Volume One: In Moonlight and Memories, #1

by Julie Ann Walker

  He is movie star material.

  Grinning, he points to my red pillbox hat with the fake joint glued to the hatband. “Nice headgear.”

  “In honor of Jelly Bean.” I smile wryly before adding, “I got class coming out of my dumper tonight, boys.”

  Luc and Cash laugh. It’s an easy sound. A familiar sound. A sound I’ve heard a million times in my dreams.

  “Let’s do this thing, shall we?” Luc says.

  Cash helps me down the steps, then presents me with his arm at the same time Luc offers his.

  Locking elbows with them and setting off down the street in the direction of Preservation Hall, I can almost forget my missed opening with Cash.

  Almost…

  Chapter Ten

  ______________________________________

  Cash

  Some decisions you make with your head. Others you make with your heart.

  Not sure which I was using when I decided to come to this second line, but whichever it was, I know now it was a big mistake.

  As a Green Beret, I was trained to operate in environments where the ax meets the stone, where the bullets fly and the bombs burst. And I was damned good at it.

  Cool.

  Calm.

  Collected.

  So it’s odd that right now, standing outside Preservation Hall—the dilapidated-looking cornerstone of NOLA’s music culture—I’m ready to jump out of my damned skin.

  Maybe it’s the sheer decibel level. The screech and squawk of the brass band warming up competes with the shouts of locals welcoming each other. A Lucky Dogs hot dog vendor on the corner yells at passing tourists, trying to entice them with shouts of, “Wrap your lips around a wiener!” while a car with its windows down and bass thumping slowly drives by.

  Or it could be all the smells. Cologne and perfume, fried foods and sugary booze mix with the dirty-water aroma of the nearby river.

  Or maybe it’s the pain in my head. Apparently I’m paying for the reprieve I had earlier today with a headache that’s big enough to knock an elephant on its ass. Taking out my flask, I down two giant gulps, praying the whiskey’s numbing effects take hold soon.

  “Don’t know about you,” Luc whispers in my ear, “but crowds like this make me twitchy.”

  That’s my problem.

  There are too many faces to catalog. Too many eyes to search for nefarious intentions. Too many hands to inspect for possible weapons. You can take the man out of the Green Berets, but you can’t take the Green Beret out of the man.

  Although, I hope that’s not true. I hope there’ll come a day when neither of us expects danger to lurk around every corner. Because that’s no way to live. That heightened state of awareness can be endured for only so long before it begins to drive a man mad.

  “What in the world is all this?” A young woman with five pounds of colorful beads strung around her neck meanders into our throng, momentarily distracting me from my preoccupation with the crowd. She’s holding one of the green plastic cups that’s home to a frozen concoction called a Hand Grenade, a New Orleans special.

  “It’s a second line!” Maggie tells her, turning away from the group of musicians who’ve come to pay their respects to Jelly Bean.

  Maggie’s been jabbering with them since we arrived, and on the one hand, I’m glad. It means she hasn’t seen my complexion blanch of color. On the other hand, I don’t exactly like the way one particular douche canoe in a dark suit and a straw hat keeps gawking at her. The look on the guy’s face says she’s an all-you-can-eat crawfish boil and he’s a starving man.

  I glance to see if Luc’s noticed, but he’s too busy scanning the crowd. The skin over his face is pulled tight. Ten years ago, he would’ve been in heaven—he loves live music—but today? I can feel the tension radiating from him.

  That’s the thing about battle and bloodshed. Once you’ve seen it, tasted it, it changes you.

  “What’s a second line?” the woman asks Maggie. Thanks to the booze, one of her eyelids hangs lower than the other.

  “It’s a parade!” Maggie exclaims with a delighted clap of her hands.

  “A parade for what?”

  “For anything! This one’s in celebration of Jelly Bean Jenkins’s life. But we have them for weddings and birthdays and anniversaries too. Anything we want to commemorate gets a second line. Where’re you from?”

  “Detroit!” the woman yells over the brass band’s opening bars of “Gloryland.”

  “Join us, Detroit!” Maggie waves her forward as the mass of humanity starts up the street after the band.

  “But I didn’t even know this Jelly Bean person!”

  “Doesn’t matter!” Maggie throws an arm around the tourist’s shoulders. “All that matters is you have a good time. Down here we have two traditions. The first is we toast to the beginning of life. The second is we dance and sing at its end. And lucky for you, everyone’s invited!”

  Oh, New Orleans… With open arms, it welcomes old-timers and newcomers alike. It celebrates both joy and sorrow, pleasure and pain, virtue and vice, and it seems to understand that life is a heady mix of it all. Lived here for only two years—not even two—and it’s still the only place I feel I belong.

  By my estimation, nearly three hundred people pack the street, trailing after the twelve-man band as they blow their horns and beat their drums. It’s one of those Southern October nights. The breeze should be cool with the changing of the seasons, but the air is still sticky. Summer is stubborn here. It hangs on with everything it has, and I’m already sweating through my shirt.

  Plus…the crowd. And the noise. And the damn headache!

  My vision swims, and bile spurts into the back of my throat, burning the tender skin there. When someone shoves a plastic cup of beer into my hand, I take it down in one desperate gulp. Another beer magically appears—second lines are more than parades. They’re mobile flash mob parties—and I finish that one off too.

  Want to forget about life for a while. Want to forget about watching my six and checking my perimeter. Want to forget about my shitty-ass house and my shitty-ass past and my shitty-ass plan.

  “Better slow down!” Luc calls above the music and noise. “I don’t wanna hafta toss you over my shoulder like a sack of taters and haul your drunk ass home!”

  “It’s a second line!” I shout. And when someone hands me another beer, I pass this one off to Luc. “Loosen up!”

  He laughs and shakes his head. But to my relief, he dutifully powers down the beer. Then he chucks the empty into the trash can on the corner as the parade makes a left on Royal. He’s no longer scanning the crowd, looking for threats.

  Progress indeed.

  The band picks up the tempo with a rendition of “Big Chief” and the crowd goes wild, jumping and dancing and hollering its approval. I wince as a railroad spike pierces my brain.

  Tonight the booze isn’t doing the trick. Digging in my pocket, I pull out two pills and wait until Luc looks away before tossing them into my mouth. Washing them down with a big glug of whiskey from my flask, I happily accept another beer from a parading stranger.

  Fifteen minutes later, the pills are beginning to do their job. They’ve taken the edge off my headache and replaced it with a warm buzz. I smile at Maggie when she glances back at me, her angel eyes crinkled with happiness.

  “All she needs is an explanation.” Luc’s deep voice easily cuts through the chaos. “If you told her how it was for you, she’d be yours again by tomorrow.”

  His words have an odd feeling growing inside me. It’s simultaneously heavy and hollow. “I care about her too much to want to make her mine again.”

  He shakes his head in disbelief. “Did the firemen give you some ointment for your naked ass after this most recent pants fire?”

  He has a way of cutting to the chase in the cleverest of ways. “Okay, fine. I do want to make her mine again. I’ve always wanted her to be mine. But give me a little credit, will you? I’m a wreck. If I still love h
er—”

  “Which you do,” he’s quick to interject.

  “Which I do,” I agree, since there’s no use denying such a cosmic truth. “Then why would I want to saddle her with what I’ve become? You know as well as I do, this head injury might not get any better. It could get worse.”

  “And what? Your grand plan is to string her along until you know for sure one way or the other?”

  Before I can answer, Maggie dances back to us and links her arms through ours. She’s radiant in her happiness. Like a star. Like the sun. Like fireworks on the Fourth of July.

  I wish I had Luc’s way with words. But to put it simply, she sparkles. She shines. All I want is to bask in her glow.

  Chapter Eleven

  ______________________________________

  Maggie

  Charlie Chaplin once said that a man’s true character comes out when he’s drunk.

  If that’s true, Cash’s true character is fractious and nonsensical and a little bit sad.

  “For Pete’s sake,” I complain, teetering under his weight. “You’re heavier than you look.”

  “Sssturdy bones,” he slurs.

  “Sturdy bones and about ten pounds of whiskey and beer,” Luc adds.

  We’re on either side of Cash, trying to support his stumbling steps on the way to his house. I guess I wasn’t paying attention to how much he was drinking. One minute, we were singing and dancing and reminiscing about the time Cash climbed a tree in Louis Armstrong Park on a dare from Luc and disturbed a nest of bald-faced hornets.

  “That winged mob stung you about twenty times before you fell outta that tree and started running toward me and Maggie May.” Luc laughed.

  I was quick to add, “With the hornets in hot pursuit.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Cash waved us off. “But the joke was on you two. You both ended up in the duck pond with me.”

  See? All good. And then, the next minute, he was hardly able to keep his feet under him.

  “Are you sure it’s only the booze?” I ask Luc now, worrying my bottom lip with my teeth and trying not to turn an ankle on the uneven sidewalk. High heels were not made for New Orleans streets. What was I thinking?

  “Don’t talk about me like I’m not here,” Cash complains. Only, when he says it, it sounds more like, Don tall bout me lie I’m not ear.

  “That does it.” Luc squats next to Cash, and before I know it, he has Cash over his shoulder, holding on to Cash’s legs while Cash’s torso and arms dangle down his backside.

  Cash starts laughing. But it’s not the easy, carefree laugh from earlier. This one’s tinged with pain, too much alcohol, and maybe a little hysteria. It hits my ears like the piercing civil defense sirens the city blares when bad weather is headed our way.

  “Sssack of taters!” He shoots a fist in the air.

  Luc and I remain silent as we turn down Cash’s street. Luc because he’s upset. Me because I’m beginning to realize just how serious things are with Cash and the head injury and the drinking.

  Clenching my fists, I doggedly follow Luc up the stairs to Cash’s front door. I’m shocked when he turns the knob and the door swings wide.

  Not that the French Quarter is a hotbed of criminal activity like some other parts of the city—the worst that usually happens here is some drug use, a lot of public intoxication, and the occasional mugging—but still…no one leaves their doors unlocked. That’s inviting trouble. A guy who’s planning to start a security business should know that.

  Luc hits the light switch on the wall, and I get a look inside, instantly understanding the unlocked door. There’s nothing here but a couple of folding chairs on either side of an old milk crate and a queen-size mattress on the floor. A pile of blankets and one pillow rest in disarray atop the mattress, and over in the corner is a huge mound of debris filled with strips of wallpaper, pieces of broken cabinetry, and three old paint buckets.

  How can Cash live like this?

  Even the lighting is depressing. A single bulb hangs from wires in the ceiling.

  I want to tell Luc to turn around and take Cash to my place. But before I open my mouth, Luc kneels and deposits Cash on the mattress with the care of a father putting down an infant child. Worry puckers his brow as he straightens.

  “I’m gonna grab you a glass of water,” he tells Cash, disappearing through a doorway I assume leads to the dining room and kitchen.

  “Maggie?” Cash mumbles, and old habits and instincts—see, I told you they’re hard to break—have me flying to his side. I’m not sure my feet touch the floor.

  “I’m here.” I sit on the edge of the mattress.

  When he fumbles for my hand, I don’t hesitate to let him take it. His wide palm is rough and dry. I remember the first time he ever put it on my body.

  We’d been friends-who-flirt for months and officially dating for almost six weeks. Our make-out sessions had become increasingly steamy, and then one day, behind the gym, he slipped his hand under my shirt. I can still recall the heat of his palm skating over my ribs. By the time he pushed up the cup of my bra so he could palm my breast, my knees had turned to Jell-O.

  They feel shaky now. Guess it’s a good thing I’m sitting.

  “Sorry, Maggie.” He shakes his head against the pillow and winces like the movement hurts. His eyes are closed, and his eyelids look bruised. “Ruined your night.”

  “Hush,” I tell him, giving in to the urge to run my fingers through his hair. “You didn’t ruin anything.”

  He smiles faintly, as if the caress feels nice, and I notice how his hair is fine and cool near the ends, thick and warm near his scalp. I’ve always been fascinated by all the different colors. Some strands are dark, like amber. Some are light, like the sand down on the Cajun Riviera.

  “How many of these did you take?” Luc is standing at the doorway, a glass of water in one hand and a prescription bottle in the other.

  Cash says nothing, refusing to open his eyes.

  “Dammit, Cash!” Luc stomps over and squats next to the mattress. “You tell me right here and now if we needa take you to the hospital to have your stomach pumped.”

  The tip of an icy blade slices up my spine. “Oh sweet Lord.”

  “No hospital,” Cash slurs. “Only took two.”

  “Then washed ’em down with all that hooch,” Luc snarls.

  “No hospital,” Cash says again, opening his eyes.

  A red haze of pain clouds his vision as he and Luc engage in a silent argument. I can’t tell what secrets pass between them. Finally, Luc sets the bottle of pills aside so he can drag a weary hand over his face. His callused palm makes a raspy sound against his beard stubble.

  “Fine,” he agrees. “No hospital. But at least sit up and drink some water.”

  “Roger that.” Cash manages a sloppy salute before pushing up on his elbow and downing half the contents of the glass. When he’s finished, he sets it on the floor and lets his head fall against the pillow. Then he closes his eyes and curls onto his side, shutting out the world.

  “Go on home, Maggie May.” Luc is still crouched beside the mattress. He looks like a hulking gargoyle. In olden days, folks thought gargoyles warded off evil spirits. If ever there was anyone who needed someone to keep the darkness at bay, it’s Cash. And if ever there was someone capable of keeping the darkness at bay, it’s Luc. “I got it from here,” he adds.

  “I’ll stay too,” I tell him.

  “Both of you…stay,” Cash mumbles, proving he hasn’t completely withdrawn from us. “Get your guitar, Luc. Play me ‘Sparkle and Shine.’”

  My heart skips a beat. That’s my song.

  “You think that’s wise, man?” Luc asks. “With your head—”

  “Play.” Cash nudges Luc’s knee.

  Luc sighs before standing to make his way outside. I figure I’m smashing the edge of the mattress and making Cash uncomfortable, so I get up and take a seat in one of the folding chairs.

  When Luc returns from getting his gu
itar out of Smurf, he pulls the strap over his head and looks from me to Cash and back again. There’s uncertainty in his eyes.

  “You sure about this?” he asks Cash as he drops into the empty chair and adjusts the guitar on his knee.

  “Play,” Cash insists again. “Sing.”

  The instant Luc begins picking that tender, wistful melody on his six-string, I’m thrown back in time. Steve Earle’s Washington Square Serenade album had just released when Luc and I met. I turned him on to J.K. Rowling. He turned me on to one of America’s great troubadours.

  I think it was a fair exchange.

  Leaning back, I listen as his deep baritone fills the air. His voice is as smooth as tupelo honey, and the expression on his face is one of love for the music and reverence for the simple poetry of the lyrics.

  I wonder whatever happened to his dream of becoming a songwriter.

  He used to tell me and Cash that his plan was to tend our bar during the day and at night write the kinds of songs they played on the radio. The kinds of songs that touched hearts and minds and became the soundtracks of people’s lives.

  He never wanted to be a singer. Or so he claimed. “Don’t wanna perform onstage,” he would say. But he never hesitated to entertain me and Cash, and I think the real reason he didn’t want to perform was lack of confidence—thanks to those buttheads at Braxton Academy—more than lack of desire.

  When he finally finishes, there’s a long moment of hushed, almost reverential silence. It’s eventually broken by a soft snore. Cash is asleep. For the first time all day, I see peace in his face.

  Luc’s expression is another matter altogether.

  I’ve seen this particular look once before—that night in the bayou. He was my avenging angel then. He’s determined to be Cash’s avenging angel now.

  Despite all my questions that have no answers, despite not having a clue what Cash’s return means to me, I can’t let Luc go it alone. “Let’s go outside,” I whisper to him.