When her voice drifts off, I prompt, “But what?”
“But he looks bad, Son. Pale. Getting skinnier by the day.”
I’ve been watching Cash’s downward spiral for months now. Still, it hurts to hear him described in such stark and unflinching terms.
“You and Maggie go on.” She pats my arm. “Go pay him a visit. I’m sure it’ll cheer him up. In the meantime, I’ll head out to the swamp house and get to making some of those Cajun-spiced shrimp with the remoulade you like. I bet you’re hungry enough to eat the north end of a southbound goat after two days of jail food.”
My stomach rumbles in agreement. That’s all she needs to hear before squeezing me one last time and then jumping into her Honda.
Maggie and I spend the drive to the hospital engaged in either pointless small talk or pointed silence. Proof that the hug in the parking lot didn’t repair the damage done between us.
On Canal Street, we get stuck waiting for a funeral procession to go by. Two white horses pull a black wagon with a mahogany casket inside. A roving brass band follows behind, playing a slow, sad version of “Down by the Riverside.” Trailing them, men in their Sunday best march and sing, and women with parasols wave white handkerchiefs and twirl to the beat.
Rolling down my window to better hear the music, I’m reminded of something Chris Rose once wrote about how we do things down here in the Big Easy. We dance even if there’s no radio. We drink at funerals. We talk too much and laugh too loud and live too large, and frankly, we’re suspicious of others who don’t.
Amen, brother. Amen.
If I can take pleasure in nothing else today, I can take pleasure in this. This quintessentially New Orleans tradition. This proof that in a country where too many cities are carbon copies of each other, my hometown is unapologetically unique.
After the procession passes, we carry on to the hospital. But not ten minutes after going inside, we’re back in Maggie’s SUV.
She turns to me. “What do you think? Where would he go?”
Dr. Beckett met us in the hall outside Cash’s room to tell us Cash had checked himself out. (Against medical advice.) Not that I’m surprised. Cash has never been one to sit still or listen to reason. Plus, I hate to say it, but he was probably hankering for a stiff drink.
“He’ll have gone home,” I assure her.
She puts the car in gear and points us toward The Quarter. A few blocks later, I notice she’s white-knuckling the steering wheel, so I’m not shocked when she says, “About yesterday morning…”
Clenching my teeth, I stare out the window at the old-fashioned buildings of the Vieux Carré. Winters here are easy, so the wrought-iron balconies are still stacked with outdoor furniture and huge ferns are still dripping with bright green fronds. Carnival season will be starting soon, and the houses and the storefronts are already festooning themselves in the purple, green, and gold hues of Mardi Gras.
She continues, “I wanted to tell you that—”
“You wanted to tell me that you were okay turning your affection my way when you thought Cash was a dead end,” I cut her off, speaking the words myself so I don’t have to hear her say them. “But the minute you found out he was acting up ’cause he’s sad and sick as opposed to acting up ’cause he doesn’t want anything more to do with you, you swung right ’round and aimed your heart straight back at him.”
She palms the locket hanging around her neck and frowns at me. “That’s not it at all. I’m not saying I’m still holding out hope he’ll want to pick up where we left off in high school. I’m saying that with all he’s already going through, we shouldn’t add to his burden by changing the dynamic between us. I’m saying that once he’s better, then you and I can see if—”
“Bullshit, Maggie May!” She blinks. In all the years we’ve known each other, I don’t recollect ever raising my voice to her. “Are you really sitting over there asking me to believe that if Cash was healthy, if he stopped drinking and decided to fly right, you wouldn’t be itching to see if there could be more between you? You wouldn’t be back to standing too close to him, to constantly touching him despite him saying he doesn’t want you like that?”
“I—” she starts and then immediately stops, something that looks a lot indecision skittering behind her eyes.
Even though I expected it, it still hits me like a tidal wave, pressing me down, sucking me under. A few days ago, when I didn’t know what it was to kiss her, before I allowed myself to dream the impossible dream, I might have been strong enough to kick back to the surface.
Not now.
Now all I can manage is a bitter, “That’s what I thought.”
“Come on, Luc!” She slaps the steering wheel. “It’s not that easy, and you know it!”
“It is that easy. For me. ’Cause I’ve always known exactly what I want. I wish to God you could say the same thing.”
Chapter Seventy-two
______________________________________
Cash
It’s easy to do the wrong things in life. Making the right choices is often so much harder.
Coming back to New Orleans was the right choice. So was bringing Luc and Maggie together again. But when they pull next to the curb, hop from Maggie’s SUV, and start heading my way, the first thing I notice is there’s tension between them. And it’s making Maggie look at Luc the way she used to look at me. With a breathless sort of expectation mixed with a smidge of confusion.
Seeing that look aimed at someone else—even if that someone else is my best friend—fills me with equal amounts of hope and dread. Hope because…this is as it should be. Hell, it’s what I’ve been pushing for. Dread because…despite everything, I still want her for myself. Deep down, under all the right choices, I want her to be mine. And it would be so easy—and so, so wrong—to tell her that.
The heart is a merciless and stubborn thing.
Standing from my perch on the stoop, I take a deep breath and glance above the rooftops across the way to where the sun is sinking low. The birds are singing at full volume, getting their last bit of energy out before turning in for the night. And the smell of dying flowers drifts on the cool breeze.
Maggie smiles up at me and the sight of that beloved gap between her teeth has a familiar pain tweaking the center of my chest. In contrast, Luc isn’t smiling. His eyes travel over me, making rest stops at my jeans, which hang loose around my waist, and the glue they used to close my head wound, which makes the skin around it look angry and pinched.
He doesn’t comment on my appearance. He doesn’t need to. We both know I look like a bucket of shit. There’s no sense in belaboring the point. There’s also no mistaking the worry that wrinkles his brow.
“I’m fine,” I assure him, trotting down the steps so I can pull him into a hug.
There’s no awkward bro-ness about this embrace. No heavy-handed backslaps or clumsy angles. He lifts me off my feet, squeezing me until my ribs ache.
I don’t have his strength, but I hug him back with all I do have. When he finally sets me on my feet, his eyes are misty. Mine are too.
Of course, neither of us acknowledges it.
Slapping a hand on my shoulder, he says, “Heard you checked yourself outta the hospital against your doctor’s orders.” He shakes his head and tut-tuts like an old Southern granny. “Boy, are you ever gonna learn there’s a difference between stubborn and stupid?”
“Not if I can help it.” I gift him with a cocky grin, but then immediately sober. “Sorry about what happened with Sullivan. You okay?”
A Gallic shrug lifts his shoulders. “It is what it is.”
Luc talks a big game. But I know the taking of a life, regardless of whether he had a choice in the matter, has never been something that sits easy with him. In the wee small hours of the morning, when he’s all alone, he’s prone to soul-searching and second-guessing.
Luc is one of those rare animals who isn’t afraid of self-reflection. Even if he doesn’t like what he sees when
he gazes in the mirror, he never shies away from looking.
“Take a seat.” I motion toward the steps, claiming the top one for myself. “I’d invite you inside, but there’s a big puddle of dried blood that needs to be cleaned up. Not to mention a broken picture frame and spilled coffee, and I haven’t had enough of this”—I lift my flask—“to make facing all that worthwhile.”
“You shouldn’t be drinking after a concussion.” Maggie’s eyes are clouded with concern.
“True. But I figure whatever damage the whiskey does to my already mangled brain will be small potatoes compared to what’ll happen to me if I start going through withdrawal. So…cheers.”
Upending the flask, I take a healthy drink. The pain in my head is better today. More along the lines of what I’m used to dealing with. Although, who’d have thought I’d consider that a blessing?
Neither of them bothers to hide their disapproval. But neither do they say anything. Instead, Maggie grabs one of the middle steps, leaving Luc to lower himself onto the second-to-the-bottom tread. Not only are they avoiding each other’s eyes, they’re also being careful not to touch.
As Alice would say, Curiouser and curiouser.
“Okay, so what’s with you guys?” I ask. Best to get it out in the open, right? Maybe if I face it head on, I can get over the misery of seeing everything I’ve worked for come to fruition. “Why are you treating each other like plague carriers?”
Maggie waves off my question. “It’s been a pretty tough couple of days. We’re both feeling like we’ve been chewed up and spit over a cliff.”
I wait for Luc to own up to what’s actually happening. But he remains stubbornly mute.
So much for facing it head on.
“Fine.” I down some more whiskey. It’s a small consolation, but I’ll take what I can get. “Keep your secrets. We have more important things to discuss anyway. Like, what’s the story with your lawyer, Luc? When will he get this ridiculous murder charge dropped?”
The thought of Luc being accused of doing anything that isn’t at the tippity top of all things ethical is too absurd. The man is the poster child for morality. Which, yeah, has made it tough to be his friend at times.
His mouth twists. “He’s working on it.”
“And you trust him to do it right?”
“He better, seeing as how I’m paying him an arm and a leg.” When he sees my concern, he shakes his head. “He’s the best defense attorney in the state, if you believe his record. I reckon I’m in capable hands.”
“Good.” I nod, more than a little relieved. “That’s really good. And in the meantime? He give you any instructions on what you’re supposed to do?”
“Keep on keeping on, man. I gotta sit tight and let the wheels of justice turn.”
Easier said than done. Especially when his freedom, and maybe his life—Louisiana still has the death penalty—are on the line.
I shove that thought away before it has me breaking out in hives. Wouldn’t that be the icing on my sick and pitiful cake?
“Well, while they’re turning, I’ll help you keep your mind off things,” I tell him. “We’ll turn on the afterburners on the house, finish our list of excursions, and—”
“Wait a minute. Wait a minute.” He slaps the air with both hands. “First I wanna know what the hell happened with Rick.”
Rick. Right. Also known as the World’s Worst Assbag.
“You mean after I admitted the DA is after him because of me?” I shoot him a toothy grin.
Luc just stares at me.
“Well”—I lift a hand and let it fall—“I told him to get the fuck out of my house. Don’t remember what happened after that.” I test the angry wound on my forehead. “But I figure this proves he wasn’t all that anxious to leave. At least not without resorting to form first.”
“Do you know if they’ve found him yet?” Maggie places a soft hand atop my foot.
I’ll be damned, but I swear a muscle in Luc’s jaw twitches. Okay, so whatever happened between them, it was big. Huge. Life changing.
I’m happy for them.
I am.
In fact, I’m so happy I celebrate by tossing back my head and swallowing half my flask. After I’m finished, I manage, “Broussard came by the hospital while I was checking myself out. Apparently, the police caught up with Rick trying to rent a car this morning. He had a suitcase full of cash and a duffel bag full of clothes. Jumping ship like the rat he is.”
“It’s weird,” Maggie muses. “The only reason we set our sights on your dad—” When I clear my throat, she’s quick to correct herself. “Excuse me, I mean Rick, is because we were hoping that by bringing him down, we could bring down George Sullivan too. But now Sullivan is dead.”
“And your point?”
She shakes her head. “I don’t have one. Except, I guess it just goes to show nothing ever works out the way you think it will.”
“Man plans and God laughs,” I agree.
A boy walks past us on the sidewalk. One of his hands is secure in his mother’s grip. The other is holding a harmonica to his lips. He can’t be more than six or seven, and yet he’s playing “Amazing Grace” with clear-noted precision.
One of the first things that struck me after moving here as a teenager was that New Orleanians are born singing and dancing and making music. It’s in their blood. In their bones. What an amazing inheritance, am I right?
The only thing I got from my place of birth was a mad love for Dunkin Donuts and Bon Jovi.
“Back to our excursions,” I say once mother and son have continued up the block. “What should we do next? We still have The Fly, Muriel’s Jackson Square, and M.S. Rau Antiques left on the list.”
“I vote for M.S. Rau Antiques,” Maggie says. “I’ve heard they have priceless jewels and Monet paintings in there.”
“I think you hafta make reservations or something.” Luc frowns. “In which case, I vote for The Fly.”
“Rock, paper, scissors, lizard, Spock to see who wins?” Maggie asks. For the first time since they arrived, Luc smiles at her.
“I know I’m going to hate asking,” I mutter, “but what the heck is rock, paper, scissors, lizard, uh…”
“Spock,” Luc fills in helpfully. “It’s from The Big Bang Theory.”
I roll my eyes. “You two are hopeless, you realize that, right?” Hopeless and sickeningly attuned to each other. The whiskey in my flask sends up another call. This one I manage to ignore. “And before you do”—I make a rolling motion with my hand—“that Spock thing, I vote for The Fly too. I’m thinking this Sunday evening if the weather holds.”
“I’m not sure I can switch shifts with Chrissy on such short notice.” Maggie’s lips purse.
“Try,” I tell her. Then I give in to the call and take another long pull of whiskey, hoping to numb the paralyzing sense of urgency that’s becoming my constant companion.
There’s so much left to do and so little time to do it in.
Chapter Seventy-three
______________________________________
Luc
Putting yourself out there, knowing you might be rejected, is a frightening prospect. But what’s even more frightening is living with the regret of never trying.
I was aiming to let Maggie’s declaration stand. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that was my mistake the first time around.
A dozen years ago, I didn’t protest when Cash came into the picture. I simply stepped aside, because I was scared of being rebuffed. Because I didn’t think I was good enough. Because I believed all those idiots who called me a swamp rat and white trash and son of a whore.
But I’m not that whipped kid anymore. And this time I’m determined to swallow my pride and take a chance.
It’s been two days since I got out of jail, two days since Maggie put her life and livelihood on the line to secure my bail. Now here we are, sitting on a checkered blanket, our dinner eaten and the last of the dirty rice and corn m
aque choux tucked back into the picnic basket.
Mom stuffed my refrigerator full of food before heading back to Shreveport yesterday. And God knows I’ll never be able to eat everything before it goes bad, so I offered to supply the grub if Maggie supplied the basket and the blanket.
Where once there were plates and plastic containers between us, now there’s a looming space. I stare at it uncomfortably. She ignores it by fidgeting with her new phone. As for Cash? He seems oblivious to the tension hanging in the air like a threatening electrical storm.
Or maybe he’s not so much oblivious as he is drunk. All evening long, he’s been taking regular hits of Gentleman Jack.
On the opposite bank of the river, the sun is making its path toward the horizon. And beneath the tree next to ours, three ladies of advancing years have parked their lawn chairs and settled in for the show. Like tines on a fork, they’re indistinguishable from each other. Curly white hair. Orthopedic shoes. Flowery dresses topped with fuzzy cardigans.
Sisters maybe? Lifelong friends?
Will that be me and Maggie and Cash in fifty years? Still friends? Still sitting side by side enjoying the sunset?
Cash caps his flask and runs an unsteady finger over the initials on the outside of it. His words are slightly slurred when he asks, “You think people have a right to happiness? Or should it be something you have to work for?”
Here we go. Another exercise in abstract thinking. I don’t know if it’s the head injury, the booze, or the combination of both that’s been making him so reflective these last few months. But whatever it is, it’s starting to concern me. Not because I think philosophizing is a bad thing. But because it’s not like him.
Cash has always been a man who acts first and asks questions later.
“Isn’t a right to happiness one of the fundamental ideals we hold dear as Americans?” Maggie frowns. “I mean, it’s part of the Declaration of Independence, for Pete’s sake.”
Volume Three: In Moonlight and Memories, #3 Page 7
