Crescent City Connection

ever been to his house? It’s all white. He cleans it for an hour every day—hey, I’m nothing like that. I guess he did that part of the job pretty well.”
    “Well? He did it superhumanly. I couldn’t begin to pay him for all the hours he spent scrubbing things. That’s why I had to go out of business the first time—went broke trying to pay the help.”
    “Well, I work cheap. I’m not nearly as good a cleaner, but I make a mean tostada.”
    “Hey, good. Let’s put it on the menu.”
    “You mean I’m hired?” She smiled when she said it, and realized she was completely confident, a feeling she’d almost forgotten about. She and Anthony were generating enough heat to cook with.
    “I guess you are. My helper didn’t come in this morning. Third time this month he didn’t call, didn’t show. All you got to do is turn up, Lady Lovelace, and you can work here as long as you like. Two-fifty an hour suit you?”
    At her dumbfounded look, he said, “See? Now if I pay you minimum wage, you’ll think you’re getting a deal.”
    She went to work immediately, heedless of the cute outfit she’d put on for the interview.
    About an hour into it, she thought,
I can do this. This could really be fun.
    By that time, she had the hang of things—the basic routine, at least, and a sense of the rhythm of the place.
    Business was good, and it took all her focus to keep up with the job, making sandwiches and serving them, pulverizing carrots and celery. Her mind raced along with her body.
I could come in early
, she thought,
and try out an extra dish or two a day. Isaac’s vegetable lasagna, maybe, and some vegetarian chili. Pasta salad, maybe, or potato.
    She ran it by Anthony. “Sure, baby,” he said, “just give me a shopping list.”
    By the end of the day she was spent, and it was not till she was on the bus going home that she had time to let her mind wander. As she passed the neighborhood where the Royces lived, the unbidden image of the two kids’ faces, upturned and waiting for their formerly forbidden burgers suddenly brought hot tears to her eyes.
    Other images came: Brenna and Charles dancing to Ernie K-Doe; Brenna in her studio covered with clay, forehead wrinkling in concentration; Brenna reaching for her, kissing her.
    The embarrassment that enveloped her when she thought of that rivaled the full-body humiliation of grade school when she got the answer wrong.
    The sadness wouldn’t leave her. She had bought into the family as if they were hers.
    Isaac was gone when she got home, so she was deprived of that distraction.
I’ll never get anything right
, she thought.
How is it even possible to screw up that badly?
    She needed desperately to talk to someone, and there was only one person she could call. Michelle. She was in mid-dial when she thought,
Better not. Just better not. Maybe I should go somewhere else. A bar or something.
    It was starting to get dark when she found one, and it looked like an oasis.
    Light streamed from the open windows along with the scent of good barbecue. The inside was surprisingly light for a bar, illuminated by a single naked bulb. The walls were painted an uncharacteristic white, and five or six tables had been set up, with mismatched chairs. Evidently it was a place like Judy’s, that served sandwiches along with the juice. Though every single customer was black and male, they showed no interest in her presence. The place had an easy, Caribbean feel.
    She bellied up, ordered a beer, and spoke to the bartender. “Do you have a public phone?”
    “Sho’ darlin’.” He gestured with his head. “You need some change?”
    He was an older man, sixty perhaps, and Lovelace could swear she saw concern in his face. She wondered what she had done to provoke it—her hair was far too short to be disheveled. Her anxiety must show on her features.
    She walked down a long dark corridor, thankful the phone was far enough away to afford privacy.
    Michelle answered on the first ring.
    “Hi. I need a shoulder to cry on.”
    “Lovelace, for Christ’s sake. Are you all right?”
    “Physically, but—”
    “This phone’s probably tapped, so don’t say anything. Just be quiet and let me talk. A lot’s happened. The FBI picked me up.”
    “The FBI?”
    “They were looking for you. I didn’t tell them anything but—”
    “Good.”
    “Don’t interrupt, okay? This is really important. They flew this cop in from New Orleans—”
    “New Orleans. They