by Julie Smith
House of Blues
A Skip Langdon Novel
Julie Smith
1995
For Linda Buczek
because this is her favorite
l
In New Orleans, as in many American cities, crime is Topic A. The annual murder rate is somewhere around 4oo and climbing. In addition, 2,000 people who do not die are shot each year.
The detectives assigned to Homicide say there are no fistfights anymore.
The police, as is traditional in America in the nineties, where people talk of little but crime, are overworked, understaffed, and paid more like schoolteachers than CEOs.
White people blame black people. Many carry guns.
Blacks, many of whom are among the 2,400 killed or wounded annually, feel as if they are under fire in more ways than one. They also incline toward firearms.
The economy, which was hit hard from the oil bust, is still in disarray, but there is hope. The world's largest casino, soon to be built, may create employment and draw the sort of tourist the city so desperately needs—the sort that starts with F, soon parted from his money. That is, the casino is soon to be built if the wrangling over every tiny detail connected with its building and operating is ever settled.
The petty scam is so much a way of life throughout the state that the natives shake their heads and tell the tourists, "Louisiana doesn't tolerate corrupt politicians; it demands them."
In one gubernatorial election, a candidate perceived as a dangerous racist ran against one of such unsavory reputation that a bumper strip urged good liberals to "Vote for the crook; it's important." Indeed, the winner himself remarked that one-armed people had been unable to vote for him, since his supporters needed one hand to hold their noses and another to pull the lever.
Yet despite crime and corruption, New Orleans remains arguably the most beautiful American city; the most gracious; the most charming.
It is also the most eccentric. Walker Percy, one of its most revered writers, noted that here "the tourist is apt to see more nuns and naked women than he ever saw before," the combination being the intriguing part. But eccentricity has its perils: Louisiana has the usual drunk-driving laws, and New Orleans more than its share of drunks—yet drive-in daiquiri stands abound and flourish. On the other hand, the city's justly famous flamboyance is also its best feature. As the neighborhoods change, as the Crips and Bloods get bigger toeholds, as more and more middle-class mamas start to pack pistols, this at least remains a constant. The drag queen is welcome here, as is the voodoo queen, the queen of vampire fiction, and the Queen of Carnival—as long as none of them bore anybody.
Like Mexico or the Caribbean, the city is an odd mixture of the up-to-the-minute and the archaic—with a good deal more emphasis on the latter.
Yet perhaps even that is changing. A local publication recently lamented that people hardly ever say they're going out to "make groceries" anymore.
Only rarely now is a sidewalk referred to as a "banquette."
Still, "neutral grounds" continue to divide the streets, and a Mardi Gras trinket remains, not a string, but "a pair" of beads. And some of the old customs survive. It used to be that everyone cooked red beans and rice on Monday because this was wash day—you could put your beans on and go about your business.
Though the washing machine made the custom obsolete, some of the restaurants still observe it. In at least one august and unlikely household, that of Sugar and Arthur Hebert, it was revived some years ago.
Owner-operators of Hebert's ("A-Bear's," the menu tells tourists), a restaurant where the dish has never been served, they convinced themselves at some point that they enjoyed nothing so much as the simplest of fare after a week of serving up Creole delicacies, and fell into the habit of consuming the dish during their weekly family dinners—on Monday, because the restaurant was closed then.
Hebert's was one of the city's finest restaurants—of the sort called "Creole," meaning the kind of sophisticated, French-style cooking native to the city rather than the country. In the bayous, it is sometimes thought, is where you'd find the cuisine called "Cajun," unless you went to a city restaurant specializing in it—K-Paul's, for instance. In reality, however, many Cajun-style dishes are found in fine restaurants like Hebert's. Creole cooking is such a mixture of styles and cultures it can't really be classified. An excellent book on New Orleans notes that, "In each bowl of gumbo served in Louisiana today, there is French roux, African okra, American Indian file, Spanish peppers, Cajun sausage, and oysters supplied by Yugoslav fishermen, served over Chinese-cultivated Louisiana rice."
Red beans, however, essential as they are to the city's cuisine, are humble enough that you'd more likely find them at neighborhood restaurants than on the menu at Antoine's—or Hebert's.
* * *
Why? thought Sugar as she dished up beans one balmy evening in June. Why, when we could be having a nice crab salad? Why, week after week, red beans and rice, nothing else? Ever.
Why?
Because Arthur wants it. Everything's that way.
Why did the termites nearly eat the restaurant? Because Arthur wouldn't believe it was happening. Why did we almost lose Nina? Because Arthur's such a snob he wouldn't speak to her at first.
"Mom, can I help you?" It was her daughter, Reed. "It's done now." Sugar could have used her twenty minutes ago.
Eighteen-month-old Sally was already at the table, rocking in her high chair, straining to get out.
Reed's husband Dennis was trying to talk her out of it. Arthur was opening champagne.
That was Arthur's little irony. He might eat red beans and rice, but he always served an excellent wine with it. Tonight they were having champagne because there were things to celebrate.
He filled the glasses.
"A toast," he said, "to la deuxieme Hebert's—a triumph against terrific odds."
"May our luck hold," said Dennis.
Arthur gave him a look that said, What do you mean 'Our'?
"Hear, hear," said Sugar, to smooth it over.
"We did it," said Reed. "I don't know how, but we did it."
"May you never have to sit through another board meeting."
"I'll drink to that."
A dozen restaurateurs—some old, some new—had fought for the concession at the casino. An elegant restaurant was called for—something in the New Orleans tradition—and it had to be a name brand, something the tourists would recognize. Hebert's was certainly in the running, but it was in competition with bigger names—huge names like Antoine's, Arnaud's, Brennan's.
Yet it had won.
Hebert's had won. Reed's relentless research and planning, her constant dogging of the board, the endless nights she'd put in planning the restaurant, then planning her strategy, had paid off. She was a prize, Sugar thought. Surely the pride of the Heberts. It was a miracle, and she'd pulled it off.
"We have something else to drink to," said Dennis, his grin slightly crooked, a little unsure.
"What's that?"
"Arthur's sixty-fifth."
Reed said, "Happy birthday, Daddy."
"We already did that."
"Let's do it again."
"Let's don't."
Oh, don't be an old coot. Sugar didn't say it, but she was rnad; she hated it when he put Reed down. And putting Dennis down was putting Reed down.
You'd think that with Sally and everything, he'd have simmered down. But he gets more and more irascible. I wonder if he's depressed? Doesn't Alzheimers start like this?
Despite his ill nature, everyone drank to Arthur. Sugar served the plates, as she had every Monday since she could remember.
Sally protested.
"What is it, baby?" said Reed. "What's the matter? Mmmm. Red beans. Yum. S
ally's favorite, hmm?"
Arthur seemed embarrassed. "Hey, Dennis," he said. "There were these three black guys, Jackson, Leroy, and Clarence. And Leroy says to Clarence, he says—"
"Daddy, please don't." Reed's face said she'd just seen a car crash; her voice sounded desperate.
"Oh, Reed, take it easy—I haven't even said anything yet."
"I can tell this is going to be the kind of joke I don't like."
"Well, la-di-da, Miss High and Mighty. You always have to have everything your own way, don't you?"
Reed looked at the table, embarrassed.
"You just have no sense of humor." He paused, but no one spoke. "Do you?"
"I just don't see why you have to tell racist jokes."
"I am not a racist and you know it, Reed. Dennis doesn't mind. Dennis likes my jokes, don't you, Dennis?"
Dennis bared some teeth, but Sugar wasn't sure it was exactly a smile.
"Look, I pay my employees better than anybody in the Quarter, don't I? And I hire blacks. You know I hire 'em. Look at my second-in-command—not only black, but a woman. I give the best benefits of anybody around too. You watch out who you're calling a racist."
"I didn't think that joke was going to be appropriate, that's all."
To deflect the two of them, Sugar said, "We certainly had a good crowd over the weekend."
"Reed put in twelve hours on Saturday," said Dennis. "Sally was beginning to wonder if she had a mother."
Arthur smacked his lips. "Hell, she should have gone home. Doesn't do that much anyway."
Reed's voice was small. "I try."
Sugar knew he didn't mean it—Reed had been more or less running the restaurant for years; it was just the way he talked.
"Anyway," said Reed, "you can relax soon. It'll all be up to me."
"God help us."
"Know what I think I'm going to do? Have the place painted cream—like this room, like your dining room—and put in a lot of mirrors."
"No, you're not. We've got a winning formula—why mess with it?"
"Some plants too. I'd just like to update it a little; freshen it up."
"You mess with Hebert's, I'll update you, young lady."
Far from being daunted, Reed smiled; he was just being Arthur. "I think the wait staff is a little short too. We've never had waitresses—I'd like to hire some women."
"No!" It was a roar. "You don't have waitresses in a place like Hebert's. You have waitresses at lunch counters."
Sugar spoke up: "Oh, Arthur, take it easy. She's just excited. There has to be a period of adjustment, you know; when a new person takes over."
At his birthday party the previous Friday, Arthur had officially announced his retirement, passing the torch to his daughter. Since Reed had worked in the restaurant from the time she was a teenager, had gone to Cornell to learn how to run it, had eaten, slept, and breathed Hebert's all her life, it was her big moment in the spotlight—the culmination of her training and her life's work.
"Anyway, Reed's been full of plans for three days—the only thing is, they're different every hour."
Reed seemed not to be listening. She said, "Daddy, what would you think about getting a decorator in? Maybe you're right. Maybe I shouldn't try to do it myself."
"You're not getting any decorator in."
Sugar had had enough. "She can do what she Wants, Arthur. Reed's in charge now."
"Well, I don't think she's up to the job."
"You should have thought of that before you gave it to her."
"I didn't give it to her, I was just talking."
For a moment there was a stunned silence. Dennis broke it. "What do you mean you didn't give it to her?"
"Can't an old man get drunk and sentimental? I was in a real good mood about Hebert's II, and anyway, it was my birthday."
"Dad, are you saying you don't want me to take over the restaurant?" Reed's voice was like feathers—insubstantial, barely brushing the air.
"That's what I'm saying."
Dennis said, "Hey!" Anger shot from his eyes.
"But you gave me a legal document. I'm the CEO now."
"I want it back on my desk by tomorrow morning."
"You can't be serious."
"Reed, you're too immature to be running a business. We'd be broke in two weeks with you at the helm."
"What are you saying?"
"I've already said it loud and clear. I was drunk, I didn't mean it, and that paper means nothing either. I'rn not retiring and you're not taking over."
"You can't do this to me! You just can't play this kind of game. To me, it isn't a game at all. All my life, I've worked for you, and now—" She stopped and flung out both arms as she struggled for words. One of them caught Sally's dish, on its high-chair tray. The dish flipped onto the child's chest and fell back onto the tray. Hot beans dripped into Sally's lap.
She howled.
"You idiot!" shouted Arthur. "For Christ's sake, Reed, you don't have the sense God gave a marmoset. Look at that poor child. Don't just stand there—get that hot food off her before she has to be rushed to the hospital."
Dennis reached for Sally, giving Reed a look that said he wished he could do more. "It's okay, baby, you're all right," he cooed, wiping at the red-brown mess with a white linen napkin.
"Just look at that," said Arthur. "Her clothes are ruined." There was a curiously satisfied note in his voice.
Sugar went to the kitchen and plucked Reed's house key off its hook; they lived only blocks apart and were in and out of each other's houses constantly. Each had a key to the other's. "I'll go get her some clean overalls."
Sugar slipped out easily, hardly noticed. She thought of driving, but found she really wanted to walk. It was three blocks there and three back—about a twenty-minute walk. Daylight saving time had kicked in, so there was plenty of time before dark.
True, they were in the heart of the Garden District, a high-crime area, but kids were still out playing; people were watering their lawns, coming home from work. Though it was the Heberts' weekend, it was still Monday for everyone else.
It should be safe enough now, and she needed the break from her family. That and the fresh air. She took some deep breaths. The city was a little like a sauna, but there was a breeze. It was going to be a heavenly, velvety, subtropical evening.
Flowers were in bloom.
Sugar painted flowers.
This was her hobby and her art. She had wanted to work in the restaurant, but Arthur hadn't wanted her; had tried volunteer work, but had had the sense of being interchangeable with everyone else who was doing it. She had to find something that was uniquely hers, and she had happened to take a course in watercolor. And that was it. She loved the softness of the colors and the softness of flowers; the two belonged together.
She had tried other things, but she hadn't been good at them. Figure drawing was beyond her. Landscapes were tedious. Flowers were her. They went with her personality, and her name. She was nicknamed Sugar for a reason—in her peaches-and-cream blondness, she had reminded her parents of nothing so much as something yummy for dessert. Her dad had told her that a thousand times.
Pink was her favorite color.
Flowers were her delight, and her symbol. They were endlessly fascinating, with their pistils and their stamens, their petals and their sepals, their stems, roots, xylem, and phloem; she was in heaven when she was surrounded by flowers and paint.
What's wrong with Arthur?
What does he think he's doing?
Sugar banished thoughts of the ugly thing happening at her table. She wanted to be away from all that for a while.
But she couldn't stop herself.
Maybe he wants Nina to run the restaurant.
And maybe he just can't stand to give up control.
"Hey, Sugar." Mary O'Connor was on her way to her car.
"Hey, Mary. Your yard looks nice."
"You know, I just thought you'd want to know. I was in Hebert's the other night and it
took an hour for the entrees to come. It was a delicious dinner, but don't you think that's ridiculous? I just thought you'd want to know."
"Thanks, Mary. I appreciate it."
"Well, actually, some of the vegetables were really underdone. I don't mean al dente, I mean barely warm. Raw, to tell you the truth."
"The chef is breaking in some new help; I'll speak to him about it."
"Well, I knew you'd want to know."
She'd have to remember to tell Arthur. Or Reed. Who knew who was going to run the restaurant? The players seemed to be changing drastically.
Sugar was much more in the mood for flowers than for complaints about Hebert's. Right now there wasn't that much in bloom, at least on this street. There were some hibiscus and some roses, though—some gorgeous double yellow hibiscus. They'd be fun to paint. She didn't usually work with tropicals—something about them seemed a little too easy, like long summer days with nothing to do. She preferred a more complicated flower, like these double blooms.
A kid came barreling down the street on his bike, pedaling so fast his feet looked like an eggbeater. He was giving it every ounce of energy he had, pouring it on as if that were all there was to life, moving your legs and feeling the breeze in your face, your heart pounding in your chest until it hurt. Sugar could remember doing that, and for a moment bemoaned the dulling effect of age, regretted that she'd never do it again nor want to. Though she could remember the act, she no longer had the slightest notion what it was like to have that kind of energy.
As she drew closer to Reed and Dennis's, she walked more slowly, enjoying herself, glad to be away from the oppression of the house.
Of Arthur.
What's wrong with me? she thought. He's my husband but I can barely stand him anymore. The older he gets, the surer he is that he's right. Which is all he wants to be.
She didn't think at all about how the problem with Reed would be resolved—she wasn't interested. She thought only about Arthur. She thought he had been horribly unfair to Reed, given the hard work she'd done for the restaurant. But fairness entered into few of Arthur's decisions. He wanted what he wanted, which was to be right, and to be in control.
She wondered what had made him think for a moment about giving up control of the restaurant. He had said he would run Hebert's II, and that he couldn't do both. But it would be like Arthur to die trying.
