Midnight Bayou

them there—the words, the tone. More, much more disturbing, he’d felt them.
    His legs were weak, nearly gave way under him as he got to his feet. He had to grip the mantel, his fingers vising on so that he wondered the marble didn’t snap.
    If something was wrong with him, physically, mentally, he had to deal with it. Fitzgeralds didn’t bury their heads in the sand when things got tough.
    Figuring he was as steady as he was going to get, he went into the kitchen to hunt up aspirin. Which, he decided as he shook out four, was going to be like trying to piss out a forest fire. But he gulped them down, then ran the cold glass over his forehead.
    He’d fly up to Boston and see his uncle. His mother’s baby brother was a cardiologist, but he’d know the right neurosurgeon. A couple of days, some tests, and he’d know if he was crazy, haunted or dying.
    He started to reach for his phone, then stopped and shook his head. Crazy, he thought, just got one more point. If he went to Uncle Mick, word of his potential medical problems would run through the family like an airborne virus.
    Besides, what was he running back to Boston for? New Orleans had doctors. He’d get the name of Remy’s. He could tell his friend he just wanted to get a doctor, a dentist and so on in the area. That was logical.
    He’d get himself a physical, then ask the doctor to recommend a specialist. Simple, straightforward and efficient.
    If ghosts couldn’t drive him out of Manet Hall, damn if a brain tumor would.
    As he set the glass down, a door slammed on the second floor. He simply glanced up at the ceiling and smiled grimly.
    “Yeah, well, I’m in a pretty crappy mood myself.”
    B y Wednesday, he had a handle on things again. Maybe it was the anticipation of seeing Lena that lifted his spirits—in combination with the work he’d managed to get done on those last days before Lent. He had an appointment with Remy’s doctor the following week and, having taken that step, was able to put most of the concern about the state of his brain aside.
    There had been no more fugues. At least, he thought, none he was aware of.
    The rain had finally moved on to plague Florida, and had left him with the first tender trumpets of daffodils scattered along one of his garden paths.
    The morning weather report had detailed a ten-inch snowfall in Boston.
    He immediately called his mother to rub it in.
    Sunshine and the tease of spring had him switching gears earlier than he’d intended. He postponed work on the library and set up outdoors to reinforce the second-floor gallery, to replace damaged boards.
    He listened to Ray Charles, and felt healthy as a horse. He was going to have the Franks do most of the early planting, he decided. He just didn’t have time. But next year, he’d do his own. Or as much as he could manage.
    Next spring, he’d sit out here on the gallery on Sunday mornings, eating beignets, drinking café au lait—with Lena. Long, lazy Sundays, looking out over the lawns, the gardens. And a few years down the road, looking out at the kids in the yards, in the gardens.
    He wanted a family of his own, and it was good to know it. He’d never had that need inside him before, the need to hold onto the now and look to tomorrow at the same time.
    So he knew it was right, what he felt for her. What he planned for them. He’d help her in the bar if she needed it, but he’d have his own work.
    He turned his hands over, studied the palms, the calluses he’d built. The little nicks and scars he looked on as personal medals of valor.
    He’d use them, his back and his imagination, to transform other houses. People in the parish would think of Declan Fitzgerald when they needed a contractor.
    You should’ve seen that old house before he got ahold of it, they’d say. You need the job done, you just call Dec. He’ll fix you up.
    The idea made him grin as he ripped out the next rotten board.
    By four, he’d finished the long front sweep of the gallery floor and stretched out on it, belly down, to take abreak. He fell asleep with B. B. King pleading with Lucille.
    And was sleeping still when he rose and walked down the shaky, sagging curve of stairs to the front lawn.
    The grass was thick under his feet, and the heat of the sun poured over his face, beat down on his head despite the hat he wore as protection.
    The others were inside, but he’d wanted to look at the pond, at the lilies. He’d wanted to sit in the shade of the willow that