House of Blues

respect," Steve said, "I
don't know what I think about that."
    Skip was flabbergasted. "About what?"
    "About therapy. I'm sorry, Cindy Lou, I know
it's your job."
    She shook her head. "Uh-uh. I'm a research type.
I'm paid to have opinions, not listen to people's problems."
    Cindy Lou seemed fine, but Skip couldn't shake the
feeling Steve had insulted her; and she was confused about this odd
opinion of his—whatever it was.
    "What's your objection to it?" she asked.
    "I don't see how just talking is going to solve
anything."
    Cindy Lou sipped again. "Well, it's kind of a
complicated process. But one thing—it can't hurt."
    "Yeah, but does it do anything?" The
speaker, to Skip's further surprise, was Layne.
    She glanced at Dee-Dee, who looked uncomfortable and
a little undecided, as if he had half a mind to join that camp as
well.
    "Well, it's all we have," Cindy Lou said.
"Besides, it works now and then."
    "Works how?" asked Layne.
    " Makes people feel better. That's the point,
isn't it?"
    "I thought the point was to keep the kid from
soaking the sheets."
    " If he's doing that, he's unhappy. Unless it's
something physical." She raised an eyebrow at Jimmy Dee.
    "It's not. We had him checked out."
    Steve said, "You want to make him feel better?
I've got a great idea."
    "What?"
    His face took on a maddeningly smug look. "I
don't think I'm saying. But this is a great idea; trust me."
    "Oh, God. Count your fingers and toes."
    "I just need to take him on a little field trip.
Okay, Dad?"
    Jimmy Dee nodded. "Sure, what's the harm?"
    Skip hadn't been in therapy herself, but it hadn't
occurred to her to discount it. She'd go if she needed to, she'd
always thought. Cindy Lou looked at her, amused. "A lot of men
feel this way. Haven't you noticed your women friends complaining
about it?"
    "I guess not."
    "Oh, well. They do. They say men are in denial,
have no self-knowledge, and aren't willing to open up—you never
heard that?"
    "You're my closest woman friend, and you never
talk like that."
    "Well, the kind of men I pick, you can't expect
much."
    Everyone laughed a little nervously. Cindy Lou had
the worst taste in men of anyone in New Orleans; she'd once dated the
still-married father of a friend of Skip's, and that wasn't even her
worst idea.
    "Who're you seeing now, Lou-Lou?" Dee-Dee
was obviously ready to leave the heavy subject of his kids.
    "‘ What's this Lou-Lou crap?"
    " Payback for Dee-Dee."
    Steve said, "Lou-Lou. I like it."
    She made a face at him. "I'm seeing Harry
Connick, Jr."
    "He's married."
    " That's what makes it so much fun."
    "Come on. Who're you really seeing? And why
didn't you bring him tonight?"
    "Well, this one's nice. I'm not kidding—he's
really nice; and he's kind of an old friend. I knew him back in
Detroit."
    Skip perked up her ears. A nice one? That was good,
but it probably wasn't the whole story. Others had been nice—just
sons of her bosses or husbands of her neighbors. "What's wrong
with him?" she said.
    "Now, y'all can't make fun of him; I mean that."
    " Okay, we won't. Why didn't you bring him?"
    " He gets tired easily. He was in an accident."
    They were silent.
    "It left him paralyzed; from the waist down."
    For a minute Skip thought this was one of her jokes.
But Cindy Lou was looking down at the table. 'Tm sorry," Skip
said.
    "We dated in high school. I guess I'm still in
love with him."
    Steve reached for Skip's hand and squeezed it. She
was grateful to be with him, however briefly. She knew Cindy Lou
would get over this man—she got over all of them—but what she was
going through had to hurt. And what Dee-Dee was going through was no
picnic either.
    For just a second—one tiny fraction of time—Skip's
life was going right. She wished she could dip the moment in amber
and preserve it forever.
    And she thought she ought to knock on wood.
    Holding the moment as long as she could, she waited
awhile, till the others had ordered coffee, and went off to Dennis's
bar. Kurt's was a neighborhood-type saloon that could have been
anywhere in New Orleans—the type beloved by its customers for
reasons not apparent to the newcomer, dark and characterless. The
sort where serious drinkers could get down to business in peace. As
it happened, it was in the French Quarter, a fact that gave Skip a
little hope. Maybe its clientèle would be slightly more accessible, the atmosphere a little less
inviolate than that of most neighborhood oases.
    After a quick glance around for Dennis, she bellied
up