A Summons to New Orleans (17 page)

“But how can they know that? It’s so early.”

“It’s nearly six
A.M
.,” Simone said.

Nora felt shocked, pondering where she had lost the time. Had it gotten later than she imagined, talking to Leo? Or had she really fallen asleep and let half the night slip away?

“What does that mean?” Nora asked.

“It means we’re all going to have breakfast at Croissant D’Or at eight o’clock. Meet us out front. Then maybe we’ll do some sightseeing. It means we have a free day in New Orleans. Who knows, this could turn out to be a pleasure trip after all.”

“But what about court?”

“They’ll resume on Friday. Now get a little more sleep, and I’ll see you out front at eight.”

Nora hung up the phone and lay still, glancing around the room where only hours ago she and Leo had contemplated
the meaning of the universe. She was surprised to realize she couldn’t really recall his face. And none of the things he’d said stuck with her, only the vague, giddy feeling of lawlessness she had pondered while he dismantled the world as she understood it.

12

O
utside the Collier House, the morning air was clear and virtuous, and New Orleans felt as if it had never had a bad intention. The streets smelled sweet, devoid of horse dung or alcohol or the stifling scent of overripe flowers and leaded fuel and crumbling paint. It smelled a little like Virginia, Nora thought, with its quaint magnolia blossoms and the dying influence of morning glories and air purged by the rain. It was deceiving, she knew. By lunchtime, all the old smells would be back, but she stood for a moment and sucked in the morning air, and tried to make it last in her lungs.

Across the street, the others waited. They looked like a cast of characters from some backwoods dinner theater, Nora thought, smiling at the notion, remembering all the bad dinner
theater she had seen in Charlottesville. She and Cliff had attended a lot of them—she because she kept thinking she might actually encounter art or talent, and he because he thought he might see a place he wanted to buy and make over, eliminating the art and putting in its place a salad bar or a taco buffet. They never saw art, nor any restaurants worth preserving. Instead they saw only bored, restless housewives trying to act, and frustrated lawyers trying to write or direct, and disgruntled students from UVA doing all the mechanical work. Still, in those days she liked it, because it reminded her of when she wanted to write, when she thought she might do something more important with her life than be a businessman’s wife, a mother to his children. She reprimanded herself for such a thought because, of course, it was noble to be a mother to Michael and Annette. It was a pleasure and a privilege. Of course it was. Yes. She straightened out her navy skirt and pulled her white, sleeveless linen shell down as far as it would go, hoping to obscure her hips. She wasn’t fat, but next to Simone and Poppy she felt curvaceous, which was the next worst thing.

Already Leo had left her consciousness. She hadn’t slept with him, thank God, and she wondered just how stupid she would have felt if she were crawling out of her room, trying to disguise a look of deceit and self-interest. She had done the right thing. It always felt good to do the right thing. She remembered this truth from when she was a child, on those occasions when, as a teenager, she actually gave in to attending church, and after it was over she felt pure and worthy of her parents’ affection. They still bickered over Sunday dinner, and occasionally her father would say she had not sat up straight enough or sung a hymn loudly enough, but basically she had served her purpose. On the days when she claimed to be sick and stayed in bed and missed church, her father’s eyes
would fall on her like the dark soot of disappointment. Those were difficult days. She was glad they were gone. She had felt relieved when he died.

It was a difficult thought to have, as she crossed the street toward her friends. But there it was. It was true and undeniable. If anyone had asked what she was thinking, she would have said just that: “I felt relieved when my father died.” When he died, he took with him all his unrealistic expectations, and those sour glances across a room, and that foreboding sense that she was bound to disappoint him. It was something she had felt for years, across the miles, and even beyond the grave.

Simone and Poppy both looked unaccountably happy, giggling as they looked at each other. And next to them stood Adam, just outside the circle, as if he didn’t get the joke. He wasn’t included. Nora wasn’t sure what he was doing there.

“Can you imagine what a stroke of luck that was?” Simone said as Nora approached.

“I think it’s a pain in the ass,” Nora volunteered. “I’d think you’d want to get the thing over with.”

Simone’s smile faded a little, but she said, “Of course I do, but I appreciate the break. Tomorrow we hear the closing arguments and the verdict. Today we party.”

Adam said, “Nora, I hope you have your hiking boots on. Poppy wants to take us on a trip.”

“She doesn’t need hiking boots. We’re just going to St. Charles Avenue.”

“But the bayou first,” Simone insisted.

“Whatever you say,” Poppy agreed.

They walked around the corner to Croissant D’Or, which was supposed to be a famous place, though Nora couldn’t figure out why. It was just a bakery, and they all got croissants and coffee and sat at a table near the window.

They ate their food and sipped their coffee. Adam was very silent, and Poppy wouldn’t meet his gaze. Nora thought he seemed nice and unthreatening. With his dark, curly hair and coffee-colored eyes and gentle smile, he seemed like someone worth paying attention to. But Poppy treated him as if he were part of the furniture. A couple of times he reached for her hand, touched it, and Poppy whipped it away, as if she had been burned.

All around them, young people sat scribbling furiously while they sipped their coffee. No one seemed concerned about the time, or how they were dressed.

“Wouldn’t it be nice,” Poppy said, “to be a student again, and to think all that crap you write in a journal makes a difference?”

“It’s important to put down your thoughts,” Adam said.

“Then, put them down,” Poppy replied, not looking at him. “The rest of us aren’t interested.”

“Maybe they’re writing great novels,” Simone mused.

Poppy huffed and sipped her coffee.

“So we’re going to the bayou. What’s that like?” Nora asked.

“Exactly what you’d think,” Poppy said. “A dense swamp forest, full of snakes and spiders and mosquitoes as big as your hand. If you’re lucky you’ll see an alligator. But mostly we’re talking about creatures of the swamp. Snakes and rats. They have their own beauty, I guess, but I was never trained to see it.”

“We don’t have to go to the bayou,” Adam said.

“But if we don’t go there, what will we do?” Simone asked.

“We could go to my father’s house,” Poppy said.

“Where is that?”

“I told you, off St. Charles Avenue. It’s on the market. But I still have the key, so we can get in and take a look.”

“You’re selling it?” Simone asked.

“Of course I’m selling it. You think I want to live in it?”

“I think I could give the bayou a miss,” Nora said. She had no interest in seeing spiders as big as her hand. Alligators held no fascination for her either.

Her eyes quickly locked with Adam’s, and he smiled.

They chewed on their croissants, and suddenly Poppy said, “Well, if everyone is ambivalent about the swamp, that settles it. Let’s go to my house.”

“Sounds good,” Simone said.

Adam glanced up at them, then fixed his eyes on Poppy. “I’m not sure that’s a great idea.”

“Oh, Adam, you don’t think anything is a great idea,” Poppy sighed. “At least no idea of mine.”

“You don’t have great memories of that time in your life,” Adam reminded her.

“Who has great memories? The past is like a virus you can’t shake. But sometimes, the best thing to do is tackle it head-on.”

“Hear! Hear!” Simone said.

“Poppy, we need to talk,” Adam said in a low voice. Not in an effort to hide it, Nora thought, but more in an effort to make her realize how serious this all was.

“For God’s sake, Adam, I’m tired of talking to you. I don’t even know what you’re doing here.”

Adam tucked his chin and stared into his coffee cup. His disdain seemed to resemble patience. He was going to wait this out, Poppy’s desire to move under her own steam. It was as if he knew she would tire herself out, and he would be there when she came crashing down. Nora thought she might be imagining all this. Or, even worse, hoping for it.

As she looked at him, she acknowledged something stirring in her like a crush. That was ridiculous. Just a few short hours
ago, she had a crush on Leo. Now Adam? Was she suffering some kind of disease that made her desire any man whose attention was drawn to Poppy? Or was she just so lonely that she could become fixated on any reasonably handsome man?

She told herself she just wasn’t used to being single. It was a fresh start, analyzing men in an entirely different fashion. Even in college she had not really looked at men that way. She had waited for them to notice her before she formed an opinion. It had never occurred to her that she could look first.

They walked out of Croissant D’Or, not really certain of what they were going to do. They stood on the sidewalk and discussed their options, the way Nora recalled discussing plans in college. They would leave one fraternity party on Rugby Road, and stand there discussing the next potential source of entertainment. There was always an argument, but it was discussed in a tone of laughter and with a lack of concern. Nora was always a follower; she went wherever the stronger members of the group suggested. She took this role again, while Simone and Poppy argued about going either out to the bayou or to visit Poppy’s childhood home.

The heat was returning, and though it was barely nine o’-clock, the sun pressed down on them as if it were midday. Nora was sweating. She felt herself stealing glances at Adam, who listened to the debate with his eyes fastened to the ground.

Poppy said, “By the time we get to the bayou, it will be hot and humid and awful. We’ll wish we’d stayed home. Trust me. I live here. I know.”

“But I want Nora to see it,” Simone insisted.

“Nora doesn’t want to see it. Do you, Nora?”

She didn’t really, though she suspected she should. It would be something to tell the kids about. Even Michael would be interested in alligators and oversized bugs.

Deciding to take a chance, Nora said, “Let’s go to the bayou.”

“Yes!” Simone declared. “And later, your house, Poppy, if you still want to go there.”

They piled into the rented car, some stripped-down version of an American sedan. Nora sat in the back with Adam, while Simone and Poppy took the front seats. Simone steered the car out of the city, onto the highway, and as they drove along the deserted stretch of road, Nora stared out the window, immersed in thought. She thought of the way the weeping willows and other trees sagged, as though trying to touch the ground. The trees looked tired and defeated, the way she occasionally felt. She wondered if the city itself had worn out the environment. As the inhabitants gave up on the possibility of happiness and freedom, so did the trees give up on offering pleasure and respite. Why should they expend effort to relieve a collection of people who didn’t value such relief?

The drive passed quickly. The radio was tuned to NPR, some pretentious talk show that Nora had trouble concentrating on. Simone and Poppy discussed the trial in vague terms. Adam shifted his gaze between his lap and the window next to him. Once or twice he glanced at Nora and smiled solicitously at her, as if she were his only friend in the world. Again, Nora tried to remind herself that this was probably wishful thinking.

They finally arrived at Jean Lafitte National Park. Nora wondered once again about the pirate, if everything in the state was named after him, and if so, why? Why was this place so proud of its history of outlaws? Virginia was another place altogether. It was proud of the number of presidents and statesmen and framers of the Constitution it had produced. Jean Lafitte would have gotten no press in Virginia.

As Poppy predicted, it was hideously hot as they got out of
the car and walked toward the pathway leading into the bayou. They moved without question, as if they were being led on a tour. A few seconds into the swamp, Nora was overcome with a sense of awe and disgust. The two sensations hit her at once. The swamp was indeed creepy. The narrow pathway could hardly protect them, it seemed, from the wildlife hiding and festering in the ancient plant life. It all looked so primitive—curling ferns, bigger than any she had seen, and drooping trees, and spider webs as elaborate as cities forming between them. Spiders were in them, too, as big as toads, and somehow less scary because of their obvious nature. Most garden-variety spiders were scary because they could sneak. These creatures couldn’t sneak up on anyone. It seemed they would create footsteps if they allowed themselves to tread on the ground. All around their heads, large insects buzzed. Occasionally, a thing or two would scurry across the path. What at first appeared to be tendrils hanging from the trees turned out to be snakes. There was nothing to stop the snakes from attacking, from hurling themselves on the tourists as they passed. Nora was conscious of being still as she walked, not wanting to upset the wildlife, not wanting to draw attention to herself. Simone and Poppy showed no such fear. They just chatted as they walked. Looking at Adam, she could see that he shared her fear.

She said to him, “What’s a nice doctor like you doing in a place like this?”

He grimaced, then smiled and said, “Chasing his wife.”

“You came here to get her back?” Nora asked.

He shrugged. He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his khakis. He was wearing a blue button-down oxford cloth shirt and loafers. He looked impossibly clean.

“I know the marriage is over, but I still feel responsible. Poppy is not well, you know.”

“What do you mean?”

“She’s not well,” he repeated.

“She’s sick?”

“Yes.”

“Is she dying?”

“I don’t think so,” he said.

“Nora,” Simone suddenly hissed. “Look at this.”

She felt paralyzed, wanting to demand more information from Adam, but knowing she couldn’t reveal anything unusual to her friends.

Nora looked at the water as they approached the edge of the swamp. Simone was pointing to a log floating in it.

“What about it?”

“Watch.”

Simone lobbed something into the water—a rock, or something hard. And suddenly the log moved. It raised its head. It had dead eyes and a mean mouth. Something about the creature seemed familiar.

Nora felt herself making eye contact with it. Her breath caught in her chest. She realized that the alligator reminded her of her mother. That made her smile, guiltily, and then she thought, no, not Boo so much as her entire childhood, her wounded past.

Poppy said, “That’s what death looks like.”

“Oh, really?” Simone asked, giggling.

“Of course. They are killing machines. Don’t you remember
Peter Pan?
”