by Greg Herren
This was just great. I cursed the goddamned confidentiality agreement—even though I knew I could trust her. She’d be furious when she found out I was working for them and didn’t tell her. I made a mental note to ask them the next time I saw them to give her the interview. The worst thing they could do was say no, right? And I owed Paige many favors. “I don’t see what the big deal is.” I said. I had wondered how I could get her to talk to me about Frillian without telling her I was working for them. What a stroke of luck that bitch Coralie had opened the lines of communication for me. “I mean, yeah, I get it, they’re movie stars, but so what. Nobody even talks about them any more,, you know? They’re just part of the city now.”
“Try telling that to that bitch Coralie,” Paige groused, squeezing her lemon into the tall glass of tea. “And besides, you know damned well that celebrities are about the only thing people want to hear about on the news anymore. Every time Britney Spears farts, it makes CNN Headline News. If you ask me, it’s all a big government-controlled conspiracy. Who cares if we’re in a stupid war or the economy is going into the toilet, as long as we know that Paris Hilton flashed her cooch getting out of her Ferrari? Or that some other useless waste of oxygen they’ve decided we should care about went into rehab again, or is having a baby, or getting a divorce? So once again, she’s got a wild hair about an exclusive interview, and of course I’m the one stuck trying to get the damned story. If I ever see Joe again, I’m going to kill him for retiring and sticking me with that bitch.”
“It was rather inconsiderate of him.”
“To say the least.” She sighed again. “I called Sandy Carter today, again, and she promised to see what she could do.”
“Sandy Carter?”
“Oh for God’s sake, Chanse. Do you ever listen to anything I say to you?” She gave me a look. “Sandy Carter is the one working with Freddy Bliss on Operation Rebuild—you know, the one who does all the work while he runs around raising money and getting publicity. You’ve met her, you big idiot.”
“Oh, yes.” I’d met Sandy Carter the first time before the storm, when she’d been running for an at-large seat on the city council. Her campaign had been all about cleaning up the corruption at city hall—which meant her campaign was doomed to failure from the beginning. A lot of snide remarks had circulated in the media back in the fall of 2005 about corruption in Louisiana, about how the federal government shouldn’t give us money because our politicians would just steal it all. Of course, in the years since, the vast majority of the politicians who’d spread that story had all been caught in some kind of ethics or corruption scandal—because of course, there was NO corruption in any other state or the federal government. The only difference between New Orleans politics and that of the rest of the country is that we expect our politicians to be corrupt. We may be jaded, but I think it’s better than being naïve.
And I’d been right with Sandy Carter—she’d been defeated resoundingly, since no one trusts a politician who claims not to be corrupt. I’d liked her when I met her, and had voted for her. She was a short woman with short hair she’d let go white and a booming laugh that filled a room. She was full of energy, and once she’d married off her youngest daughter, she’d thrown herself into making changes in the city.
She was always raising money for this group or that group, talked frankly about everything, and had no qualms about calling, for example, the esteemed U.S. Senator from Metairie a ‘complete jerk and moron not fit to work as a trash collector’ in an op-ed piece when Mr. Family Values’s long-term patronage of a prostitute was exposed.
After the flood, she’d helped organize a group of women to campaign for levee board reform; to hold the Army Corps of Engineers accountable for the city’s destruction; and had testified in front of Congress in one of the interminable and endless hearings on what had happened. I’d met her a few times since then—my landlady and employer, Barbara Castlemaine, was one of her dearest friends—and I liked her more each time.
“Do you think she’ll come through for you?” I asked
“Well, if anyone can, it’s Sandy.” Paige smiled at our waitress as she placed our plates in front of us, and then refilled our tea glasses. “She says that Freddy and Jillian are really committed to the city, and if I can promise that the focus of the interview will be on Operation Rebuild, they’ll probably agree to it.” She snorted. “It actually kind of pissed me off—like I’d ask them anything about their personal lives! I could give a rat’s ass why Freddy left his ex-wife…she’s in town, you know.”
I took a bite of my burger and sighed in delight. “Who’s in town?” I asked after I swallowed, even though I already knew. When Paige was on a roll, it was best to let her have her head.
“Freddy’s ex-wife, Glynis Parrish. The TV star?” She rolled her eyes. “Honestly, Chanse, are you sure you’re gay? It’s pretty sad when a straight woman knows more about movie stars then a gay man. I bet I could stop any other gay man on the street and he could tell you everything there is to know about Glynis and Freddy’s divorce.”
I laughed. “Well, I wouldn’t take the bet.”
“Anyway, Glynis is in town making a movie—how weird is that?” She shook her head. “I’m waiting for that bitch Coralie to ask me to interview her next…although come to think of it, she probably will want me to interview Glynis to go along with the piece about Frillian. I’m sure she could give a rat’s ass about Project Rebuild, the bitch.” She rubbed her eyes. “WHY on God’s green earth they gave her the city editor job I will never understand. She must have slept with someone” She swallowed a mouthful of potato. “Anyway…yeah. But you’re probably sick to death of me bitching about the paper.”
“I never get tired of listening to you bitch.” I gave her a winning smile.
“And guess who else is in town?” Paige rolled her eyes. “Jillian’s mother, Shirley Harris.” She peered at me. “You do know who she is, don’t you?”
“Yeah. She did a bunch of musicals in the fifties and sixties, right?”
Paige started laughing. “Well, you got the gay musical gene at the very least.” She shook her head. “She actually called the paper, wanting to be interviewed…”
“I bet Coralie was all over that.” So Jillian had been right on that score.
“Yeah, right—that’s what I thought too.” Paige moaned. “And they put her through to me—which reminds me, I need to kill the dumb bitch at the switchboard—so I put her on hold, called Coralie, and said, ‘Hey, I got a star on the line who wants to be interviewed, should I set it up?’ and I literally thought she was going to have to change her panties—and then I told her who it was.”
“She wasn’t interested?”
“I should say not.” Paige sat up straight, and did a dead-on imitation of Coralie. “Oh, no, Paige, we couldn’t possibly do an interview with Shirley Harris. Don’t you know anything? Jillian and her mother are not on speaking terms. If we do an interview with her, we’d never get Jillian to talk to us, and that’s the fish we want to fry.”
“She called Jillian a fish?”
“And you wonder why I want to quit?” Paige sighed. “I felt sorry for Shirley, to tell you the truth. I mean, I could tell she’d been drinking—she was slurring her words, you know—and to have to go back to her and tell her that we weren’t interested…poor thing.” She rubbed her eyes. “I couldn’t do it. So I agreed to meet her. Tomorrow, at her hotel.”
“Where is she staying?” I hoped my interest seemed friendly rather than curious.
“She’s registered at the Ritz-Carlton under—get this—the name Sally Bowles.”
The name seemed familiar. “Sally Bowles?”
She groaned. “Liza played her in Cabaret. I swear, you’re going to lose your gay card if you keep this up.”
“You think Coralie will run the piece once you write it?”
She snorted. “Yeah, right. Good one.” She pushed her plate away with a groan. “I’m going to need an hour on the e
lliptical machine to get rid of this meal tomorrow. Something else to look forward to.” She exhaled and leaned back in her chair. “So, what’s going on with you? How was your carnival? Sorry I missed you yesterday in the Quarter—I dragged Ryan down to the Fruit Loop, but we couldn’t find you.” She laughed. “Ryan was pretty popular with the gay boys.”
“He’s a good-looking guy.” Ryan was the older brother of our friend Blaine Tujague. He and Paige had gone on a date once before, when he was freshly divorced, and Paige had had one of the most miserable experiences of her long and storied history of dating tragedies, although I forget the details. I wasn’t exactly sure how she’d managed to hook up with Ryan again—there was some vague story about running into him at a party and they’d hit it off the second time around. She even liked his kids, which was saying a lot, as kids usually made her uncomfortable. They’d been dating for several months now, which was a record for Paige. She never said much about Ryan’s ex-wife, and I delicately never brought her up. I had met the ex-wife once, before the divorce, at a party Blaine and his partner had thrown in their across the park from my house —and had disliked her immediately. “What did you guys wear for costumes?”
“I went as Eleanor of Aquitaine, and Ryan went as my court jester.” She gave me a sly wink. “Just black and white tights, black and white boots, and we used body paint on his torso.”
I whistled. “No wonder he was so popular.”
“Well, we’re never doing that again. It took forever to put on, and it was even more of a pain to take it off.” She laughed. “And there was no way I was letting him ruin my sheets.”
I held up my hand. “Sorry. Way too much information.”
“Give me a break.” She rolled her eyes. “After all the times I’ve had to listen to your adventures, you’re going all squeamish on me now?” She raised an eyebrow. “And I’ve never really given you the gory details.” She pursed her lips. “A lady never tells.” She burst into laughter, which I joined in.
“So, are you and Ryan getting serious now? Wedding bells around the corner. I can see you now, all covered in white polyester, with a crown of white lilies..”
She tossed her napkin at me. “Oh, for God’s sake, shut the fuck up.”
“Hitting a little close to home?”
She shrugged. “We’re just having a good time, taking things slow. I don’t have a lot of experience with relationships, and he’s a good guy. I don’t want to rush things. If it’s meant to be, it’ll evolve. But I do like him, Chanse. I like him a lot. It kind of scares me.”
“Yeah, I know what you mean.” I reached over and took her hand. “There should be a manual or something.
She burst out laughing. “You won’t even read your cell phone manual.”
“Bitch.” We both laughed.
“So, did you have fun over Carnival?”
“Yeah, I really did. It’s nice—“ I cut myself off. I was about to say it’s nice to have fun again, but I was afraid I would jinx things. Stupid; that was the kind of thing my mother used to always say when I was a kid. I’d have to remember to bring that up with my therapist. I took a deep breath. “It’s nice to have fun again.” There, I’d said it. Let the universe do its worst.
“Yeah.” She scratched her nose. “I know what you mean.” She looked around the half-empty dining room. “You know, I can barely remember what it was like before anymore. Isn’t that weird?”
“No, not really.” I thought for a moment. “It seems like, oh, I don’t know… sometimes when I think back about Paul and me—this is going to sound crazy, I know, so don’t roll your eyes at me—it seems almost like it was a dream, like it all happened to someone else, or that it happened a million years ago.”
“Kind of like the flood marked the end of an era.” She nodded. “I know. Sometimes I think that way too. My therapist—“ she stopped herself and blushed.
“You’re seeing a therapist?” I hadn’t known that, and it kind of surprised me that she hadn’t told me.
“Oh, yeah. I started when I came back from my trip with the book done.” She nodded her head, her messy hair bouncing. “I knew I couldn’t handle it all on my own, and it wasn’t like I could dump everything on my friends, because they had their own shit to deal with. So I started seeing someone. It’s helped some, and she’s given me some really good things to think about, things I need to work on.” She started playing with her tea glass. “You’re still seeing yours, right? How’s that going?”
“Listen to us,” I said, avoiding that one,” comparing notes on our therapists.”
“Yeah, well.” She shrugged and glanced at her watch.
“Need to be somewhere?”
“Ryan’s coming over after he takes his kids home.” She smothered a grin. “And don’t get all smart-ass on me either, bub.”
“Maybe we could all have dinner sometime.”
“That would be cool.” She smiled at me. “I do like him, Chanse. Hard to believe he’s the same tool I went out with all those years ago—but maybe he was just in a bad place from the divorce. I don’t know.”
“I’m glad.” And I was. For a long while, I’d never quite understood why Paige had so much trouble with men; if I were straight, I’d be crazy about her, and I couldn’t grasp why so many men seemed to be unable to see everything she had to offer. She was funny, caring, and smart. She’d had a rough time growing up, with an alcoholic mother who had a revolving door to her bedroom. She didn’t speak to her mother anymore—hadn’t in years, although I knew her mother tried. I was at her apartment once when her mom had called and left a long, whining message on her answering machine.
Paige, who’d been in the middle of pouring a glass of wine, had paused, her face tight and drained of color, until the message ended…and then went on as though nothing had happened. She refused to discuss her mother, and the only reason I knew anything at all about their relationship was because Paige had collapsed in a paroxysm of alcohol, grief and guilt one night shortly after I’d returned from the evacuation.
And after that, I completely understood her problems with men.
It was also why I was glad to hear she was seeing a therapist.
“And you’re going to find the right guy someday.” She smiled at me and stopped me from giving the waitress my credit card, fumbling in her purse and handing over hers instead. “I want to treat, okay?” After the waitress had gone away, she went on, “You know you will, right?”
“Yeah.” I grinned back at her. “I know. Someday my prince will come, right? And next time, let’s hope I don’t screw it up the way I did with Paul.” I hesitated. Paige and Paul had been very close, but her smile didn’t falter. “But sometimes I wonder if what Paul and I had was all that.”
She signed the charge slip and stood up. “You and Paul were good together, Chanse, and he loved you so very very much.” She slipped her arm through mine. “I used to envy you and Paul—and you used to piss me off because I was so afraid you’d screw it up.”
I froze for a moment and took a deep breath.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.” She squeezed my arm.
“It’s okay.” I forced a smile, even though my heart was pounding fast. Think about something else, think about something happy, think about the beach and the warm breeze and the gentle waves coming up to shore. What happened to Paul wasn’t your fault. You just never had the chance to work things out, and she didn’t mean anything by it, and she’s right, you did almost blow it with him, not just once but many many times. “Seriously. I’m okay.”
We walked out of the restaurant, and I gave her a big hug on the sidewalk. “Call me tomorrow,” she instructed. “I know you’re anxiously awaiting the next Coralie update.”
I laughed and made sure she was in her car, and that it started, before I waved and started walking down Dauphine Street to my car. I was kind of glad I had to walk six blocks—it was a start, working off the meal.
I was also happy that
I’d managed to avoid going down into the dark place. The therapy was working, after all. In the past, I wasn’t even able to think of Paul without starting on the downward spiral that left me aching and feeling empty. Now, I could remember him without that happening—although it still wasn’t easy. But I was healing from everything—Paul’s death, the hurricane and the evacuation. My life was going along just fine—actually, it was better than fine. So what if I was alone? When the time was right and I was ready, someone would come along. I could try to get Paige the interview she needed to get that bitch Coralie off her back. Maybe I’d invite Paige and Ryan over for dinner. I could make dinner for us at –
I started laughing at myself. Listen to me, planning an evening with the happy couple! I started whistling. It was a beautiful night, the air just warm enough to be pleasant. The sky was full of clouds, glowing pink from the reflection of all the neon on Bourbon Street. I saw a tabby cat run across the street, and that made me smile a little bit too. I’d go home and smoke some pot, get nice and stoned, set the coffeemaker before I went to bed, and get a good night’s sleep. Surely there’d be some bad reality television show that I could watch and laugh at. I’d just chill out for the evening, maybe even open a bottle of wine and have a glass or two. The bells of St. Louis Cathedral began chiming the call to evening Mass, and it felt good to be alive. I stopped walking for a moment, and listened to the bells. It was quiet in the lower Quarter, except for the occasional car driving past on Esplanade. This would be the perfect time for a cigarette, I thought, before banishing the thought from my mind. It had been too hard to quit. I wasn’t about to start again.
Chapter Five
I started sweating as I walked hurriedly up Esplanade Avenue. A cool breeze was blowing from the direction of the river, but with the air so damp and warm and heavy, a thick blanket of gauze was dropping down over the entire Quarter, making it feel haunted. The street lamps acquired a halo effect, surrounding their white light with a rainbow circle of color. The streets were silent other than the clip-clopping of a mule’s hooves in the distance and every once in awhile, a wisp of voice would break through the silent fog, a broken fragment of a sentence swallowed again into the quiet. As I crossed Bourbon Street, the headlights of a yellow Toyota caught me by surprise and I jumped onto the opposite corner, my heart pounding from the close call. That would have been five hundred points in Jephtha’s game, I thought to myself, shaking my head. I took some deep breaths to calm myself, and started walking again.
