by Greg Herren
She raised an eyebrow when she saw us. “Exciting trip to Baton Rouge, huh, guys?” She put the mug down and slid off the stool, offering her cheek to me.
I kissed her on the cheek as the tall boy turned around. I laughed. “You know us, Rain. Never a dull moment for the Bradleys, even when we’re in Baton Rouge.”
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Taylor turn around.
He was tall, six feet four at least—a few inches taller than Frank. Frank always said he’d been ridiculously skinny when he was a teenager—apparently it was in the Sobieski genes. Taylor was lean, probably prone to being thin with great difficulty gaining weight. His crimson T-shirt had the big script A that was the symbol of the University of Alabama on the front, and hung on his thin frame. He had blond hair bleached almost white by the sun, with bangs that curled slightly at the ends. His hair was cut in a short pageboy, and it was darker underneath. He had wide-set, round blue eyes so bright they almost glowed. A strong nose had dimpled cheeks on either side, with a strong chin and a wide mouth. He was tanned a dark golden brown, and the hair on his forearms was also bleached white. His shoulders were wide, and he had really long, gangly arms. His legs were slender and crisscrossed with veins and muscle striation, like his forearms.
He looked so much like Frank it took my breath away. I’d never really thought about what Frank must have looked like when he was young, but looking at his nephew I got a very clear picture.
He blushed and looked down at his feet. He mumbled “hey” in a quiet, adorably shy way.
Frank crossed to him swiftly in a few steps and hugged him. After a few seconds, Taylor hugged him back.
Rain nudged me with her elbow. “Let’s go out to the porch and give them a few minutes to get acquainted, shall we?”
I poured myself a cup of coffee and followed her out onto the screen porch, closing the sliding glass door behind me. The ceiling fans were turning, and I plopped down on the couch.
“Mom just called,” Rain said, crossing her short tanned legs. “Dufresne isn’t pressing charges. He says he just wants to forget the whole thing. Storm’s pretty relieved.” She laughed. “Mom really needs to mellow out a bit. I don’t like Dufresne either—he puts the hole in asshole—but she can’t go around slugging people.”
“She’s never going to change,” I replied, leaning back. We’d had some variation of this conversation any number of times over the years. “But I don’t know if I’d want her to.”
Rain is two years older than me and a year younger than Storm. Storm and I had been sent to Jesuit, an all boys’ school, while she went to McGehee, a school for wealthy society girls located on Prytania Street in the Garden District. Mom and Dad were avowed Wiccans and hated the pretensions of society, but also recognized the value of the education the private schools could provide. Every night over dinner they would “deprogram” us from the “lessons of privilege” we got at school. It was in junior high school that Rain started calling herself Rhonda. This rebellion against her hippie-style name at first was a huge concern to our parents until they realized she was just rebelling against her parents in the time-honored tradition of teens, and it was an expression of individuality rather than conformity.
And how else could you rebel against pot-smoking parents who pretty much let us do as we pleased?
Privately, she told me it was because “Rain’s just a fucking stupid name.”
She further rebelled by not only refusing to follow family tradition by going to Newcomb for college, but unlike Mom, who’d really rebelled by going to UNO, she’d gone to Baylor, where she met and married a poor country boy from the back country—the Rio Grande Valley near Harlingen—and put him through Tulane’s medical school. Now he was a surgeon based at Children’s Hospital, and she kept busy with her charities and the dogs.
And I couldn’t imagine a better older sister. She was awesome.
She also adored both Frank and Colin.
“How did Mom seem about,” I hesitated, “about finding Veronica’s body? I was really worried about her last night. I’ve never seen her like that before.”
“She was upset still, but about Veronica being murdered more than anything else, I would say.” Rain sipped her coffee. “She was also pretty upset for missing Frank’s match.” She leaned over and patted my arm. “And making you miss it. Don’t worry, I DVRed it and can record it onto a DVD for you.” She winked at me. “He was amazing! I was so proud of him. And he looks so good in those trunks.” She leaned back with a sigh. “I’m thinking about getting Tom some.”
“Tom would never wear a Speedo, would he?” I tried to picture my brother-in-law in a Speedo, and couldn’t. Tom was in really good shape—he worked with a trainer three times a week and did a lot of cardio—but he was really reserved.
“He wouldn’t in public.” Rain giggled. “But he’s a bit of a freak in private.”
I held up my hand. “Stop. TMI. There are some things about you I’d rather not know.”
“Fair enough.” She sighed. “I feel so bad for Hope,” she went on, not missing a beat. “No matter how crazy our mother gets—and she gets pretty crazy—I can’t imagine how awful it must have been to have that nutjob as your mother. And then to have her killed…” Her voice trailed off, and she shook her head sadly.
“You know Hope?” I stared at her, surprised.
She nodded. “The Porteries live over on Napoleon Avenue between Prytania and Magazine. You must know her grandmother…she’s one of Mama Bradley’s friends. Grace Porterie? You don’t remember her? She’s short, kind of solidly built? Always wears her pearls?” When I shook my head, she went on, “You’d know her if you saw her. I used to babysit Hope sometimes—she’s always been a sweet little girl, and smart as a whip. Nothing at all like that mother of hers…I suppose I shouldn’t be disrespectful now that she’s dead, but I can’t imagine abandoning my child like that.” She reached down and scratched one of the dogs’ heads. “I wouldn’t abandon the dogs, let alone a kid. What kind of mother does that?” She took another sip of her coffee. “I suppose Hope was lucky her grandparents were willing to take her. Can you imagine having a mother like that? Who killed someone?”
“No.” Mom had been arrested any number of times, but the charges were usually dropped or suspended. Mom’s arrests had something to do with some kind of protest or an act of civil disobedience, like the time she chained herself to the gates of a nuclear power plant in Oklahoma.
Before the Troy Dufresne incident on Monday, she’d only once been arrested for assault.
Of course, she’d slugged a cop, but videotape showed she was provoked and the charges had been thrown out.
But murder? I couldn’t imagine Mom ever killing anyone.
“And you might have known better than to go out there with Mom—that’s always a recipe for trouble.” Her eyes twinkled. “You just can’t get away from stumbling over bodies, can you?”
I gave her a dirty look. “You make it sound like it happens all the time.”
“It happens to you a lot more than it does to normal people,” she retorted, but her smile took the sting out of the words.
Much as I hated to concede, she did have a point. “Seriously.” I thought back to the first time it had happened, that same Southern Decadence weekend when I’d met both Frank and Colin. Since then, it had happened a lot more often than I’d like to admit, or remember. “But it’s been a while.”
She rolled her eyes. “Not even twenty-four hours, baby brother.”
“Har har.” I looked back into the kitchen. Taylor and Frank were sitting at the island, talking intensely. “What do you think of Taylor?”
Her face darkened a bit, and she scowled. “He’s a good kid, a really smart, sweet kid with good manners. What is wrong with his parents? I mean, look at him.” She wiped at her eyes. “They should be proud they raised such a good kid. So what if he’s gay? I swear to God, I want to drive up there and knock their idiot heads together. It’s all so stupid, an
d to claim religion as a basis for throwing out their child? No thank you. You’d think they’d turn their backs on a religion that would tell them they need to treat their kid like garbage. What kind of God, what kind of religion would ask that of a parent? Where’s the compassion? Where’s the Christian love?” Her eyebrows came together. “I just hope someday I get the chance to tell his dad exactly what I think of him. I’m so glad you and Frank are taking him in.”
“Yeah.” I looked down at my hands.
“What’s wrong with you? Is there something more you’re not telling me?” She looked at me shrewdly. “Mom said you were nervous about having him around. You do know that’s stupid, right?” She narrowed her eyes.
“Yeah, yeah, I know.” I shrugged. “I just don’t know, Rain. Am I the right person to be around an eighteen-year-old?”
“Listen to me.” She reached over and grabbed my hands. “You’re a good person, Milton Scott Bradley, and you know it. You have a big heart, and you always put others ahead of yourself. Mom and Dad raised us all right, and who better?” She giggled. “I remember when you were eighteen.” She rolled her eyes. “Constantly horny and going out all the time—he’ll be much the same, I would imagine.”
“I suppose,” I said dubiously. “Did he say anything about his plans? For after the summer?”
“Scotty.” She leaned forward and grabbed both of my hands. “We are all going to do everything we can to make him a part of the family—because he is family. Don’t ever forget that he’s family, okay? If he wants to go back to school at Alabama, we support him. If he wants to stay here and go to Tulane, we support that choice. If he wants to go to Paris to live with Jean-Michel, we support that decision.”
The door slid open, and I stood up as Frank and a red-faced Taylor came out onto the porch. “Taylor, I want you to meet my partner, Scotty. Scotty, this is our nephew, Taylor.”
I held out my hand and took his, shaking it. “I’m glad to finally meet you, Taylor. Welcome to New Orleans, and welcome to the family.”
“Thanks for putting me up,” he mumbled, looking down at his shoes again. “Sorry you have to.”
He was so adorable my heart melted. I threw my arms around him and gave him a big hug. He stiffened at first, but relaxed and hugged me back. “You’re family, Taylor. You’re welcome to stay with us as long as you like. You always have a home with us. I hope you know that.”
Frank beamed at me. “Go get your stuff, Taylor, and we’ll take you home.”
Without a word and still blushing, Taylor disappeared back into the house.
“Thanks, Rain.” Frank kissed the top of her head. “Taylor’s crazy about you.”
“What’s not to be crazy about?” she asked, one eyebrow arching upward. She stood and linked arms with us, walking us back to the foyer. “Frank, you were amazing last night. As soon as I burn the DVD, I’ll bring it over so you can see for yourself.” She punched him lightly in the arm. “I was so proud of you!”
Frank’s face turned just as red as Taylor’s had. Before he had a chance to say anything, Taylor was coming down the hall with a big green duffel bag slung over his shoulder. Rain hugged him. “Don’t be a stranger,” she said with a big smile. “I mean it!”
“Here.” I took his duffel bag, which was surprisingly heavy, and carried it out to the Explorer. I tossed it into the back and closed the hatch door.
“You all have to come over for dinner. Soon. I mean it!” Rain called from the front steps as we climbed into the Explorer. She waved as Frank backed out of her driveway.
“So, what do you think of New Orleans so far?” I asked, turning in my seat.
Taylor blushed furiously but grinned in a way that was so like Frank my heart almost skipped a beat. “I haven’t really seen much of it,” he confessed. “Rain just picked me up at the airport and we rushed home so we could see Uncle Frank’s match.” His eyes got wider. “That was awesome, Uncle Frank. I never knew you were a professional wrestler.” His face clouded. “Mom didn’t tell me anything about you.”
“Well, for one thing, you don’t have to call me uncle.” Frank smiled at him in the rearview mirror. “I told you, Frank’s fine.”
“And I’m Scotty,” I insisted. “No formality, okay?”
Frank headed up to Claiborne Avenue. “This isn’t quite the scenic route, but it’s quicker, Taylor,” he explained as he stopped at the light at Nashville.
“I think this is the way we came last night.” He looked out the window.
“Probably,” I replied as we started heading down Claiborne. “This way doesn’t really show the city off at its best, but we have all summer to show you around.”
“Thanks again,” he replied. “I’ll try not to be much of a bother.”
My heart broke a little at the sad tone in his voice. What kind of parents do you have? I wondered. Aloud I said, “You’re no bother, Taylor, really. You’re family.” I glanced over at Frank, who smiled back at me, reaching over to pat my leg with his big hand.
No one really spoke again until we reached Esplanade—although I did look into the back when we drove past the Superdome to see the starry-eyed look on Taylor’s face, and again when Claiborne passed behind St. Louis Cemetery Number One. He looked like an excited little boy, absolutely adorable. I felt some of my worry about having him around start to slip away. One of the things I loved about being a native was showing the city off to strangers—and how much fun would it be to show off New Orleans to an eighteen-year-old from rural Alabama? The food, the music, the gay bars, the architecture—I could easily spend the entire summer being a tourist with him. I started making a list in my head of all the places I needed to take him when we made the turn down Esplanade Avenue toward the river.
“Wow,” he said as we drove past the big beautiful old houses. “It’s so beautiful here.”
“What was Corinth like?” I asked.
“Ugly,” he mumbled. “Everything about Corinth was ugly. Especially the people.”
And my heart ached a little bit more, and I vowed to make sure he had the time of his life while he was staying with us. You never have to go back there, I thought determinedly. This is your home now. Fuck your parents.
Frank dropped us off on Decatur in front of the house and headed off to the parking lot.
“There used to be a coffee shop here,” I explained as Taylor stared at the boarded-over windows on the first floor of our building, unable to mask the shock on his face.
“Was this because of Katrina?” he asked solemnly.
I laughed. “No, the owners got divorced and they shut down, so our landladies boarded over the windows to prevent break-ins. Millie and Velma own the building, and they live on the second floor,” I explained as I unlocked the gate and opened the door. “We live on the third and fourth floors.” I led him down the dark passageway to the back courtyard, remembering how weird this must all seem to him, especially when we reached the sunlight again. Millie and Velma had done an excellent job with the courtyard. In the center a fountain bubbled with koi darting around in the water. Millie, in fact, was trimming back the roses as we entered the courtyard. “Millie! This is Frank’s nephew, Taylor. He’s going to be staying with us awhile.”
Millie straightened up and grinned at us. She was wearing a pair of cut-off blue jeans and a white T-shirt with Frank’s picture in full wrestling drag on the front. Millie was a retired gym teacher in her early sixties. She wore her iron-gray hair down to her shoulders, and she jogged along the levee every morning to keep herself in shape. She wiped at her forehead. “Nice to meet you, Taylor.” She pulled a joint from her shorts pocket, lighting it up and taking a deep inhale. “You smoke, Taylor?” she asked, offering it to him.
He gave me a panicked look.
“It’s okay, Taylor,” I said, thinking, He’s eighteen and in college. I started smoking when I was thirteen. “We all smoke—even your uncle. You’re not in Alabama anymore.” But as I watched him take it from her I couldn’t help b
ut feel like I was being a bad parent.
I felt a little better as I watched him take a long hit and hold it in expertly. Clearly he’s smoked pot before.
The smoke exploded out of him in a coughing fit.
“Yeah, we only get good stuff, Taylor, so if you’re used to dorm pot, you might want to take it a bit easy,” I said as I took it from him and inhaled, handing it back to Millie.
She waved it off. “Nah—you boys keep it. Scotty’s right, Taylor, that’s good shit. Primo. Another hit and I’ll go to sleep, and I promised Velma I’d get these roses trimmed today. You know how she gets.” She winked at us and picked up her shears.
As we climbed the back steps, I asked, “Is that duffel bag all you have?”
“Yeah.” He sighed. “Mom said she’d ship the rest of my stuff here, but this should do me until then.”
My heart broke just a little bit again as I fit my key into the lock of the third-floor apartment and opened the door. “You’ll be staying upstairs,” I said, standing aside so he could walk inside. “But this is where Frank and I live. The upstairs apartment has the same layout as this one, but we keep all the food and stuff down here. We primarily use the upstairs for guests and storage. Colin’s—” I bit my tongue.
Had Frank told him about Colin?
I expelled my breath. If Taylor was going to be with us a while, he was going to eventually meet Colin, and why not get all of the questions out of the way to begin with?
“Do you know about Colin?” I led him into the living room and flipped on the light switch. The chandelier flooded the room with light.
He blushed again and nodded. “Rain told me everything.” He took a deep breath and the next thing I knew he was giving me a big hug. “Thank you so much for everything! I’m so glad you’re letting me stay here! It’s so awesome! I’m so lucky! And how cool that you guys have a ménage with a hot international spy!”
Rain apparently told him everything. But then again, he is family.
“I’m just glad we can help out,” I said, extricating myself from his grasp with a big smile.
