For me, this beautiful, desolate, almost unrecognizable place is still home.
We exit into the Quarter and find a place to park. The wet Louisiana air hits me the second I open the door, and I suck it in like I’ve been holding my breath for months. Home. Home. Everything feels like it’s coming together. Tomorrow I might see Tru. So tonight while I’m here, I might as well have fun.
Passing through the crowds on the way to the condo, I’m struck by the music and color, the atmosphere. Maybe there aren’t as many people here this Mardi Gras, but those who did make it are partying twice as hard to make up for it. A couple of topless women come up and hug Tate, exclaiming, “You’re adorable! Isn’t he adorable?” He turns beet red. Three people dressed as gnomes in red pointed hats and blue tops approach. “There’s no place like gnome!” one says, and hands us all a pile of beads.
There are police and National Guardsmen all over the place. I guess they’re afraid of looting. But so far it’s just a bunch of rowdy drunks.
There are dozens of people at the condo when we get there. Bailey asks where we are going to sleep, and some guy says, “Oh, don’t plan on getting any sleep tonight!” I think we are expected to crash on the floor since the college kids already have the bedrooms. “We’ll figure it out later,” says Mary Katherine. “Let’s go out and explore.”
Her cousin Brice starts to list the places that are lax about IDs. One of them I remember Mandy has gone to, so I suggest that one. The college friends of Brice’s are staying in for a while, so they lend their fake IDs to everyone who needs them, which of course includes me. Apparently my name is Grace and I’m from Smyrna, Georgia. The picture doesn’t really look like me at all, but I know they won’t be picky.
I nervously pass the bouncer, who gives a skeptical glance at all the IDs but lets us in anyway. The bar is full of tourists, mostly kids like us. It’s loud and people are already drunk even though it’s only around five o’clock. We go out to the courtyard.
“Can I get you a drink?” Tate asks. “Hurricanes for everyone?”
“I’ll just have a sip of yours,” I say. “They’re really strong, you know.”
Mary Katherine and I perch on the edge of a big planter since there’s nowhere to sit.
“This is so cool!” she exclaims. “I can’t believe we’re in New Orleans. And you lived here?”
“Not exactly,” I explain. “About forty-five minutes from here. It’s really different.”
“You must miss it,” she says.
“All the time.”
“So, are you going there tomorrow?”
“No, it’s Baton Rouge I’m going to,” I say. “To see . . . my boyfriend, actually.”
“I knew it!” she exclaims. “Tell me about him.”
I find myself opening up to her. I’m going to see him tomorrow. It’s really going to happen.
“What about you?” I ask her. “Is there someone in your life?”
She gets kind of a secret smile on her face. “Well, not yet. But there is someone I’ve had my eye on for a while. And I think things might be very close to changing for us.”
When Tate comes back with the drinks, somehow I end up having more than just a sip.
He goes back for a second round, and I have a moment of pause. Two Hurricanes isn’t a good idea for anyone. But everyone’s having such a good time. It seems a shame to be the voice of reason. I tell him to get me one. I check my phone again. Nothing from Kaye yet.
Mary Katherine gets a message from Brice to come back so they can have the IDs because they want to go out, and everyone sucks down their drinks really quickly. “Oooh, brain freeze!” says Tate.
We get back to the condo and there’s loud music playing and the balcony windows are open with people hanging off, throwing beads onto the street. There are empty beer cans everywhere. Tate heads into the kitchen, then comes back with two beers, offering me one. “No, thanks,” I say.
He pops the top and has a sip, then grimaces. “Eww, you’re right. It’s awful. I wonder if they have anything else.” As it turns out, someone has lined a plastic garbage pail with a bag and filled it with some kind of alcoholic punch, and people are just scooping it into plastic cups. I have a feeling this might end up being kind of a wild night. I glance down at my phone. Still no word from Kaye.
It’s not even eight o’clock yet and everyone is really drunk.
Mary Katherine, who has been throwing beads from the balcony, comes in and gives me a big hug.
“You are so sweet,” she says. “We should hang out more.”
The music is loud. It’s impossible to have a conversation, so I nod.
“I really feel like I can trust you. So I’m going to tell you a secret. But first I’m going to get more of that yummy punch.”
When she stumbles off, I glance down at my phone. Finally. There’s a text. My heart skips a beat. I step into the empty bedroom to check it.
This is Elly Reynolds. Kaye is too nice to say it but will you please STOP harassing her? She was dating Tru before Katrina and now they’re getting back together. It is RUDE for you to keep trying to contact him through her. BACK OFF.
I’ve read in books or heard in songs people describing the moment when they feel their hearts break. I never really understood it. But now I physically feel something break inside me. There is a weight pressing hard on my chest. I slide down the wall I’ve been leaning against. This whole time, it never entered my mind that he wasn’t out there feeling the same way I did — longing for me the way I was longing for him. How could I have been so stupid? This whole time, it’s been over and I didn’t even know it.
The door opens and Tate comes in. “Oh there you are,” he slurs. He must see something in my face because he comes over and sits next to me on the floor. “Are you OK?”
I can’t even fake it. I shake my head. “Bad news. From that friend I was going to see tomorrow.” It comes out like a whisper.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” he says. He puts his hand on my knee. I can smell sticky-sweet alcohol on his breath. “Is there something I can do?”
I shake my head.
“Because,” he starts, and I feel a shift. The walls start to close in, the space shrinks. It’s just me, him, and my sadness all together in this dark room away from the loud music and craziness on the other side of the door. “I would really do anything for you. Ever since we met. I just think you’re really amazing.”
I look up and into his eyes. They are full of longing. And before I know it, I close my eyes and I am kissing him. I am kissing him hard, pressing into his lips like I want them to hold me up, kissing, kissing, searching for something, something I had with Tru and not finding it. I stop kissing him and open my eyes. His eyes are closed. He opens them and gets this sleepy smile that makes me feel completely disgusted with myself. Then his expression changes. “Wow,” he says. “That was — wow. Can you excuse me for a second, though?” He gets up a little shakily. The door to the room’s bathroom is open a crack and he stumbles toward it. But he doesn’t make it. He leans over and starts hurling, loudly.
“Oh, God!” I scramble to my feet. He is doubled over on the floor, with bright-red vomit coming out of his mouth. “Let me get you some water.”
I yank open the door and reenter the noise and light and craziness. I rush into the kitchen, brushing past a bunch of people, and fill a plastic cup with water, then grab some paper towels before starting back to the bedroom, where I run into Mary Katherine. “What’s wrong?” she asks.
“Tate’s sick.”
She follows me back into the bedroom where Tate’s still on his knees, kind of groaning. The smell is awful. I start cleaning up, but I need more paper towels and finally just go into the bathroom to get a towel to mop up the puke. Mary Katherine is helping him up and getting him into bed. I take the vomity towel and try to clean it off in the shower. When I come back, Mary Katherine is tipping water up to Tate’s mouth. I take his shoes off and get him under the comforter. I pull the trash can nex
t to the bed in case he pukes again, which seems likely. She gets into the bed on the other side of him. “Could you get him a wet washcloth for his forehead?” she asks.
There’s nothing in the bathroom that passes as a washcloth, so I get another towel and wet the edge of it. “It’s OK,” she says to him, dabbing his forehead with the wet cloth. “You just sleep. I’m going to be right here for you.”
Suddenly I realize it’s him. He’s the special someone she’s been longing for. There’s only one thought in my head. I need to get out of here.
“I think I’m just going to go out and get a little air,” I say to Mary Katherine.
“It’s OK. I’ll take care of him,” she says.
I gather my things. I know I’m not coming back.
I walk toward the river, my river, making my way through the revelers, the joyful music issuing out of the open doors of the bars. I feel the bracing wind off the river and see the barges — the same barges that would pass us by in Bayou Perdu. There is only one phrase repeating again and again in my brain: you are such a fool.
We felt so big to me. So solid. So real. But what did I really know about Tru? We had a few months together — that’s all. Everything I thought I knew was a lie.
When I get to the riverfront, I just sit there and stare out over the water. Empty and numb. Couldn’t I just get on one of those barges and go away? And when it passed Bayou Perdu, I could hop off onto the levee and be home. Start over again. Pretend none of this ever happened. I could pick up the pieces of myself and put them back together again. But everything is broken. My family, my friends — everything. I feel like the fight has gone out of me.
After a while, I start walking back to the Quarter. It’s chaotic here. It’s getting cold. And I don’t know where I’m going to sleep tonight.
If it were a few weeks from now, Kendra and her mom would be back on base and I could call them and they’d come pick me up. They’d be here in half an hour. But they’re not back yet. No one is back yet.
Just as I’m thinking this, I pass the French Quarter praline store and it hits me all at once. The box of pralines we get every Christmas from Delbert, Mrs. Menil’s big-time lawyer son. I hope I can find some way to return all the favors you did for Mama and me, he wrote on his Christmas card this year.
Delbert lived in the house next door to Mamere and Grandpere his whole childhood. He was in the grade between Mama and Aunt Cel in school, but they were never close. Mama always makes comments like “Well, you know, Delbert was always good at decorating” without coming right out and saying he is gay. Boys like Delbert get out of Bayou Perdu, head straight for New Orleans, and never come back, and that’s pretty much what Delbert did, except he would come back regularly to visit his mama. But the day-to-day stuff fell to us — things like opening the lid of the unopenable pickle jar, climbing a ladder and getting something off the roof, fixing the clogged-up toilet for her. But I have found a way that he can return the favor.
I call information for the number, and it’s there: D. Menil on Octavia Street. I dial.
“Hello?” There is music in the background. Loud music. People talking.
“Delbert?”
“Yes?”
“This is Evangeline Riley.”
Pause. “Oh, hey, dawlin’! How you been?”
“OK. I’m in New Orleans.”
“Oh, that’s great. But listen, sugar, I’m havin’ a party tonight. Mama and I would love to see you, though. We’ve got the Krewe of Freret parade in the mornin’, but we’ll be here tomorrow late afternoon if y’all want to stop by. Is your whole family with you?”
I take a deep breath. “Delbert. I’m by myself in the Quarter. I need a place to stay tonight.”
“Good Lord, child!” he shouts. “Get yourself on a streetcar and come up here. Do you have enough for the fare?”
“Yes.”
“Get off at Jefferson. I’m two blocks down on Octavia, on the left. We’ll expect you within the hour.”
I make my way through the crowds with my head down, then get on the streetcar, which is filled with the usual assortment of Mardi Gras drunks. There are no seats available, so I stand holding a strap the whole way, listening to the conversation of the couple sitting below me.
“Pee-cahn or pee-can?” the man, wearing a giant floppy jester hat, slurs to the woman, who is dressed as some sort of Greek goddess.
“Pee-can,” she says.
“You sure about that?” He taps the person sitting next to him on the back. “’Scuse me, sir. How do you pronounce the word spelled P-E-C-A-N?”
The man, who’s in a uniform and appears to be coming home from his shift at a hotel, doesn’t seem to have any use for this nonsense. “Pee-can,” he says gruffly.
“Told you,” says the goddess.
I can feel him looking at me. “Hey, miss, miss.” He tugs on my jacket. “Pee-cahn or pee-can?”
“Pee-cahn,” I say.
“See?” he gloats to the woman.
It’s strange that the farther uptown we go, the less it seems like Katrina ever happened. Every once in a while there’s a blue tarp over a roof, but those big houses on St. Charles look as perfect and untouchable as they ever did.
I get off at Delbert’s stop and head down the dark, quiet street. It’s a beautiful neighborhood. The gaslights flicker on the front porches and a few houses are lit up, but as I get closer, I can tell there is a party going on ahead in one of the graceful old homes. It’s not quite a mansion, but has those white columns on the front porch, so it looks impressive. There’s music drifting out the windows — something old-fashioned and jazzy. The people spilling onto the lawn are wearing costumes, really amazing ones that did not come from the Dollar Store. As I approach the house, someone starts toward me dressed as Glinda the Good Witch from The Wizard of Oz — I can tell by the distinctive crown. Then I realize it’s Delbert. I’ve only ever seen him in khakis and a button-down.
“Oh, thank heavens you made it,” he says, giving me a hug. My whole body relaxes somehow. He’s from home. And Glinda and those gnomes were right: There’s no place like home.
“Come on in, girl. Let’s get you a drink. Nonalcoholic, of course,” he says with a wink. “Unless you want one. How old are you now?”
“Sixteen.”
“Oh, well, forget it then, honey.”
Inside, people are milling around Delbert’s elegant living room, with high ceilings and decorative plasterwork. They have champagne glasses, and the music is loud but sophisticated. It’s like a movie. Delbert gets me a ginger ale and shows me upstairs to a guest room where I can “put my things,” which would be my backpack. “You can stay here tonight, sugar,” he says. “No questions asked. We’ll talk about it tomorrow. Come down and see Mama now.”
Mrs. Menil is on the back veranda, enthroned in a big wicker chair, dressed as a cat. She’s got face paint and a headband with little furry ears, and she’s wearing a fluffy jacket of some type. When she sees me, she breaks into a big smile. “Dawlin’! You come here and give me a hug.” I don’t think she’s ever hugged me in her life.
It turns out that Katrina was good for Mrs. Menil. Delbert goes to dinner parties all the time and always brings her along. His friends all call her Mama. “I should have moved up here years ago!” she says. She is jolly — laughing and making jokes. I’ve never seen her happier.
Later, when I’m in the coziest bed I’ve ever been in, I can hear the sounds of the party drifting lightly through the walls. But otherwise I am alone with the realization that I got it all wrong. I’ve always trusted my gut, like Daddy has always told me to do. It’ll never steer you wrong, he says. But it was dead wrong this time. I guess I really don’t know anything about love.
In the morning, there are party guests still there, some still wearing portions of their costumes or makeup that’s now smeared on their faces. Mrs. Menil seems not to have made it down yet. Delbert is no longer Glinda; he’s his usual preppy self, with a clean,
pressed shirt, making what he calls his “hangover cure” breakfast for everyone: fried eggs with some Tabasco on the side, a bowl of cheese grits. I sit down at the table, which is set with beautiful silverware and plates, and a good-looking, younger guy pours me some orange juice from a glass pitcher. “So,” he says, sliding into the chair next to me. “What’s your story?”
“Evangeline’s mother grew up in the house next door to me, Jason,” says Delbert as he fries bacon. “Her family’s been looking in on Mama for years. Her daddy cuts the grass for her and fixes her fence and all kinds of things. They’ve been very good to us. They’re up in Atlanta since Katrina.”
“You down for Mardi Gras?” Jason asks.
“Not exactly,” I say. And then it’s as if I turn off my discretion switch. I start telling this whole room full of strangers what happened.
“Oh, girl . . .” starts the guy in last night’s blue eye shadow and mascara. “Drama-rama.”
I tell them the part about Elly’s text.
“Elly Reynolds. What a bitch!” says the mascara guy. “Tell her to mind her own beeswax.”
“Here, let me see the text,” says Jason.
I hand him my phone.
“Look,” says Jason. “She says they’re getting back together. Not that they’re actually together. Circumstantial evidence.”
“I think you mean hearsay,” says Delbert.
“Yeah, hearsay. Why take her word for it?” says Mascara Guy. “She’s obviously trying to make trouble. You text her right back and tell her to get her nose out of your business. Here, let me do it — I’ll set her straight.”
I’m slightly terrified that he will, but Jason rolls his eyes and hands the phone back to me. “Elly Reynolds is definitely meddling. Take what she says with a grain of salt.”
They are making me feel better.
“But I made it worse,” I say. “I was with these friends. This guy friend. And he was drunk and he kissed me and I kissed him back. And then he threw up.”
The room explodes in laughter, but it’s a sympathetic laughter.
“I’ve been there, sister,” says Mascara Guy.
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