Javier sits at the bar in a good starched white button-down. It fits him well through his narrow waist. Maybe he’s had it tailored, or Henny knows how to sew. He looks nearly as good as Phatty does in his shirt. From the set of Javier’s shoulders, she wonders if he isn’t jealous. The thought makes Ariel point her toes. Her shoe falls to the floor.
Phatty bends and picks up her shoe. “Good shoe,” he says, giving his stamp of approval on yet another item or entity under Ariel’s control. Unregulated, free-for-all finances—being rich as hell—might have such an effect on a person, she supposes. You’d just go around the world determining what was good and not good. Quality or just not worth it.
Ariel glances up from Phatty looking out the top of his eyes, his face level with her lap. Her groin warms.
Javier glances her direction. Warren’s eyes follow Javier’s.
“Jimmy Choo,” she tells Phatty, putting her shoe back on. “A little too much Sex and the City, but what’s a lady to do, you know?” Ariel downs the rest of her champagne. “Sir, it’s been a true pleasure.” She stands and smoothes her skirt, making sure not to teeter.
“You leaving,” he states.
“For now. But I’m sleeping here.” The information is out of her mouth before she can cut it off. “Can’t go far,” she attaches as a weird addendum.
They both stand. “An’ if the Ivan doubles back?” Phatty steps into Ariel’s personal space. He smells good. He gets so close she swears she can feel heat coming off of him.
“Then I’m here longer than I thought,” Ariel tells him. Could she sleep with somebody she’d not even entertained before tonight? She’s married. Hell. Some part of her has gone wrong, drifted away in the last few months, a house pet gone wandering for lack of the right attention. Ariel wants another drink. She doesn’t have to stand on the street waiting for public transportation, and she doesn’t have to drive. She can drink more if she wants to.
Carrie gives a come-over-here gesture to Ariel.
“Miss Ariel,” Phatty says into her neck, “you’re fine, an’ you know it. But that’s cool. You got my number.”
His card on file. Yes, she does have Phatty’s number. Ariel raises her hand in recognition to Carrie. “Thank you for the champagne,” she says to Phatty, “and the company. And the shoe retrieving.”
“A sincere pleasure,” he states.
“Yes,” she states back. She looks into his eyes and tries to see what might be there in all different ways. She knows they could sleep together. That’s an easy one. Unfortunately, she wants something more than sex, if she has to admit as much. She wants somebody to want her and somebody to want her. It’s sort of a whatever about sex, like a yeah, big deal, sex, but of course not—Jesus, she’s not had sex with anybody besides Ed for years. She’s so terribly horny for somebody else.
Maybe it’s genetic.
Ed’s a good father.
Ariel walks over to the bar. Carrie’s half-swamped. “What’s up?”
“We need music,” Carrie says.
“It’s playing,” Ariel answers.
“No.” Carrie fills five rocks glasses with ice. “We need way good music. Can we play something besides cable radio?”
Ariel never liked cable radio, but it’s easy to turn on and just forget about. She looks around the room. “You think you can find music for this room that won’t cause a riot?” The mix of patrons runs from the local ghetto rich to European tourists. Ariel has no idea what would please everyone.
“Stay on the radio,” Javier says a few barstools away. “Play salsa. Everybody like salsa. Happy music, party music.”
“The sous speaks the truth,” Warren says. He raises his traditional bottle of Boston-made beer in acknowledgment.
“And we can play it loud!” Carrie says, pouring Absolut into three glasses of ice. She’s a good bartender. A good hire, Ariel thinks.
“Go for it,” Ariel tells Carrie.
“Cool.”
“We short anything yet for a full breakfast tomorrow?” Ariel asks
Warren. He’s also ensconced in a room for the next two nights. A round bachelor, Warren can’t mind it too much.
“Champagne for mimosas,” he says. “Didn’t know Greenback would be carryin’ so many friends.”
“But they’re drinking Cristal,” Ariel says.
“Aw, Minnesota, they won’t be by the end of the night when it’s all gone. Use your pretty flirtin’ head.”
“What?” Ariel can feel her face flush in embarrassment. Warren always calls it like it is. “I wasn’t flirting,” she says.
“And I’m not fat,” Warren says.
“Husky is all,” she tries.
Javier, Carrie, and Warren all laugh at her blatant euphemism.
“Fine,” Ariel says. “You call yourself whatever you want. I’ll call you husky.”
“And I’ll call you a flirt, Miss Ariel.”
Javier sits entirely still, like he’s a deer trying not to call attention to itself in the wilderness. Trying not to give himself away.
“Carrie, give me a glass of something sparkling that’s open. Prosecco, cava, California, they’re fine. Save the official stuff for the paying customers. When you have a chance.”
Javier moves his glass to his lips.
“What’re you drinking, Javier?” Ariel asks.
“Ron,” he says. “Rum with coke.”
They’ve just started carrying Louisiana high-end rums. “Cane?”
“Bacardi,” he answers. “Gold.”
Ariel wants to taste it on his tongue. She wants to press herself up against him, push him onto a wall, and suck his tongue into her mouth. When else will she have the opportunity? How can she make Warren go to his room earlier than later?
“Spunk,” Warren says, “gold or not.”
“Want to fight?” Javier asks Warren, smiling. Warren has clearly trained Javier in all foul words. Ariel doesn’t think she learned ‘spunk’ till she was twenty-five. And English is her first language.
“Beer?” Javier continues. “A chef drinks beer?” Javier uses his hands when he talks, and they’re moving around now. Ariel watches his fingers, the smooth skin of his wrists. She will kiss there, right there. “Where is your wine, Mr. Executive Chef?” Javier asks. “Open your palate. Your palais.” Palais he says with what sounds to Ariel a perfect French accent. He’s figured out that Ariel, having grown up in the language-arid Midwest, gulps any foreign language. Javier knows a smattering of Portuguese, some French. It will be her undoing, straight from his lips.
“Wine, schmine,” Warren says. “Been there and done that, friend. And you’re drinking rum for what reason?”
Jesus. Ariel senses Warren’s not going to give up the night easily. He’ll see Javier as a bar companion.
She is beginning to think she will take what she can get, yo.
Some Greenback women dance between bar tables. Three in particular attempt salsa, bumping and grinding all wrong next to a man who looks as though he’s visiting from Indiana and has never had such a show in his life.
More than two hours have passed, and Warren won’t leave for his room upstairs. If Ariel were honest with herself, she’d admit to Warren being a guardian of hers, but she’s not in the mood to be honest with herself. She’s in the mood to do whatever the hell she feels like.
At 1:03, her phone vibrates from her hip like a new wound, a reminder from a different part of her life. Ariel excuses herself from Warren, Javier, and a cluster of patrons. Greenback’s people still go at it strong, just down the bar. The place is stuffed full, the loud Spanish and Mexican musica making everybody happy.
Ariel stands, sticks a finger into her ear and holds her cell phone to the other. “Hello?!”
“Ariel?”
“Hello?”
“Ariel, it’s Indira. Can you hear me?”
“Hang on.”
Ariel heads out into the lobby.
“Hello?” Ariel says again.
“Hello, Ariel. It’s Indira. We’ve finally arrived.”
“Just now?”
“One hundred and thirty-one miles,” Indira says. “Fifteen hours and twenty minutes since we spoke last.”
“Oh, my god.”
“Yes. Ed is here. I’ll pass the phone to him, alright?”
“Thank you so much, Indira. Thank you.”
“Hello?” Ed’s voice on the phone, Ariel had half hoped, might drag her—kicking and screaming?—into reality. Just the tenor of his voice itself would be a slap across the face.
Or not.
“You would not believe the drive, Ariel. Unbelievable. Really crazy. Unbelievable. The people—Ella had to pee—”
“Are you all okay? Everything’s safe?”
“Didn’t you hear? The hurricane’s going to hit east.”
No. She had no fucking idea. She’s only in charge of an entire New Orleans hotel. She never thought to get news updates. “Yeah, Ed. I heard. In an hour or so.”
“Are you okay?”
That’s a loaded question. Sure, she’s okay. “Of course. We’re booked solid, and we’re going to run out of booze, but yeah, we’re fine. If the gangstas don’t turn on some quiet sad sack in the corner, we’ll be just fine. Are the kids asleep?” She wanted to say hello.
“It’s one in the morning.”
“How’s the room?”
“Honestly, A?” he says, starting to half-whisper. “Straight out of Mississippi Masala! It’s like the producers modeled the movie on this actual place. They have drawls but with East Indian accents.”
“Who’s ‘they’?” Ariel watches as Phatty strides into the lobby with two of his entourage she suspects are actually his bodyguards. She hasn’t seen him for the last hour and then some. She thought he’d gone home. She finds it ironic that she would move to New Orleans only to encounter people who need to go about their daily lives with bodyguards. Or an entourage.
“ ‘They’ are the owners of the motel, and trust me, it’s really a mo-tel.”
Phatty says something to his guys and then starts walking in Ariel’s direction. “What?” Ariel asks.
“So.” Ed sounds suddenly loud and fake. “We’ll give you a call in the morning when we can. I don’t want to use up the Guptas’ cell phone time.”
“The kids were okay?”
“What do you think? They were—hi. Yes. Of course. Indira sends her best. I’ll call tomorrow.”
“I’m glad somebody else had a cell,” Ariel says.
“Love you too,” Ed says and hangs up.
He did not, Ariel thinks—and Phatty is on top of her, his smell and shirt and ears and shoulders and his everything else. He takes her by the back of the neck and then brings in his beautiful lips, prettier than Ariel thinks a gangster should have, and presses them soft but, oh. She’s gone.
When Ariel opens her eyes she sees Phatty’s stepped away from her. Two people stand at the perimeter of the lobby.
She glances at the front desk. Empty.
Javier stares.
Warren runs his meaty hand over his face and shakes his head.
“You can choose a night you don’t forget, Miss General Manager,” Phatty says. “I be in the limo for ten minutes before it just whisk me away from the ball.”
Ariel has no words.
12
In the motel room, the Guptas’ gracious in-laws have left extra soaps, plastic-wrapped toothbrushes and combs, and a stack of kids’ videos. A VCR blinks beneath the television, the time unset. The video boxes look well worn. Ed is exhausted and grateful.
He takes off his shoes and removes the orange and brown bedspread from his double bed. He pours two fingers of Scotch into a plastic motel cup, glances at his sleeping children in the bed beside his own, and flips on the television. Finally, he lies back against the headboard.
Never, in all his years on earth, has he had a day like today. He cannot believe that the cars simply sat like so many planes on the tarmac, only the waiting went on and on, everybody trapped. The panting dogs, the cat carriers, the shrunken elderly in backseats staring forlornly, the music, the dancing in pickup truck beds, the public urinating, the eating, good god, the eating as if there would never be any food again, people gobbling mindlessly, zombies with their mouths moving, the highway shoulders filling up with everything cast off, beer cans and popped-open dirty diapers and tabloids and chicken bones.
“Call today,” a woman in a camisole and panties says on TV. She sticks her finger in her mouth and twists side to side as she holds a cordless phone to her head. She kneels, her shins disappearing into a sheepskin rug. “We’ll talk.” Somebody has directed her to try to sound smoky, Ed thinks. She sounds like a ten-year-old with a sore throat. A 900 number appears across the bottom of the screen.
Humans, right now, disgust him. He changes the channel. Tanks grind across the screen in black and white. He searches for the weather. Find the bigger entity, Ed, he thinks. You can do it.
Ella pushes on Ed’s chest. “Daddy, where’s the beastie?”
Ed wakes up entirely disoriented. The television runs an infomercial of some cooking gadget. The clock on the VCR still blinks at noon, or midnight, one or the other. The window behind the curtains looks black.
“Come here, sweetie. It’s okay.”
Ella crawls into Ed’s arms. “I had a dream,” she says. “You went flying away in the air and didn’t come back and I couldn’t find Mommy.”
“Where was Miles?” Ed asks quietly, trying not to wake the boy. “Your brother would always protect you, even in a dream.”
“He pretended he couldn’t hear me. I yelled and kicked on him. He dint turn around.”
“Aw, Ella, you know about dreams, right? They’re not real. We’re all here.”
“Mommy’s not here.”
“Mommy has to work.”
In the blue gloaming of the TV, Ella frowns. “No she doesn’t.”
“You know how it goes. We talked about this. Mommy is responsible for many people, and a lot of those people are guests from far away who are very scared. Mommy’s the boss, and she’s keeping the guests comfortable and not afraid.”
“Why can’t we stay with Mommy?”
Ah ha. Tricky little girl, his Ella. They’re safer here? No. That puts Mommy in danger. They could have stayed with her in the hotel? Too dangerous not to evacuate. Hmm. Ed hugs his daughter nestled into the crook of his arm. “Because we’re free to go on an adventure to Breaux Bridge.”
“I’m hungry. Miles is mean.”
“Well, let’s see what time it is and maybe we can go for pancakes.”
“I’m tired.”
“Are you hungry or are you tired?”
“I’m hungry tired.”
Ed laughs. The kids munched on all sorts of snacks in the car for hours, as did Elizabeth and William, Indira said. The two of them voted to veto dinner, but who knew the prolonged driving would eliminate the choice for everybody? By the time they drove into Breaux Bridge, Ed didn’t see a single place open. They rumbled over the metal bridge spanning Bayou Teche and into a closed town. Too late for anything other than what they brought with them. “Do you want a snack?” Ed asks Ella.
She shakes her head and snuggles into his ribs.
He wants another child so badly he can feel it right there, there in his ribs and in the pit of his stomach. He can bring another good human being into this world. Somebody who might appreciate rap but wouldn’t make a living shooting videos with women who misrepresent their own sex. If his children were to become musicians, Ed hopes they’d employ women who did not bend over in the middle of traffic in shorts no longer than underwear.
It’s still dark. They’ll get breakfast later.
By the time everyone is ready to go out to breakfast, Miles and Ella have already eaten a thousand mini cheese crackers and an entire bag of beef jerky Ed bought at the gas station at six AM. Ed has only, in the last twenty-four hours, begun to appreciate the necessity for th
e regimentation of the military. He feels almost stupid for never having understood the need for command and immediate response before. He believed everyone could, well, get along. But going through the last day, night, and this morning, he has come to one of the quickest and surest realizations he has ever had. Somebody must, indeed, lead. Somebody must take control, and do it, as they say, swiftly.
What a bunch of moles they all are, they, the gazillion evacuees, bumping around blindly. What a fucking mess.
Ed needs to readjust his attitude, he thinks, as he, Miles, Ella,
Ganesh, Indira, William, and Elizabeth wait in line outside of some well-reviewed brunch restaurant in the historical and charming town of Breaux Bridge, Louisiana.
And it is charming, this town. An old-school old town. The Guptas’ in-laws, the managers and owners of the Bayou View Motel and RV Park, have been absolutely kind, and the hostess here at the restaurant who took their names in line thanked them for coming.
Ed has been awake, more or less, since four when Ella woke him. He values sleep, and he has gotten little. He also values, he decides on the spot, a Northern dialect.
The family of large Southerners immediately behind him punctuates their conversation with swearing and absurdly loud laughter. One of the older women in the cluster continues to find Ed’s aching back with her elbow as she pontificates about hurricanes of yore.
Who cares, Ed thinks. Hurricanes are completely bogus. They should try a good old tornado ripping across central Illinois and see what stories they have to tell.
Jab goes her elbow again straight into his spine. Ed turns around to see that it’s a hard-cornered handbag that’s doing the jabbing. It’s only remotely possible she’s utterly unaware of her surroundings. “Excuse me,” Ed says and holds his ground.
“’Scuse,” the handbag woman says without looking at him. Ed can’t help but notice she is even darker than either Ganesh or Indira. The woman wears what looks like Sunday best, including a red felt hat. It’s a hot Louisiana September Thursday morning. What’s the occasion? “And I toll him back,” the woman continues, “get that thang away from me unless you want to be contributin’ it to the boudin.”
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