Cajun Nights

by Don Donaldson

  “I’m kind of surprised you’d be willing to take these cars out on the road,” Kit said.

  “Because they might get damaged?”

  She nodded.

  “If you’re so afraid of damagin’ what you own that you won’t use it, you ought not to have it. Besides, anything one man can break, another can fix, and I’ve got a genius of a mechanic and body man I can call when I need help. And that area down there,” he pointed to a portion of the garage partitioned off by a concrete block wall with a picture window in it, “is fully equipped for any kind of eventuality, includin’ enough parts for another complete car.” He looked at his watch. “I’d better get you home before I take up your whole evenin’.”

  *

  Broussard dropped her off a little after six. She considered calling David to cancel their date, but then began to think of the bodies she’d seen that evening and suddenly didn’t want to be alone. David was still working as he said he would be, and they agreed to meet at the Rialto, a small restaurant on Dauphine Street, a few blocks from David’s office.

  In the shower, she soaped herself to a lather, rinsed, and was about to step from the tub when she changed her mind and did it all again. This time it was bloody exam papers, a kitchen floor with bootprints on it, and the memory of a fleshless face that she was trying to wash clean.

  She walked the few blocks over to St. Charles and caught the trolley to Canal. It was getting late and there were only a few other riders, an old man reading a newspaper folded into a tiny square, a glassy-eyed maid in white holding a grocery bag on her lap, and in the back, a woman trying to get her little boy to stop climbing over the seats.

  As often as she had made the trip, Kit never tired of it. With limbs of ancient oaks stretching over the sidewalks like the nave in a vast church and huge azaleas providing a rich green contrast to the sparkling white columns and porch balustrades of the great wedding-cake houses lining the avenue, it was a magical place. She could not understand how the old man could read his newspaper and how the maid could prefer staring into space when there was all this to see.

  The trolley clattered its way past the immense houses, curled around Lee Circle, and entered the commercial canyons of downtown. At Canal Street, where the tracks made a return loop, she got off and walked the short distance to the Rialto.

  Pausing at the top of the short flight of carpeted stairs, her hand on one of the brass rails that flanked the steps, Kit saw in the dim light of the restaurant that their favorite table, the one in the corner near the Australian fern, was occupied by four men in business suits. Most of the other tables were also occupied, none of them by David. She looked along the wall with the booths and saw him halfway back. He waved, the happy look on his face making her glad she had come.

  As she walked toward him, she noticed a man sitting alone two booths to the rear. He was dark like David, but with a stronger jaw. Unlike David, whose hair was always combed meticulously straight back, his was casually arranged, but also with no part in it. His sensual lips made David’s seem even thinner than they actually were. Shockingly, he raised his wine glass to her. Embarrassed and afraid that David might also have noticed where her attention lay, she lowered her eyes.

  “How’d it go?” David asked as she slid into the seat opposite him.

  With her palms on the checkered tablecloth, she poured out all she had seen. “Great, terrible, I’m not sure. Since I left you this afternoon, I’ve seen five bodies, one with his face burned off and another who’d shot himself in the head. Am I going to ruin your dinner with all this?”

  David shook his head and Kit continued.

  Talking about it here in clean, comfortable surroundings with the gentle murmur of other conversations in the background almost made it seem like it hadn’t been real, that it hadn’t really happened.

  Her story was interrupted by a male waiter in black pants, a black sleeveless vest, and a white blouse. As he took their order to the kitchen, David said, “What kind of guy is Broussard? I’ve used him a couple of times as a witness, but have never talked with him outside the courtroom.”

  “You should. He’s fantastic. If you were ever thinking of committing a murder, you wouldn’t want him on the case.”

  “That’s always been my impression. But he’s a little on the large side, isn’t he?”

  “Just like you’re going to be if you don’t lay off the French bread.”

  He took her hand and kissed the skin between her finger and thumb. “When it comes to Greeks, more is better. Ummmm, you taste good.”

  Embarrassed, Kit looked around them. “Shhhh, people will hear you.”

  She tried to pull her hand back, but he held on and began to kiss each finger.

  Kit dipped the fingers of her free hand in her water and flicked them in David’s face. Surprised, he let go of her.

  “Your table manners are atrocious,” he said with mock seriousness, patting at his face with a checkered napkin.

  “You got just what you deserved, you pervert.”

  He leaned forward and reached for her leg under the table.

  “Daaaavid!” she hissed, sliding into the corner of the booth. “Behave.”

  She was saved by the waiter’s arrival with two steaming plates of spaghetti, two baskets of French bread, and a bottle of wine. When they were finished eating, David said, “Got a dime?”

  She knew him well enough to realize what was coming. “You’ve been to the magic shop again, haven’t you?” she said.

  “Never mind. Just give me a dime.”

  “I heard that it was illegal for anybody over twelve to go into those shops,” she said, digging in her purse. “Here.”

  “You keep it and mark it with this so you’ll be able to recognize it.” She took the felt-tip pen he held out to her and made two dots on the head and one on the tail. “Now give it to me,” he instructed.

  He took the coin, dropped both hands below the table, then brought them up again almost immediately and offered her a small white matchbox tightly wrapped with rubber bands. His black eyes danced with that mischievous light that sometimes made him look like a little boy. It was at these times that she almost believed she loved him.

  She removed the rubber bands and took off the lid. Inside was a smaller matchbox, wrapped like the first. “If my dime is in here, you’re good,” she said, tugging at the second set of rubber bands. Inside was a little red pouch with a rubber band around the neck. “I have to hand it to you, David, this is one of your better tricks.” She opened the pouch, shook the contents into her hand, and inhaled sharply. Instead of the coin she expected to find, the pouch held a ring whose diamond setting burned with cold fire from the reflection of the table’s flickering candle. “Oh, David.” She sighed.

  “ ’Oh, David, how wonderful’? Or, ’Oh, David, I wish you hadn’t’?” he asked.

  She looked at him affectionately, yet with a certain sadness. “David, I…” She hoped he might anticipate the gist of what she was about to say and help her out. But he just sat there waiting, a well-trained lawyer allowing the witness to put her foot in her own mouth. “… It’s too soon,” she said.

  He looked hurt. “What do you mean too soon? We’ve known each other for nearly two years. I thought that once you finished your degree you’d be ready to start a family.”

  Kit stiffened. “Why did you assume that? Were you satisfied after finishing law school? Of course not. That was just a beginning for you, a first step. Why did you believe my degree had any different meaning to me? David, I’m just starting my career, something I’ve been working toward for four hard years. I’m not going to jeopardize my professional future by getting tied down with children right now.”

  “I don’t know what kind of people you come from,” David said. “But to Greeks, family is everything; a blood tie to the past, a link to the future. A man without children has nothing.”

  “I wonder how eager you Greek men would be for kids if you had to drag the big belly arou
nd and wipe the strained pears off the wall. Being a mother is not my idea of a life’s work.”

  “What is?” David asked. “… Hiding in toilet stalls and studying the effects of multiple patrons on bladder-emptying time?”

  Kit glared at him without speaking, her face set in ice.

  “I’m sorry,” David said, running his fingers through his hair. “That was uncalled for.”

  “But very telling. I’ve felt for a long time that you think my work is frivolous and now I know you do.”

  “Come on, relax. Don’t make more out of that remark than was there.”

  Kit thrust out her chin and said coldly, “I’m sorry, David. It’s an occupational hazard. All us ’shrinks’ do it.” She reached over and dropped the ring in his half-filled wineglass. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to take my headache home and go to bed.” She worked herself free of the booth and stood up. In an elaborate gesture, she let her checkered napkin fall to the table.

  David fished the ring from his glass. “I’ll drive you,” he said, pulling the napkin from his lap.

  “Don’t bother. I’ll take the trolley.”

  “It’s late. They aren’t running now.”

  “A cab then. Good-bye, David.”

  She turned to go, but David grabbed her arm. “Do me a favor, will you?” he said. “When you calm down, ask yourself if this career thing is something you really want, or is it something you think you should want? Does it come from your guts, or from the pages of Cosmopolitan? Think about it.”

  Allowing him the last word, she went into the night without looking back.

  Later, as she lay in bed, she did think about it. What did it matter where her motivation came from? Some feminist’s typewriter, an admired acquaintance, or a forgotten book read when she was a child. It’s all the same. Desires that “come from your guts,” as David put it, are simply feelings that can’t be readily traced to their source. Poor David. There was so much about life that he didn’t understand.

  Unable to sleep, she turned her thoughts to a more troublesome point. His proposal. Perhaps she had been too hasty. She and David had enjoyed many good times together. He was witty, charming, and attentive, and she very much enjoyed the physical side of their relationship. But she didn’t hear bells, and she didn’t think of him every minute when they were apart. Wasn’t that a big part of what had kept her from accepting his ring, the feeling that somewhere there was someone who could make her feel like Jell-O inside?

  But maybe what she had with David was what love is when you grow up. Maybe the capacity for head-over-heels, sick-to-your-stomach love is something you leave behind like old high school yearbooks and your training bra. She half-heartedly considered reopening the matter to see whether they might reach some agreement about children and her career, but the thought of bargaining over terms for their marriage like a peasant haggling with a shopkeeper over a fish so repelled her that she put the thought out of her mind and finally went to sleep.

  *

  The next day, she was scheduled for her regular visit to the Happy Years nursing home where, for over a year, she had been doing volunteer work twice a month as a psychological counselor. The arrangement began when the administrators of the home had asked the Tulane psychology department whether they might have someone in their program who would be interested in helping old folks at the home cope with living in an institutional environment. They were particularly concerned about the periods of depression some of the residents were experiencing. Since suicide was Kit’s special interest and depression was one of the chief causes of suicide, she had jumped at the opportunity. Broussard had not merely allowed her to continue her association with the home, but had enthusiastically encouraged it. Investigation of the deaths from the previous day would have to wait awhile.

  As she drove, she found herself inspecting the other cars on the highway for clues about their owners. The car ahead had a decal in the back window from Florida State University, and on the bumper, there was a current parking lot sticker from the same school. The owner was obviously a college student home for the summer. Big deal. Compared to the things Broussard could do with a simple observation, this was kid stuff. She concentrated on the facts, trying to extract something worthwhile from them, something not right on the surface, something worthy of Broussard. But before she could do it, the trip was over.

  As always, a faint hint of urine met her at the door. From down the hall and around the corner she heard the hysterical voice of the chief administrator, a woman named Ida Swenson. There was also another sound, one she couldn’t identify.

  “What on earth is the matter with you?” Swenson screamed. Then there was that other sound again. Rounding the corner, Kit saw Swenson with a frail old man in a blue bathrobe and street shoes. Swenson was hitting the old man on the head with a rolled-up newspaper.

  At Kit’s approach, Swenson turned, her newspaper poised for another blow. The woman had a grandmotherly face that usually radiated warmth, a face that could remind you of fresh-baked pies and warm bread. But today it was full of scorn.

  “He’s done it again,” Swenson whined. “I don’t know what you’ve been telling him, but it isn’t working. You’re going to have to try a new approach. We just can’t have this sort of thing. And when you’re through with him, I want you to talk to Minnie. She’s still not eating.”

  Shindleman had been through it all before, and he shuffled toward the room they had given Kit for an office. Slipping behind her battered desk, Kit said, “Have a seat, Mr. Shindleman, and I’ll be with you in a minute.” She got out the old man’s file and reviewed it briefly. Six times in the last three months, Shindleman had taken a folding chair out onto the lawn early in the morning to watch the rush-hour traffic. And each time, except for his shoes and socks, he had left his clothing inside.

  She studied the old man over the top of the file folder, perplexed as to the proper course to take. As sickly old men go, he was a pretty average specimen. His thin hair barely concealed a pate generously speckled with liver spots, and there was a shiny lump the size of a gumdrop just above his right eye. On his left cheek, a tuft of hair grew out of a mole that resembled a tiny cauliflower. His neck was all cords and strings and his head never stopped shaking. He picked at some lint on his bathrobe.

  “Mr. Shindleman.” He jumped when she addressed him. “Do you remember promising me two weeks ago that you would stop exhibiting yourself on the lawn?”

  His wiry brows met over his nose. “Why’s that get everybody so goddam excited? I don’t see it. Everybody knows pretty much what everybody else has got, so what difference does it make? What’s everybody afraid of? Lightning gonna strike us dead if we see a bare butt?”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “What question?”

  “About your promise to stop going outside without your clothes.”

  “You sure it was me that made that promise?” He shook his head. “Don’t sound like me.” He rolled down one sock and scratched a white leg. “Mighta been me, though, bad as my memory is.”

  This was getting her nowhere. He was hopeless… or was he? A crazy idea popped into her head and she opened his file and checked the dates he had gone naked into the world. Ha! There it was.

  In every instance, he had misbehaved on the morning of one of her days at the home. It was her fault as much as it was Shindleman’s. The old man was just making sure he would get to talk with her each time she had office hours. “Tell you what, Mr. Shindleman. Why don’t you and I have a little chat whenever I’m here. Would you like that?”

  His eyes didn’t exactly gleam at her suggestion but they did the best they could, and he broke into a lopsided grin. “Could we? I mean, we could talk even though I hadn’t been bad?”

  “Even though you hadn’t been bad. Now I need to see someone else. Would you tell Mrs. Swenson that I’m ready for Minnie now?” Shindleman got up and backed his way to the door in a half-bow, and Kit thought she would have
no more trouble with him. But Minnie Mrocheck was a different situation.

  She picked up Minnie’s file and refreshed her memory. Minnie Mrocheck, sixty-year-old widow, had come to Happy Years four months ago with severe arthritis and had gone steadily downhill, dropping from 130 pounds to a pole-thin current weight of 80 pounds. She ate practically nothing, professing to have no appetite. A thorough medical examination had revealed no organic cause for this situation.

  The door opened, and a cadaverous face peeked into the room. “Come in, Minnie,” Kit said brightly. The old lady hobbled inside and took a seat without being told. She barely indented the chair’s cushion. But then all the residents of Happy Years were small. Come to think of it, Kit could not remember ever having seen a tall old person. Where do the tall people go when they get old, she wondered. Is there a special home for them somewhere?

  Many of the residents who ended up in Kit’s office would stare at the floor or into their lap. Some let their eyes drift over the room, as though finding it interesting, an unlikely possibility in view of its drab gray walls and the sparse dilapidated furnishings. Minnie, however, had her eyes firmly fixed on Kit. Her stare was so unwavering that it made the younger woman uncomfortable.

  “Minnie, why are you not eating?” There, a good direct question with an implied accusation in it would show the old girl who was in charge.

  “I’m not hungry. Do you eat when you’re not hungry?”

  Don’t answer, Kit counseled herself. Answer and you become equals. “Is the food not to your liking?”

  “I’ve had better… and worse.”

  “You know you’ve lost a great deal of weight since you came to us.”

  “Thank you.”

  “It wasn’t a compliment. I was calling your attention to the fact that if this continues, it can lead to only one thing.”

  “And what is that?”