life has got somethin’ in store for you, somethin’ serious, hear? You got a higher purpose in this world.” He cranes his neck forward, peering just beyond Rae’s left shoulder. “Well, lookit that! A new love come knockin’ at yo’ door. Gone sweep you off yo’ feet, this one. I’m feelin’ March. And don’t you worry, ’cause this time it’s gone last.”

  Where does he get this stuff? Romance novels? Self-help books?

  “Now, I gotta warn you,” he continues, “I’m feelin’ this shadowy presence. Somebody you thinkin’ you wanna trust. A man. He sayin’ all the right things, lovin’ on you so nice. But you not gettin’ the whole story with that one. He ain’t who you think. Oh no. Ain’t who you think at all.”

  Seventy-five dollars and a profuse exchange of thank-yous later, we finally extract ourselves from RaJean’s psychic clutches. You’d think Rae’s spirits would be dampened by his woefully off-base readings. Instead, she brims with admiration.

  “That was amazing,” she raves. “It was so dead-on!”

  I step aside as a cluster of tipsy students brush past us like a giant, brainless amoeba. “Which part? The long-suffering man in my life, or the bit about my daughter?”

  Rae stops walking and crosses her arms. “All those things are true, you idiot. For me.”

  She’s right, I realize. But I’m not prepared to let RaJean off the hook this easily. “So, what, you think he just mixed us up?”

  “He told us not to get our readings done together, didn’t he?”

  I try to remember what he told Rae. Something about losing the love of her life. Which hardly applies to me, given that Eric and I split up more than two years ago and I’m not sure I even loved him. But.

  My throat tightens as I finally understand. Because Keegan was, without question, the love of my life.

  “He saw a new love knocking at your door,” Rae reminds me, grasping at something positive.

  “And he saw a sweet-talking guy I shouldn’t trust.” I sigh.

  “Oh no, hon,” she protests, “Noah’s the new love, not the sweet-talking guy.”

  I want to believe her, except RaJean said the new love wouldn’t show up until March. As in, I haven’t met him yet. I don’t want to fall prey to a scam artist barely old enough to purchase alcohol, but what if RaJean is right about Noah?

  He ain’t who you think. Oh no. Ain’t who you think at all.

  “I don’t care what he said,” I tell Rae. “You know I don’t believe in that crap.” I point to the next cross street. “Isn’t that the way to our hotel?”

  In some secret part of me, though, I do care. I’ve been played before, by Eric of all people. There’s nothing about Noah I know for sure, only what he’s told me. On the other hand, I’m happy. And happiness is such a fleeting, fragile thing, why would I go looking under rocks for something to spoil it?

  Maybe happiness is nothing more than the wisdom to remain ignorant.

  • • •

  BY MORNING, I’M EAGER to continue exploring th
e city. Rae takes me on the St. Charles streetcar and I get a peek at the Garden District, Tulane and Loyola, Audubon Park. It’s a sunny seventy degrees, so we hop off the trolley and wander the wealthy neighborhoods, gawking at the sprawling historic homes. The trees and gates are already draped with beads, and I find myself succumbing to the excitement.

  “I think I’ve got to experience the whole Mardi Gras thing,” I tell Rae.

  “Totally,” she agrees. “You won’t get New Orleans until you’ve seen it.” She smiles sideways at me. “Bring Noah.”

  The rest of our day is lovely and leisurely, and it occurs to me that this is the first real traveling I’ve done since Keegan was born. How many times did I lament the stationary life motherhood imposed on me? How many times did I wish I could pack up a suitcase and get away for a weekend? Suddenly my freedom makes me feel guilty.

  I leave the city the next morning so Rae can attend her business meetings. “Tell Mason thank you,” I say. “For letting you come early. Tell him it meant a lot to me.”

  I time the drive back to Chicory, thinking of Neville and Hettie and Andre. When I more or less obey speed limits, it takes just under three hours to get from New Orleans to Evangeline. Someone in a hurry could shave a bunch of time off that, especially in the middle of the night.

  With Rae busy and Noah in Texas, I feel unexpectedly lonely. I work awhile, take a long shower, lie in bed and watch a string of mindless TV shows.

  Without even trying, I drift over. Recognition, surrender, submergence. All faster this time, because I’m getting a feel for it. Like riding a wave, allowing something murky and powerful to carry me over to the other side. Then I emerge, clear-eyed, blinking away the sun.

  Farmland. I’m standing on a long soil path, wedged between two rows of crops. Grassy and thin at the tops, the plants tower over me, obscuring my view of anything else. Their stalks are long and thick and hard like bamboo. Above me, blue skies. A few wispy clouds. I follow the crop line, searching for a way out, but it’s just dense plantings as far as the eye can see.