by Chris Wiltz
Ramon nodded.
“Okay, so all this shit happened, nobody’s fixin it, so these other people start comin to town, ’cause now we the land of op-po’-tun-it-y. You can’t make a buck in this town, they say, you must be lazy. I say we make damn sure the opportunists don’t make a buck without leaving a footprint. I say we make damn sure they give us some bang for the buck. Because this here is the fuckin U-nited States of America, and we got a guy on the line who’s trying to give us money. You hear that, Ramon? Oh yeah, he’s here to make money, no doubt about that, pushing that security business of his. He wants to give us that money back for your movie, you gonna refuse?”
Ramon took her by the upper arms. “Jesus, baby, that was beautiful. The way you talk, get into it, you…” He closed his eyes tight, his face screwed up, shaking his head.
“Ramon, you too damn emotional. Makes me crazy, you know?”
“No, no, no.” He let his face loose. “You gonna talk like that you got to tell me, mujer. The fuckin camera wasn’t running.”
“For Christ sake.” She twisted away from him. “I can do that again. I can do it better. I been working on it.”
Ramon went and sort of threw himself in her office chair, rubbing at his chin stubble. “But it’s a documentary, LaDonna. It’s not supposed to be rehearsed.”
“Ramon, you get that camera on, I’ll make it look like spontaneous combustion. Okay? Forget that, this here’s what we got to talk about—we need more people in this movie, more people from the Lower 9, from Lakeview, New Orleans East, Broadmoor, Gentilly, all the neighborhoods. I can’t carry this thing all by myself.”
This was set to go on for another few hours. Karen said, “Yeah, well look, I’m gonna bounce, okay?”
Neither one of them so much as glanced at her. She went downstairs to relieve Zachary.
***
As soon as Luc and Karen walked into his apartment, Luc turned on the TV. Karen tossed her bag toward the bedroom door and slumped into the sofa. A loose spring poked her in the butt. She watched as Luc surfed the channels. The TV sat on a cardboard box, the rug had a hole in it, and dirty dishes surrounded the sofa. The place looked like a frat house.
“So the honeymoon’s over,” she said. Luc stopped surfing to look at her. “The TV goes on, the honeymoon’s over.”
“Nah.” He crowded up next to her, one arm around her, his lips on her cheek, his thumb paging, one eye on the screen.
“I’d rather watch you do yo-yo tricks.”
“In the morning. Let’s watch a movie. I’ll throw some popcorn in the microwave.” He put the remote on a piece of wood atop two cinder blocks—the coffee table—and went into the small gallery-like kitchen.
He’d stopped on The African Queen. Hepburn furious, trying to read on the deck of the boat, Bogart trying his best to ignore her but eyeing her with resentment, interested too.
Karen took a big breath and let it out slowly. She heard ice going into glasses, she started to smell the popcorn, she stretched her legs out to the coffee table, careful not to upset its balance. Ah, too bad—the movie was on a channel with commercials. She zoned, eyes closed, until a voice, a notch louder than the commercial, said, “Are you ready?” She opened her eyes. The words were writ large in bold black against a sea-blue background.
“The National Hurricane Center and Dr. Gray of Colorado State University have made their predictions, an above-average hurricane season with as many as seventeen named storms, up to ten hurricanes, four to six with major status, which means category three or above. In the event of a hurricane: Do you have a disaster survival plan? Do you know the evacuation routes? Do you have a destination? Are your important papers...”
“For fucksake.” Karen reached for the remote, muted the sound, and moved to Luc’s side of the sofa where the springs were not so aggressive. She closed her eyes again and inched further down into the sofa. She tried to relax.
Seventeen
Peewee Meeker sat at the bar at LeTripot and ate like he hadn’t had a decent meal in weeks, which was pretty much the case he’d told Raynie. He arrived after the kitchen had closed, but Chef liked Raynie and he put on a steak and home fries for her friend.
Peewee sat with his back to her. She looked at his thin frame, boyish shoulders, his dark brown hair a little long in the back, hanging up on his shirt collar. She’d noticed that his face had cleared up some; he looked different, better, and she embarrassed herself by wondering if it had to do with getting regular sex. The thought of Peewee having sex…
Peter—she needed to remember to call him Peter. What about Peter having sex? No, didn’t help much.
Jimmy Johnpier came from the dining room and assumed his position at the counter. “Has your friend arrived yet?”
Raynie nodded toward the bar. “The skinny one, white short sleeved shirt, with his back to us.”
“Has he brought news?”
“Big news, but we haven’t had much of a chance to talk yet. He knocked up one of the local girls. Nice girl, but he’s freaked out about it. He’s run away.”
“Has he considered this might be the best thing that’s ever happened to him?”
“Hardly. He thinks his life is ruined.”
“And you—do you think his life is ruined?”
Raynie had been talking, her eyes on Peter. She turned to Jimmy. “I don’t know. I’m having trouble imagining him not living in Mamou, but I suppose plenty of people would have thought that about me.”
“And you—would you have thought your life was ruined?”
“Oh yes, oh most definitely yes.”
Jimmy laughed. “And for you, precious, it would have been. You were too smart to let that happen.”
“I don’t know. I feel sorry for him. It could happen to anyone.”
“Oh bullshit,” Jimmy said. “You made up your mind that you were going to live a different life and you made it happen. Your friend there let life happen to him. World of difference.”
“Well, life does happen.” Raynie let herself slouch on the counter.
“Forget about that. Let’s make exactly what we want happen. What’s the next night you’re off?”
“Tomorrow, but I’m taking Peter out on the town.”
“Why don’t you start the evening by meeting me for dinner at Tujague’s. Early, then you two can go your merry way well fed.”
Raynie considered this. “It might be awkward…”
“I won’t persist if you’d rather not. Or you can call me tomorrow.”
Before she could decide, Peewee pushed himself away from the bar. She introduced him to Jimmy as Peter, and Jimmy asked if he’d like to go to dinner the next night, and the way he reacted, Raynie realized why she would never be able to think of him as anyone other than Peewee Meeker. His eyes darted from Jimmy to her and back and he shrugged in the way that only people with skinny flexible shoulders can, all the way to his ears. “Sure,” he said sounding dubious.
***
Back at the apartment, Peewee said for about the fourth time, “I mean, that is the ugliest man I’ve ever seen, Earlene—Raynie. I mean weird ugly.”
He was sprawled on the sofa, experiencing what appeared to be some kind of euphoria, which could have been from the steak and potatoes, since all he’d eaten during the two weeks he’d locked himself in Savoy’s after hours was Taco Bell. Or it could have been from the wine he and Raynie were drinking. Or the escape from Mamou. Raynie had put on George Porter and Peewee was drumming his fingers to the music on his stomach.
Raynie closed her eyes and leaned her head back in the big chair. “Okay, yes, he is weird looking, but can you get off that? He’s being a good friend, and he’s the only person in this city who knows my whole story. And he’s cool about it. Not even Karen—the woman I live with here?—not even she knows. Can you remember that, Peter? Can you remember not to call me Earlene in front of her?” She opened her eyes and looked hard at him.
“Don’t get bent. I’ll remember.”
He sat up some on the sofa, one foot on the floor. “This Karen, when will she be here? Is she good looking?”
He put on what Raynie figured he thought was a cool-stud look. “For pity’s sake,” she said. “Are you serious?”
Cool-stud was gone. Little Peewee Meeker was back. “Why not?”
“For one thing, she’s almost ten years older than you. For another, she’s probably not coming home because she and the hot bartender at La Costa are having a thing. And then there’s Alice Roy.” Peewee whimpered. Only Peewee would whimper. Raynie reached for the wine bottle. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me you were going with Alice Roy.”
Peewee held out his glass. “Do we have to talk about this now?”
Raynie poured. “Yeah, yeah we do. That’s what you came here for, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know. Maybe I came here to stay. Like you.”
Raynie drank some wine, quiet for a minute. “Is Alice Roy excited about the baby?”
One of Peewee’s shoulders jerked up to his ear. “I guess so.”
“Maybe it’s hard for her to be excited if you aren’t.”
He wouldn’t look at her. “No, she’s excited.”
“She’s a nice girl, Peewee. I think y’all could be happy together. Think about it, you’re going to have a beautiful little baby.”
“I don’t know if I even want a baby.”
Raynie gasped. “Peewee, you didn’t…did you?”
“What?”
“You know.”
“Tell her to get an abortion? Jesus Christ, Earlene, you think I’d be alive?” He looked upset. “I wouldn’t do that. No one does that in Mamou. We’d go straight to hell.”
“Like you won’t go straight to hell if you don’t marry Alice Roy?”
He ran a hand through his hair. The gesture, the depth of his misery…for the first time Raynie thought he looked grown up.
“I don’t know if I want to get married. I would support the baby…”
Peewee closed his eyes tight. They were both quiet until he got a grip on himself. “See, the thing is, I don’t know if I want to get married, but I don’t know that I don’t either.”
Raynie got up and turned off the music. She sat at the end of the sofa, making Peewee move, sit up all the way, both feet on the floor.
“What’s the problem, Peewee? Don’t you love her?”
Peewee got fidgety, the way he did when he was excited or nervous. He put his glass on the coffee table, picked it up, put it back. “You don’t get it, do you, Earlene? How can you not get it? The problem…is you. You know I’ve been in love with you all my life.”
“But not like that.”
“Why not like that? Why, because I’m not hot enough? ’Cause I’m just Peewee, stupid Peewee Meeker?” He shut his eyes again.
Raynie moved closer to him. “Come on, Peewee, you know I don’t mean it that way. We’re friends. Old, old friends. Of course we love each other.” She put her hand on his forearm.
Without opening his eyes, he covered her hand with his. When he could finally look at her, he had to blink several times. “I just had to see you one more time, Earlene. I had to make sure it was impossible. I mean, I know it is…shit.” A tear escaped one eye.
She moved so she could put her arms around him. When she held on, he put his around her. They sat like that for a while, rocking each other ever so gently.
***
The apartment dark save the light that got past the trees in the courtyard, they were in bed, Peewee in the trundle, Raynie in the day bed. Several minutes had gone by since they’d said good-night. They had their backs to each other. Without turning Peewee said, “Do you think we could sleep together tonight?”
Raynie turned, then he did. She propped herself on an elbow. He did too.
She could see his face in the semi-dark. He looked so different to her now. “Peter,” she said and he nodded. “I haven’t slept with anyone since Daniel.”
“Is he the only person you ever slept with?”
She nodded.
“Maybe this isn’t right, but I don’t want Alice Roy to be the only person I ever sleep with. Do you think that’s wrong?”
“No, I don’t think that’s wrong.” He waited. She said, “Do you know how Daniel is?”
“He’s okay. Well, he doesn’t look so good. Everyone’s pretty worried about you.”
“Is Daniel seeing anyone?”
“I don’t think so. When are you going to let them know?”
Raynie shook her head. “I’m just not ready yet.”
“I understand.”
They sat propped in bed, looking at each other.
Raynie said, “I don’t want Daniel to be the only person I ever sleep with either.” She flipped the covers back.
***
Raynie spent the next day at work in a fog of longing, not for Peter Meeker, who had surprised her with his agility, but for Daniel, the big love of her life. For the first time since she’d left Mamou, she let her mind go to the pain she must have caused him and stay there. What she’d done, not telling them all she was leaving, going to live the life she thought she was supposed to live, had been weak and cowardly, not strong, as she’d convinced herself. It would have taken real strength to leave with Daniel, Bernie and her dad all trying to convince her that her real life was in Mamou, life anywhere else was a fantasy. If she wanted to go back, they might never forgive her. Daniel, with his easy way in the world and his sweetness, was slow to anger, but once the fire caught, he didn’t let go. She’d seen it before, how he held a grudge.
Peewee had more strength than she did. He’d left saying he needed to go away, spend some time alone, think. And now, what had she done, sleeping with Peewee? He wouldn’t want to go home and marry Alice Roy. All day it was hard for Raynie to smile at the customers, be friendly, tell them to come back soon. She wished Harley Sands was there to make her laugh, but he came on as she got off.
Peewee knew something was wrong the minute she got back to the apartment.
He met her at the gate, a sleepy smile on his face, and when he saw her, he said, “Oh God no, you’re sorry you slept with me.” His hand raked his hair.
She assured him she wasn’t sorry.
She didn’t say so, but she was sorry she’d agreed to go to dinner with Jimmy Johnpier. Her guilt and remorse had turned into anger. She got dressed, thinking that Johnpier always acted like he didn’t want to be pushy, but he always got her to agree to do whatever he wanted her to do, mostly go to dinner or lunch or for a drink. She’d gone out with him a few times after work, enough that Harley had started making fun of her new boyfriend.
But the dinner turned into fun. There were lots of downtown locals Jimmy knew at the restaurant, and he gave Raynie and Peter the lowdown on them all—the gallery owner who hardly ever left the Quarter, stood on his corner of Dumaine where he traded local gossip the way some people traded drugs and said fuck the hurricanes, they’d have to take him out in a body bag; the chanteuse who’d stood out in the middle of Royal street in front of a huge tourist bus, in protest of the buses on the narrow Quarter streets, and had been picked up like a mannequin and removed by the police (the buses were no longer allowed); the painter known internationally for his large nudes, who lived in one of the oldest houses in the Quarter, full of priceless antiques—a living museum, Johnpier called it—who was also known for his forty-year feud with his neighbor, a restaurant he called the Court of Two Shysters.
He got Raynie and Peter to talk about the characters in Mamou. Once they started telling stories, Raynie lost her regret and homesickness. She knew where she belonged, in her new life, with all its new characters. She’d left all those old stories and old characters far behind. She hugged Jimmy when they left, grateful to him for bringing her back.
“Okay,” Peewee said as they crossed Decatur, “I see why you like him. It doesn’t hurt that he’s rich as shit, either.”
“Peewee,” Raynie said and gave him a l
ook.
“Well, does it?”
***
Avery Legendre was feeling good. He felt so good he put on James Brown and sang along, “I fee-eel good, nah-na-nah-na-nah-na-nah….” He bent down over his air-mike, pivoted smartly on one foot, got down in a squat, jumped up to hit the high notes. He had on his feel-good rayon Hawaiian shirt with the yellow hibiscus flowers, a pair of expensive buff-colored linen slacks and his Panama hat. He liked watching the little tassels on his Gucci loafers bounce when he kicked and turned.
Avery felt good because he had eighty thousand cash in a brushed-aluminum briefcase, but he wasn’t so sure he wanted to go to the card game at the boathouse. It had occurred to him the morning after the first one that all that cursing and calling on God in spic-talk was some kind of code. And the way they rolled their eyes to heaven, that too. They’d been talking to each other the whole game. He was supposed to win. Tonight he would lose.
On the other hand, there would be lots of good dope and booze, and it was the only action in town, insofar as he knew. If he only took forty large with him and he lost it, he was even. Maybe he was wrong—he did have a size triple X hangover when he had all these thoughts—and Lady Luck would shine on him once again. Or maybe he would hit a couple of bars tonight and take a plane to Vegas first thing in the morning.
The night was young yet. He could decide what he wanted to do over a drink. He took seven thousand in hundreds, a little mad money in case he ran across some unexpected action, and slid the briefcase under the bed. A couple of lines of coke, one more whoop and holler with the Hardest Working Man in Show Business, and Avery packed five grand in his custom-made money belt with the silver alligator buckle, folded two into his pocket, strapped on his ankle holster, and started walking over to La Costa Brava.
