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He tried to hold her with his eyes and to force her to make his words hers. But she walked past him into the living room as though he were not there. The men who only moments earlier had been relaxed and confident about their place in the world were still standing, afraid to sit down without permission.
"You're Miss Ida?" Chalons asked.
"My name is Ida Durbin, yes, sir. It's nice to meet you," she replied.
"What happened to your face?" he asked.
She knew the most injurious response she could make would be none at all. She lowered her eyes and folded her arms on her chest. Inside the boom of thunder and the slap of rain against the window, she became a replica of the medieval martyr, abused and bound and waiting for the bundled twigs to be set ablaze at her feet.
"Do any of you gentlemen care to tell me what happened here?" Chalons said.
"Somebody got carried away. There's no good hat to put on it," Bob Cobb said.
"I won't abide this."
"Sir?" Bob Cobb said.
"I won't have a young woman held in captivity or beaten on my property," Chalons said, his eyes lighting in a way that made Bob Cobb blink. He mentioned the name of an infamous Cosa Nostra figure in New Orleans, a man who was literally given the state of Louisiana by Frank Costello and United States Senator Huey P. Long. "This woman and Lou Kale are going to leave with me today. You gentlemen can use the house through tonight. But by ten in the morning you'll be gone. I have no hard feelings against any of you. But you will not have use of this property again. Thank you for your courtesy in listening to me."
An hour later, Lou Kale and Ida Durbin were aboard Raphael Chalons's cabin cruiser, headed southwest through a squall toward the Florida coast, the waves bursting into ropes of foam on the bow. The cabin in which she slept that night vibrated with the reassuring throb of the engines, and when she woke in the early hours, unsure of where she was, she looked through a porthole and saw the sleek, steel-skin bodies of porpoises sliding through the water next to the boat. Their steadiness of purpose, the hardness of their bodies inside the waves, the fact they were on the same course as she, filled her with a sense of harmony and confidence and power.
Lou Kale slept in the bunk across from her. His sheet had fallen down over his hip, and his exposed arm and naked back and boylike face gave him an aura of vulnerability that she had never associated with the Lou Kale she had known on Post Office Street. She rose from her bunk and lifted the sheet carefully so as not to wake him and replaced it on his back, then looked again at the immensity and mystery of the night.
The Gulf was green and black, domed by a sky bursting with stars, so cold in their configurations they seemed to smoke like dry ice. She saw coconuts tumbling out of a wave, and an enormous sea turtle, its shell encrusted with barnacles, bobbing in a swell. A waterspout, its belly swollen wit
h light, wobbled on the southern horizon, sucking thousands of gallons and hundreds of fish out of the waves into the clouds. She opened the porthole glass and felt the salt on her tongue, like the taste of iodine, and she knew she would not sleep again that night. She longed for the sunrise, to be up on deck, to eat breakfast in a breeze that contained the green heaviness of the ocean and the hint of islands banked with coconut palms. She longed to be a young girl and to fall in love with the world again.
Jimmie Robicheaux had already disappeared from her mind. What a trick life had played on her, she thought. Jimmie was gone and ironically her future was now wed to Lou Kale, the man she had tried to flee and who in turn had probably saved her from a terrible fate.
But when the boat docked in Key West, Lou hung around only long enough to refuel the gas tanks and restock the larder in the galley.
"Where you headed?" she asked.
All morning he had been morose, vaguely resentful, his eyes evasive, his speech unusually laconic. "Up to Lauderdale on the Greyhound," he said, a duffel bag packed with his clothes balanced on his shoulder.
"What about me?" she said.
"I got to get things set up. I'll see you when you get back."
"Back from where?"
"You're going fishing in the Dry Tortugas with Mr. Chalons."
"Lou, I didn't take care of myself at the farmhouse. I had all that dope in me."
"You're all right. You've always been all right," he said. "Everything is extremely solid. I never lied to you, right? Keep saying, 'Everything is righteously solid.' Just don't let no problems get in your head. It's all a matter of attitude."
"Get what things set up?"
But he walked up the dock and did not reply, staring wide-eyed at the gulls that glided over the dock, his back knotted under his see-through shirt with the weight of the duffel.
chapter TWENTY-THREE
Jimmie told me all this late Tuesday afternoon, at my house, just after arriving back in New Iberia. Outside, the sunlight was gold inside the trees, more like autumn than late summer, and there was a tannic smell in the air that I only associated with fall and the coming of winter. I could hear Molly nailing up a birdhouse that had been blown out of live oak, like a reassuring presence who told me I still had another season to run.
"So Ida and Lou Kale have been in the prostitution business ever since?" I said.
"More or less," he replied. "You actually married a nun?"
