Crescent City Connection

your pardon?”
    “Well, I’m sure they said something. Errol just had a habit of interpreting things his own way. I mean, one thing I know happened. A neighbor’s cat died mysteriously. After that, maybe they said something like Daniel really needed some attention, or guidance, maybe—something like that.” She shrugged. “What they meant was, a kind word, maybe—or a few sessions with a shrink. Errol read it as ‘punishment.’
    “Well, anyway, I might have been crazy, but I married him. And Isaac was born three years later, when Daniel was seventeen. I had my hands full for a while, I sure did.”
    “How old is Isaac now?”
    “Twenty-seven. And Daniel’s got a grown girl. In school at Northwestern.”
    Skip tried not to show surprise. She hadn’t known about the girl.
    “Daniel came out kind of strange after all. He drank too much for a long time—for all I know he still does.”
    “You’re not in touch with him?”
    Irene looked surprised. “Oh no. None of us have been for a long time. He went off to Idaho to be a survivalist.”
    “What about his wife?”
    “Jacqueline? They got divorced before that. Now, she never was any good.”
    “How’s that?”
    “Drinking. Drugs. Anything you can name. It’s like Daniel married his mama without even knowing her. Jacqueline left Daniel when Lovelace was ten—ten years ago.”
    “Did you know Rosemarie?”
    Irene blushed slightly. “I’ve been told about her.”
    “Where is Isaac now?”
    “I don’t … really know. When the thing happened with Daddy—I mean Errol…”
    “Wait a minute. Which thing? Atlanta or Louisiana?”
    “Atlanta. When the thing happened in the church and I left his father, Isaac just…” she paused “… he just stopped writing. Or almost did. I got a postcard once saying he was all right and healthy.” She smiled. “So healthy he was working in a juice bar. That’s what he said.”
    “Where was it mailed from?”
    “Mailed from?” She looked puzzled, then seemed to catch on. “Oh. New Orleans.”
    “Is his dad in touch with him?”
    “Well, I don’t know. I suppose…” She was clearly going over the events of the last few months in her head. “I suppose he could be. They were both in that part of the world.”
    “Do you have an address for Isaac? Or the name of the juice bar?”
    “No.” She crumpled a little, and Skip felt she had just torn off a bit of the woman’s scar tissue, exposing the wound beneath. “Isaac will… Isaac was an unusual child. A fragile child. He can only do what he can do. For some reason he doesn’t feel he can be in touch with me right now. When he can be, he will be.”
    “What do you mean, Irene? Does he have mental problems?”
    Irene stared at Shellmire, angry now, for the first time showing an emotion other than despair. “He’s fragile. I told you that.”
    “Are you in touch with Daniel’s daughter?”
    Her face changed course completely, was suddenly radiant. “Oh, yes. Lovelace. We’re all so proud of her.”
    “All?”
    “She’s such a lovely girl.”
    “I meant …” Skip decided not to continue. She had meant, how could Irene know if she wasn’t in touch with any member of her family, but that didn’t really matter, she thought. In this case, “all” was probably a euphemism to make herself feel better about their loss. Only one person really mattered.
    “Irene—I have to ask you directly—have you heard anything from your ex-husband?”
    “No, I have not.” Her washed-out eyes burned briefly—weak blue flames in the wilderness.
    “Do you know where he is?”
    “I do not.”
    “Do you know if he’s in touch with anyone else in the family?”
    “I would have no idea about that.”
    She had suddenly gotten on what Southerners call her high horse—why, exactly, Skip wasn’t sure.
    “Do you have an address for Daniel?”
    “I do not. Jacqueline might, but I couldn’t tell you where to find her. Or Lovelace might. Oh, yes. Lovelace would. You can find her at Northwestern.”
    Skip thought that in Irene’s shoes, she, too, would have asked for some time off in the boonies. If her sons had cut her off, they might have a very good reason—those beatings, perhaps. By her own admission she had “thought that was all right.” She must have gone along with Jacomine’s sadistic ideas of discipline as if they were hers as well.
    She was paying the price now, and Skip felt sorry for her. She stood and said, “Thank you, Mrs.