Big Easy Bonanza

three years old, but she might as well have been one all along—all Marcelle could remember of her early childhood were her mother’s “sick days,” the way she smelled of sherry and Bloody Marys, and the old sandbox Chauncey and Bitty had built out behind the house for Henry.
    Oh, dear God. I hope I can be a better mother to André than she was to me. If I do nothing else on this Earth, please let me do that. And the way things are going, it doesn’t look like I’ll do another damn thing.
    André was upstairs now, watching a movie with some other kids. She’d kept him with her in this house of gloom for two days and she knew it was hard on him, but surely it was better than leaving him with a baby-sitter. Or was it? Why the hell was child rearing, the most important of all tasks, so shockingly unscientific? People knew more about microbes and life in space than they did about how to raise kids, and they wrote more books about that stuff too. Marcelle truly hoped she wasn’t making a mess of four-year-old André, dooming him to a resentful adulthood spent on the shrink’s couch.
    Her own life was rather like that. And if it hadn’t been for her dad, she knew she’d be an even worse wreck than she was. Thank God, Chauncey had been there for her—sometimes, anyway. At the moment she missed him so much all she could remember were the good times— Chauncey ruffling her hair, swimming with her, teaching her to ride a bike. (Bitty thought bicycles dangerous and didn’t want her to have one.)
    Marcelle did want her father’s murderer punished. But she was worried about something: that in the course of the murderer’s arrest and trial, Chauncey’s good name would be destroyed. That his human rights work would be not merely forgotten but discredited. Yet how could the murderer be punished if there were no arrest and no trial?
    Tolliver was coming back, seeming a little woozy. He didn’t look good at all, but what could one expect under the circumstances? Marcelle herself, she imagined, would frighten small children.
    Okay. All right. When Tolliver arrived to take care of Bitty, she’d find Skip. She’d asked her to stay; she supposed she’d known she was going to tell her.
    Oh, Daddy, why did you have to do what you did?
    She found Skip chatting with Jo Jo Lawrence. The sight of him almost made her vomit. Had she really fucked him yesterday? Fucked him while her father was getting murdered?
    God, she hoped she wouldn’t be questioned too closely about what she was doing at the time of the murder. Should she tell Skippy? Maybe she could keep it quiet. But then she remembered it wasn’t important. What was important was to tell Skip the other thing.
    “Jo Jo, go away, would you? Skippy and I’ve got some old times to talk over.”
    He looked puzzled. “I didn’t even know you two were friends.”
    As he walked away, it occurred to Marcelle that Skip was probably another of his extramarital adventures. She wondered if he’d have been so quick to screw her—Marcelle—if he’d known she and Skip were friends. But he probably would have. Jo Jo wasn’t the sort to be bothered by much, and hadn’t the brain power to do much fretting even if he had been.
    She put a hand on Skip’s arm. “Skippy, I’ve got something to tell you.”
    Skip nodded.
    “First of all, Mother and Daddy didn’t have sex. They had separate rooms.”
    Skip’s right eyebrow went up, and her cheeks flushed faintly.
    “Now don’t be embarrassed. I have to tell you that because it’s the only way you can understand. Daddy had other women.”
    “I see.”
    “One woman, I mean.”
    “How do you know?”
    “She came to the house once, a few weeks ago. All dolled up with cleavage and high heels. I was here at the time, and Mother was upstairs. I heard Daddy say, ‘Don’t ever come here again,’ in the meanest tone I ever heard him use. Then he slammed the door in her face.”
    Marcelle paused to sip her drink. “You should have seen her, Skippy. She was young—under twenty-five, for sure—and beautiful. All angles and planes in her face, and copper skin and copper hair. And she looked so hurt when he slammed the door. And then furious. She kicked the door. I was here with André, visiting the grandparents. I heard it start, and then I looked out the window and saw it all.”
    “You think she might have killed your daddy? Is that why you’re telling me this?”
    Marcelle nodded.
    “But I thought you felt it was