House of Blues

ghosts just don't like the color."
Skip had painted her living room cantaloupe.
    " Does that mean you don't like it?"
    "Don't be so insecure. or course I like it."
    "What were you saying when I didn't hear you?"
    "I said it's not too late. We could change our
minds and go to Hebert's."
    "Let's skip that, shall we? I've had kind of a
hard day." Exactly how hard she wasn't about to say. "Let's
go get the boys."
    Layne hadn't yet arrived, and Jimmy Dee was still
getting dressed. Eleven-year-old Kenny barely looked up from his
television show. "Hey, Steve. Hey, Skip."
    "That's Auntie Skip, Buster." Skip leaned
over the sofa to tickle him. His body jerked slightly, but he didn't
turn around to smile at her.
    Getting ignored, she thought, was probably an
improvement. There'd been a time when he was so eager to please he'd
probably have jumped up and stood smiling, standing on one foot and
then the other, under similar circumstances. His sister Sheila, on
the other hand, had been such a tough customer at first that Jimmy
Dee started to regret he'd ever even thought of fatherhood.
    Now they were both more relaxed: Kenny ruder, Sheila
more polite.
    Sheila came down the hall her favorite way: off to a
running start, sliding the final third in her sock feet. She was
nearly fourteen and dressed like a grown-up when she felt like it.
She'd probably act like one when she was seventy-five.
    "Auntie Skippy," she said.
    " Oh, can the 'Aunt' if I have to be Skippy."
    "Why do you want to be called that, anyway?"
    "It makes me feel loved."
    Sheila rolled her eyes. Kenny didn't deign to
respond.
    Steve said, "What are you two having for
dinner?"
    "Uncle Jimmy said we could order from the Verti
Marte. But boy, is Geneese mad—she made greens."
    "Y'all are so cruel," said Skip.
    Kenny turned around, on his knees on the sofa. "Yuck.
I hate greens." He was much more animated than when he liked
something.
    All to the good, Skip thought. He's settling in u
little more every day. Sheila was getting on her mark, ready to slide
back down the hall. "Hey, Steve," she said. "Why don't
you change your mind?"
    "About what?"
    She didn't answer until her run was over and she was
about to come out of the slide. At the last minute she turned briefly
back around. "Going home."
    She disappeared into her room.
    Steve turned to Skip with a pleased smile: "Well,
how do you like that?"
    But Jimmy Dee had appeared in time to hear the
exchange.
    "Hey, if you're not Uncle Jimmy, you can't be
all bad."
    "I heard that," Sheila shouted. "You
know what? You're right."
    The bell rang, Cindy Lou came in, and instant replay
began, Kenny ignoring her, Sheila flitting in and out while they
waited for Layne. It was funny, Skip thought, how much attention
children demanded the first few years of their lives and how hard
adults strove ever after to get their attention.
    "Kenny's getting pretty relaxed," Cindy Lou
said as they were headed down St. Philip Street. "He's not such
a little people-pleaser any more."
    Skip saw Jimmy Dee and Layne exchange glances, the
way parents do, and for some reason she found it touching. Mostly,
she was glad Dee-Dee had a friend. Her landlord was fifty-something
by now, a distinguished gentleman—if slightly short—with graying
hair, extremely popular with the ladies, most of whom didn't know he
was gay. Layne was younger—thirty-five, she imagined—and balding,
with glasses and an intellectual bent, a puzzle-constructor by trade.
("Cool," Sheila had said when she heard that part, and
Layne was an instant family member.)
    Skip said, "What's wrong?"
    "What makes you think somethings wrong? Except
the little prince is now a little brat. You need something else?"
    "I saw that look."
    "Tell them," Layne said. "At least
tell Cindy Lou. She might know what to do."
    Dee-Dee looked at Cindy Lou, and Skip could see him
make a decision. "After we're seated."
    There was a half-hour wait at the restaurant, but
when they'd finally secured a table, Cindy Lou pushed it. "Okay,
Dee-Dee. Lie down on my couch."
    " Kenny's started wetting the bed."
    Cindy Lou sipped her wine. "How old is he?"
    " Almost twelve."
    " He must be upset about something."
    "Now why would you say that? His dad deserted
the family, his mother died six months ago, and he's living in a
strange city with a weirdo uncle who's dating a man. Can't he just
roll with the punches?"
    Cindy Lou laughed, but she kept at him. "I think
he should be in therapy."
    "He's in therapy."
    "With all due