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“I wish I could write. I’d like to be a screenwriter. I have an associate’s degree and fifteen hours at Florida Atlantic. You think I could get into film school at the University of Texas?”
“Why would you not be able to?”
“I wasn’t the best student in the world. I think half the time my male professors were grading my jugs. I kind of had a way of choosing almost all male professors for my classes. Oops, there goes my phone. I’ll be just a minute.”
Gretchen walked across the parking lot and began speaking into the phone as she rounded the corner of the theater. Some middle-school kids cutting through from the street to the parking lot passed her, then looked back and started laughing. “What’s so funny, you guys?” Alafair asked.
“That lady over there dropped her phone in the mud puddle. She knows some cuss words, yeah,” one boy said.
Alafair looked at her watch, then walked to the corner of the building. She could hear Gretchen’s voice in the darkness. Perhaps secretly, she hoped to hear a profane tirade at a lover or a family member. Or a confession of need or an attempt at reconciliation or an argument over money. But the voice she heard was not one dependent on profanity to intimidate the listener. Nor was it the voice of the Gretchen Horowitz enamored by the love story of Billie Frechette and John Dillinger.
“Here’s what it is, and you’d better get it right the first time,” Gretchen said. “I’m out. Don’t leave anything in the drop box. The last deal was on the house. No, you don’t talk, Raymond. You listen. You take my number out of your directory, and do not make the mistake of contacting me again.” There was a pause. “That’s the breaks. Go back to Cuba. Open a beans-and-rice stand on the beach. I think you’re worrying about nothing. The people who pay us pay us for one reason: They’re not up to the job themselves. So adiós and hasta la cucaracha and have a good life and stay away from me.”
Gretchen closed her phone and turned around and looked into Alafair’s face. “Didn’t see you there,” she said.
“Who was that?” Alafair asked.
“A guy I was in the antique business with in Key West. He’s a gusano and always spotting his drawers about something.”
“A worm?”
“A Batistiano, an antirevolutionary. Miami is full of them. They love democracy as long as it’s run by brownshirts.” She smiled awkwardly and shrugged. “We brought in some antiquities from Guatemala that were a little warm, like freshly dug up next to some Mayan pyramids, the kind of stuff that private collectors pay a lot of money for. I’m out of it now. You said something about going to your house for boiled crabs?”
“It’s kind of late.”
“Not for me.”
“How about a drink at Clementine’s?” Alafair said.
“You were looking at me a little funny. What did you think I was talking about?”
“I wasn’t sure. It’s not my business.”
“You had a real funny look on your face.”
“You have mud in your hair. You must have dropped your phone.”
Gretchen touched her ear and looked at her fingers. “You think I could fit in at a place like the University of Texas? I hear a lot of rich kids go there. I’m not exactly a sorority girl. Tell me the truth. I’m not sensitive.”
CLETE PURCEL TURNED the Caddy south on the two-lane and headed down the green tree-lined strip of elevated land that led to Cypremort Point. The surface of the bay was the color of tarnished brass, the waves capping close to the banks, the late sun as red and angry and unrelenting as a stoplight at a railroad crossing. He pulled down the visor but could not keep the brilliance out of his eyes. He had to drive with one hand and shield himself from the glare, as though the sun had conspired with the voices in his head that told him to desist, to cut a U-turn and scour grass and mud out of the swale, to floor the Caddy back to New Iberia and find a bar with a breezy deck by Bayou Teche and quietly sedate his head for the next five hours.
But omens and cautionary tales had never been an influence in the life of Clete Purcel. The sunset was splendid, the oil that lurked in the Gulf quiescent or even biodegrading, as the oil companies and government scientists had claimed. He and his best friend had eluded death on the bayou and left their enemies blown into bloody rags among the camellias and live oaks and pecan trees and elephant ears. How many times in his life had he been spared a DOA tag on his toe? Maybe it was for a reason. Maybe his attendance at the big dance was meant to be much longer than he had thought. Perhaps the world was not only a fine place and well worth the fighting for; perhaps it was also a neon-lit playground, not unlike the old Pontchartrain Beach, where the admission was free and the Ferris wheel and the aerial fireworks on the Fourth of July stayed printed against the evening sky forever.
Varina Leboeuf had called and said she’d found a photo she thought he should see. Should he have ignored her call and not driven out to Cypremort Point? Was there something inherently bad in his level of desire or the fact that he admired the way a woman walked and glanced back over her shoulder at a man? Was it wrong that he was fascinated by the mystery that hid in women’s eyes and the way they kept their secrets to themselves and dressed for one another rather than for men? Why should age stop him from being who he was? The seventh-inning stretch was just the seventh-inning stretch. The game wasn’t over until the last pitch in the bottom of the ninth. And sometimes the game went into extra innings.
He was almost home free in his thought processes, ready to get back on that old-time boogie-woogie, when he looked out at the bay and the flooded cypress trees strung with moss and a green rain cloud that had moved across the sun. Where had he seen all this before? Why did this seascape make his heart twist? Why couldn’t he accept loss and life on life’s terms? Why did he always have to seek surrogates for a girl who had not only been taken irrevocably from him but who was irreplaceable? Unfortunately, he knew the answer to his own question. When death stole the love of your life, no amount of revenge ever healed the hole in your heart. You lived with anger and physical yearnings that were insatiable, and you went about dismantling yourself on a daily basis, tendon and joint, for the rest of your days, all the time wearing the mask of a court jester.
He clicked on his radio and turned up the volume full-blast and kept it there until he saw the house on stilts that Varina Leboeuf had described to him. The house was constructed of weathered, unpainted cypress and had a peaked, synthetically coated fireproof roof that blended with the surroundings. She had set up a badminton net in the yard and was batting a shuttlecock back and forth with two little black girls dressed in pinafores that were threaded with ribbons.
He pulled onto the grass and got out of the Caddy. Varina was wearing shorts rolled high up on the thigh and a sleeveless blouse that exposed her bra straps. Her face was flushed and happy, her brown eyes electric, like light trapped inside a barrel of dark water. “Get a racket,” she said.
He removed his porkpie hat and seersucker coat and put them in the Caddy, conscious of his shirt pulling loose from his slacks and the way his love handles hung over his belt. “Is your father back from the hospital?” he asked, already knowing the answer.
“He’ll be at Iberia Medical Center for at least two more days. The twins here have been keeping me company. Their grandmother used to work for my father. He’s their godfather.”
“Really?” Clete said.
“Yeah, really. Did you hear some bad stories about him?”
