by Ciji Ware
Jack cut in, “You’re letting her win, you know.”
Serena paused and set her spoon down beside her bowl.
“Well, she has. I surrender.”
Jack inhaled a deep breath. “Driving a wedge between us like this is exactly what she intended and she’s succeeding—just like the terrorists succeed when they make everyone afraid to get on an airplane.”
Without looking at him she asked, “Well, what about the other stuff she said?”
“About my not ever intending to marry anyone?”
Serena appeared startled.
“How did you know about that?”
“Corlis has a steel-trap memory and aptly described the hissy fit Lauren threw backstage.”
“I’m not fishing for a marriage proposal, mind you,” Serena blurted, “but what she said rang the old Mr. Elusive bell in my head.”
“Do I seem elusive lately?” he demanded. “I’ve been calling you five times a day and buying tickets to fashion shows, to say nothing of bringing gumbo to your very door,” he elaborated with a crooked grin. “What other proof of my serious intentions should I be demonstrating, other than ask my mother for my grandmother’s diamond ring that she keeps at the bank—which I hope to do before long?”
Serena gazed across the table at him.
“‘Serious intentions,’ are they?” she quoted him.
He could tell she was trying not to smile.
“As serious as I can make them until my stories are published,” he allowed.
“Seriously?”
“You like that word, don’t you?”
“I do.”
“So... ?”
Serena hesitated only a split second before saying, “Soooo... come here, will you?”
Jack put down his spoon.
“Come where?”
She crooked her index finger and gestured with a nod of her head.
“In there.”
“It says Ladies Room on the door.”
“And inside, there’s an old fashioned fainting couch for our female employees to take naps on when they’re working late shifts.”
“Like the sofa at the top of the costume workroom in Venice?”
“Bigger,” she replied, her voice low and husky, “and a lot more comfortable. Mine’s even got a velvet coverlet and a couple of pillows.”
Their glances locked and their memories of the first night they made love were reflected in each other’s eyes. They both stood up simultaneously and their bodies collided near the corner of the cutting table.
“I hate what you were subjected to last night,” he whispered into her hair, and then scattered kisses everywhere, finally reaching her lips. “I’ve been on the receiving end of that stuff Lauren can dish out, and, man-oh-man, can it poison your spirit and dull your shine. I’m sorry, Serena, sweetheart. I am so sorry! I’ll keep her away from you from now on, I swear!”
He gazed down at her, filled with a surging love for the woman he held in his arms. Serena’s eyes were filled with tears.
“It was pretty awful,” she murmured, “especially when she said I’d started an affair with you when she was still in the picture. She was right, you know.”
“Now don’t go taking on sins that belong to me!” he countered. “You are the last person on earth who deserved that kind of an assault. You’re the sweetest, nicest, prettiest, most talented...”
“Better say ‘the sexiest’ or I’ll kick you right out of here!” she retorted softly, swiping the moisture that had spilled down her cheek with the crook of her elbow.
For a second time since he’d met Serena, Jack tasted the salt when he kissed both eyelids. Then he placed one hand on her breast and cupped it through her sweater.
“Oh, yeah... definitely... ‘sexiest’ makes the list.”
“Those were the magic words, signor,” she teased, kissing him back. “C’mon, then... let’s finish our gumbo and head for the Ladies Room where you can whisper in my ear whatever other sweet nothings you have up your sleeve.”
“How about doing all that in reverse order? There’s always the microwave to heat up food in your employees’ lounge.”
By mid August, Jack had completed Part 2 of his Katrina anniversary piece and was working on the last section of the series that would begin running the week of August 29th. He called King and asked if he could come over to talk to him about an aspect of the story that had begun to trouble him even more deeply than before.
“Sure, buddy. Just you?” King answered, and Jack was grateful his friend sensed this was a conversation that couldn’t include Serena.
When he got to King’s place on Dauphine Street, he was relieved to learn that Corlis was, in fact, still at work, which had been part of his calculations. He was warmed by the friendship that had developed between the two women, which was all the more reason he needed to speak with King alone.
He quickly brought his friend up-to-date on the important factors that would be new to the reading public and, because he trusted King implicitly, told him of his uncle’s full admission on tape confirming that both Jacques and a number of his superiors had been well aware in 1982 that they were building canal walls to lower standards than had been recommended by outside engineering consultants.
Jack also outlined the statements of several other named experts who were of the opinion that what had been rebuilt in the wake of Katrina had woefully been under-engineered to less than a Category Three.
“And it was done like that for the same, damned reasons of undue influence that have plagued New Orleans, as well as Venice, Italy, for years,” he concluded.
“So you’ve got all these folks on the record?” King reiterated.
“Some names will be named in the published pieces... and some declined to be named, but spoke on the record to me on my assurance they would be quoted as ‘informed sources who wished to remain anonymous.’ Uncle J is in the second classification.”
“And this information has been kept water tight?” pressed King, “because if you ever think it will be leaked as to who those unnamed sources are, you’d better prepare Serena ahead of time for these revelations.”
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. The only people who have seen and read what I’ve written so far are my editor and the lawyers and a very few select members of their staff—and now you.”
“Hmmm... that’s good, but not perfect,” King said. “Why are you still trying to convince yourself that there’s no need to tell Serena about all this before the pieces run?”
“You mean about the role that a 24-year-old greenhorn engineer played in the corrupt process of how some of these walls and levees were built—even though that greenhorn is my elderly uncle who has come clean to me and mightily regrets his role in the death of her family members?”
“Yup. And I assume that’s why you’re here. Despite all, it’s still got you worried, hasn’t it?”
“Yeah... a bit... but then I think, why put Serena through the pain of knowing who did it, if the basic facts about all the circumstances will be revealed, even if Jacques’ name in this instance isn’t disclosed publicly?”
“C’mon Jack,” King replied. “Maybe you’re choosing to take this path because you will also be spared the possibility that if Serena knew the specifics, she’d dump you.”
“Jesus, King, why are you so smart?”
“Well, because we both know it might someday get out,” insisted King, “and if it did—and Serena realized you’d known all this time and kept it from her—I don’t know what would be worse: being devastated by the news your uncle had a hand in her brother’s death, or feeling betrayed by you because you hid it from her.”
“But Jacques is a protected source!” Jack said, agonizing over his dilemma between two competing loyalties. “You’re married to Corlis. You know the rules I’m working under.”
“You’re dealing with more than journalist ‘do’s and don’ts’ here, Jack,” King reminded him gruffly. “Your
source also happens to be your uncle and you’re his namesake. The woman involved happens to be your lover! Outsiders might say the only reason you’re keeping that quiet is due to special interests yourself.”
Jack stared at his friend, stung by his words.
“Well, the frigging lawyers agreed that I don’t have to name him!” he retorted, though he could hear the defensive tone in his voice. “They didn’t think I was pulling rank,” he added heatedly. “Why not let sleeping dogs lie? The odds are in my favor that Serena never has to know and never has to be hurt by all this. She even told me once that she might not even read the three-parter because she’s afraid of it picking the scabs off old wounds.”
“If you say so,” King commented, arching an eyebrow.
“Well, at least this way, the story can still be told without ruining everybody’s life. And who knows? Maybe it’ll make a big enough impact that we can stop what’s happening to our goddamned city!”
“That’s a mighty big secret to keep, especially if you want to marry this woman—and I think it’s pretty clear you do.” King replied quietly. “And may I remind you, you just told me all about your protected source. Your wanting to go over all this again today indicates that this conflict you’ve been wrestling with for months is bothering you, big time. That should tell you something.”
“But you’re my best friend,” Jack protested. “I told you because I trust you completely.”
“And you don’t trust Serena?”
Jack’s lips clamped shut and he looked away.
“Honestly? I guess I don’t trust the fact that I have no idea what she’d do if she ever found out. One thing I do know: I love her and I can’t risk hurting her like this.”
“What’s honest, Jack,” King said harshly, “is that you’re not willing to risk hurting yourself by taking a chance you might lose her if you told her the truth.” More gently he added, “Believe me, I understand. I’d feel the same way about Corlis, but I still think you should tell Serena before the story is published.”
Jack remained silent absorbing King’s admonitions.
Duvallon heaved a shrug and said, “But, hey, you’re the guy on the hot seat this time. Your call.”
“I dunno know, King. I just don’t know,” Jack mumbled and left without saying goodbye.
In the early morning of August 29th, 2015, as they had every year since Katrina struck New Orleans, Serena and her family met at 9 a.m. at the gates of the St. Louis Cemetery Number 3 near the outskirts of City Park. The somber little group set out for the gravesite where her grandmother, brother, sister-in-law, and the deceased couple’s unborn child were buried. The newspaper that morning was already on the front porch. Serena had steeled herself to read Part 1 of Jack’s story, but once she’d grabbed the paper from the top step, she took it upstairs and left it in her bedroom, the rubber band still around its folds.
Earlier in the week, Nick had been seething when their mother had told him not to bring Gus to the cemetery, or risk “heaping unpleasantness on an already upsetting day.” As a result, Serena’s brother hadn’t uttered a word during the entire time the family began its annual pilgrimage .
Serena paused on the path that led from the cemetery’s gates to the family monument her parents had erected ten years ago, once the floodwaters subsided. Her breath caught at the sight of the close proximity of another family plot with a large stone marker stamped DURAND. How had she never noticed it, she wondered? She realized, taking in the front view of the mausoleum built above the ground, that she’d never even told Jack where her brother was buried. It made her wonder, given her unsettling exchanges with Lauren Hilbert recently, how well did she and Jack know each other?
After each member of her family said a prayer at the raised Antonelli family tomb, they drove to Commander’s Palace for their annual brunch of turtle soup and pecan-encrusted gulf fish. Serena diplomatically took a seat beside her father to allow some distance between him and his surviving son, Nick, who had immediately selected a chair at the other end of the table.
“I thought you told your mama we were finally going to get to see this Jack fellow again at brunch today?” Cosimo declared.
“You were,” Serena replied, “but he called me this morning at six. He’s on deadline for something he’s writing for the T-P and wanted me to extend his apologies. It’s a complicated story and he said he had to meet with the paper’s lawyers one final time today.”
Actually, Serena had no true idea why Jack had begged off from meeting her entire family for the first time since the day they both left from the New Orleans airport for Venice. He’d offered the excuse of having some problems with Part 3 that had required his meeting with company lawyers at the newspaper office on this anniversary of the hurricane—but something was definitely amiss.
For the first time in ages, he’d exhibited an edgy and out-of-sorts demeanor that had been prompted by nothing that he’d chosen to share with her. Even stranger had been his off-putting behavior that had followed a meeting with King on a subject he hadn’t disclosed when he’d picked her up from work earlier in the week. He’d been very quiet all evening when they’d gotten back to the Julia Street flat. Then, when they went to bed, Jack seemed almost desperate to show her in a night of intense lovemaking how much he cared for her. The next morning, however, he’d suddenly grown tense and uncommunicative again.
And the irony was, Serena reflected, dipping a large, silver spoon into her turtle soup, she had told him when they’d first awakened after that wondrous night that she’d definitely decided not to build out the remaining square footage into an apartment for herself on the third floor at their costume company.
“I’ve thought a lot about it,” she’d said, tracing a teasing finger down his perfectly straight nose, “and I’ve decided that I’d rather move in with you at some point—that is, if you still want a very friendly roommate.”
She recalled with disquiet that he’d shifted onto his side and gazed long and hard into her eyes. Then, without responding to her proposal, he’d leaned across her pillow and kissed her lightly on the forehead before pulling away and telling her he was already late and had to get to work.
During breakfast, when she’d invited him to join her family on the 29th for brunch after they’d visited her brother’s gravesite, he’d nodded his acceptance, but had immediately risen from the table and headed for the door with a terse, “Talk later.” Almost at once, she’d sensed a familiar, worrisome stab in her chest and experienced the fear that Jack’s sudden withdrawal had turned him back into a shadowy figure whose thoughts and feelings were being kept tightly under wraps.
Shades of the Hotel Danieli.
And since, in a recorded telephone message, he’d ultimately begged off joining her at today’s important family occasion. He had spoken in such a strained and stilted way, what else could she assume but that her declaration she wanted to move in with him triggered some primal fear of intimacy and proved to be more than he wanted in his life? More than he could apparently handle when he was under so much pressure at work?
Serena had the unhappy thought that perhaps Lauren Hilbert hadn’t merely responded as a woman scorned. Perhaps she had experienced the same thing that now confronted Serena—Jack’s chronic inability to communicate directly about any emotional turmoil going on with him and thereby being unable to form a solid bond with a woman he cared for? Serena had been utterly baffled by this rapid sequence of events, and just as her response had been in Venice when Jack left so abruptly, all she could do was go back to her family home, dress for the day, and put one foot in front of the other.
Still, she couldn’t banish a question that kept lurking in the back of her mind: was his notorious elusiveness a persistent condition that would ultimately lead to her unhappiness? Was her relationship with this man whom she loved so dearly, now, just another New Orleans version of Marco Leone?
Jack... Jack... what has happened? What’s changed in your world?
&nb
sp; Jack stared unseeing, at his computer screen in the bustling newsroom, that is, if a newsroom could be said to be bustling anymore, he reflected sourly. All around him, reporters were tapping away on their silent electronic keyboards and the only other sounds were emanating from TV screens on the wall with their volumes turned to a low murmur.
He felt numb. A leaden sensation had come over him as soon as he knew the first of his three-part series had landed on the lawns across New Orleans and popped up on the landing page of the online version of the paper. He was sure that a hammer was bound to descend on his head in response to what he’d written. It was just a matter of time.
He glanced at his watch. Brunch at Commander’s would be over by now. He simply couldn’t face discussing the tenth anniversary of Katrina—or what he’d written about it—with Serena or her family members. He was certain that if they read his story it was bound to bring up traumatic memories and probably prompt a desire to know who were the unnamed engineers who’d signed off on the faulty plans for the 17th Street Canal so long ago. What, they were bound to wonder, was the name of the person whose statements were framed by quotation marks?
Why had I ever thought I could keep it all a secret and live with myself?
He punched in King’s number and got him on the first ring.
“Hey, Buddy,” King replied when he knew who was calling him, “how’re ya doin’?” After a moment’s silence, and no reply from the caller, King continued, “Part One was terrific, by the way. Thanks for sending me the advanced copies of the other two. They’re first rate work.” After another long pause he asked, “Did you tell her?”
“No,” Jack answered shortly. “I plan to, but just not now. Frankly, I’m totally wiped. We just put Part Three to bed. I’ve got to get outta here, you know what I’m saying?”
“I get how you feel, Jack, but you’re taking a big risk.”
“Maybe so, but I’ve got to clear my mind of days dealing with fact-checkers and lawyers—and get some God-damned sleep. Can I use the cabin in Covington?”