Kerlerec Street
Thirsty Work — Chapter 9: crash pad in the Quarter
Two young women from California travel to New Orleans in search of redemption after the death of their mother. Carolee thinks she will show her little sister the world, but what they find in the barrooms of the French Quarter at Mardi Gras is more than she knows how to handle, or could have imagined back home. This is the ninth chapter of the novel Thirsty Work.
Cathy took half the time Carolee did in the shower, then threw on some clean clothes before they went down to the motel diner to eat, where they were relieved to see no sign of the desk clerk. The place was almost empty. A very drunk or very tired man snored over his coffee at the counter. A bored looking young woman sat behind the cash register chewing gum. Cathy ordered a hamburger. The heavy food felt good in her empty stomach.
Carolee ate her meat and potatoes special in silence, drank a glass of cold milk, then twirled her fork around in the peas. Cathy could tell something was coming from a mile off. She wasn’t surprised when Carolee started talking in a halting voice, “Cathy, I’ve been wondering…”
Cathy could see Carolee was struggling with some kind of difficult question, but didn’t feel inclined to help her out. She continued working on her French fries, dipping each one deliberately into a pool of ketchup, waiting for Carolee to continue.
“I was wondering,” Carolee finally said, sitting up a little taller and taking a breath. “Back there in the shower, I got a funny feeling…”
“No wonder it took you so long.”
“Not that kind of feeling! Something different. Something scary.”
Cathy turned to look out the window. She hoped Carolee wasn’t going to start crying. It wasn’t like Cathy knew what to do with a hysterical sister out here in the middle of Texas. It wasn’t like it was Cathy’s idea to take off on this stupid trip.
“What I mean is…Do you ever get the feeling that mom is still here? Like maybe she’s coming with us? Do you believe in ghosts?”
Cathy looked at her sister with alarm. They hadn’t mentioned Mom since they left Stockton. It seemed they had an unwritten agreement that they wouldn’t talk about her. It wasn’t like they were in the best place to bring up their feelings. She thought the whole purpose of the trip was to try to forget. But Carolee’s fork remained suspended over the peas as she waited intently for Cathy’s answer. So Cathy thought about it, then nodded her head. “I do get that feeling sometimes,” she said quietly.
Suddenly, Carolee’s face drained of color. She dropped her fork with a clatter and clutched Cathy’s arm. “Oh my God. Look!”
The adrenaline raced across Carolee’s fingers, instantly infecting Cathy with dread. Her heart beat fast as she turned to see a woman standing at the cash register. She had the same short-cropped gray hair as their dead mother. The same old, gray coat. The same long fingers and dry, freckled skin as she reached for her change.
“Oh Jesus Carolee, don’t be an idiot!” Cathy said angrily, snatching her hand away from her sister as if she’d been burned. Still, she didn’t turn her face away from the woman at the register. Her eyes were hot and wet.
Now Carolee let out a small cry and rose from her seat. “Sit down!” Cathy hissed. But Carolee didn’t hear her. She told Cathy later that she saw more than Mom. She saw the fibers of the woman’s coat, magnified 100 fold. She saw each strand of fake fur as it looped through the rough weave of the backing. She heard the satin lining swish and slide as the arm stretched. She smelled familiar perfume.
Then the apparition turned, as if in slow motion, and glanced for one moment at the two young women staring at her from the corner booth. She put her change in her pocketbook and walked out.
Carolee stood for a moment longer, caught between twin tortures of hope and dread. Her face was slimy with sweat. Cathy glowered across the table at her. Neither one of them finished their food.
They had planned to take a week to get to New Orleans, but they made it in four days. They decided not to stop again. When the car seemed to be sweating and panting and pushed beyond its limit, they pushed the sleeping bags aside in back and took the cover off the engine to help it cool. Then the car sweated and panted and shouted at them, too. But that didn’t matter. The noise wasn’t what was preventing them from talking to each other.
They sped through San Antonio before sunrise and Houston before breakfast, letting out a hoot of relief when they crossed the Texas border at noon. Outside their car windows, the landscape was changing. They left the bleached, yellow dessert in the dust behind them and threw themselves into bayou country, where the land was lush, wet and swampy, painted broadly in greens and grays.
They crossed Bayou Chene, Bayou Nezpique, the Atchafalaya River and a dozen other waterways with no name. They saw huge cypress trees draped with Spanish moss growing out of black waters, barely-moving rivers richly carpeted with pennywort and duckweed.
They turned right at Baton Rouge, continuing down Louisiana. The map showed that the Mississippi River was traveling with them, off to the right. When they finally reached the lip of Lake Pontchartrain, they knew they were nearing their destination. They crossed the city limits of New Orleans at close to 5 p.m.
“We’re here! We’re finally here! I can’t believe it!” Carolee shouted over the engine. Cathy tilted her head back and whooped. As if by old magic, some vestigial voodoo, Carolee felt her mother’s ghost lifted off the back of her neck and cast into the moist, New Orleans sky. “I’m free! I’m free!” she thought maniacally, without looking back to see what she’d lost. It seemed the car would leave the pavement. The whole world was suddenly light.
The door to 1753 Kerlerec St. was green and peeling. One concrete step elevated it from the sidewalk. When we finally pulled up in front, I checked the address Doug had sent us against the number beside the door, then grinned wildly at Cathy. “This is it!” We both scrambled out of the car.
Cathy got to the door first, tried the knob, and then started banging loudly. “Hello! Hello Doug are you in there?! We’re here!! We made it!” she called. I pressed up to a dusty window, cupped my hand around my face to peer in.
There seemed to be one big room, then another room of equal size behind two massive sliding doors, then a little kitchen in the back. I saw half a mannequin — the lower half — propped against a mantelpiece that surrounded a fireplace fully occupied by a dilapidated-looking heater. An old couch with stuffing coming out of the arm stood at an angle in the middle of the room. A backpack against the wall had clothes spilling out of the top. The corner of a blue-striped, bare mattress was just visible in the far room. I thought I saw a woman’s nightgown thrown across the edge. I squinted and pressed closer to the window.
“What a dump! It’s not exactly what I’ve been imagining. What do you think, Cathy? Can we handle this?”
“Let me see,” said Cathy, pushing me aside.
“Hmmm. It’s a dump all right,” she smiled.
“I’m pretty sure this is the right place, though. That looks like Doug’s backpack against the wall. It looks pretty run down. Maybe we should just visit with Doug during the day and then see if we can sleep at Aunt Viv’s at night?”
“Let’s not do that,” Cathy said quickly. “Who knows what kind of rules Aunt Viv is going to have at her house? Come on, Carolee. This is supposed to be an adventure! We can handle anything for two weeks.”
“I guess. But let’s not decide now. Let’s wait until we get a look around inside and see how it feels.” I turned to survey the street while Cathy continued to peer through the window.
“Do you think that’s a woman’s nightgown on the bed in the back room?”
Cathy looked a little closer. “Hmmm.”
“What do you think?” I was impatient. “It looks kind of silky.”
“Yep. It’s a nightgown.”
“Damn it,” I said under my breath. “I wonder whose it is? Doug said a couple of his college buddies might be meeting him here, but he didn’t mention any other girls.”
“It could be anybody’s. Maybe Doug met someone here. Maybe one of his buddies brought a friend. Why should that bother you? I thought you were Johnny’s girlfriend.”
“I am. But, well…I don’t know. I just thought we were going to be the only girls here — that’s all. I just hope Doug’s not going to be too busy to show us the sights.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Cathy said. “He’ll take care of us.” Now Cathy turned her attention to the street. “What do you want to do now?” she asked. “Go exploring?”
I knew from the map in the car that we were near the French Quarter. A half a block to our left was Rampart St., the western border of the Quarter. Cars whizzed past. A block ahead of us was Esplanade, the northern border. Technically, Doug’s flat was in the French Quarter, but I couldn’t tell that from what I saw around me — just a long row of houses.
They were old houses, sure. Old, weathered houses built too close together with a single step in front of each door and an occasional wrought iron railing. But they were houses, just the same, not restaurants or bars. They seemed oddly one dimensional, like a movie set. The front walls went up farther than the flat roofs, as if maybe this was all just a facade, an elaborate joke that Doug or God was playing on us. Perhaps the interiors are just painted on the windows, and when you open the door to one of these odd, flat houses, you find nothing on the other side.
I shook off the weird thought. “I don’t want to go anywhere yet,” I said aloud to Cathy. “Let’s wait here awhile to see if Doug shows up. Okay?”
She shrugged.
“Why don’t we have a sandwich or something?” I coaxed. “Want me to make you one?”
“All right,” she said without much enthusiasm.
I opened up the back of the car while Cathy sat down on the front step. Across the street, seated on a single grimy step just like ours, was an old man with bare feet holding a bottle in a brown paper bag. His shirt was buttoned crooked. His toes were pink where they touched the pavement. When I realized that I was staring at him rudely, I waved an embarrassed greeting. He waved cheerfully back. A tooth was missing in front.
I pulled the fixings for sandwiches out of the cooler: bread, salami and cheese. Nothing looked good. The bread was stiff, the salami greasy, the cheese getting hard. As I looked at the ingredients, I realized that I was sweating. The air was heavier in New Orleans, I suddenly noticed. It pressed against my body like unwelcome hands. It felt harder to breathe — too thick and too sweet, with an undercurrent of rotting flowers. All of a sudden, my clothes felt constrictive. My sleeves were sticking to my underarms, my pants were cinched too tight around the waist.
“This food looks awful. How about if we just have an apple and crackers?’
“Whatever you want.”
I brought the box over and sat down on beside her on the step. I pulled my treasured jacknife out of my pocket and sliced off hunks of green apple, placed them on small, brown Wheat Thins. I looked around for a spigot to refill our water bottle, but could locate only one across the street. I decided not to leave the safety of the step. We ate in silence, taking in our strange, new surroundings.
“I can’t believe this is New Orleans. I can’t believe we’re finally here.”
“I know what you mean,” Cathy nodded.
When we were done eating, I fished my guitar out of the back of the car and started to play. I pictured myself on the step, making a poetic image. I looked lovely and romantic. It didn’t matter that I could only strum a few chords.
Several interesting people walked by as we waited. A tall, striking woman with yellow hair, skin-tight pants, platform shoes and enormous breasts spilling out of a tight, low-cut blouse stopped to talk. “Well, hello there ladies. Are you our new neighbors? My name’s Terri. I live in the back.”
“Hi Terri. I’m Carolee and this is Cathy,” I smiled. “We just got here from California. We’re waiting for our friend Doug. Maybe you know him?”
“Sure I know Doug,” she smiled seductively back. “All the way from California? You must be tired! Too bad no one’s home to let you in.” She pouted her lips with exaggerated concern. “Well, Doug will probably be here any minute now. I’d invite you up to my place, but I’ve got to get back to work. I just came home to change my bra,” she said, eyes sparkling. Her hands cupped her big breasts and adjusted them upwards. “This one shows the straps.” She swung her hips suggestively as she walked away from us. “See y’all later!” she called theatrically as she rounded the building, going into what appeared to be the unit’s backyard.
Cathy and I looked at each other, stifling giggles. “Jesus Christ,” I whispered under my breath. “Can you believe that woman? I wonder where she works in an outfit like that?”
Cathy shook her head and laughed.
About 30 minutes and 5 poorly-played guitar songs later, just as Cathy was getting ready to insist that we strike out on our own, two young men approached from the direction of the French Quarter. One was tall and slim, with well-muscled arms and a mustache. He wore bell-bottom jeans and a white tee-shirt with a cigarette pack rolled in the sleeve, and swaggered slightly when he walked. The other one was shorter and moved more fluidly, like a dancer. He wore glasses, baggy pants, an old button down shirt in old-fashioned muted colors and an odd brown felt hat, something like a beret.
Cathy and I glanced at each other the moment they rounded the corner. I kept strumming the guitar. We tried not to stare. They slowed their pace as they approached us, obviously looking us over. I felt my body tense with anticipation.
“Well, hello ladies!” the tall one greeted us with a big smile.
“Hi,” Cathy answered back immediately, also smiling.
“Hello,” I said more cautiously, nodding at the one in the baggy pants. He returned a small smile.
“You must be Carolee and Cathy. Doug told us you’d be coming,” the tall one said.
I brightened at the sound of our names. “You know Doug?” Cathy sang happily.
“Sure we know Doug. We live with him!” he laughed. “My name’s Carl. This here is Howard, my companion in crime.” He gave his friend a hard whack on the back, throwing him off balance.
“Well how do you do?” I stood up and shook their hands with mock formality, bowing slightly to each one. Carl gripped my hand a little too hard and gave me a look I couldn’t interpret, eyes flashing. I saw the edge of an ink-blue tattoo peeking out from beneath the sleeve of his tee shirt. He saw me see it and winked. Howard’s hand was moist and warm.
“How long have you been waiting here?” Carl asked, looking at Cathy.
“Oh, not long,” she smiled happily back.
Howard and I seemed suddenly left out, like onlookers.
“Well, wait no more. We have arrived!” Carl said loudly with a flourish. I smelled the sweet, woody fragrance of bourbon on his breath. “Have you got the key, Howie my man?” Carl asked theatrically. “Or have I got it?”
“I think you’ve got it,” Howard answered.
Carl fished the key out of his pocket and let us in.
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