Big Easy Bonanza

awhile.”
    “I’m fine alone. Really. I was thinking last night that everything’s all right, that I can make peace with myself.”
    The waiter took away her barely touched salad and brought their entrées.
    “I was thinking about those days—just the three of us together—and realizing that I was genuinely happy then. How many people can say that?” He smiled, saying nothing, inviting her to continue. “Your life has meant something—it hasn’t been wasted—if you’ve had something so perfect, just once.”
    “Mother, of course your life hasn’t been wasted. What would I do without you?”
    “You don’t really need me. But it doesn’t matter, you see? That’s what I’m trying to tell you—I’ve had a happy and satisfying life already. I don’t need anything else.”
    Fear wrenched at his gut. Surely she wasn’t suicidal. Not after all that had happened this past week. He couldn’t take it. He said, “You aren’t depressed, are you, Mother?”
    “Of course not, dear. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. You’re not to worry about me, and you’re not to consider moving in. You have your own life to lead, and I don’t want to be a drag on you.”
    “Come over tomorrow night. I’ll cook for you.”
    “Don’t be silly. You can’t spend every night with your mother.”
    “I would if I could.” He gave her a flirtatious smile.
    She leaned over her plate to take his hand, a fold of her dress flowing into the sauce meunière. Her hands felt as cold and bony as a chicken’s claw. “I know you would, darlin’.” She smiled bravely and squeezed.
    The smile stopped, but the squeeze continued. A tear ran down her cheek, but she made no effort to brush it away. She simply kept staring at him, squeezing his hand.
    He should do something to help her now. He tried to think what to do. She said, “You’re not a bit like Chauncey, are you?”
    He didn’t know what the answer was, whether she wanted him to assure her that he was indeed exactly like Chauncey, that she still had that to hang on to, or whether he was supposed to agree with her. Paralyzed, he missed his cue.
    She began to sniffle and had to let go of his hand to pull out a tissue. “You wouldn’t do what Chauncey did.”
    “Mother, you can depend on me for anything you need. You know that.”
    “Oh, Henry, what am I going to do? Tolliver didn’t call me today.”
    Tolliver?
    “We’ll get through this,” he said.
    “I’m so miserable. I have no one in the world anymore.”
    “No one? What about me?” How could she say this to her only son, who would happily devote his whole life to her? “How about Geegaw and Marcelle and André and—I don’t know—Yvonne and Mommoo and Poppoo—”
    “You don’t understand. I’m completely alone now.” She was sobbing.
    “Mother, I think we should go.” He realized now that the sudden somersault into despond was simply another manifestation of drunkenness, just as her earlier mood had been. All of New Orleans would understand that too, and would know about it by morning. It was too late to avoid that, but he felt an overwhelming need to get her someplace safe, where people couldn’t stare, as quickly as possible. He signaled for the check.
    “I’ll be all right. I’ll be good.” She poured herself other glass of wine and sipped, her tears wiped away, a strange childishness, a pathetic need to please, overcoming her melancholy.
    He hated this. “Oh, Mother.”
    “I’m sorry, Henry. I didn’t mean to disgrace you.” She said “dishgrashe.”
    “Mother, please, you don’t disgrace me. I just want to help you and I feel so helpless.” He took a deep breath and a big chance. “Let me take you to the Betty Ford Center. Please. You need a boost. You know you do.”
    “You don’t think there’s any hope for me, do you?”
    “Of course I do. That’s what I’m saying.”
    She dipped her napkin in water and dabbed at the dress, having now seen the stain she’d acquired. “I feel so awful.”
    “I’ll help you. I’ll take care of you.”
    “I could never go that far from home.”
    “Someplace here, then. Or no place—just AA.”
    “I couldn’t go to AA. Chotsie Carruth goes. She says everybody smokes.”
    “Mother, you’re killing yourself.”
    “I want to die.”
    She looked suddenly seventy years old. Beautiful Bitty, an ancient tragedy mask. He couldn’t stand it. He had to do something to get her out of this.
    “I need you, Mother.” He