Something else in me broke the day the auctioneer sold offall my family’s possessions, one by one. Including all the paintings of mine that my daddy had been so proud of.
The whole thing shook my faith in humanity in general.
If my own father could betray me like that, maybe everyone will. Maybe that’s just what peopledo.
If I’m being honest,that’sthe detail that pisses me off more than anything else: I have a dark little pissed off ember lodged in my soul now that wasn’t there before and I hate having it there. I can feel it there, glowing bright red. If I could dig it out with my bare hands, I would. I’d throw it as far out as I could into the big old muddy Mississippi and get on with my life.
I’ve had to get on with my life anyway, with or without the ember, and it’s exactly what I plan on continuing to do.
Maybe I should go to New York with Sadie.
Maybe Icouldsleep on her sister’s couch.
The problem is, to me, New Orleans feels like my earthly body and I’m her beating heart.
Then again, my hotel felt that way to me too and look how that turned out.
4
The monthafter my father died before even hitting the floor, the Hotel Thibodeaux filed for bankruptcy. Actually, more specifically, it was Amelie Esmé Sabine Anaïs Thibodeaux, whose name it was under, who filed for bankruptcy.
Everything my great-grandparents, my grandparents and my parents ever owned was sold off to the highest bidder while I sat there and watched.
Every single piece of heirloom furniture—and they all had wild, elaborate stories behind them that went all the way back to some ancestor’s Creole roots or so-and-so’s decadent Parisian great-aunt. Every etched glass, every Limoges plate, every Christofle silver fork, every Qom silk rug. Sold.
Along with every piece of art I’d ever created.
My early ones that I painted as a child.
The ones that got me into NOCCA, including my favoriteone—of our hotel, all expressionistic and colorful. I’d sat outside with my easel every afternoon for a week until I got it just right.
All the paintings from my group exhibitions during school.
All the ones from my senior year solo exhibition at the Nolesque Gallery.
I’d been so excited about that. My dad never quite made it that night, but Sadie did.
All sold.
The only thing I managed to pocket was my dead mother’s wedding ring, by sewing it inside the sleeve of the only coat I had left.
“Marry me, gorgeous.”
“Hey, Lenny.” I pour him his usual, a triple Jim Beam on ice. Lenny Fontaine is a local musician who makes his living playing the piano around town, including here on Friday nights. He always has a drink at the bar before he plays.
“You’re looking even more beautiful than usual tonight, Amelie.”
“I bet you say that to all the girls.”
“You think I’m joking, darlin’, but if you said yes, I’d take you down to the Town Hall right now.”
“You’ve got a gig, Lenny. It’ll have to wait until next time.” We have this same banter every Friday night.
And I do what I always do. Move on to the next customer.
The place is filling up.
I serve a few more drinks and get two more proposals.
