finished her drink. The bourbon went down into her stomach like an old friend, in a way that made her feel warm and confident and erotically empowered at the same time. Then it spread throughout her body and deadened all her nerve endings, like someone closing her eyes with his fingers, like someone whispering in her ear that the world was a safe and good place and that one’s mistakes would be healed by the anodyne of time.
What better friend could one have?
BERTRAND MELANCON finished writing his letter of amends to the Baylor family and read through it one more time. He wondered if they would be bothered by the fact it was written on a paper towel. More important, he wondered if they would be repelled by his visitation at their home. But rain or shine, it was time to boogie down the bayou. He drank from the bottle of chocolate milk his grandmother had bought for his stomach, folded the paper towel with a neat crease, and stuck it inside his shirt.
Rain swept in sheets across the Loreauville Quarters and the cane fields and pecan trees and danced in a yellow mist on the bayou’s surface. He ran through his grandmother’s flooded yard and started her car, feeding it the gas, waiting for the spark plugs in all the cylinders to get hot enough to run in sync so the engine would stop backfiring and belching clouds of smoke out of the broken muffler.
He drove onto the state road and headed toward New Iberia, the rain beating so hard on his roof and windows, the rubber on his windshield wipers was coming off. As he turned onto Old Jeanerette Road and followed the bayou toward the Baylors’ house, he discovered he had another problem as well: the brakes were not responding until the pedal was almost to the floor.
His grandmother had said something about low brake fluid earlier, but he had been working on his letter of amends and hadn’t paid attention to her. Now he was in the midst of another rainstorm with a defective brake system and layers of oil smoke rising up his nose. How much else could go wrong?
He pumped the pedal and felt the resistance level firm up, but a moment later it went soft again and he almost drove through the stop sign at the four-corners in a rural slum by the bayou. There were self-serve gas pumps at the convenience store on the highway, across the bridge, but it was doubtful he could buy brake fluid there. So he pushed on toward Jeanerette and the Baylors’ house, the rain sluicing down his windshield, his ulcers blaring like the Mormon Tabernacle Choir.
Finally he passed Alice Plantation and saw the lights of the Jeanerette drawbridge glowing in the mist. He passed the Baylors’ house and made a U-turn at the bridge and parked in the shadows of trees. The rain had turned to fog and a soft drizzle that seemed to adhere to every surface in sight. The gallery light was on at the Baylor house, and so were the lights in the living room and the kitchen. Maybe the whole family was there. Briefly he saw a silhouette at a window, just before somebody dropped the blinds.
Bertrand had always wondered how paratroopers mustered the courage to jump out of airplanes. What kind of fool would leap out a door thousands of feet above the earth, hoping a bunch of cloth streaming out of his back didn’t shred into rags, hoping he wasn’t going to become a keyhole in a barn roof? In the St. John the Baptist jail he got the chance to ask a paratrooper just that question.
The paratrooper picked at his nails and said, “You just don’t think about it before you do it and you don’t think about it after it’s over.”
“That’s it?”
“Yeah, more or less,” the paratrooper replied.
Bertrand tried to use the paratrooper’s words to muster the courage he needed to approach Thelma Baylor’s home. But they were of no help to him and he wondered if in fact there were certain words you never adequately understood until you had earned the right to understand them.
He took a breath and headed for the Baylors’ front door, his letter of amends still inside his shirt. Behind him, he heard a heavy vehicle clatter across the drawbridge’s grid. He turned and saw a luxurious lavender automobile of a kind he had never seen before. The chrome radiator cap was on the outside of the hood. The bodywork was so smooth it looked like plastic that had been poured into a mold. Then the automobile disappeared down the back road toward the ragged outline of the old sugar mill.
Bertrand walked across the Baylors’ front yard and mounted the steps. He hesitated a moment, then he pulled open the screen door and went inside.
MELANIE HEARD THE rain slacken, then become nothing more than a whisper of tree branches across the tin surface of her roof. The side yard was strung with fog, the sky still flickering with electricity that made no sound. She had poured her glass half full of bourbon and had added more ice but no water. When she drank from the glass, the bourbon was cold enough and strong enough to anesthetize everything it touched. It was particularly effective in preempting or editing images from the night Katrina had made landfall and changed her life forever.
She thought she felt a vibration caused by footsteps on the gallery. But the footsteps couldn’t belong to Thelma or Otis, could they? Melanie would have seen the headlights in the driveway. Besides, Thelma and Otis always unloaded the groceries under the porte cochere and entered the house through the side door, just as they had in New Orleans.
She set down her book and listened. Then any doubts she had about the presence of someone on the gallery were removed by a sharp knock. She got up and approached the door at an angle, so she could see through one of the warped panes at the top without being seen by the person outside.
Suddenly she was looking at the profile of a black man. He was of medium height, unshaved, his hair uncut, his face beaded with moisture. He kept looking back at the road, where a vehicle’s headlights were burning on the road’s shoulder. Then the headlights went out and the young black man turned back toward the door.
Melanie stepped back quickly. The whiskey that had nestled in every corner of her system, warming and comforting her, seemed to evaporate like water on an overheated woodstove. Her hands trembled and her breath caught in her throat. She went to the kitchen and punched in 911, then realized there would not be time for the police to get there. She would have to deal with the black man herself, either by confronting or ignoring him.
But if she ignored him, he would assume no one was home and perhaps break in. She closed her eyes and thought she heard a gunshot, then realized the sound was not real, that the whiskey had betrayed her and was now re-creating and amplifying memories it was supposed to protect her from.
She heard the voice of a black woman speaking from the phone receiver: “What is the nature of your emergency?”
“What did you say?” Melanie asked.
“What is the nature of your emergency?”
“A man is at my door. Send someone out.”
“Is he breaking in?”
“He’s a black man. I don’t know who he is. He has no business here.”
“We’ll send someone out, ma’am. Is there someone else at your house?”
“No, you won’t send somebody out. You’ll give priority to auto accidents. I know you people.”
“What do you mean by ‘you people,’ ma’am? Do you need medical assistance? You sound like you’ve been drinking.”
“No, I don’t need medical assistance, you ignorant thing,” Melanie said. She dropped the receiver on the table, rejecting the dispatcher but not breaking the connection.
She pulled a butcher knife from one of the slits in the wood block where she kept all her sharpest knives. Then she went back to the front door and flung it open, the butcher knife concealed behind her.
The black man stood in front of her, clutching a flattened brown paper towel in both hands, like someone who had come Christmas caroling.
“Are you miz Baylor?” he asked.
“What do you want?” she said.
“Is Miss Thelma or Mr. Baylor here?”
“I asked you what you want.”
“So I guess they ain’t here. Let me read this to you, ma’am, then I’m gone.”
He positioned himself so the overhead light fell on the paper towel.
“Are you crazy?” she said.
“‘To Miss Thelma and the family of Miss Thelma,’” he read. “‘I am sorry for what I have did to her. I wasn’t
