by Chris Wiltz
“That could be pretty good. I mean, you lost your house and you’re trying to keep one of the landmark nightclubs running.”
“I really shook you up with all that talk, didn’t I? But that’s okay, you’ll start thinking straight again.”
“I’m thinking straight. Look, LaDonna, whether you admit it or not, you’re going to let Ramon back in. Whenever a woman’s in doubt about a man the way you are, she always lets him come back. If you weren’t going to, you would have known it three weeks after he left, and you wouldn’t have been on the phone with him for the last six months. Look at you. You’re totally upset. You say you don’t know what to do, where you want to be, and you don’t want to look at it everyday, but what you ought to do is look at it up close, every single day. You can sound off, you can be heartbroken, you can let it all out. Then you’ll know.”
LaDonna looked hard at Karen. “You’re smart, Honeycutt—you know that?—for someone your age. We’re starting tomorrow, coming out here with the camera while they take away this pile of splinters.” She put on what Karen called her cat smile. “Ramon says I am eloquent when I’m upset. He says he’s through being a jackass. He says this time we’re going to L.A.—him and me.”
Karen thought about the musician who went to New York without LaDonna, then Ramon takes off for L.A. Always being left behind. Maybe that had more than a little something to do with LaDonna not knowing where she wanted to be. It didn’t feel too good to be second in line.
The cat smile turned into something else. Maybe a smirk. “You know what else he says? He says I’m gonna be a star.”
But with her twice broken heart, LaDonna look tired. More than tired, world-weary, and, right now, old, as though she no longer had the energy to believe in any kind of future, much less a star-studded one.
Twelve
“Has Johnpier asked you out yet?”
Karen and Raynie were on the I-10 in LaDonna’s Prius on their way to Judy Honeycutt’s money club meeting. Raynie had tried to escape what she figured would be a two-hour struggle to stay awake with the lame excuse that she was tired. Karen said no way, the word fuck hadn’t left her mouth for a solid week, not even at work, and Raynie was going.
“Johnpier's a puzzle,” Raynie said. “He comes to the restaurant every night, hangs out with me on his way in then again on his way out, but that’s as far as he goes. He doesn’t even seem tempted to see me without that counter between us.”
“What does he talk about?”
“He likes to tell stories or maybe it’s more that he tells little episodes, things he overheard at a party, something he saw when he was walking on Magazine Street. They’re usually funny in some weird sort of way. He likes to talk.”
“Give me an example.”
Raynie turned to look out the window at the suburbs and strip malls they sped past. She started off slowly. “He told me he was at this charity ball, everybody dressed to the teeth, out at the Museum.”
Karen interrupted. “Recently? Since the flood? What kind of charity?”
Raynie looked at her. “Do you want to hear the story? He didn’t say when it was or what kind of charity. That wasn’t the point. Anyway, he sat at a table that was mostly women, a couple of other single or widowed men. He said he thought the organizers might have been trying some matchmaking to liven things up. So this older woman asks a younger woman…Jimmy said the younger woman wasn’t in her circle of filthy rich house-and-garden matrons…what she did. The younger woman says she’s a lawyer and returns the question. The older woman looked flummoxed, as Jimmy says, one of his favorite words, then she turns to her friend who’s sitting next to her and says, ‘Weezie, what do I do?’ Weezie goes, ‘Well, you’re sick a lot.’ And the woman says to the lawyer, “That’s right. I’m sick a lot.’”
“That’s pretty funny,” Karen said but without laughing.
“It was, the way he told it, only I thought it was sad too. It reminded me of my mother. Finally, all she did was get sick a lot. Then she died.”
“Is that why you left Rayne?”
“Yep, it sure is. I didn’t want to get that depressed and then die.”
“Did you tell Johnpier that?”
“God no. He was trying to be entertaining, and anyway, I don’t know him well enough.”
“But mostly because he was telling what he thought was a funny story.”
“For pity’s sake, Karen. I might have told him if I knew him well enough.”
“Why is it I get the feeling you will?”
“The only thing I can think? You want me to.”
***
Six women sat around Judy Honeycutt’s glass coffee table, three on the sofa, Karen, Raynie and the gray-haired woman who looked the oldest on large floor pillows. Judy poured an orange-hued concoction of herbal teas and honey from a large pitcher. Across the room covered casserole dishes were lined up on the counter.
“We don’t drink wine or eat until business is finished,” she told Karen and Raynie, and took her seat in the sole wing chair. Her throne, Karen thought. Still holding court with a bunch of women at her feet. “Which just goes to show you how serious we are about what we do here.”
There were murmurs of assent. Judy, barefoot, her hair blonder than the last time Karen had seen her, looked slim and youthful in her Capri pants…She settled in her chair, pulled her legs up and crossed them in a half Lotus, perfect posture.
“The whole thing started when Joan—” she gestured toward the woman sitting next to Raynie “—and I were talking one night and I was bitching about money, as usual. Tell them what you told me, Joan.”
“I said that women were afraid to talk about money. Oh, they would bitch about it, but no one would talk about what they really wanted. They’d joke about being rich, but they never thought that was an idea they should take seriously because it wasn’t realistic. I’m talking about women in my age group; you younger women might be more open about it. For us, anything about money was taboo. We were secretive. It wasn’t polite to talk about money. That’s what men did. I told Judy I’d just read a fascinating book called Think and Grow Rich! by Napoleon Hill. I said she ought to read it.”
“So I did,” Judy said, “and I did everything he said to do. I made my affirmation, decided how much money I was going to make, and I waited for my plan to reveal itself. And after the flood or because it, it did. I had decided I was going to get rich, and I knew how to do it.”
Karen managed not to say for fucksake. She’d heard all this affirmation crap before. She remembered her mother and other women making affirmations on scraps of paper, mostly about men, and putting them under lit candles in tall jars with saints painted on them. Karen once told her mother their house looked and smelled like a Catholic church. A lot of times the little pieces of paper had to do with men and getting them back, but sometimes they were about jobs, getting better ones. She didn’t remember anyone ever saying they wanted to get rich. She suspected that in the New Age of finding one’s higher self, a desire to get rich would have been considered base and crass, a request unworthy of the Magnanimous Universe that would only entertain loftier goals. Of course, if the money came…
“I told Joan that what we needed was a Napoleon Hill Master Mind group. And here we all are!”
One of the younger women started speaking. “I was brought up to believe it was impolite to talk about money, but that’s not the worst of it. My mother thought you should only associate with people in your own economic class or you’d be jealous of what others had, like if you weren’t born with money, you couldn’t have it. If I said anything to her about self-made millionaires, she’d say they were geniuses and she didn’t see any geniuses around our house.”
In unison the women yelled, “Positive mental attitude always trumps genius!”
What was this, some kind of show for the newbies? Karen shot a look at Raynie who was smiling and seemed like she was getting off on all of it.
Judy broke into the laughter a
nd raised voices. She looked at Raynie as she spoke. “It’s that kind of negativity that Shelly and a lot of us grew up with that makes women anxious and depressed about money. We don’t think we can have it, but we feel guilty or resentful if we don’t. So what happens is we get emotional about money. What this group is all about is getting past our emotions, getting rid of the feelings of inferiority and lack of self-esteem, and getting in touch with our true feelings about money, understanding what we want and what’s stopping us, and then going after it with confidence!”
That did it for Karen. A three decade-long echo, all the catchwords—self-esteem and confidence, especially the low varieties, anxiety, guilt, depression, inferiority—the words Judy had once used to describe the after-effects of a man gone bad, only now she was using them to talk about all the evils money could cure.
The women, though, seemed close to delirium. The woman on the sofa nearest Karen raised her hand. Everyone got quiet.
“I’m a fairly new member of this group.” She shifted on the sofa so she could speak directly to Karen. “I met your mom when she and Kirk did some work on my house. Don’t look so surprised—your mom helped Kirk gut the house. I have terrible allergies and couldn’t get anywhere near all that mold. The whole first floor was flooded, which made me lucky, I know, because I had a second floor to live in, but I’ve never felt as down and out as I did then.” Her eyes filled. “I’m not going to get emotional,” she said with exasperation. “This group is the best thing that ever happened to me.” One eye spilled and she looked around at the group. “Really, you guys, without all of you…I don’t know what would have happened to me after the flood.” And she broke down.
“That’s okay, honey.” Her friend next to her put her arm over Cheryl’s shoulder.
“What I’m trying to tell you,” Cheryl said, her voice wavering, “is that I have a dream now, and nothing’s going to get in the way of it. I’m not afraid of money any more. I’ve got a new job and a goal and I feel positive about myself.” She sniffled. “And I’ve saved over a thousand dollars since January. Before I spend money on anything, I ask myself if it’s putting me any closer to my dream. If it’s not, I put it in my savings.”
Judy said, “Let’s hear it!”
Together they all yelled:
If it’s on your ass, it’s not an asset!
If it’s in your mouth, it’s going south!
If it’s in your car, you won’t go far!
Money left over, you’re sitting in clover!!
Karen leaned over to Raynie as the women laughed and clapped. “Do you fucking believe this?”
“You just said fuck, Karen.”
“Right. That means we can go now.”
“That would be totally impolite.”
Karen could feel Judy’s eyes on her. If there wasn’t a man around to distract her, Judy could read Karen’s mind—or her lips. Her mother somehow knew she’d just told Raynie she was ready to leave.
Judy raised her hand. Everyone got quiet again. Like a fucking school room.
Judy said, “Karen, Raynie, this club exists to bring people of like minds together. We’re the people we turn to if we want to talk about anything, anything at all, though we’ve all come to the same conclusion: money, our own money, money that we make, can make our lives better and easier. We’re not talking about obsession with money, like it’s the only thing we think about, and we’re against greed and hoarding money. Every one of us has learned through life experience that when you share your wealth, you create more wealth. Most of us give away part of what we earn.”
Cheryl, recovered after the cheering, said, “I didn’t have much money to share for a long time so I gave my time—cooking for people who were rebuilding their houses, keeping their kids…”
Judy nodded vigorously. “ ‘People first, then money, then things.’ That’s what Suze Orman says. The time Cheryl gave saved those people money so they could replace their things.”
A key turning in the front door lock interrupted her. When the door opened everyone called out, “Hi, Kirk.”
“Ladies,” he said strolling into the room.
He reminded Karen of an Elmore Leonard character, a guy closing in fast on forty, who’s been down on his luck, maybe done some time, but things are changing now. Kirk had a slightly seedy look about him, his lank hair too long, and he had on a worn, faded blue work shirt, but freshly laundered and tucked neatly into pressed khaki pants. He moved with confidence—that’s how you could tell things had changed for the better—straight to Judy. He sat on the arm of her chair, his back to the group, one hand grasping the wing of the chair, and when he bent down to whisper in her ear, his other hand found the side of her neck with a touch Karen felt down deep.
Judy listened then gave a soft kitten-like cry and hugged Kirk around his slim middle. He got up and said, “See you later, ladies,” and let his hand skim over Judy’s clavicles as he moved away. He crossed the den and the kitchen, and went down to where the hallway turned toward the guest bedroom. A door closed.
Joan broke the silence that had heat waves coming from it. “Well?” she said to Judy.
“Girls, Kirk and I just got a big renovation job. My million dollar goal is coming faster and faster all the time.”
Karen tuned out, her mind flipping around, all around Jack. She felt his touch, what it used to do to her when she was still in love with him, the way feeling it was the most important thing in the world, what she lived for. Then she saw the money in her hands, lying with it at the bed and breakfast the way she’d lie with a lover. Tainted money, except she wasn’t so sure that she wanted to give it up now. The trouble was, she always felt the Miami greaseball and his Bullmastiff breathing down her neck. She had the money, but it couldn’t buy her what money was supposed to buy—freedom. What was it her mother had said, “Take freedom over material gain?” That meant she had to give it up, just like that?
One thing you had to say about Mom, she called the shots now. It may have taken her half a century, but she had her life together. Karen had to admit, Judy had changed, and yeah, it was real.
For Christ sake, was she jealous of her own mother?
***
They were quiet as they started the drive back to the Marigny. Karen was going to say something flip, that they’d just experienced a new kind of twelve-step program: instead of keeping you sober, this one showed you how to get high—on money. But she didn’t say it; she didn’t want to slam her mother. Not yet.
“I knew I shouldn’t have gone,” Raynie said. “Now I’m depressed. It’s like I lost my virginity and it wasn’t supposed to happen this way.”
“Exactly what I’ve thought ever since I lost mine, but I don’t have the vaguest idea what you’re talking about.”
“I was innocent, you know? When I walked in there. Didn’t have a care in the world. I like my life, I like my job. I’m a happy person. I get in there, the bubble bursts. I spend every dime I make. Rent, food…I only have three outfits for work. That woman who saved a thousand dollars since January? I couldn’t save a thousand dollars in six months if I starved. It took me two years to save two thousand so I could leave Rayne, and I didn’t have to pay rent then. At this rate I’ll never be able to have a place of my own. And a car? Forget it.”
“Give it a year,” Karen said. “You’ll be manager of Le Tripot.”
“I don’t think Pascal would trust anyone but himself to manage Le Tripot. He has floor managers because he doesn’t seem to like to come downstairs much when the restaurant’s open, but I don’t think they make that much money.”
“Then another restaurant…”
Who was she kidding? She had close to ten years on Raynie and she still couldn’t afford a place of her own or a car.
She almost passed the Esplanade exit and turned hard to make it. Most of the street lights that had been taken out by the flood hadn’t been replaced. When Karen came off the ramp it was dark, pitch in the shadows of the overpass. No t
raffic lights at the intersection either. She gave a quick look left and ran the dinky stop sign on the tripod at the corner, turning onto Esplanade.
“The truth is,” she said, “no one makes big money in the service industry except the owners.”
“What’s big money?”
“Pick your figure.”
“I think your mother’s going to make herself a million.”
“She just might. I hope she does and saves a lot. Makes more big bucks on investments.”
“I sort of like what they’re doing, Karen. It’s smart.”
Karen nodded. “Maybe you should join the club.”
“What about you?”
“No, not me. It wouldn’t be a good idea for me to join any club my mother belongs to. I’ll wait for my inheritance and hope she doesn’t give it all to Kirk first.”
Thirteen
Raynie said all this talk about money—she needed a drink. Karen said she needed to walk off her aggravation, and no, she didn’t know why she was aggravated. Raynie said she’d drop the car off at the lot where LaDonna kept it and bring the keys to La Costa Brava. Karen let herself off at Esplanade and Dauphine.
All Karen could think as she walked, she wanted to get back to her place and sit there in the peace and quiet, alone.
Her cell phone rang. It was Luc.
“I thought you were coming in for a drink, maybe we’d go out for a while after.”
“Raynie’s there?”
“And Ramon, and LaDonna’s around somewhere. Come on over. LaDonna can close tonight. She’s gonna have to let Ramon talk himself out. His brain’s downloading movie ideas. It was fun for a while…”
“I’ll bet.” Karen stopped on the sidewalk, a block from St. Philip, only a couple of blocks from home. The back of the French Quarter, mostly residential, was quiet. She hadn’t seen a soul on the street; only a few cars had passed. She turned back toward Esplanade and the Marigny, took a few steps, then retraced them and walked toward home again. “I’m just too drained from going to my mother’s,” she told Luc. “Let’s hold this thought. We’re working together tomorrow night, right?”