by Alta Hensley
No, I hated the smell of rain.
But I did love when it rained. I loved the sound of it hitting the roof of the trailer as I would lie in bed. It soothed me. I loved the way it ran down the dirty windows, streaking them with long trains of water. I loved the puddles it formed on the dry desert land. I also loved that whenever it did rain, the wind usually picked up. The thunder would boom in the distance with cracks of light breaking the sky.
I also loved how the rain made people happy—especially living in the desert. I think it was our basic human instincts of survival. Our cores knew Mother Nature was keeping us alive. So people rejoiced. Rain had a way of cleansing everything. From the dirty town I lived in, to the asphalt of the highway that had people driving right past us. Rain could make the ugly pretty for a short time.
But my favorite part of rain was when it really poured. Which didn’t happen for long. There would be a five-minute burst every so often in a desert thunderstorm, and when that cloud released, it would flood the landscape. Sheets of rain would wash down in buckets. It would rain so fast and furious that the dry ground couldn’t keep up. Flash floods would happen, washing away all the piled up garbage in the cracks of the sidewalks or the gutters of houses. It would wash away all the piled up filth that had accumulated over time. One five-minute downpour, and everything was clean. Clean.
I loved the rain.
I just hated the smell of it.
As I sat on the Greyhound bus, staring out the window, I watched it rain as I left. I was in the flash flood, getting swept away to New Orleans. Virgie had completely lost her mind. Without a doubt, lost her mind. And yet… here I was on the bus, with a suitcase, a duffle bag, and an oversized purse carrying all my possessions. I was the insane one.
I also had more money in my pocket than I had ever seen, including a check made out to Marie St. Claire for a month’s worth of rent. I had never had someone do something so nice for me before. I had promised Virgie I would pay her back, and she had refused like the stubborn old lady I’d always known her to be. The only thing she wanted from me were hand written letters. She said she wanted to see New Orleans through my eyes, and hear of all the adventures I was about to experience. She had said it was my turn to live an exciting life like she had once done.
My turn.
Luckily the bus wasn’t crowded, and the seat next to me was empty so I could stretch out. Once I reached Las Vegas, I would still have 1 day, 19 hours, and 45 minutes of driving to reach New Orleans. It was about to be the longest drive of my life, and also the most terrifying, most thrilling, and most life altering.
I wasn’t really a reader, but I did pack a couple of Virgie’s paperbacks to try to pass the time, but I wasn’t in the mood to get them out of my bag just yet. But I decided to go ahead and write the first of the promised letters to Virgie. When we reached the next stop to get some vending machine food and drinks, I would hopefully be able to find a mailbox. Virgie had been sure to give me plenty of stamps and paper to last me months before sending me on my way. She wanted to make sure I had no excuse not to write. Virgie would be tickled if she were to get a letter almost immediately after I left, so I pulled the paper and pen from my purse to begin.
Virgie,
I can’t believe I am doing this. I’m sitting on a bus, driving days to get to a city where I have never been. I’ve only seen it in movies and know of one landmark—Bourbon Street. And I know there are gators in a swamp.
What have I done? What have you made me do? I truly have lost my mind.
But I have to thank you. Thank you so much for pushing me to do something like this. I was trapped… I know that. I’ve always known that. I wanted out so badly but never had the shove I needed to do so. You not only shoved me, you gave me a huge boot in the ass and kick in the teeth that I needed.
You are my best friend. My only friend. Which I realize is an odd best friend pairing. Our ages, our pasts, even our futures are not on the same path, but I feel it in my soul. There isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for you, and after what you did for me today, I now know there isn’t anything you wouldn’t do for me as well. So leaving you has already left a huge gaping hole in my heart. Yes, I worked for you. And yes, I cleaned after your dirty ass, but you were my friend. And what you did for me today was by far the best gift I have ever received in my life.
So here I am. On a Greyhound. Because of you.
My meemaw wanted me to leave Muckaluk. She had made me promise that I would leave and start a new life. I meant it when I promised her that I would, but I didn’t know when, or how. And frankly, I’m not sure if it would have ever happened.
Before I left, you said I needed to find a dream and not just nightmares, but the truth of the matter is that I don’t even have nightmares. I am blank. Hollow. At this point of my life, I would welcome the nightmare too. Anything to add pigment to my blank canvas and to fill up my hollow hole. I think that’s why I got so many of those tattoos you hated so much. It was the only way I could add color to my stark, blank, white life.
So, as I sit here and write this letter, I wonder what is in store for me. What do I want? What is my future? Will I be a coward and return to you in tears? Will I find my dreams, my nightmares? How will I survive once I use all your money? So many questions, and yet, as I watch the rain run down the glass windows of the bus, I feel a sense of peace. I think I can do this… no, I KNOW I can do this. It’s time. It’s time I add the color to my life and not just my body.
But SHIT, can you tell Roy I’m sorry for missing my appointment, and I owe him an extra six-pack of Pap’s? And don’t tell the man he stinks. I know you, Virgie, so just hold that tongue of yours. Ha.
Well, here is the first letter of many to you. I hope I have more exciting things to say in my next one, because there isn’t much to say yet. I’m almost to Las Vegas, and then I hop on another bus to go the rest of the way. Then I will have 1 day, 19 hours and 45 minutes until I arrive. I may go crazy, since that seems like an impossibly long time to sit in a bus, but I’m going to try to stay positive and open to the gift you gave me. The bus isn’t crowded and the few people who are on it seem just as lost as I am. Vacant eyes staring out windows at passing landscape. I do wonder what their stories are. Are they full of despair or hope? Are they running to something, or running away? Are they afraid, or are they brave? I watch them and wonder if they are watching me too. Are they a blank canvas like me, ready to paint their picture?
I hope I make you proud, Virgie. And I hope through my letters and words you can revisit the life you once lived in New Orleans through my eyes. I will try. I promise you this. I won’t be afraid. I won’t hold back. I will go in with both feet and both eyes wide open. It’s time I took chances and lived. And I promise myself that I will not return to that trailer. I will never go back there. I will do whatever it takes to not go back there. I’m a fighter, Virgie. I guess I just needed you to remind me of that fact. I won’t let you down. I won’t let myself down either.
I love you,
~Anita
P.S. You better be taking your meds and eating more than just popcorn. Don’t force me to come back just to check that you are.
I folded up the letter, placed it in the envelope, stuck the stamp on it, and hadn’t realized I had tears running down my face until I tucked it away into my purse. I wasn’t one to reveal my emotions easily. It was so much simpler to be like the rough bikers who drove through Muckaluk without a care in the world or so much as a smile on their faces. It was just them and the open road. Yes, that was me. Just me and the open road. But Virgie deserved my open soul. If anyone deserved it, it was her.
Wiping at my tears I refused to shed again, I closed my eyes and settled in for the next 1 day, 19 hours, and 45 minutes. A long fucking ways away from exit 222, mile marker 51.
Chapter Four
Anita
I stood before a large house I had just learned was in what was known in New Orleans as the Garden District. My taxi driver had told
me that the house was a short trolley ride to Bourbon Street, which again, was the only landmark that I knew of this unknown city I was about to call home, unless you counted the swamp in general.
Glancing down to the top of my hand, I saw 4342 Camp Street written with blue ink. Virgie had given me the address when I phoned her once I got to the Greyhound station. Marie St. Claire’s boarding house was the picture of perfection. Large ferns hung from the porch awning of a white and gray house. It was too pretty for the likes of me, and if I didn’t know better, I would think there was no way I could afford a place this nice. Though I was only renting a room and sharing a bathroom with two others, it still seemed too high class and pricey for my nonexistent budget.
Taking a deep breath, I picked up my bag and suitcase and walked through the iron gate, up the porch stairs, and rang the doorbell. My new life had begun. I had arrived.
A short older woman opened the door with a welcoming smile. “Hello, Anita. Welcome.”
I was surprised that she knew who I was.
“Virgie said you had arrived,” she said as she opened the screen door that had been separating us. “Come in. Come in. Virgie said you had a really long journey to get here. I’ve actually never ridden the Greyhound before, but many of my tenants have. I have heard both good and bad stories. Hopefully yours are all good.”
The woman spoke fast. Really fast.
As we entered the foyer, I looked around, taking in all the antiques and the beautiful damask wallpaper. I felt as if I had stepped back in time to an era when people actually cared about the finer details of design.
“Oh, where are my manners? My mother is turning over in her grave right now.” She extended her hand to me. “I’m Marie St. Claire. This is my boarding home, and for as long as you like, your home.”
I took her hand and shook it. “Thank you. It’s so pretty. And what a lovely neighborhood.”
She smiled widely. “Oh, it is. I simply adore it. Though you will see tourists walking up and down the streets and occasionally a tour bus or walking tour guide, but that’s all right by me. I like showing off this beautiful house. Though I do have to keep my landscaper happy. He has his hands full. That’s for sure. Our exterior is important in this neighborhood, so no matter what condition the inside is in, the outside has to shine.”
I glanced around at the immaculate wood floors, the pristine furniture, and I wouldn’t have been able to find a speck of dust had I tried. “The inside is just as beautiful.”
Marie’s eyes lit up. “Aren’t you kind. My mama would be so happy to hear that. She loved this home so much, and her mama loved it before her, and her mama before that. So, it’s in my blood. Tradition.” She glanced down at my luggage and then back at me. “But you must be exhausted and want to settle into your room.”
I nodded. “Yes, it was a long trip.”
She motioned for me to follow her up the large staircase lined with framed black and white pictures of other houses in the Garden District. If I weren’t so tired, I would have wanted to go for a walk and take a look around, but the bed was calling my name. Even though it was midday, I felt as if it were the middle of the night with how tired I was, not to mention the time change.
She pointed to a closed door. “This will be your bathroom. You’ll be sharing with two lovely ladies—Ivy and Marlowe. You will get along with them perfectly. Kinsey and Eris share the other bathroom on the floor. You really will need to talk to them about getting a job. They all work at this exclusive membership club on Toulouse Street which is near Bourbon. I’m sure you have heard of Bourbon Street right?”
I nodded. “Yes, it’s the only thing I really know about New Orleans.”
Marie smirked. “Yes, well that will soon change, and you’ll find out that Bourbon Street is such a small part of all the magic that makes up this city. Anyway, the girls all work at Spiked Roses, and I bet they can get you a job there. Kinsey just recently moved here, and the women hooked her right up. From what they say, there is good money in it.”
“That would be great. I am definitely in need of a job.”
“Well, good. When I see one of them, I will let them know you are interested.” She opened the door to my room with an old skeleton key that she handed over to me. “Here it is. There isn’t air conditioning, which I know can be brutal at times, but there is a fan. The radiator heater is controlled by you, however, so you can at least be as warm as you want. The laundry facilities are downstairs in the basement.” She paused and smiled. “Well, since New Orleans is at sea level, it’s not really a basement, per se, but that’s what we often call the first floor. There are also two large industrial size refrigerators in the kitchen as well as one in the basement. The rule around here is if someone’s name is on it, then it’s off limits. We ask that you are respectful and use your own supplies such as shampoo, toothpaste, detergent and what not. I do provide the cleaning supplies under the sink. I will worry about the upkeep of the house, but it is your responsibility to clean up after yourself in the kitchen and bathrooms.”
I nodded, feeling my eyes growing heavier by the minute. “That sounds fair enough.”
“Rent is due on the 1st, with a $25 late fee if you go past the 5th. You are all paid up until next month. I know you don’t have to, but if you do plan on leaving us, I do like a month’s notice just so I know I have an opening coming available.”
I nodded again, having no idea what or where I would be in one month. I didn’t even know what tomorrow would bring.
“Sorry. I hate saying all that. It makes me feel like a hard ass. But my mama taught me before she passed that the tenants appreciate all the rules and details spelled out for them.”
I gave her a reassuring smile as I looked around the small room. There was a single bed that had an antique iron headboard. Next to it, was, no doubt, another antique nightstand with a beautiful Tiffany style lamp. There was a large dresser with an oval mirror hanging over it. It reminded me of something you would see in the Victorian era. In the far corner of the room was a small roll top desk and chair with another lamp that matched the one on the nightstand. Though the floors were hardwood, a large oriental rug with different shades of burgundy covered a majority of the center of the room. The fan that Marie had mentioned was antique as well and even had rusted blades to add to the effect.
I loved it.
I adored it.
I didn’t feel I deserved such luxury.
“It’s not a big room,” Marie started.
“Oh no! It’s perfect. Absolutely perfect,” I cut in. “I’ve never had a room so nice before.” It was a far cry from my crappy trailer I grew up in.
I don’t know if it was the days of traveling, the complete exhaustion, being overwhelmed with picking up and leaving what I knew so fast, the new city, or what, but tears overflowed from my eyes before I even had a chance to keep them back.
Marie stared at me with an open mouth. “Oh no, are you okay?”
I swiped at my tears, ashamed for my lack of control. “I’m sorry.” I sniffled. “I love the room. I’m just tired I guess. But the room is beautiful. Thank you so much.”
“No problem at all. I had the open room, but even if I hadn’t, I would have tried to help. Virgie was a really good friend of my mother. My mama loved that woman.”
“She is an amazing person,” I agreed.
“Well, you go ahead and get settled. Welcome to New Orleans. I’m here if you have any questions at all. Please don’t be a stranger.”
I nodded and gave a warm smile, still wiping at my eyes with my fingertips. What had gotten into me? I just wanted to crawl into the bed, underneath the beautiful quilt—that no doubt was homemade—and cry myself to sleep. She patted my upper arm and walked out the door, closing it behind her.
And for the first time in days, I was alone. Alone in a city where I only knew of one street. What had Virgie gotten me into?
Kicking off my shoes, I sat on the edge of the bed, still looking around at my
surroundings. There were so many details to the room that I wasn’t sure if I would ever see it all. The doorknob was made of glass, the ceiling had decorative plaster in swirls and circles, and crown moulding ran along the ceiling. The baseboards were extra wide with decorative corner blocks at every wall junction.
Just as I was getting ready to crash, there was a knock on the door. Well, at least Marie was respecting my space and privacy and not just barging in.
“Come in,” I called, not wanting to get off the bed. Physical fatigue had set in just as much as the emotional had.
The door opened and the most exotically stunning woman I had ever seen entered the room. Deep, rich, brown eyes and nearly black hair acted like a beacon in a storm. I didn’t swing that way, but this woman was enchanting. Her tiny body wore cut off jean shorts with a red tank top. She was tan—naturally tan. She was muscular—not naturally. No doubt, this woman was a runner. She had the body of a marathon champion. Lean. Toned. Sculpted. Fuck, this woman was mouthwatering. She definitely had the power to convert someone who normally didn’t like women in that way.
“Anita?” she asked in a soft voice.
“Yes,” I said, standing up uncomfortably. I hoped she hadn’t caught me checking her out.
“Marie said you just moved here today.”
I nodded.
“And that you were looking for a job?”
“Yeah, I am.”
She smiled. “Well, if you are interested, I can probably get you in for an interview with the place I work at. They are currently hiring after a big change in staff. I just got another girl who lives here a job there a couple of days ago.”
“I would love that. Thank you,” I said. “Is it a waitress job?”
She shrugged. “Could be. Or cigar girl, or coat check, or whatever the bosses think you should do.”
“I don’t have any experience. I’ve only been a caretaker.”
She smiled warmly. “Don’t worry about that. If you have an open mind, are not shy… or at least can fake not being shy, then you’ll be good.” She looked at me from the face to my feet. “You’re pretty. That’s important.”