by Arden, Alys
“Ugh, sure.” It had been months since I had done any real physical activity.
“That’s the spirit, honey.”
I smiled and left the coffee for him on his workbench.
On the way to the front door, I grabbed my bag and reached for my keys. They shot up into my palm.
I stopped short.
Quickly, I looked around to see if anyone else had just witnessed the strange occurrence, knowing full well that no one was there. My fingers tightened around the keys into a fist.
Breathe.
The metal felt warm, and my fingers began to tingle. My heart started skipping as I racked my brain for a reasonable explanation, but nothing came to mind. I felt strangely at odds, like my subconscious was trying to fight back – fighting the part of me that was desperately trying to suppress yesterday’s memories as if they were a bad dream.
Trying not to go into a full-on panic attack, I dropped the keys into my bag and did what any reasonable person would do: ignored it and hustled out the door.
My nervousness transferred from my shoulders down to my feet, which carried me down the block at a non-Southern pace. I misjudged the hop onto the curb and stumbled, but caught myself before falling.
“Adele? You okay?” Felix Palermo yelled, witnessing my spastic moment. He sure had good eyesight for someone pushing eighty. The old man was hunched over a broom, next to a large pile of window shards. I hurried across the street, eager for the distraction.
“Hi, Mr. Felix!”
“If it isn’t little Miss Adele.”
Behind him, a couple of younger guys I didn’t recognize exited Palermo’s deli, carrying a moldy refrigerator. The little corner store was not in good shape, but I tried not to let the shock show on my face. Palermo’s was one of the many Italian delicatessens that had opened after a huge influx of Southern Italians migrated to the city in the late nineteenth century. They have mountains and the Mediterranean, and we have marshes and the Mississippi – I’m not sure I see the appeal – the climate’s similar, I suppose.
The guys dropped the fridge near the curb and quickly retreated back into the deli.
“When did you and Mrs. Rosaria get back?” I asked, giving the old man a hug.
“We snuck back a few days ago, but it wasn’t ’til yesterday that I found a couple of boys to help us start haulin’ the trash out. They’re staying in the top-floor apartment, trading rent for labor. If ya ask me, I’m getting the better end of the deal – the apartment doesn’t even have electricity. But they’re over from the motherland, lookin’ for some missing relatives, so they’ve got bigger problems.”
“We’re running a generator,” I said. “I don’t think anyone in the Quarter has electricity, yet.”
“We got a few feet of water. It poured in the storefront window where an old Chevy had pushed through. The boys managed to get the car out last night, and we were still mopping water out this morning. Looters trashed the place.” He sighed. “I suppose I can’t really blame them. People need to eat. This hurricane, Addie, I don’t know. I’ve been through Betsy and Camille and at least a couple dozen more, but something’s just not right about this one.”
I didn’t know why, but I understood what he meant. Something just felt off. I had tried to convince myself that the feeling was just due to being away for so long, combined with the shock at the level of destruction, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something else was different. That something had changed.
He gestured to the store. “You go in there and take anything you and your pop need. That is, if there’s anything left.”
“I’m not taking anything from you without paying—”
“Adele, you go salvage anything you can. And don’t you worry about it; I’m filin’ an insurance claim tomorrow. Capisce?” He gave me an exaggerated wink.
“Capisce.” I smiled and walked towards the entrance.
“And be careful in there, Adele! It’s a goddamn mess.”
I yelled, “Okay,” over my shoulder and stopped in the entrance. The store’s enormous retro sign had been split in half. The half with “PAL” still seemed secure, but the “ERMO’S” half now hung at a dangerous ninety-degree angle. I hurried underneath to enter the store. The whole city was starting to feel like one giant booby-trapped obstacle course.
* * *
Flies buzzed around mounds of brown-colored mush that used to be fruit but now reeked like rotten grass. I covered my nose and mouth to mask the smell, attempting to control my jerking stomach muscles, and then hurried to the other side of the store, being extra careful not to step on anything that would require a tetanus shot after.
Sauntering down the remaining aisles, I assessed my options, scared of anything not preserved in glass, aluminum, or a vacuum-sealed bag. Most of the nonperishables had already been cleared out. I grabbed a can of steel-cut oats as if it was gold, and then a couple sacks of red beans and rice. Would bigger supermarket chains look like this too – empty shelves with a rotting inventory? Would we have to ration these oats? Surely the government would intervene if it came to that… right?
I quickly scooped up two cans of tomato soup, and, through the empty space they opened up, got a view to the other side of the room, where Mr. Felix’s two workers were ripping the commercial freezers from the wall. Neither seemed to be breaking a sweat.
Impressive.
One had light-blond hair, and the other’s was nearly black, but there was something very similar about them. They must be brothers, I thought, watching them from between jars of pepper jelly and dusty cans of New England clam chowder. Even their movements were synced; each carried out the manual labor with a strange amount of grace. Mr. Felix had said they were from the motherland; he must have meant Italy; their slickly styled hair seemed very Italian to me. Flashbacks to my European days suddenly made me feel very underdressed.
The dark-haired guy was closest to me, but all I could see was the back of his head. He wore dark jeans and a black leather jacket, and even from behind, seemed more focused on the task at hand than the blond, who appeared bored, his thin lips in a near pout.
The blond looked to be in his mid-twenties. The cuffs of his pale-blue denim jeans were turned up, and his suspenders hung lose at his sides. He had the most perfect skin I had ever seen, but his aquiline features combined with his lackadaisical demeanor made him come across as some kind of naughty prince.
“How long do we have to do this, brother?” he asked.
“Until we’ve acclimated. Or until everyone is reunited, I suppose.” His English had only a hint of foreign accent, while the blond’s was much thicker.
“I assumed finding everyone would require some brute force, but this wasn’t exactly what I had in mind,” the blond said as he jerked the refrigeration system from the wall.
“Stop whining. Like you couldn’t do this in your sleep.”
“Don’t mention sleep around me,” said the blond. His brother softly chuckled.
My chest stung. The Storm had turned so many people into insomniacs. How could you sleep if you were missing loved ones?
Out of nowhere, the cans of chowder betrayed me by flying off the shelf and onto the floor in a series of loud crashes. I watched in horror as one rolled all the way over to the boot of the blond.
“Well, whom do we have here?” he asked, overjoyed to have a distraction from the labor.
I was mortified, caught spying on a private conversation. And not just any conversation but one between two hot guys. I suddenly wished I had taken the time to put on makeup, but what were the odds of meeting two beautiful foreigners at Palermo’s? I tried to walk casually to the other side of the shelf, as if I was just doing the daily shopping.
“Hi, I’m Adele. I live around the corner.”
“Adele?” He looked at me with an eagerness that made me slightly uncomfortable.
“Yeah, Adele Le Moyne.” My attempt to offer a hand failed because I was holding too many things, so I resorted to a
half-nod, half-curtsey. Blood rose in my cheeks.
“Buongiorno, Adele. I am Gabe.” The blond’s light-green eyes sparkled against the grim backdrop of the store. “And this is my younger brother, Niccolò.”
Niccolò nodded at me and then casually leaned against the wall with one foot up, his hands stuffed deep into his pockets.
“Nice to meet you both. Bienvenue?” Is welcoming appropriate under these circumstances?
“The pleasure is entirely ours,” Gabe said, looking down at me with a dramatic smile. From my hiding spot, I hadn’t realized how tall they were, both over six feet. The outline of Gabe’s well-defined chest was easy to see through his fitted white T-shirt, which he had somehow managed not to dirty at all.
I scrambled to think of something to say. “Mr. Felix said you are over from Europe. Italy?” I placed my bags on the ground.
“Si,” Gabe said quickly. “We are looking for our cousins. We have three missing in action. Maybe you know them?”
There was something strange about the way he had asked. Like the way a Mafioso would casually inquire about his next victim. My knowledge of the Mafia, of course, came only from watching the Godfather movies repeatedly with my father.
As I listened to Gabe describe their missing relatives, I couldn’t help notice that Niccolò’s gaze still hadn’t shifted from me. He had the same light-green eyes as Gabe, only his made me think of a cat preparing to pounce on a toy. My fingers went to the chain around my neck as my eyes flicked to his – never for more than a few seconds at a time. He was just as attractive as his brother, but with more of a James Dean vibe about him. Wait, did I know this guy?I blushed when I realized there was no way I could have met a guythis attractive and then simply forgotten about him.
His lips moved into a slight smile, as if he knew I was trying to figure it out.
Then I noticed the silence. Gabe had stopped talking and was looking at me, obviously expecting me to answer a question.
“I’m sorry,” I stuttered. “What was the name?”
“Me-di-ci,” he repeated slowly, as if I was having trouble comprehending him and not just absorbed by the way his brother was looking at me.
“Leave her alone, Gabriel.” Niccolò finally spoke. “She obviously doesn’t know anything.” The softness of his voice surprised me.
“It’s fine,” I squeaked, dropping the chain. The charms bounced against my stomach as I turned back to Gabe. “I’m sorry, I was paying attention. I just got… distracted.” I tried not to smile, knowing Niccolò was still looking at me. “I don’t know any Medicis. I’m sorry.” I desperately wished I knew something, anything, about their family. “Three people missing – that’s horrible.”
Gabe let out an exasperated sigh. “Don’t worry, little lamb, we aren’t going to rest until we find them.” He walked across the room and stood right outside the doorway, staring down the street like a posted guard.
“What happened to your face?” Niccolò asked, obviously trying to change the subject.
“Um, a bird clawed me.” I was not thrilled that the attention now focused on my giant scab.
“A bird? What kind of bird?” he probed in a serious tone. I had a hunch it was only a slight variation from his natural disposition.
“I’m pretty sure it was a crow, but it was really dark in the kitchen so I can’t be certain. Everyone around here has so many horror stories from the last couple of months, but all I got was a crow attack. Not that I’m complaining,” I quickly added.
“A crow? In your home?”
He seemed to mull over the idea as he slowly approached me.
My mouth moved, but I no longer heard the sounds coming out… something about how great the city was under different circumstances. My brain ping-ponged between wondering where I knew him from and wondering whether I should stay and continue embarrassing myself with my pathetic attempts at conversation. Unfortunately, he said nothing to interrupt my rambling as he moved closer, although, his focus was so attentive on my wounded cheek, I questioned whether he was even listening.
He stopped directly in front of me, forcing my fluttering eyes to focus on him. “It is an amazing city. Luckily we’ve been here before.”
My throat tightened. “Oh, good.”
He was so close I could smell him over the lingering stench of putrid produce: leather and soap. The scent reminded me of Émile. Probably because Émile was one of my few points of reference when it came to male scents.
He raised his hand to my face, and I prayed that I wasn’t showing any outward signs that my knees were about to buckle. Careful not to touch the wound, his fingertips grazed my cheek, sending chills up my head and into my hairline. Surely he must have noticed.
He took a deep breath and whispered, “Lavender.”
His hand swept my neck as he delicately picked up the thin silver chain, following the tightly woven links all the way down to the two charms dangling at my waist. He brought the medallion up to his face, pulling me even closer. My chest bobbed against his leather jacket. I strained my legs to keep my balance and not fall into him as he flipped it over, keenly examining both sides. My gaze nervously wandered to the broken Palermo’s sign hanging over the door, where Gabe was still standing sentry.
“Pretty necklace. Where did you get it?”
We were standing so close, I could barely breathe. I tried to turn sounds into words, but nothing came out of my mouth easily, for a change.
“My dad— Gabe!” I screamed as a loud screech of scraping metal interrupted us.
The latter half of the massive sign tore free and plummeted toward him. My eyes smashed shut, and I covered my ears, anticipating the loud crash… but a few beats of silence went by instead.
In that fraction of a second before I closed my eyes, had I really seen the sign momentarily freeze in midair?
I cautiously opened my eyes to find the two modelesque brothers each holding one end of the broken neon namesake. The sign was so old, it must have been extraordinarily heavy, but they rested it on the floor as if it was as light as a kitten. They both brushed their hands and turned to me with a look of bewilderment plus a hint of suspicion. Which was strange, because that’s exactly how I was looking at them.
“Are you okay?” I asked, hurrying over to them. My hand instinctually went to Gabe’s shoulder, but then I quickly pulled it back, not that he seemed to mind the physical touch.
“You saved me,” he said.
I balked at the very idea.
“Your warning scream… I am forever in your debt.” He gallantly kissed my hand.
The metal screeched again.
I looked up just in time to see the lonely letter L dropping from above us.
Before I could blink, Gabe jumped up and knocked it aside. Niccolò jerked my arm, pulling me out of the way as it crashed onto the brick floor in an explosion of glass and plastic.
A wheeze escaped my throat. Gabe looked straight in my eyes and smiled.
“I guess you're even now,” Niccolò said.
They both just stared at me, seemingly undisturbed. The silence quickly became deafening. Rampant insecurity took over. I wasn’t sure what to do or say next, so I fled back for my bag and gathered up my loot. Their gazes continued to burn through me – whether it was with disbelief, admiration, or scorn I had no idea.
Trying to be nonchalant on the way out, I grabbed a bottle of rubbing alcohol, a large box of salt, and a couple boxes of baking soda.
“Well, it was nice to meet you both.”
“Until we meet again,” said Gabe. “Arrivederci.”
“And welcome to the neighborhood.” I looked at Niccolò. “I wish it were under better circumstances.”
“Me too.” The corner of his mouth crooked.“Ciao, bella.”
Chapter 8 Bisous, Bisous
Completely frazzled, I took off in the wrong direction. Luckily, I only covered one block before I came to my senses and detoured onto Bourbon Street.
Usually at thi
s hour, employees would be receiving truckloads of inventory and hosing out the proof of last night’s vices from barroom floors. Usually I had to hold my breath because of the rank aromatic meld of stale beer, ashtrays, bleach, and garbage baking in the end of summer heat. But this morning that was not necessary. Today there was only one man in view, and he wasn’t hosing. He was just leaning against the entranceway of the Court of Two Sisters, smoking a cigarette, shaking his head.
I looped onto Orleans Avenue and sped up, partly out of excitement and partly because my bag of nonperishables was getting heavy.
This particular block, where Café Orléans is located, is one of my favorite streets in the city – I loved its duality. At the far end is one of the loudest blocks of Bourbon, home of the infamous hand-grenade: a toxic-green melon cocktail served in a plastic yard-glass shaped like an explosive device – touted as the world’s most powerful drink. The opposite end of the short block dead-ends in St. Anthony’s Garden, the back courtyard of the St. Louis Cathedral. New Orleans, like this street block, was a place of contradictions. Especially in the French Quarter, you could never guess what you’d find.
I stopped in front of the used bookshop next to the café, one of my most frequented locales. It was closed, but the shutters were open, indicating that someone had been back since the evacuation. I leaned my head against the windowpane to look inside.
The tiny shop didn’t appear to have any damage.Thank God, I thought selfishly. This bookstore had provided me with far more important knowledge than my school textbooks.
The hanging wooden sign for Café Orléans caused a rush of excitement to fill my chest – I had helped Sébastien climb up and take the sign down before his family evacuated, so they must have returned.
Sébastien Michel and his twin sister, Jeanne, were the closest things to siblings I ever had. The Michels had been like a surrogate family to me ever since my mother had left, so practically my whole life. Ever since they were small children, the twins had been raised by their grandparents, Bertrand and Sabine, who were originally from France. Since they had a French-speaking household, my father wouldn’t allow anyone else to babysit me when I was a child. It was his version of language immersion/torturing me. French is not widely spoken in New Orleans anymore, so it’s not particularly useful, but he did it because it was supposedly important to my mother. He always seemed sad when he reminded me of that, so I never fought him on it.