by Julie Smith
And when she wasn't at work, she was either asleep or just couldn't get up the energy to find the phone book. She couldn't shop or cook either. She ordered greasy po' boys from the Verti Marte or the Quarter Master, and her clothes got tighter.
Her appetite was erratic, but she never lost it completely.
Mostly, she ate because she was hungry, not because it gave her pleasure.
Steve Steinman, worried and sure he could cure her, came for a weekend and went home more worried. She did with him what she did with her other friends, with Cindy Lou and Jimmy Dee, even with the kids and Darryl—she listened politely, ate and drank at appropriate times, even laughed at the proper places, but didn't contribute much.
"Darling, the sparkle is gone," wailed Dee-Dee. "You do not shine and glitter from twenty paces. You are no longer a walking Christmas tree, a spinning Ferris wheel, a revolving klieg light.
Quite simply, you are not Margaret Langdon. You are a pathetic and flagrant impostor." He was begging her to take a little time of! Everybody knew how to save her.
But weeks went by and she didn't get better.
* * *
Her doorbell rang one Saturday.
Convinced it was one of the drunks who prowl the Quarter pushing bells for amusement, she ignored it. But it rang again and she came alert—the pranksters didn't break stride when they rang, much less waited for an answer.
She was sleeping as usual, but thought it might be one of the kids, locked out or something. She roused herself: '"Who is it?"
"Tricia. Back from the dead."
She was too disoriented to answer right away.
Tricia said, "Are you speaking to me?"
I can barely remember who you are.
But she said, "Of course. I'll be right out," and remembered too late that Tricia was a drunk.
Well, if she's drunk I'll send her away. It's the middle of the day, she'll be fine. But she knew she wouldn't. She would take care of Tricia if she needed her; caretaking was one of the few things for which she could still find energy.
Something about guilt, probably.
"I brought you something? Tricia was holding a beribboned package.
Probably a peace offering.
She looked good in a T-shirt and shorts that showed legs shiny gold from the sun. Her eyes were bright and clear.
Now she has her sparkle, Skip thought. She does glitter at twenty paces.
"You look wonderfu1." Feeling a surge of warmth for her old friend, she held out her arms for a hug.
"I do, don't I? I'm on a pink cloud."
"What does that mean? You're in love?"
"It's something we say in AA."
"Oh. AA." Skip let it hang there.
They walked back to the courtyard, where, for once, there were no kids and no puppy.
"Want to sit out here?"
"Perfect."
Skip left and came back with a couple of Diet Cokes. "Tell me about the pink cloud."
"It's that great feeling you get when you get all the toxins out of your body." She spread her hands, as if displaying her purified form. "And your life is going somewhere again, and you're surrounded by nice, supportive people. Of course, it doesn't last—we all know that—but it feels great for a while.
"Clean and sober for a month. Congratulate me."
"Tricia, that's wonderful."
"I went through a seven-day treatment program. On the streets three weeks—I'm a new person." She saluted with her Coke. "And you were there when I hit bottom."
"You mean the scene in front of Maya's?"
"Oh, God, that was nothing. I bet I've thrown ten of those fits in the last six months. I mean having you see me—you know, in that place."
"Maya's?"
"I thought I'd die. I swear I did."
"I don't get it."
"You wouldn't think embarrassment would do it, would you? You'd think having a wreck or beating your kid—now that would sober you up. But there you were, my oldest friend, and you thought I was sober and doing great, and there I was, holding onto the chandelier for dear life." She shook her head. "I can't explain it. All I know is, I thought, ‘What the fuck has become of me?' "
Skip laughed. "Rather unseemly for a McGehee's girl."
Tricia covered her head with her hands, as if to hide. "Life is too silly, isn't it?"
Skip was unconvinced; it had seemed deadly serious lately.
"Anyway, it was all your doing." Tricia handed her the package.
"So I brought you a present."
It contained a framed picture, a pen-and-ink drawing of a large, proud, black woman. With very few strokes, the artist had captured a state of mind that said, "I am a goddess and don't you forget it."
In spite of herself, Skip was touched. "Carol Leake. I have one of her watercolors."
"You're kidding."
"I'll show you." She realized that her oldest friend had never been inside her home.
Tricia exclaimed appropriately over its adorableness, the tastefulness of its decor, and the beauty of its artwork, including the aforementioned Carol Leake, which, upon inspection, proved to be a study of the same model who'd sat for the drawing.
The warmth she felt for Tricia was increasing by the moment, as the broken bond mended itself, as she remembered the things they'd been through together, over so many years. Somehow the fact that Tricia had picked this drawing by this artist, whom Tricia couldn't possibly have known she admired, made her feel known. Understood.
Part of something ongoing; something that might last.
But it wore off.
They hung the picture, Tricia advising on the exact right spot, and settled themselves once more. And after a while Tricia began to annoy her.
She's so pleased with herself, so damn smug, so thrilled with her little achievement.
Skip remembered her screaming, out of control in front of Maya's, and thought, What the hell is she thinking? This is never going to last. She was so out of sorts, her nerves so frayed and raw, that she blurted it out: "Come on, Tricia, you've done this before. What makes you think it'll stick?"
And then she thought, She'll go right out and scare drugs. She'll get strung out and it'll be all my fault.
"God, Tricia—I'm sorry. I don't know why I said that."
But Tricia smiled, apparently unoffended. "It's okay. I ask myself that all the time." She leaned over and patted Skip's hand. "Don't look so miserable. It's okay. Really."
Skip was still mortified. "Want another Coke?"
Tricia didn't acknowledge that she'd spoken. "It's worse than you think, Skip. I've done it twice before. But to answer your question, I have no idea whether I can make it stick. You know what we say in my religion—one day at a time."
It's so fucking pat.
"You want to know what? I'm hanging by a thread here. But today I'm okay.
"If I get loaded tomorrow, so be it. But today I'm okay." She shrugged. "And I feel like I've got my life back."
Skip felt a surge of envy. "You seem . . . almost happy."
"I'm delirious. I'm trying to be a writer, but I don't write because I've been so out of it lately. Instead, I'm a cocktail waitress. I haven't had a date in two years that you could actually call ‘a date.' I mean I might have slept with a few guys whose names I can't remember, but nothing—you know—resembling a relationship. I've only got a month's sobriety and I'm already a two-time loser—in short, I'm a mess. But I'm thrilled out of my mind. I'm beside myself with delight. Life's crazy, huh?"
Skip thought of the night, weeks ago, when Steve had been with her and they were at dinner with Cindy Lou and Layne and Jimmy Dee, and she had been so happy she wanted to preserve the moment in amber. It was the same night Toni had read her palm; the night before Jim was shot.
"Yeah. Life's crazy." Skip tried to keep the bite out of her voice. "Uh-oh. Something's wrong."
"You don't know, do you?" Tricia must have been in rehab when Skip was front page news. Skip didn't feel like danci
ng around it: "Somebody killed my partner, and I ended up killing him."
Tricia was quiet. Finally, she said, "How are you handling it?"
"Poorly. Damn badly." Here was someone she'd known her whole life, who probably wouldn't think she was nuts if she mentioned that she herself was hanging by a thread. She told her everything, ending with the part that was consuming her. "The worst part is, I feel like it's all a big zero. I can't figure out what the fuck it means."
''What it means?"
"Did I have to go through this for nothing? Isn't there something to be learned from it? There's got to be something. But so far no. Everyone tells me I'm a hero and I did a great job. And I know I did a great job. He'd already tried to kill me by the time I shot. He fired first, and he probably would have got me if I hadn't seen his reflection—so see, I did a good job, and not only that, I was lucky. " She threw out her arms in frustration. "So I'm here and he's not. What the hell does it mean?"
"Why was he trying to kill you?"
"You know, you're the first person to ask that? Even Cindy Lou never asked. I don't have the least idea why he was trying to kill me. I didn't stop to ask him."
Tricia sat back on Skip's striped sofa. "It's got to give you a different take on things—someone trying to kill you."
Skip shrugged. "He's not the first one."
"Oh, God, I'd be depressed too."
Skip clasped her hands, sunk once more in despair. "Yeah."
Tricia said, "I've got to think for a minute." She closed her eyes and rubbed her head. Then she got up and walked to the window. When she came back, she said. "Well, there's got to be something to be learned from this."
"That's my line."
"Here's the thing: It will come clear. But I have to warn you of something. It may take years. You can't sit around waiting for a sign from heaven. You could go to a shrink—or are you seeing one already?"
Skip shook her head.
"I thought not. This doesn't feel like it's something in you. The answer, I mean. In you yet, anyway. When it comes, it'll come."
"What will come?"
"The lesson; the justification. I don't know—the knowledge. The thing that puts it in perspective."
"What makes you so sure?"
Tricia laughed. "Nobody can prove me wrong, can they? I love predicting the future—who's going to disagree?"
It's too facile. But her mind began to chew on it.
Even when you're a kid, when you're in school, you don't get the point of anything. You don't see why you have to learn to add or know the parts of speech, and then one day you're trying to balance your checkbook or write some damn case report, and you never think, "Oh, so that's it." You've just learned it and you use it. Maybe this is like that.
She was suddenly unbearably tired, couldn't wait for Tricia to leave. The instant she could, she threw off her clothes and flung herself down.
The taste of tears warmed her tongue as she fell asleep.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The wonderful folks at Arnaud's provided invaluable expertise on the restaurant world, and Chef Kevin Davis even lent me his knives. My heartfelt thanks to Chef Kevin, Rick Mayeaux, Ross Miller, Norman Henry, and especially to jane and Archie Casbarian, who let me spy on them to my heart's content.
NOPD Captain Linda Buczek gave generously of her time, energy, and imagination, as did Lieutenant Bob Italiano, Sergeant Jimmy Keen, and Detectives Wayne Rumore, Tony Caprera, and Joey Catalanotto.
Help came from many other kind New Orleanians, including Betsy and Jim Petersen, Kit and Billy Wohl, Janet Plume, Debbie Faust, Chris Wiltz, and two writers whose excellent books I relied on: Bethany Bultman, author of New Orleans, my favorite guidebook; and Carol Flake, author of New Orleans: Behind the Masks of America's Most Exotic City.
Thanks to them all and to David Ramus, Earl Emerson, Susan Berman, Becky Light, Steve Holtz, Sandy Pearlman, Jon Carroll, and Captain Ronnie Jones of the Louisiana State Police Department's gaming enforcement division.
The fictional restaurant herein—Hebert's—isn't based on a real restaurant, but the proposed casino is very real. At this writing, there's no plan for an important restaurant in the casino and therefore there's been no infighting of the sort described in the book.
In Louisiana, though, it's never over till it's over.
