St. Charles at Dusk by Sarah M. Cradit

Author:Sarah M. Cradit
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: new orleans, fantasy, love story, southern fiction

16- Oz

Adrienne awoke the next morning before I did. Around six I found her sitting on the front porch swing, using her foot to keep the tiny motion going. She was wearing a flimsy night shift, and the old fabric had become translucent, the bottom lace ruffles of her slip clinging to the tops of her knees as she watched the sun rise over the trees. She hadn’t yet put a comb through her hair and the snarls sparkled as the light broke over them. She looked so peaceful, I hated to disturb her.

“You’re up early,” I softly announced. Even at this hour the air was balmy and alive.

“Not as early as the cicadas.” She sighed and continued to stare ahead. “I could never live somewhere the cicadas didn’t sing.”

“Don't they sing much in the bayou?”

“Yes, but they have more competition here.”

I tried to imagine what it had been like for her, living in a world so different from the way she was reared. When I thought of the bayou, I conjured up old Boudreaux and Thibodeaux jokes. I imagined folks with convoluted family trees who murdered the French and English languages. I felt like such an uncultured bastard for basing my sole opinion on a common stereotype. After all, she represented none of these things.

The first night Adrienne came to me, now a distant memory, I remembered her telling me, over and over, it had been Nathalie’s idea, Nathalie’s suggestion. The terrible spiral of events which unfolded since that night might have been averted had I shown the presence of mind to pause, consider my actions, and perhaps call Nathalie to confirm.

Adrienne stopped swinging and looked at me. “Oz, if at any time my being here causes you any inconvenience or any-”

“Would you like some lunch?”

She appeared confused, then began to understand. This was my gentlemanly way of telling her I didn’t want to start that conversation. As I had hoped, she gracefully replied, “As long as you’re not cooking.”

I feigned offense. “Excuse me?”

She wrinkled her nose and scoffed at me, “I saw your kitchen.”

I couldn’t argue her on that point. The food in my kitchen consisted of chips, old beer, a moldy block of cheese, and an endless supply of ramen noodles. Like many of the Garden District, I had a maid. Solange lived on St. Peter's and came during the day while I was at work, to tidy up and leave dinner warming in the oven. The day I returned from Abbeville, I asked her to take a vacation, so I could have some much needed privacy with my thoughts. While I kept the house clean, the kitchen reflected her absence.

“Touché,” I said.

An hour later, we walked up to St. Charles Avenue and jumped on the crowded streetcar in the direction of the Vieux Carré. It was Monday, and people sat around us with their briefcases and cell phones, only an occasional tourist in the group. It was too hot this time of year for anyone to be here who didn’t have to be.

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