by Julie Smith
And so the more she lay there, the more depressed she got. Too depressed, certainly, to get up. Too depressed to cry. Way too depressed to do her homework.
With Sheila here, she was happy. It was almost better than being with Noel. “Call Uncle Jimmy and say you’re staying to dinner. We’ll order from the new place.”
Sheila could never resist. Her uncle made her eat pasta primavera and crawfish maque-choux and vegetable burritos—he was trying to turn her into a walking vitamin. At the new place, the place on Dumaine, they could get burgers and potato salad or po’ boys or even fried chicken; but that wasn’t the main attraction.
The delivery boy was to die for. Torian had discovered him, but Sheila’d developed a major crush.
Sheila hung up the phone. “Uncle Jimmy said, ‘Are you sure it’s okay with Lise, your hanging around there all the time?’ I had to explain that kids are much easier with two of us, so he said come over there, and I said we couldn’t because Lise was fixing something special.”
Torian snorted. “I think she did that once. She burned it.”
“I’m starving. Let’s order.”
“You just want to see Joe Eddie.”
“I do not.” Sheila’s cheeks flamed. “I want some mashed potatoes and green beans. And carrot salad.”
“Wait a minute. I thought you hated vegetables.”
“I like good vegetables.”
They ordered Sheila’s vegetables, and some potato salad for Torian. She hadn’t felt much like eating lately, but she could usually get down white things—potatoes or pasta.
Joe Eddie was sweating when he came to the door. “Hi, gorgeous. Hello, beautiful. Boy, are you girls lucky you don’t have to work. The humidity must be about four hundred and eight.”
Sheila said, “There’s going to be a hurricane.”
He looked at her. “That’s what my mama says. Says we’re not gettin’ off this year.”
Torian didn’t miss a beat. “Come in and cool off.”
“I got two more deliveries to make.”
“Big deal. No one expects anything on time.”
“I’m not going to cool off around you two girls.” Torian was sure he gave Sheila a wink. Her heart soared. She wanted everyone to be as happy in their love as she and Noel.
Joe Eddie had slicked-back blond hair and biceps that he must have had to work at. He always wore tank tops or some kind of shirt with the sleeves cut off. He had a smooth brown body, white teeth with one broken at the side, and a muscular, neat butt. A cobra was tattooed on one of his gorgeous biceps. That and the broken tooth gave him a raffish look. He was from Corinth, Mississippi.
He unpacked their food. “What’d you girls order? I’m hungry. Potato salad. All right! Mashed potatoes. Any meat? You girls religious or something?”
Sheila said, “We never eat anything with eyes.”
He hooted. “Yeah, I know what you mean. All those little animals, like in Fantasia, with their foot-long eyelashes. Be a shame to barbecue ‘em.” He dug into the potato salad with a plastic spoon.
“Bacon’s okay, though, ‘cause pigs are so ugly.” Sheila was leaning so close Joe Eddie had to lean away from her to keep his cool.
“I’m Torian. This is Sheila.”
Sheila blushed, perhaps realizing they hadn’t been properly introduced.
“I’m Joe Eddie.”
“We know. You told us last time.”
“I did? Well, I remember you two, too.”
Torian said, “I’ll be right back,” and went in search of cigarettes. She found them in about two seconds, and smoked one, giving the lovebirds time alone. Then she looked in the mirror, messed up her hair, and put on her glasses, making the statement that she wasn’t interested, Joe Eddie was Sheila’s.
Joe Eddie was just leaving. “You be sure and call me now,” he said, and she smiled to herself.
Sheila danced into the kitchen, leaping as she crossed the threshold, touching the doorsill with her fingertips. “Yes!”
“He asked you out?”
She leaped again. “Yes!”
“I told you he liked you.” She turned her attention to the food. “Oh, shit, he ate all the potato salad.”
“Have my mashed potatoes. I have to lose five pounds.”
“When are you seeing him?”
“As soon as he finds out his schedule. How old do you think he is?”
“Eighteen or nineteen.”
“Not older?” Sheila seemed hesitant.
“Maybe. Who cares?”
“Well, you wouldn’t.” They collapsed, giggling, and ate the rest of the mashed potatoes, then polished off the green beans, Sheila treating them as finger food, pretending to smoke them. She didn’t touch the carrot salad.
Torian foraged in the freezer for ice cream, and dredged up some chocolate syrup. Lise arrived to find her topping the sundaes with cherries. Her arms were full of groceries.
“For Christ’s sake, Torian, can’t I trust you for five minutes? You know you can’t have dessert till you’ve had dinner. What on Earth do you think you’re doing?”
Torian raised her voice to match her mother’s. “We’ve had dinner. We ordered from the deli.”
“Well, that’s fine. That’s just fine. You couldn’t even wait till I got home and fixed dinner?”
“Mother, I don’t even remember the last time you made dinner.”
Perhaps sensing an escalating scene, perhaps embarrassed already, Sheila mumbled something and left.
When she heard the door shut, Torian said, “Do you have to embarrass me in front of my friends?”
“I embarrassed you? You’re the one with the mouth like a garbage can. You can’t be trusted for anything, can you? You order junk food and invite your friends over whether you have permission or not.” She fanned the air. “It smells like you’ve been smoking in here.”
“What would you care what I eat? I wish I lived with my dad—at least there’s usually food in the house. Here I have to order because you can’t be bothered to shop, and you can’t be bothered to cook, and you certainly can’t be bothered to remember I’m here, because you’re out every night drinking and fucking your fucking overweight boyfriend who nobody would fuck unless they were fucking desperate!”
Torian stopped and felt herself suspended in midair for a fraction of a second, later knowing it was exactly the sensation that falling people must have, people who know they are about to hit the ground with a splat that will rupture their organs and splinter their bones, who know they have made an irrevocable, fatal mistake.
Her mother whacked her so hard she fell backwards, hit the countertop, and bruised her lower back. For the moment, the pain of that nearly obscured the excruciating sensation of what could only be a broken nose. She felt her face, and came up with a handful of glasses so badly twisted she couldn’t even wear them. There was a ridge on her nose, where the nosepiece had slammed into flesh and cartilage, but it hadn’t swelled yet.
“My nose is broken,” she cried, terrified, not merely in pain.
“I certainly hope so,” said Lise. “And I’ll tell you something. If it is, you’re going to live with it. My insurance would cover having it fixed, but we’re not going to do that. You’re going to go through life with a big, ugly bump on your nose, to remind you of what a perfect little bitch you are. I hope you’re satisfied.”
She walked out of the room, almost with dignity, as if she were the one who was satisfied, leaving Torian to find some ice for her injuries.
When she had made herself two ice packs from threadbare dish towels, Torian limped to bed, moving with difficulty only partly because of her back pain. Part of her inability to stand up straight, to regain spring in her step, had to do with her mental state, the now literal feeling of being beaten.
She lay in bed with her ice, not even bothering to turn the light off, not able to bear the lace pattern on the wall, not caring anyway if she went to sleep with every light in the house on and loud music
blaring.
She had thought she would fall asleep instantly, had looked forward to it, to escape her misery. Instead, she found her mind wandering to possible ways out. She hadn’t thought of this before except as kind of a daydream—it had never occurred to her simply to bolt.
I could run away. But where would I go? I already live in the French Quarter. This is where people run to.
I could turn her in!
She sat upright. She knew that what Lise had done was beyond the pale; maybe she could go to jail for it.
What do I do? Just walk into the Eighth District?
Hey, wait a minute. Why not tell Dad? He’ll come get me. He wouldn’t want me living with this. Or Noel! He’s five minutes away. He’ll come now. I’m going to call him.
She reached for the phone, but some inner brake clicked on and stopped her. In her heart of hearts, she knew she couldn’t do it. Shouldn’t do it. Noel had a wife and family, she had no right. Besides, he might kill her mother.
She took some deep breaths and calmed down a little. Her mother wouldn’t come back in tonight. Surely she’d go out and find Charles. It was okay to have a cigarette, no one would mess with her.
And if she does, I’ll get another bruise that I can show the cops. If she hits me again, that’s it. I’m reporting her.
She lit the cigarette, wondering if she possibly could. Lise wasn’t responsible, she drank too much, she probably didn’t deserve jail.
On the other hand, I could live with Dad.
In some ways, it seemed as if deliverance had been handed to her by Lise herself.
But she knew she wasn’t going to take the rope Lise had thrown, that she couldn’t betray her mother.
She jumped when the phone rang, thinking it was too late for calls. But when she looked at her watch, she saw it was just eight-thirty.
* * *
Boo had gone to her yoga class, and Noel was glad to be alone—that is, alone with Joy. What had happened that day had unnerved him, and his daughter was his anchor—a real, laughing, flesh-and-blood creature. So alive. So innocent.
He changed her diaper, something he thought he’d never do, but he found that he enjoyed it in a way. He was revolted on the surface, yet the sensation of being useful to his daughter, doing something she needed, something intimate, something vital, outweighed that.
Next he fed her, giving her food that Boo had left for her, playing little games to get her to eat. He’d pretend the spoon was a giant humming insect about to land in her mouth, and she’d laugh and finally open up.
This was something he loved, something he cherished, these all too few moments with Joy. Without Boo.
Moments when if he did something wrong no one would know, no one was there to correct him, to tell him that wasn’t the right way to hold the spoon, or the bite was too big or too little. It was amazing she’d leave him alone with the baby, knowing he was as hopeless as she obviously thought.
Boo wasn’t someone he could talk to. She was all too ready to solve his problems, to offer suggestions, to help him pull up his socks and get on with it. That had been appealing at first, until he realized it wasn’t what he wanted. There was at least a chance he could work out his problems, and he’d rather try it before asking advice. Besides, by the time he told something to Boo, he usually had thought of everything that would occur to a person of normal intelligence. It was insulting, the way she treated him as if he had a two-figure IQ.
And she always jumped the gun on him. Tonight he didn’t want to come to any decisions, didn’t want to make any changes, just wanted to think about what had happened. Maybe get some tiny glimmer of understanding.
He heard Jacomine’s voice echoing in his mind: a poisonous viper who will sting me unto death.
Preachers talked that way. A candidate under extreme stress—meaning any candidate for any office—might talk that way.
On the other hand, it was worth noting that it was pretty weird. And the whole outburst might conceivably be called paranoid if you didn’t blame it on stress.
Then there was Potter Menard, more robot than man. He was like some latter-day Green Beret, some commando run amok. His sangfroid, his chilly efficiency, gave Noel the creeps. But Menard had caught on that Noel wasn’t a spy for the other side.
Jacomine hadn’t seemed to. What disturbed Noel most was the way the man couldn’t seem to take in information, couldn’t let go of the notion of Noel as enemy. His parting threat was hostile and absolutely pointless.
You have to wonder if a person like that would really be a good mayor.
Maybe he’s a little nuts.
Or maybe it’s just the stress.
But being mayor’s a stressful job. He’s always going to be under stress.
Wait it out, Noel. Wait it out. You don’t have enough information. Unless he’s absolutely psycho, he’s better than a machine cog or a racist.
Joy banged the table. Evidently, his mind had wandered for a moment.
“Okay, doll-baby, let’s read a book. Want to?” He lifted Joy out of her high chair. “How about one of your pop-ups?” These were her favorites—they were so much fun to tear apart.
He settled her comfortably in his lap and read her one of the books, which took about a minute and a half. She was sleeping soundly when he came to the end of it.
“Guess you weren’t up for a book tonight,” he said on the way down the hall.
He settled her in bed and was sure, in proper clichèd fashion, as all parents are, that an angel had landed on Earth.
How innocent she is. I’d kill anyone who tried to hurt her.
She was wearing a pink T-shirt and diaper. Her legs were open, as babies’ are most of the time and women’s are when they make love.
Because of that, perhaps, he took the thought further: I’d kill anyone who tried to get into her pants.
And then: What a crazy thing I’m doing. Torian’s someone’s daughter. What if Joy were fifteen and a man my age tried to get near her?
I’d kill him.
A married man with a child.
I’d torture him first.
But Torian’s an angel, too—how can I? Of course, it’s not like I’m having sex with her, but her dad probably wouldn’t stop to ask the particulars.
I’ve got to stop.
I can’t stop, I’m in love with her. I feel like her dad— I’d kill anyone who came near her.
He was seized suddenly with an overwhelming desire to talk to her, a frantic desire that was like a muscle contraction. He went back to the living room and waited for the cramp to subside.
But the pain, the desire, only became stronger.
Why not? he thought. She can’t call here, but I could call there. If Lise answers, I’ll just hang up.
Torian answered, and her voice sounded oddly thin.
“Babe? You okay?”
“Noel. You did call.”
“What do you mean? Torian, what do you mean?” There was some note in her voice he didn’t recognize, something like hysteria.
“I’m okay. It’s all right.”
If he didn’t know better, he’d have thought she was on drugs.
“What is it, honey? You sound so strange. Like you’re afraid of something.”
“I’m … sleepy. I’m … okay.” She was saying words that had nothing to do with her tone of voice. She sounded terrified, yet oddly withdrawn.
“Are you alone, Torian? Are you frightened of something?”
“Mom’s here.”
“Anyone else?”
“Just us.”
He was frantic. Something was badly wrong, he could feel it. “‘Torian, I’m coming over.”
“No!”
“I want to be with you.”
“You can’t. You’re with Boo.” He thought there was a note of desperation in her voice.
“I love you, Torian.”
She hung up, saying nothing, yet he heard a noise, perhr haps a sob, maybe a sigh.
Surely he cou
ldn’t have caused this unhappiness. He was miserable, being in love with an adolescent while married to a therapist. But Torian had her whole life. He was a blip on her screen.
What if I just went over and got her?
Turn up on the doorstep with Joy? I don’t think so.
But what if she’s in some kind of trouble?
He knew she couldn’t be. Her mother was there.
He poured himself a drink of single malt scotch, something he rarely drank—it was too hot in New Orleans. He saved it for times of deep melancholy.
Chapter Thirteen
IT WAS NEARLY midnight when Lise left Charles’s. She had cried for about three hours solid, occasionally throwing things and once or twice beating on poor, dear Charles, who was about the only person she could stand right now.
Even after investing three hours, she couldn’t make him understand. He thought if he went out and “beat the shit out of Wilson,” that would solve everything. It hadn’t been that easy to keep him from doing it.
Wilson didn’t need to be beaten, but he did need to be talked to. Things couldn’t go on. Lise was a mess, and Torian was out of control.
She would never have hit Torian, never never never, if she weren’t so stressed out. It was Wilson’s fault that she was, and probably her fault that Torian was. A domino effect.
A car nearly sideswiped her.
“Motherfucker!” she shouted, putting her whole heart and soul into it, but the windows were shut tight for the AC.
Wilson’s house was dark when she arrived. She leaned on the horn as she turned into the driveway, ran to the door, and leaned just as heavily on the doorbell.
Wilson answered, belting his robe, followed by his bimbo trophy wife doing the same. She looked bewildered, he furious.
