The Gates of Evangeline

by Hester Young

  “I’m not your friend,” Jules says softly. “I’m many things to you, but I am not your friend.”

  Andre glances at his liquor stash and then at Jules. His desire to flee whatever weirdness exists between them outweighs his desire to drink. “On that note,” he says, “I’m going to my room. Good night, Charlotte. We’ll chat tomorrow. And I’ll make you that Shirley Temple.”

  Finally. A chance to extricate myself. I’m ready to bolt, but before I can make my getaway, Noah comes down the staircase.

  Andre’s face clouds over, and I know we’re in for more drama. “Were you talking to my mother?” he demands.

  Oh no. It’s on.

  Noah’s mind is elsewhere. He glances at Andre with mild distaste, the kind of look you might give an insect that ventured into your home, but he doesn’t acknowledge Andre’s question. I can see how this would rub Andre the wrong way.

  “My sisters have explicitly told you to stay away from her,” Andre says, moving into Noah’s path. “Any conversations about your project should be with Mr. Sicard.”

  Andre’s the taller of the two, but Noah is obviously stronger. I doubt this fact is lost on either one as Noah clenches his fists and says, barely able to maintain civility, “It wasn’t a business conversation, it was personal.”

  “Personal?” Andre puffs up. “We’re done with this charade. Whatever lies you’ve been telling my mother end here. There is nothing personal about your relationship with my family.” He’s halfway up the staircase when he delivers the final cowardly blow. “Jules. Please handle this.”

  And Jules does. He swoops in with his chiseled jaw and manicured fingers and swiftly disposes of Noah. “I’m afraid the family has elected to cancel your contract,” he states. “Step into the office, and I’ll write you a check for services rendered.”

  “You can’t cancel my contract.” I’ve never seen Noah’s face turn this particular shade of pink. “That contract is with Hettie. She’s the one who signed it, not you.”

  Jules doesn’t look up from the check he’s writing. “Given Hettie’s condition, that contract will never hold up in court. Especially with its highly unusual terms.” He shakes his head. “Unlimited funding for your project even in the event of Hettie’s death? It looks . . . how shall I put this? Greedy.”

  “Those are the terms she chose.”

  “I can’t imagine a woman on her deathbed is competent to make any important financial decisions. She’s in a vulnerable position. Fortunately, as the estate manager I have power of attorney.” Jules tears off a check and holds it out to Noah with a pleasant smile. “That should cover your time and expenses. If you disagree, you are of course free to take it up with us in court. Now I’ll have to ask you to leave the premises. Please pack your belongings. I’ll tell security to expect you in half an hour.”

  Noah looks poised to punch him in the face, and while part of me would enjoy the vicarious thrill of a Jules beat-down, I understand that standing idly by is not the noble, caring thing to do.

  “He isn’t worth it,” I whisper, nudging Noah toward the door. “Come on. Let’s get you out of here.”

  Jules follows us to the door, and there’s a lightness in his step that makes it clear he’s enjoying this. He slips the check into my hand as I leave. “Your friend will want this later,” he says, smirking. “Trust me.”

  • • •

  BACK AT HIS COTTAGE, Noah storms around pulling clothes out of drawers and cramming toiletries into a suitcase. I’ve never seen him like this before, so I stay out of his way. I’m freaking out, too. Everything has changed. He’s leaving Evangeline. Noah and I can exist as a couple now only through actual effort, conscious choice. And we have less than half an hour to make this decision.

  It doesn’t take long to empty his place. He travels light. Wallet, watch, loose change, a handful of condoms purchased weeks ago—he distributes these items quickly amongst his pockets. The last thing he takes is his handgun. I’m uncomfortable with his toting that thing around any day, but knowing that he’s packing when he’s this angry scares me.

  Even scarier: he’s said nothing about us. In fact, I’m not convinced he’s thought about me at all. Is he leaving, then? Just—going back to Texas? Is this it? I find myself panicky at the thought. It’s too soon. And with no notice. I’m not good with good-byes.

  “You better pack a bag, too,” Noah says, prompting another internal freak-out.

  Does he think I’m going to just run off with him? Where would we go? This decision is too big to make so quickly; doesn’t he know that? I stand, mouth agape, as he regards me impatiently. “Would you come on? I’m not goin’ to miss out on Mardi Gras just ’cause Hettie’s kid has a bug up his ass.”

  Oh. Our trip. Right. Relief, disappointment, and dread all mix together in a confounding fashion. We’re in a holding pattern, for now.

  “Okay,” I say, but then hesitate. He’s halfway out the door and I don’t trust his grim look of purpose. “Noah?” I jog after him. “Where are you going?”

  “Back to the house,” he says. “I left my phone up there.”

  This might be one of the worst ideas I’ve ever heard. “I’ll go,” I volunteer. “You don’t want to deal with those two again.”

  But he brushes by me. “I don’t give a shit about them. I want my phone.”

  Please don’t let Andre and Jules see him, I think as he strides off into the night. Let them be holed up in Andre’s bedroom or rendezvousing in the study.

  I don’t know exactly how long he’s gone, but it’s too long. I start running through every awful scenario in my mind. If Noah lays a hand on Andre or Jules, he’ll be arrested for assault. And we’re in Louisiana. I’m fairly sure that if he does something threatening on Andre’s property, Andre can shoot him with impunity. I gather some clothing, but our Mardi Gras vacation no longer excites me.

  When Noah does finally return, he seems moody, not fired up. He’s silent, barely noticing me as I drag my suitcase up to his truck and climb into the passenger seat. I don’t know what he’s thinking about as we take our leave with security, but when I look back at the immense house, I feel oblivion. I can never come back here with him. I feel the huge, gaping uncertainties of the future.

  This is what we’re left with: four final days of carefree abandon. And then, Ash Wednesday. Lent. Forty days of self-denial, a time to reflect upon one’s past transgressions and repent. Even in New Orleans, the fun can’t last forever. I glance at Noah in the driver’s seat. His hands grip the wheel tightly; he stares straight ahead.

  Maybe, I think, the end is here already. Maybe the fun is already over.

  • • •

  WE SPEND THE NIGHT at a local motel. There’s no romance, just fast food, an uneventful check-in, the television flashing in a dark room. Noah remains quiet. I don’t know how to lift the dark cloud around him, so I don’t try. We go to bed early, although neither of us really sleeps. He tosses and turns, getting up occasionally and stalking around the little room. Despite several signs prohibiting smoking, he opens a window and goes through a half-dozen cigarettes. I can’t tell if he’s angry or upset or simply worried about what his next step will be. It’s unnerving. What am I supposed to do? Reassure him? Give him space? I’m not any good with feelings. Not my own, not anyone else’s.

  Around one a.m., I bring him a glass of water. It’s a move from my grandmother’s playbook: ply distressed person with liquid while avoiding discussion of actual problem.

  “Thanks.” He stands shirtless by the window, staring out at the parking lot. But he drinks the water. A good sign.

  I sit cross-legged on the floor beside him and wait. When he finally does speak, it’s not what I’m expecting.

  “Why do you like me?”

  I don’t know what to say. I like how he makes me feel—calm, comfortable, present in the moment—but does tha
t sound too self-absorbed? And I like how easygoing he is, polite and pleasant to others, rarely ruffled by the little things—but given his current mood, that seems like the wrong quality to praise. And I like him physically, but that’s superficial.

  “I like you because—you’re good,” I stammer.

  My answer seems to depress him. “You don’t even know me.”

  A fair point. A month together does not constitute a high degree of knowing.

  “Well, you’re better than I am,” I tell him.

  He presses his forehead to the window. “There’s so many lies in my life, I don’t even know who I am at the bottom of it all.”

  Whose lies? But he must mean Maddie and Jack, all the things about his past that they left out or twisted around. I wait for him to elaborate, but instead he climbs back in bed. Buries himself in covers. Turns his back to me and sleeps. Or pretends to.

  His warm body beside me fails to calm me down. For the first time, being together is not enough. For the first time, I realize with a pang, I feel lonely.

  • • •

  APPARENTLY NOAH IS MUCH BETTER at willing himself out of a funk than I am, because by morning, he is relentlessly cheerful. I try to reconcile the man singing in the shower with the brooding stranger of last night but can’t. We don’t discuss the loss of his job or his ensuing existential torment. I’m curious, naturally, but his happiness seems so precarious. It’s easier to chatter about the drive to New Orleans, which parades to see, which restaurants to try. Considering how much time I now spend delving into the secret lives of strangers, I’m remarkably willing to avoid issues of any depth in my relationships.

  About forty minutes out of Chicory, conversation lags and Noah begins messing with the radio. He breezes past a country station but stops on a song I find even more disturbing.

  “Really? Christian rock?” For a New Yorker who spends a lot of time around atheists and Jews, unabashed Jesus love is sort of startling. Even my grandmother, an occasionally practicing Catholic, has always felt that religion, like kissing or farting, should be conducted as discreetly as possible.

  Noah smiles, a bit sheepish, his thumbs resting on the wheel. “Just like the sound of it, I guess.” For a moment we listen to the lyrics, delivered by a gravelly-voiced man in a somewhat melodic shout.

  Despite the pain, I keep believing.

  Despite the hurt, I keep my faith.

  I pray that you’ll forgive my weakness

  And hold me in your eternal embrace.

  “Forgiveness and unconditional love,” Noah says. “Who doesn’t want some a that?”

  “You don’t want God,” I say, shaking my head. “You want a mom.”

  His smile vanishes. “Yeah, I want a mom. A mom and a dad, doesn’t everyone? A kid deserves to know his parents.” He switches off the radio. “Forget it. You wouldn’t understand.”

  “Are you obsessing about your parents again?” I ask. “They don’t have to define you, Noah. I don’t think they matter as much—”

  “They don’t matter? You would say that. You pretty much chased away your kid’s father. You didn’t think he mattered, although maybe you shoulda asked your kid what he thought.”

  After everything I’ve told him about my divorce, this interpretation of events shocks me. “Eric cheated on me.”

  Noah’s voice is flat. “He mighta been a shitty husband, but that didn’t make him a shitty dad.”

  I’m a fighter by nature, but his accusation cuts too deep for me to defend against. To blast my parenting decisions when Keegan is gone, when I can never right my wrongs, can only stew in my own regret—this is cruelty I did not think Noah capable of. I fall into a stunned silence.

  The miles go by, long and wordless, before Noah finally apologizes. “I shouldn’a said that,” he says. “I’m just . . . feelin’ a little raw.”

  I nod mutely, although it doesn’t make me feel much better. I know he’s in a lousy mood, but that doesn’t mean he wasn’t being honest. Doesn’t mean he’s wrong.

  • • •

  ONCE IN THE CITY, I’m relieved to have organizational details to attend to. Disposing of the car proves a bit of a fiasco, but soon Noah and I are wandering the downtown area. Traffic more or less flows along Canal Street, although some of the side streets are blocked off. We trudge along for a mile or two until we hit a parade route.

  Spectators line the empty streets, many camped out on lawn chairs, downing beers. Vendors hawk jester hats, glow necklaces, and lemonade. I’ve always pictured Mardi Gras as a sort of Girls Gone Wild, drunken college girls flashing their breasts, so I’m surprised by the number of families, the children perched on ladders for better viewing. We keep walking, taking it in, until we hear the tinny strains of a marching band approaching. A police vehicle rounds the corner, its siren chirping once to alert the crowd.

  I don’t remember attending a parade as a kid, but I can see the magic of it when the floats pass by strewing goodies. Beads, stuffed animals, and plastic cups soar into the crowd. Noah manages to catch a couple of strings of beads for us and we slip them on, hoping to blend in. The excitement of the floats is tempered by public figures driving by in cars, the occasional police officer on a motorcycle, and high school girls in skintight uniforms dancing with batons. All those swirling hips and shaking rumps remind me of Zoey’s dance recital, and I miss her suddenly, and Rae, too. And Keegan. Of course I miss Keegan.

  I retreat from the street’s edge and lean against the iron fence in someone’s front yard. Noah joins me, eyes still on the floats.

  “Whatta ya think?”

  “Keegan would’ve loved this.”

  He puts an arm around me, but I don’t want his comfort. Sometimes discomfort is deserved. Noah was right about Eric, much as it pains me to admit it. I should’ve offered Eric shared custody. He might have refused it, might have moved to Chicago regardless, but I owed Keegan a chance, at least. A chance for a more involved father.

  Beside me, Noah bobs along to the thumping stereo of another approaching float, oblivious to my regret. A few more days, and he’ll be gone. I know the drill. Everything, both good and bad, comes with an expiration date.

  • • •

  BY SUNDAY NIGHT, we’re starting to feel like Mardi Gras veterans. We’ve seen four parades, each a little different. The night parades are more dramatic, floats lit up in the dark, robed men on foot bearing flambeaus—big, fiery torches that cast an eerie orange light on onlookers.

  Noah drinks, but he seems to pace himself. If he’s tipsy, I can’t tell. He gets a little overly competitive when he tries to catch beads, but he seems to be having fun, relaxing. He hugs me, nuzzles the top of my head. From the outside, we look like a couple with a future, not two people who will say their good-byes in less than forty-eight hours.

  Back at our hotel room, he’s all over me. He leads me out to the balcony, kisses my neck, tries to slip a hand up my shirt. I push him off. It’s too loud, too public, with all the music, yelling, cars, and other hotel guests partying on their balconies. On our left, a guy attempts to pee onto the street below. Not, in my book, a recipe for romance.

  Noah laughs. “Aw, come on. That doesn’t put you in the mood?”

  I head back into our room and lie down. Maybe he’s drunk after all. Or else his good manners have been a front this whole time, and now that we’re basically over, he’s throwing all ceremony to the wind.

  • • •

  IN THE MORNING, I order an extravagant breakfast, which room service sets up on the balcony. Noah remains in bed, snoring, while I work my way through eggs, bacon, sausage, biscuits and gravy, coffee, and a slice of king cake, a traditional Mardi Gras dessert. I’m pouring another coffee when Noah joins me outside.

  “Someone’s hungry, huh?” His eyes are a little puffy, but he doesn’t appear to be feeling the aftereffects of excessive alcohol
consumption. After years of living with an alcoholic, I notice these things. Noah takes the one remaining piece of toast and slathers it with jelly. “Whatcha got planned for today?”

  Suddenly I can’t bear the thought of seeing another parade, pretending to feel a joy that I no longer feel. “I don’t know. Whatever.”

  “You don’t seem too happy.”

  I peer over the edge of the balcony. We’re ten stories up, and though I’ve never been afraid of heights, I’m overwhelmed for a few flickering seconds. “It just . . . stresses me out,” I say.

  He comes up behind me, slips his arms around my waist. “What does?”

  “Not knowing what’s coming.” I can’t take my eyes off the distant ground. “We’re going back to Chicory tomorrow and . . . I don’t know what comes next.”

  “I’ve been tryin’ not to think on it.” He lays his face on my shoulder, so I can’t see his expression. “I’m still sortin’ out what’s happened.”

  I have to ask him, have to know and make my peace with it. “Once I’m back at Evangeline, what’ll you do? Where will you go?”

  His arms tighten around my waist. “Gotta settle some things. But home . . . I guess.”

  “It’ll be weird staying there without you.”

  “Yeah. I thought we had more time.”

  “Maybe I’ll go home, too. I’ve done all I can there and I have everything that I need.” I close my eyes. “I’ll miss you, though.”

  “Yeah?” He runs his thumb slowly up my arm. “Maybe we could go somewhere. Travel around. Drop outta life for a while.”

  My chest aches at the thought, but why drag out our fling any longer? Could I ever really enjoy my time with him when I knew it had to end? And, while I’d love to postpone the inevitable return to reality, there are responsibilities and ties I can’t ignore. “I have to see my grandmother. She’s old. And she’s all I have left. If something happened and I wasn’t there . . .”

  “No, no, you’re right. You should be with her.” He pauses before asking a question too loaded to be casual no matter the delivery. “You think she’d like me?”