The Gates of Evangeline (23 page)

Through it all, like a persistent and annoying hum, thoughts of Gabriel linger. Detective Minot is right. We have the pieces of this puzzle. We're just coming at it from the wrong angle. The boy. The swamp. The boat. If I put these three things together, who do they point to? By the time we make it to the city, my head is spinning and I can't wait to get out of the car.

It's about four, so after checking into our hotel, Rae gives me a quick walking tour of the French Quarter while we still have some daylight. A few blocks and I'm swooning. The buildings are old and charming and colorful, distinctly European in feel. I love the narrow roads, the quaint storefronts, the balconies adorned with hanging plants and beads.

“It's Mardi Gras season,” Rae explains. “The parades are starting up next weekend. Trust me, this city will be
crazy
.”

We drop into some galleries and antique shops, ogle restaurant menus, and meander around Jackson Square, admiring the cathedral and the work of local artists. After a mouthwatering dinner, I can see why Andre would choose the bustling French Quarter as his home base, especially when Rae mentions the area has tons of gay bars. Whether or not Andre actually frequents them, it's probably the least homophobic area in the state.

We're making our way back toward our hotel when Rae grabs my arm and begs, “Oh, please can we?”

It takes me a few seconds to figure out what she's so excited about, and then I groan. A shop window with an orange neon sign that reads
PSYCHIC ADVISER
. Is she serious? But it's Rae. Of course she is. The woman checks her horoscope every day.

Ordinarily, I would put my foot down, but after everything I've experienced, I'm curious. Does this so-called psychic actually have an ability, or is it really a scheme, as I've always assumed? And if she
can
see things, how did she learn to harness her ability? If ever there was a time to believe in fortune-tellers, it's here on the dim, lamp-lit streets of the French Quarter.

“Okay,” I say. “One condition. You don't give the psychic any hints. No matter what they say, you just nod and go with it. And I get to watch, to make sure you're playing fair.”

Rae accepts my terms, and so we walk over to the shop and push open the door. It's just one tiny room with a table and two worn-out red love seats. A young, dark-skinned man slouches on one love seat, legs resting on the table. He looks up from a magazine when we enter and tries to assume a slightly more respectable position, but posture isn't the only thing working against him. He's got a row of earrings in his right ear, purple glitter on his eyelids, and an orange shirt that hugs his long, skinny frame. He looks like he'd rather be at a club, dancing and blowing kisses to straight boys. And he's so young. What does
he
know, psychic or not?

He quickly tucks away his reading material—a costume catalog—and comes to greet us, but not before I see the page of cop outfits he was checking out. Mardi Gras is coming. This week the entire population of New Orleans is probably making a mad dash for the stripper costume of their choice.

Rae seems willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. “Hi!” she says cheerily. “My friend and I would like readings.”

“You ladies got lucky,” he says. “Most nights my aunt workin' this place, but you got me tonight, and I got twice her gift, not even braggin'. My name is RaJean. Cost you twen'y-five dollas for fifteen minutes. Which a you ladies gone go first?”

I have to admit the flamboyantly gay drawl is pretty cute, but I'm still not sold on his dispensing advice. “We'll go together,” I say.

“Betta luck one-on-one,” he informs us, “so I'm gettin' pure you, no competin' energies. You
sure
you wan' do togetha?”

Rae hesitates, but I remain firm. “I'm sure.”

“'Kay, then.” RaJean taps the empty love seat, inviting us to sit down. “Juss gone get centered.” Sitting cross-legged, he closes his eyes and extends his hands. He inhales, rolls his wrists around in little circles, lifts his shoulders and drops them back. Finally, he opens his eyes and stares right at me. A creepy stare, like he's reading cue cards behind me.

“I see a man,” he tells me. “Tall, dark, and yummy, mm-mm.”

Well, that rules out Noah.

“But you . . . you ain't puttin' in the work you need to with him. You takin' him for granted.” RaJean shakes a finger in my direction, but he's still looking through me, not at me. “I know he been around a long time, but that don't mean you get to quit workin', understand?”

I almost pity this kid. There has never been a man in my life who stuck around a long time. Even my dad was halfheartedly there at best, his mind always on alcohol, and I put in a
lot
of work with him.

RaJean squints and touches his temple. “I'm feelin' a little girl. A daughta, maybe?”

I nod, poker-faced, like I instructed Rae to do.

No feedback. Just run with whatever he says.

“You wish you got more time with her, but somethin's in the way.” He blinks a few times. Slow, purple glitter blinks. “A job. It's wearin' on you, hmm? Well, the good news is, I'm seein' a change.” He claps his hands together, grinning. “You got a promotion comin', honey!”

The reading continues, none of it applying to me whatsoever. My eyes wander the old wood floor and the exposed brick wall, embarrassed for him.

Rae, on the other hand, leans forward, glued to his every word—trying to twist it around until it bears some possible relevance to my life, no doubt.

Finally RaJean stops and takes a deep breath. “Well, I hope that helped you some.”

I smile and nod, but I'm actually depressed by this. I wanted him to know what he was doing, to make me feel less freakish, but there's nothing mystical going on here. Just a guy out to take our money.

RaJean looks to Rae now, frowns, and closes his eyes. “There's all kinds a darkness 'round you,” he murmurs. “You like a foggy night, tryin' to shut me out.”

I almost laugh out loud. Rae, shutting someone out? A woman who drops intimate details of her husband's sexual proclivities into casual conversation?

“Oh, honey,” RaJean coos, clutching at his own heart. “You hurtin'. You hurtin'
bad
.”

Rae looks directly at me then and her face is so sober, so sad, I wonder if this guy sees a part of her that I don't.

“You just lost the love a yo' life now, did'n you? You poor thing. And you think that's it, game ova. But you wrong. You dead wrong.” RaJean slaps his thigh for emphasis. “Life has got somethin' in store for you, somethin'
serious
, hear? You got a higher purpose in this world.” He cranes his neck forward, peering just beyond Rae's left shoulder. “Well, lookit that! A new love come knockin' at yo' door. Gone sweep you off yo' feet, this one. I'm feelin' March. And don't you worry, 'cause this time it's gone last.”

Where does he
get
this stuff? Romance novels? Self-help books?

“Now, I gotta warn you,” he continues, “I'm feelin' this shadowy presence. Somebody you thinkin' you wanna trust. A man. He sayin' all the right things, lovin' on you so nice. But you not gettin' the whole story with that one. He ain't who you think. Oh no. Ain't who you think at all.”

Seventy-five dollars and a profuse exchange of thank-yous later, we finally extract ourselves from RaJean's psychic clutches. You'd think Rae's spirits would be dampened by his woefully off-base readings. Instead, she brims with admiration.

“That was amazing,” she raves. “It was
so
dead-on!”

I step aside as a cluster of tipsy students brush past us like a giant, brainless amoeba. “Which part? The long-suffering man in my life, or the bit about my daughter?”

Rae stops walking and crosses her arms. “All those things are true, you idiot. For
me
.”

She's right, I realize. But I'm not prepared to let RaJean off the hook this easily. “So, what, you think he just mixed us up?”

“He told us not to get our readings done together, didn't he?”

I try to remember what he told Rae. Something about losing the love of her life. Which hardly applies to me, given that Eric and I split up more than two years ago and I'm not sure I even loved him. But.

My throat tightens as I finally understand. Because Keegan was, without question, the love of my life.

“He saw a new love knocking at your door,” Rae reminds me, grasping at something positive.

“And he saw a sweet-talking guy I shouldn't trust.” I sigh.

“Oh no, hon,” she protests, “Noah's the new love, not the sweet-talking guy.”

I want to believe her, except RaJean said the new love wouldn't show up until March. As in, I haven't met him yet. I don't want to fall prey to a scam artist barely old enough to purchase alcohol, but what if RaJean is right about Noah?

He ain't who you think. Oh no. Ain't who you think at all.

“I don't care what he said,” I tell Rae. “You know I don't believe in that crap.” I point to the next cross street. “Isn't that the way to our hotel?”

In some secret part of me, though, I do care. I've been played before, by Eric of all people. There's nothing about Noah I know for sure, only what he's told me. On the other hand, I'm happy. And happiness is such a fleeting, fragile thing, why would I go looking under rocks for something to spoil it?

Maybe happiness is nothing more than the wisdom to remain ignorant.

•   •   •

B
Y MORNING
, I'
M EAGER
to continue exploring the city. Rae takes me on the St. Charles streetcar and I get a peek at the Garden District, Tulane and Loyola, Audubon Park. It's a sunny seventy degrees, so we hop off the trolley and wander the wealthy neighborhoods, gawking at the sprawling historic homes. The trees and gates are already draped with beads, and I find myself succumbing to the excitement.

“I think I've got to experience the whole Mardi Gras thing,” I tell Rae.

“Totally,” she agrees. “You won't get New Orleans until you've seen it.” She smiles sideways at me. “Bring Noah.”

The rest of our day is lovely and leisurely, and it occurs to me that this is the first real traveling I've done since Keegan was born. How many times did I lament the stationary life motherhood imposed on me? How many times did I wish I could pack up a suitcase and get away for a weekend? Suddenly my freedom makes me feel guilty.

I leave the city the next morning so Rae can attend her business meetings. “Tell Mason thank you,” I say. “For letting you come early. Tell him it meant a lot to me.”

I time the drive back to Chicory, thinking of Neville and Hettie and Andre. When I more or less obey speed limits, it takes just under three hours to get from New Orleans to Evangeline. Someone in a hurry could shave a bunch of time off that, especially in the middle of the night.

With Rae busy and Noah in Texas, I feel unexpectedly lonely. I work awhile, take a long shower, lie in bed and watch a string of mindless TV shows.

Without even trying, I drift over. Recognition, surrender, submergence. All faster this time, because I'm getting a feel for it. Like riding a wave, allowing something murky and powerful to carry me over to the other side. Then I emerge, clear-eyed, blinking away the sun.

Farmland. I'm standing on a long soil path, wedged between two rows of crops. Grassy and thin at the tops, the plants tower over me, obscuring my view of anything else. Their stalks are long and thick and hard like bamboo. Above me, blue skies. A few wispy clouds. I follow the crop line, searching for a way out, but it's just dense plantings as far as the eye can see.

Then, without warning, the field behind me lights up. Fire, hot and hungry, moves toward me in a wave. Smoke billows up as the flames consume the grassy tops of the plants. I run down the dirt path, away from the smoke, but the fire travels with me, flanking me on each side, leaving only the fat stalks in its wake.

Sugarcane, I realize, shielding my nose and mouth from the smoke. This is a controlled burn.

I turn and see a boy in overalls jogging toward me, framed for an instant by the blazing fields. Black. About ten years old. Barefoot.

Suddenly, as if someone has blown out a candle, the fire dies. Orange embers drift to the ground and flicker harmlessly out. We're awash in smoke, dark plumes rising up, lifting chunks of ash into the air. When I pinch my nose, I discover the insides of my nostrils are coated in black dust.

The boy continues confidently toward me, unfazed by smoke or fire. As he gets closer, I notice something wrong with his skin. A bumpy, reddish rash that is especially intense around his cheeks and in the creases of his elbows, though it covers much of his lean body.

He smiles impishly and opens his mouth to display a startling crimson tongue. The unnatural shade of red, coupled with an array of little white bumps, calls to mind a grotesque strawberry.

I had the feva,
he says, pointing to his tongue.
Me and my sista, both.

I take stock of his rash. Is he talking about scarlet fever? Why would anyone in a country with plentiful antibiotics have scarlet fever? I wave away the last of the smoke and draw in a breath of air.

What's your name?
I ask, hoping to avoid the investigative work that my dream about Didi Minot required.

Clifford,
he tells me, hands on hips.

And your last name?

Don' matta.

If I don't know who you are, I might not be able to help you,
I warn him.

You got it all wrong, lady,
he laughs.
I'm long gone. Ain't nothin' you can do for
me
. I'm fixin' to help
you
.
He holds up an index finger and moves it in a little circle.
Look around yuh.