A Summons to New Orleans (7 page)

Was this something Nora had inadvertently communicated to her? Had she sent those signals to her at an early age, possibly even in the womb? She hoped not, and yet she was secretly proud of her daughter’s stern defiance and independence. She never had to worry about Annette. She did worry about Michael, who rattled around in his existence like a loose marble. Life baffled him. He seemed to be held hostage by the mercurial nature of being alive. From an early age, Michael was hesitant to attempt anything, already anticipating his own failure. He seemed almost paralyzed. He tried out for sports teams and quit before the final cut. He studied just enough to get by. He noticed girls from afar. Lately he
had started to show an interest in music, making a cautious attempt to play the guitar. But he hid these efforts behind his locked bedroom door. Whenever Nora asked how it was going, he denied knowing what she was referring to. Michael was allergic to risk, it seemed, and Nora simply did not know how to talk him out of it. She didn’t know how, she realized, because she felt she shared that affliction. For some reason, Annette regarded her mother as a brave and adventurous person, but that was a mother she had created in her own mind.

“I like having a mother who works,” Annette had announced when Nora started her calligraphy business. “You said you always wanted to write, and now you are!”

Nora had laughed, and it took her a moment to realize that Annette honestly did not understand the difference.

“Well, honey, that is not the kind of writing I meant,” she admitted. She felt incapable of deceiving her daughter.

“What kind, then?”

“I wanted to make up stories. You know, write books.”

“So, write books,” Annette said, as if it were that simple. “You know how.”

“No, I don’t really.”

“Well, I’ll tell you. I read books all the time. You start with chapter one. You don’t have to say ‘Once upon a time.’ You can just start writing about imaginary people, and you can make them do and say all kinds of things.”

“It’s not that easy, sweetheart.”

“Yes, it is, Mom. I’ve read these books, and some of them aren’t all that good. You just start giving people names and making them do things. Like something scary happens to them. Or something magic. And it all ends up okay. You should put a cat in there, too, or a dog. There’s always a pet or something.”

Nora had laughed, admiring her daughter’s raw and, as usual, linear interpretation of literature. But was she so far off? Something happens. There’s a pet. It all works out.

This sort of wisdom was exactly what had frightened Cliff. Nora recalled, with a chill, how Annette had interrogated him one morning at the breakfast table not long before he ran away. Out of the blue she had said, “Daddy, would you leave Mommy if you thought you could get away with it?”

Nora had been packing the kids’ lunches at the counter. Cliff was reading the paper and shoveling cereal into his mouth, disconnected from his environment. Michael was still loitering upstairs, getting dressed.

Cliff said, “Annette. What on earth would make you say that?”

“I dunno. But would you?”

Nora paused and waited for his answer. She wanted to know.

“You have an incredible imagination,” Cliff had said.

“No, I don’t,” Annette said. She seemed to have that understanding of herself. She was too attuned to details, too busy analyzing reality and putting it all in a meaningful order. She could not give herself over to flights of fancy. And this was when Nora realized that all her nagging suspicions about Cliff and his waning interest in her were real.

Cliff had refused to answer the question, and had gotten up to go to work, leaving the house about twenty minutes earlier than he needed to. After he was gone, Nora sat down at the table across from her daughter and said, “Why did you ask that question?”

Annette shrugged, unwilling to answer. She picked the marshmallows out of her Lucky Charms, and Nora was glad her daughter had not answered. It was something Annette had overheard him saying on the phone, probably. The end of
their marriage had come to stay; it hovered over them like a dark cloud. She could not hide from it anymore. Her daughter had already embraced the knowledge.

Annette had been conceived as an answer to their problems, and in the end, she had lived up to that promise. She had arrived as the truth teller. She had let them know, in no uncertain terms, that the game was up. The lie was exposed. The only thing left to do was to act.

That seemed so long ago, a memory shrouded in all the events that had followed it, a whole lifetime of things that had come after, but, in fact, nothing had come after. Months ago, that was all. Not even a full season.

The storm was going away, so Nora felt safe picking up the telephone. (Was there really any danger in being on the phone during a storm, she wondered, or was this some leftover superstition from her childhood?) She dialed 411 and asked for Leo Girardi, a residence in New Orleans. The operator couldn’t find it. “Try Leonardo Girardi,” Nora suggested.

“In Saint Bernard’s Parish,” the operator said. “Hold for the number.”

It rang and rang. Finally, a small voice answered, a little girl, about Annette’s age.

“Girardi residence,” she said.

“Is your father there?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Can I talk to him?”

“Who are you?”

“Just a friend.”

“My father has lots of friends.”

“I rode in his cab,” Nora said, feeling a bit foolish that she needed to explain herself to a child. “What’s your name?” she asked, hoping to gain equal footing.

“Nicole. They call me Nicky, but I hate it.”

“Are you six?”

“Yes, of course. How old are you?”

“I’m thirty-seven,” Nora said, surprised at how old that sounded. “My name is Nora.”

“Well, I’ll tell him, but he might not want to talk to you. He’s not really a phone person.”

“Give it a try, okay?”

The kid dropped the phone with a clank. Nora waited for a long time. She could hear the television blaring, and she thought about hanging up, but suddenly Leo’s voice came on the line, dark and deep, severe and sure of itself, just as she remembered it.

“Yeah, this is Leo. Who’s this?”

“Hi, this is Nora Braxton. You gave me a ride in your cab the other night.”

He said, “I give a lot of people a ride in my cab.”

“I was about to be mugged. You saved me.”

There was a long silence and she thought once again about hanging up. Then he said, “Oh, yeah. How are you? Are you okay?”

“Yes, I’m fine. But I’ve been thinking about what happened, and I feel I didn’t thank you adequately enough. That is, I didn’t give you a big enough tip.”

He laughed. “You don’t have to tip me for saving your life.”

“I’m friends with Poppy Marchand,” she said.

There was a pause. She could hear him exhaling.

“How do you know Poppy?” he asked.

“We went to college together. We shared a house in Charlottesville, at UVA.”

“I’ll be damned,” he said.

“She’s here now. She’s at the hotel where I’m staying, but she also lives here.”

“Yeah, I heard she had come back. Her old man is dead, thank God. Judge Marchand. He was a piece of work. Did you know him?”

“I might have met him once. At a parents’ weekend, or graduation.”

She was lying. She had not, to her knowledge, ever clapped eyes on Judge Marchand.

“Well, tell her I said hi,” he said, sounding as if he wanted to end the conversation.

“Okay, but I’d like to see you again.”

“Why?” he questioned.

Nora cleared her throat. “Well, I think you kind of saved my life. At least, you saved me from something terrible, anyway, and I’d like to buy you a drink.”

There was a pause. She could hear the TV still, and then the loud screeching of his daughter’s voice, demanding his presence.

“I’m playing chess with my daughter right now.”

“Oh,” she said, thinking she had never played chess with her daughter.

“I’m taking her to her mother’s around ten tonight. Her mother lives in the city, so I could meet you after that.”

“Where?”

“Harry’s Corner Bar,” he said, “on Chartres, just past the convent.”

“Oh, great. I’m at the Collier House. That’s not far.”

“So, I’ll see you there,” he said, not interested in her geography.

“Okay, but . . .”

He hung up. She sat holding the phone, wondering what
she had gotten herself into. She felt she wanted to tell someone about this idea, to get someone’s permission. She called Poppy’s room, but got no answer. She called Simone’s room, and after several rings she picked it up, sounding sleepy.

“God, I’m sorry, did I wake you up?” Nora asked.

“No, not really. I’m just resting.”

“Well, I was thinking of going out this evening, and I wanted to make sure you would be okay.”

“I’m fine. I’m going to stay in. I thought we could do something, but now that I’m in my room, I feel like staying here.”

“You don’t sound so good.”

There was a long pause and finally Simone said, “I have a big day tomorrow, Nora. I have to meet with the district attorney and be prepped for the trial. So, you could say I’m not doing so good.”

“Oh. Right,” Nora said, wanting to kick herself. In fact, she did slap herself on the forehead in a gesture of admonishment.

“But after that, I’ll probably want to go out and do some drinking. So we can celebrate tomorrow.”

“Celebrate?”

“Us being here. Me being alive. That kind of thing.”

“Yes, right.”

Another long pause ensued, and Nora realized she just didn’t know how to talk to her friend anymore. Was this normal? Was she being a coward?

Simone anticipated her thoughts and said, “Nora, nobody knows how to talk to a rape survivor. I’m used to that. So don’t worry about it.”

“It’s not that, really . . .”

“Yes, it is. It’s like having cancer or something. I don’t expect
you to understand. I’m glad you can’t understand, and I hope you never have to.”

“I just want . . . I want to be a good friend.”

“You are a good friend,” Simone said. “You’re here.”

Simone hung up then, and Nora felt grateful to be released. But she didn’t feel so much better about herself. She had come here thinking they were going to have a nice vacation. If she had known the purpose of the visit, would she have come so willingly? In her heart she suspected that she was a terrible coward, and that she would have been hesitant to be apart of this.

She had never liked to look at anything really ugly. Once Cliff was injured in a skiing accident. Skiing in rough terrain, he had hit a rock, broken his ski pole and driven it several inches into his leg. The doctor had put a tube into the wound to help it drain, and Nora was supposed to clean the area around the tube every night until it was removed. But she couldn’t. She had stood there, paralyzed, with cotton and alcohol in her hand, as Cliff urged her on. “It’s not on you, Nora. I’m the one who has to feel the pain.” But that was the point. It was other people’s pain she couldn’t endure. Her own didn’t frighten her. She had chickened out, and he had grabbed the alcohol from her and cleaned his own wound while she waited outside the door, covering her ears so she wouldn’t have to hear him yell. No wonder he lost faith in her. The waitress would probably clean his wounds. The waitress was made of stronger stuff.

It was the worst thing in the world, Nora thought, the worst thing you could possibly learn about yourself—that you have no courage. But maybe it was an acquired skill. Maybe courage could be learned.

♦♦♦

She started to get ready at seven o’clock. She knew it would be
a lengthy process. She showered, changed clothes three times, dried her hair, put on makeup, took it off, put it on again. She finally approved of herself in a black sleeveless silk dress and clogs. She watched PBS until ten o’clock, then tied an apricot-colored cardigan around her neck and walked out into the night. The air was damp and forgiving, after the fierce thunderstorm. There would be about an hour of coolness, she realized, before the heat moved back in to stay. Cars sloshed through puddles as they drove past. Tourists had returned to the streets, traveling in packs, dressed in their shorts and oversized T-shirts and baseball caps. Looking at them, Nora feared she was missing the point of life. But maybe they were just as doubtful, just as miserable after they got home.

It seemed like a long walk, only because she was thinking of Simone and her situation. She kept picturing the crime, Simone walking down a quiet street, then hearing footsteps, then feeling herself thrown against a wall, her whole life about to change. What did she think of in those moments? Did she try to fight back? Simone was tall and strong. Could she have kicked the guy, scratched him, bitten him the way Nora had bitten the football player? Did anything like that occur to her, or did she just freeze and submit? It was hard to imagine not having the impulse to fight back. It was not a question Nora had thought to ask, but it had been simmering in her mind. The guy didn’t have a gun or a knife, after all. Couldn’t she have taken him? Maybe he was big. Maybe it all happened so fast. She didn’t really want to know the answers to these questions, and she was ashamed of herself for thinking them. She was ashamed that somewhere in her brain a
question had lodged itself like a piece of shrapnel—couldn’t Simone have prevented it?

She finally arrived at Harry’s Corner Bar. Walking in, she could see that the evening was not going to evolve as she had planned. She thought the clubs would be crowded and lively, but this one was mainly empty, except for a few stalwarts at the bar, and some locals playing pool at the other end of the room. She felt conspicuous here, like an alcoholic out on an evening prowl. The jukebox was playing loud, a CCR song, “Fortunate Son.” She liked the song, and she felt vaguely cheered by it. It reminded her of college parties, those days when people crowded into the living room of their house, clutching plastic cups full of beer, talking all manner of nonsense, laughing, dancing, trying to get drunk. In college, the goal of the evening seemed always to be getting drunk enough to forget what you were doing, something to which she never subscribed. What the hell was the point of that? That was why in her fourth year she gave up drinking and got stoned instead. She found that she didn’t forget so much when she was smoking pot. The drug seemed to slow things down, to intensify rather than obliterate. And there wasn’t the hangover to deal with the next day. Just a dull aching in her lungs and a scratchy throat. When was the last time she had smoked a joint? A few years after Annette was born, she thought. Cliff had brought one home and they had smoked it and played Scrabble, and eventually collapsed in fits of giggles on the floor. The munchies had hit them and they had made banana bread, which was rubbery and awful, and they ate it right out of the pan, pulling it apart with their fingers. She smiled, remembering it, wondering if it hadn’t been their last happy time together. Did Cliff still get stoned, but now with the waitress?