I sat in Jack’s small office above the kitchen listening to the cluttered noise coming through the open window over the courtyard of the old French Quarter restaurant. The air trickling in was filled with the smell of spicy roux and the sticky remnants of the morning rain that evaporated across the city of New Orleans like a clinging phantom from the surrounding marshes.
I could hear waiters nagging for food from cooks barking for tickets, and dishwashers banging pots and slamming plates while singing words no one understood. I knew from experience that somewhere in the middle of it all was a manager trying to control the chaos and I smiled, hoping that person would soon be me. I checked the armpits of my only dress shirt for stains and if they needed to be wiped dry when I heard Jack walk in through the door behind me.
“Lee, sorry to keep you waiting but I wanted to be at the door to greet the latest bus of gumbo frenzied tourists.”
He shook my hand with a strong grip and took a quick seat behind his desk. He may have been all confidence and smiles but I could see by the way his suit fit and the scuff marks on his shoes that life was not as good as he wished it would be.
“You’ve got quite a business going on in that dining room downstairs. Reminds me of old times, except now you’re the boss.”
The moment I said it I regretted showing my hand in eagerness. I laughed, but was distracted by the way he was staring at the papers in front of him and not at my face. When he did look up I knew it was from that place where people go when they get rid of their emotions and belief in loyalty to friends. I tried to pull him back by talking about the days when we worked together at the other restaurant.
“Remember all those sweaty people standing outside, all night long, just to eat a meal that was over so very fast, just to say they had been there? That’s because no one knew how to make people feel at home better than we did, right? I still have it in me, how to take care of people and I could bring in a heck of a business if I was your maitre d’ – “
“Lee, how are you feeling? There was a lot of talk going ‘round after you disappeared.”
“I left. There’s a big difference between deciding to go somewhere and just up and – “
“Nobody knew where you were. I talked to, still talk to people at the old place.”
“Yeah, people talk and run their mouths for things they don’t know anything about.”
I looked up at the water stains on the ceiling to keep the burning anger from tearing through my eyes. I wanted to ask him why he was doing this, acting superior to me. Instead, I took a breath to calm myself because I knew he needed answers, but was too good of a person to come out and ask the question.
“I wanted a break, that’s all. I needed to get away from the never ending need to accommodate the next guest, the special requests, the unhappy diner with the hair in her soup that was driving me – “
“– Into the arms of the devil?”
We sat there in the stuffy room brimming with the smell of tomatoes and burnt rice; the sounds of the world we were negotiating surrounded us. I felt the long streak of tickling sweat down the sides of my body and I realized this was a mistake. But just as I did, he came back from that place he was in and for a second I saw in his eye’s my old friend, the one who always told me the truth, even when it was not what I wanted to hear.
“How old are you Lee? I know you’re not fifty but you look it. This is a young man’s business. It’s hard work, double shifts and late nights, always on your feet.”
“You think I don’t know the restaurant business? This is what I’ve done my entire life.”
“And this is what it’s done to you. After it’s eaten you up, you come crawling back, begging to be let in again.”
I stood up and walked to the door without another word. There was a time when I was in charge of the hottest Creole restaurant in this town, and no one was going to accuse me of having to plead for a job. I stopped when he started talking again.
“I don’t do maitre d’s here Lee, and if I did it wouldn’t be you. All I have is a need for waiters who show up for work on time and serve a couple hundred people a day. I’m sorry, I got nothin’.”
I was facing the door with a sneer, wanting to leave with my dignity, but there was no way I would walk out without letting him know exactly what it took for me to walk in here today.
“Man, you got a job. I’m thirty nine years old and I’ve lost everything I’ve ever owned, I’m living with a nut job who writes his name all over the house and…I’m the one who has nothin’ Jack.”
I turned the doorknob, but paused. It was a move that paid off when he asked me to stop and listen.
“Look, you got black and whites? Can you show up on time Friday morning? If you can do that you can have a job, just don’t come in…don’t screw this up. All right?”
I turned around, my face filled with a smile I couldn’t control and tried to shake his hand, but he waved it off. I left the building small and humiliated, having to pan handle a job from someone I once fired for something I can no longer remember. But I had a job and that battle was won.

It was late summer and the light of day was thick and heavy. I walked the few blinding blocks from the restaurant to a bar on Toulouse Street where I knew the stale darkness would offer me shelter and a place to celebrate in peace.
I sat down and ordered a soda with double lime, the smell of burnt coffee and old cigarettes creating an incense around me in this temple of indulgence. I raised my glass, toasting my reflection in the mirror at the success of winning a position with Jack. The clicking echo of billiards in the back of the room and the snarling leer of an old man at the end of the bar were the only response to my lonely moment of victory.
This has always been one of my favorite places to hide in the middle of the day when your activities need to be sheltered from the people going to and fro in the Quarter. The old man looked familiar to me but when I looked around I did not recognize anyone else, and I wondered what had happened to the girl who worked here right before I left town. In my mind I can see her standing behind the bar, but I can’t conjure up her face and the cold stare from the woman refilling my empty glass assures me she is not the same person.
The last time I was here, the missing bartender bought me shots and we sat together drinking beer, talking about silly things that only matter when alcohol is involved. Later, she was either too kind or didn’t care that I was wearing an Italian suit which hadn’t been cleaned in weeks or that I was living in an apartment building filled with gutter punks and transients on Decatur Street.
The sex was fast and rough, and afterwards when I tried touching her hair she shot out of the bed leaving me lying there without the burden of exchanging glances or numbers. I raised my empty glass to the woman who no longer mattered and congratulated myself that her name remained unknown since it was easier than calling her up and telling her the truth.
I wiped my mouth with the sleeve of my shirt, ready to begin my walk to Canal Street so I could catch the street car home. I threw a couple of dollar bills on the bar, thinking my life seemed better already, looking around at how much worse it could be when I caught the eye of the old man shaking his head at me. I laughed, not bothered by someone who was there when I walked in and would be there long after I left.

The street car stopped at the corner of Melpomene and St. Charles Avenue, and I walked the half block towards the river to the house where I had been staying for the past few weeks. It was a double camelback with a waist-high wrought iron fence that was badly chipped and a gate that squeaked when opened. Across the parking lot next door was a bar that always looked empty but never seemed to close.
When I placed the key in the doorknob, I noticed the small green and black sign above the doorbell had been freshly painted.
“Please ring or knock twice, not more or less!”
I opened the door, stepping into a high-ceilinged room filled with photos and awards from my roommate’s many years as a police officer in the city. In the pictures he stood side-by-side and arm-in –arm with celebrities and politicians at parades, balls and football games. On each of the frames in the upper right hand corner was the name ‘Frank’ written on a small piece of white paper. Almost everything in the house was labeled like that, some including dates and times. The mantle was covered in awards and acknowledgments from his forty years of service and in the center of it all, mounted in a small silver frame, was his very first badge.
I met Frank when he was working in the Quarter. He would stop in the restaurant for coffee at the end of my night and the start of his beat. I used to enjoy standing at the end of the bar drinking frothy cappuccinos, which were my excuse for being wide awake and shaky at the end of a shift, and listen to him talk about how things used to be in the city.
He was older than me, with thinning grey hair, a mousy smile and tiny hands that I never thought were capable of being forceful, and this feeling that he would not threaten me was why I became such good friends with someone, who, if he had just searched my eyes or my pockets, would have thrown me in jail without hesitation.
I walked into the kitchen where he sat at the lime green table with the question balanced on the tip of his nose like a pair of reading glasses looking me over.
“I got it. I had to beg and crawl but I’ve got a job.”
Frank stood up and gave me a quick, crushing hug, and I knew that would be all the discussion to take place on the matter. He had never asked me about the last few months, and I never felt the need to tell him because he was the kind of person who already knew what went wrong.
“Lee, my boy, I was wondering if you were going to be home Saturday night, but seeing as how you’ve gotten yourself a new career I doubt you’ll be available to join me and Marie for a little bowling and beer.”
I opened the refrigerator door, leaned in and searched for the small plastic bottle I kept hidden behind my orange juice, wondering why he was asking me to go out with him. It was something he had never done before and he avoided odd numbers at all costs. As I quietly counted out my pills he must have taken my silence to be the unstated question.
“Marie’s daughter is visiting her from out of town and she’ll be there with us. It might be a nice change for you to get out and enjoy yourself a little bit.”
I stood up from the cold box and looked him in the eye. Was he trying to set me up or was I just the evening out factor for his fear of the number three?
“Well, I don’t think I’ll be getting the Saturday night shifts right away, so I guess if there aren’t some kinds of strings attached to this…”
“No! None at all. I assure you it’s just that, well, you know…”
His uncomfortable shifting around as he gazed at the worn linoleum floor told me I was simply the magic number four for his trio, and with that relief in my mind I agreed to do all I could to join him and his lady friend for some bowling.

Despite everything I tried, sleep was as elusive as forgiveness in a brothel filled with well-paid whores. I lay in the bed, my heart beating as I listened to the thunder march into town like a circus under a cloud of white fireworks, and wondered what the morning would bring.
I was lucky enough to find some wrinkled black pants that had been packed away for the last few months. Most of the time I spent in the hospital I wore a dressing gown and it was only stupid luck that the suitcase I left with a friend as collateral was still sitting in his living room, waiting for the fifty dollars promised before I got sick.
The rain washed down the alleyway between my bedroom and the house next door. It was close enough to touch should you decide to stick your hand out of the window and you could hear the tenants arguing and the television playing well into the night. I reviewed in my head all the important steps of service I learned and taught about waiting tables through the years so the impression I would make tomorrow would be a good one. Somewhere in between replacing used silverware, and bringing a fresh glass of water before dessert, I drifted off to an uneasy darkness filled with cooks leering at me while I stared at plate after plate of overcooked food.
The deluge was a soft drizzle when I stepped out of the shower the next morning. On my way out of the door I grabbed an umbrella from the hall tree and tore off the tape with Frank’s name stuck to the handle, walking out of the house, my head held high, into my new day.
As I headed to the street car stop, I passed the little lounge and heard music coming from behind the painted glass door. I decided a quick drink was the thing I needed to keep my nerves in line for this first day back at work. I opened the door and thought while every bar in the world has its own aroma, you could always tell you were in one by the way it smelled.
Sixty minutes, three Bloody Mary’s and two root beer schnapps later, I barged out of the bar onto the sidewalk only to see not just one, but three streetcars in a row heading downtown and I knew there was a better way I could have spent the last hour of my life than repeating the mistakes of the last four years. I looked at my watch and began the fifteen block trek to Canal Street through the smoldering, damp morning.
When I reached the front door of work I was soaked in a way that only happens to drunks in a swamp. I stopped and searched my pocket for the bow tie Jack had given to me to wear with my uniform, and realized I left it sitting on the barstool with the umbrella in the bar by the house. I stole a sideways glance at myself in the tinted window of a shiny new car parked outside of the restaurant. Running my fingers across my scalp, I pulled my sunglasses off and thought that I was lucky there was not much hair to mess up, but my shirt looked like a wrinkled hell. I turned away thinking how short and round I appeared in what was surely a distorted reflection.
Before walking in I cupped my hand in front of my face to smell my breath and could not tell what was worse, the odor coming out of my mouth or whatever it was on the tips of my fingers. I took one last look at the car parked in front of the restaurant and wondered what happened to the one just like it that I owned once upon a time.

That night after work I sat on the front porch thinking how my first day was almost my last and all the effort I put into starting over could have ended easier than it had begun. I showed up drunk, late and looking like I had slept in the back of a pickup truck in my work clothes. But Jack was not there, and the assistant manager loaned me a spare tie he kept in a locker upstairs for days when he had to fill in and pick up shifts. When he handed it to me he gave me that knowing smile which always bothers me and I thought I could smell a little gin on the wind as he walked quickly away from me.
I stirred my soda with a straw, wishing for a vodka, but the music floating from the back patio of the bar next door warned me of earlier wrongdoings and my promise not to blunder away another day of my life. Frank sat in his favorite wicker chair next to me, took a long sip of his coffee, and told me the story of how he met Marie.
“After I got out of the hospital I couldn’t recall where I had been. Not like…what do you call a person who can’t remember things?”
“Amnesiac?” I turned to face him, wondering if he was joking with me, but with this old man you could never really tell when your leg was being pulled until it had been yanked out of its socket.
“Right, not like that. I just couldn’t get back to where I had come from. Directions going forward were good; I just had problems returning to where I had started.”
After I left New Orleans, Frank was shot in the head when he tried to stop a thirteen year old boy from robbing his own grandmother’s sandwich shop. To everyone’s surprise he survived the wound, but when he woke up six weeks later, he had developed an aversion to odd numbers, a need to write his name on all of the furniture and lost the ability to retain where he had traveled from whenever he went somewhere.
He remained in his home for months fearing being permanently lost, until one day he grabbed a stack of sticky notes and a marker leaving a trail of black arrows, like bread crumbs through the forest, to find his way back.
“Once I figured that out, I started taking therapy at the hospital on Prytania, but after a couple of weeks I noticed my arrows were being taken down around the halls. I’d wander around too embarrassed to ask my way out until one of the nurses walked me to the door. She talked to everyone and made them promise to leave the arrows up but they kept disappearing after my sessions.”
“What did you do?”
“A little undercover work. I skipped my meeting one night so I could hang out near the nurse’s station with a clipboard and a lab coat I borrowed from the laundry bin to see who was pulling the notes down. It wasn’t long before a beautiful woman, with caramel colored skin and long, thick black hair – all the way to her waist – passed me by, pulling down the notes and wiping the spots where they hung with a little rag she pulled from her brassiere.
“Was that Marie? Did you ask her to stop?”
“I asked her to have coffee with me in the cafeteria and luckily she knew where it was since all of the little arrows had been taken down. She was there for her own therapy sessions, but she told me all they did was sit around and cry and she was tired of crying, so instead she would walk the halls and help clean up until it was time for her to go home.”
The metal wheels of the streetcar groaned to a halt and we turned our heads to see the large crowd at the stop board an already filled car heading downtown to join the debauchery of weekend partiers in the Quarter.
Frank smelled his coffee and took a sip before throwing the remainder into the small patch of grass by the steps.
“So tell me what your first day at work was like.”
I thought for a moment before deciding to be vague in my answer. Still, the sound of disgust in my voice, mostly at myself, was clear to a man who had spent his entire life taking statements from people.
“You know son, it’s not going to be the Ritz on the first day, but we all have to start somewhere.”
“I know that, it’s just…what’s the point, really, of trying? Of wanting to get myself together again to spend the rest of my life getting kicked around for the things in my past?”
“The point, my boy? Maybe there is no point to all of this and it’s just our silly little actions that give some kind of meaning to our lives. Maybe the point is there is no point, or maybe it’s to try and make one. I don’t know. But I do believe the past is just a bunch of details that only you remember and shouldn’t reflect on unless there’s been enough time to polish it up and make it shine.”
I expected him to give me one of his knowing winks and sly grins, but he was in a place only he could see and understand.
“What the hell are you talking about Frank?”
“My very point, my boy, my very point.”
We laughed together and watched the clouds above us turn orange and pink then purple as the ceiling of night closed over our heads.

The sun sparkled off of the polished wine glasses and the perfectly placed silverware set on the tables for the morning buffet. The rain from the day before had leeched away the humidity and the drops of dew on the large green ferns and statuesque elephant ears that surrounded the courtyard dining area cleared my mind and I laughed away the doubts from the night before.
Luck must have been shining on me as well because Jack did not say anything about my lapse of judgment when he told me the waiter that was scheduled to train me called out and if I worked the party I would get a cut of the tips at the end of the day.
After finishing the setup, myself and the other servers walked to the alleyway between the restaurants dish room and the furniture store next door to steal a cigarette. I don’t smoke but I appreciated the opportunity to talk to people who did not believe in suffering a person for their past, and I enjoyed the excuse to watch the people walk up and down Royal Street in their hurried way, from store to store, as though the urgency of those actions were giving meaning to their lives.
We laughed about nothing, until a large tour bus pulled up, shaking the plaster off the brick walls of the building. Everyone turned and went back through the kitchen taking our positions like little soldiers of service waiting to fulfill the fantasy of bustling waiters from a bygone era to people who were more concerned with the distance to the casino and what cocktail we were famous for than the significance of where they were.
While people found their seats, cooks in their starched white chef jackets brought out chafing dishes of jambalaya and bread pudding, and I lined up with the other servers at the bar to fill my tray with Mimosa’s and Brandy Milk Punch’s that were freely distributed to the guests. That was when I heard a voice behind me that sent a shiver through my arms and I had to place the tray down to avoid spilling the libations.
“Hello Lee.”
It was Chloe, her red hair pulled back into a tight knot, fiery green eyes flashing behind her glasses. She stood taller than me even when she wasn’t wearing heels and was dressed smartly in a finely tailored pantsuit. It was her tour company that we were serving today and it was obvious that she was doing very well with it.
We had lived together for five years until she made me move into that boarding house on Decatur Street. I took a deep breath and fought the urge to throw a drink in her face, smiling at her crooked lipstick instead, and allowed her to take the first jab.
“I didn’t know you were back in town, playing in restaurants once more. Trying to kill yourself again?”
I asked one of the waiters to cover for me so she and I could walk to a back corner of the patio and talk. I leaned against the cold brick wall trying to appear casual when she began her barrage.
“What the hell are you doing here? The last time I saw you was in a bed, dying in a backwoods hospital so small they had to fly in a specialist from another state to keep you alive.”
“You came to see me?”
“They called me to sit by your side in case you died. I told them I wouldn’t have anything to do with you, but when the doctor told me – God help me, I jumped into my car and drove straight there.”
Her voice choked, echoing on the crumbling brick, and mascara filled tears pulled themselves down her cheeks in little black rivers flowing from eyes that were pools of anguish. I gave her the white linen napkin in my hand and stared at a small lizard as it climbed up the moist vines to the broken glass cemented to the top of the wall.
She wiped her smeared eyes and before I could say how sorry I was, she started again.
“I guess you should be thankful you were in the bathroom making love to a needle instead of me, otherwise no one would have come to your rescue. You would have died in that bed if I hadn’t paid them to bring you to a decent clinic you know. I could have left you there, you should have stayed there.”
One of the waiters came up, tapping me on the shoulder, and I pointed to the people who were lining up for the buffet. She stood in front of me like she was waiting for an answer, but when I didn’t give her one; she threw the white cloth on the ground and pushed past me, marching out the door.

I was relieved when I got home to find an empty house and a note from Frank on the table explaining that Marie’s daughter would not be able to join us for the evening and it was better if the two of them spent time together alone. I was not in the mood to pretend that I understood how to bowl or that I was interested in other people tonight.
I opened some wine and sat on the front porch, listening to an old jazz cd I picked up in the French Market on the way home, and tried to figure out my next move. I felt I would never pull free of the quagmire of errors that my world was built on and I wondered what price I would have to pay to enjoy a future in this city again. Maybe it was not possible to go back to a place that was filled with your own past, or around people who think you have to earn the right for good things to happen to you.
I let these thoughts bounce around my head and fell into the music when I saw Frank jump out of a small car that pulled up in front of the house. He stood on the sidewalk and beckoned me to join him. I finished my glass of red wine and walked down to the street where two women sat in the car with the windows rolled down.
As I stepped through the squeaky front gate the woman from the driver’s seat got out and came around with her hand extended towards me. She was tall with dark hair, her eyes the color of wet pavement after a thunderstorm and I could see the edges of a tattoo peeking from under the sleeve of her shirt. Her pale skin reminded me of someone malnourished for a juicy steak and she spoke in that affable way that irritates me when people are from a small town where everyone is familiar.
“Hello Lee, I’m Maria’s daughter, Marla.”
I shook her hand, and then Frank introduced me to Maria who remained seated in the car until he opened the door for her to step out. Frank was a nervous schoolboy and his voice cracked when he invited them in for a drink.
“Why don’t you ladies come inside for a quick nightcap? I have a fresh bottle of whiskey waiting to be turned into a Sazerac right now.”
I fell in line behind them and asked him about the note. He told me Marla had shown up at the bowling alley without explanation and he apologized for not calling me to ask if I wanted to join them. I wondered how he managed the ride home, the three of them in that tiny vehicle, but the sparkle in his eyes, the way he fawned over Marie, told me his feelings for her were greater than his irrational fears.
Inside the house Marla and Marie sat on the old leather couch while I stood near the window pretending to select another cd, but I was really looking out the corner of my eye at Marla and the tattoo that was now fully visible on her arm. She caught me watching her and met my gaze but I was too embarrassed to ask her about the design and only smiled back at her.
After much clinking of bottles, Frank returned from the kitchen with a small bar tray that was carefully balanced on the tips of his fingers with four ruby colored cocktails, the little lemon twists floating alone in the center of the iceless beverage. We sat there discussing the history of the drinks and my selection of music, the mother and daughter laughing at how poorly they had bowled, and Marla and I exchanging quick glances over the curved rim of the glasses.
The drinks were finished and Frank stood up offering a second round which was pleasantly turned down by everyone in the room. Goodnights were passed around and as they walked out the door I felt I had missed something critical in the exchanges of the night but I did not know what it could be.

It’s that tip of the tongue experience that only resolves itself at three in the morning when you recall something you never got around to doing, the answer to a question you forgot, a comeback you should have used.
Marla. She was the girl from the barroom last year. I sat up in the bed thinking about the way she had stared at me while talking about gutter balls and saxophones. She wasn’t flirting; she was waiting for me to remember her face.
I rolled around in the bed for hours trying to find a cool spot between the sheets but the confusion of feelings that were fighting for attention behind my eyelids kept me awake. Unable to relax I went into the living room and bathed myself in the grey light of television until the morning sun reached into the windows reminding me that I had another day to get through.
It was early Sunday morning and the only people moving in the Quarter were trying to hide from the rising sun and a few artists setting up for a day of tourist trade and painting. It had been a long time since I worked a Jazz brunch and the blaring trumpet and electric guitar that mocked the memory of Dixieland were no help in stopping my inner dialogue.
I wanted to blame life for putting up these roadblocks to moving forward, but it was the unsettled business from my own past that kept pulling me back.
After making a pass through the dining room, refilling the champagne glasses, I stood by the waiter’s station and watched the line of diners return to the buffet for their second, third and fifth serving. I wondered how they could get up over and over again, choosing the same crap and walk away happy, only to return for more when I realized my own life was very much the same thing.
I took a break and went to the back patio where Chloe and I stood arguing the previous day, calling Frank from the pay phone, and asked him for Marie’s number so I could speak with Marla.
“Okay kid, I didn’t think you guys had hit if off that well last night.”
“I just want to have coffee…and talk.”

I’m at the coffee shop well before the time we had agreed on and stand in the line with the bow tie hanging out of my top pocket and food stains on my shirt sleeve thinking how much I look like an old waiter after a long day at work. I try to make small talk with the young woman behind the counter, but she avoids my eyes and I wonder when I lost the ability to be charming to women.
I grab a table in the corner, and just as I place my back to the wall I see her walk in, wanting to be early as well, not smiling, but not angry either. I watch the intensity of her brow as she scans the chalkboard menu and I’m thankful for this final minute to clear my head for the conversation we are about to have.
We say our hellos and she sits down, making small talk about her visit to the city. She tells me it’s something she does every few weeks to check on her mother who tried to kill herself awhile back after her husband, Marla’s stepfather, died in a boating accident on Lake Pontchatrain last summer. The doctors recommended removing all the doorknobs in the house so that Marie could not lock herself in and try it again, but no one realized at the time that she was obsessive about turning the knobs before leaving a room, and with their removal she sat in the house for days at a time until someone would come and see about her. When Marla realized what was happening she came and screwed all the knobs into the wall next to the doors and Maria could once again feel safe moving from room to room.
I take a sip of my dark brew, looking her straight in the face, and begin talking as though she had not been speaking for the last few minutes.
“I remember you. I didn’t know your name, and it wasn’t until the middle of the night, but I do.”
“I was wondering if you did, but I didn’t think you would. I’m not offended by it.”
“That’s a good thing you do for your mother, checking up on her like you do.”
“It’s been quite a year for me, to say the least. What about you? I thought you were managing a restaurant somewhere downtown, right?”
“Not anymore, I sort of ruined all of that. Marla, when I met you I was really messed up, on a lot of drugs. I was staying at the boarding house because I had lost everything, my relationship, my car, and most everything I owned. I was not in a good place.”
Marla touches my hand; her eyes locked on the table our arms rest on. Spoons rattle against coffee cups and steam hisses from the cappuccino machine and I wonder how people think a coffee shop is a good place to relax with all of this noise. I take a breath, filling my lungs with the admission I’ve come here to deliver, but she begins talking in a whisper that conquers the sounds around us.
“I figured as much, and I’m sorry I took advantage of you like I did while you were so vulnerable.”
“No, you don’t understand – “
“Let me finish. The night we met I was very angry. The woman I lived with at the time was sleeping with her old girlfriend. I was hurting and wanted to get back at her and you were the opportunity I seized to do that. It was nothing personal. I’m sorry.”
I stop and think for a moment that I can leave it at this, an apology from her, an acceptance that she was the wrong-doer in the situation. But I know that if I ever want to clear my plate and start fresh in this life, now has to be it.
“Marla, because I was shooting up I got sick and almost died. I got sick from AIDS. I’m HIV positive.”
She squeezes my hand, tracing the grooves in the wooden table with her forefinger. Her eyes become moist and my heart tightens in my chest. The taste of iron in my mouth makes me sick, but I sit there, ready for the anger, the hate, the accusation she will cast upon me. Instead she smiles and for the first time in a long while my burden is shared and I feel like an honest man.
“It’s okay, I’m not sick. They tested me before the baby was born.”
The room becomes very small and the oxygen around my head no longer seems available for use.
“It was a bit more revenge than I had intended, especially when I came home and said, ‘Honey, I went out for a beer and came back with a baby’.”
I don’t know what to ask or where to run. There is a feeling in my pants that’s either urine or fear and nothing I ever thought she could say to me is worse than this.
“You got pregnant, from our night together, is it, what is…?
“A boy, and no I didn’t keep him. A friend of mine arranged for adoption by a couple here in the city. I’m sorry but I didn’t know how to get in touch with you. We never exchanged names.”
We have another cup of coffee and she gives me a hug, promising to keep in touch now that we have something shared between us, but I know I will not see her again. Her goodbye is much too final.
After she leaves, I ask for a refill and sit there until the bitter brew has long gone cold.

The rain fell in drops so large they sounded like someone knocking on Marla’s windshield. The tears tore themselves from her eyes and only when the thunder rolled downriver did she realize the storm was lifting and she started the car to drive away. She left a letter for her mother on the table under a doorknob with enough money to take care of things for the next month or so.
She searched her pockets filled with pills and loose change to find the little piece of paper she had scribbled on earlier that morning after Lee had called. It wasn’t until she was on the bridge, high above the river, that she rolled down the window and let the crumpled note loose into the grey and troubled air.

Impressum

Tag der Veröffentlichung: 10.02.2010

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