House of Blues (6 page)

I was supposed to be Reed.

That made him angry. Snatches of derision came back,
seduced him from the magic of Buddy's flashing riffs.

"Be a man."

"
Gracie, oh,
Gracie"—singsongy here—"are you wearing your lacy
underpants?
"

"
Stand up and do what you
have to do . . . no, you don't have a choice. You're an Hebert . . .
"

"
Reed can do it better.
Are you gonna be outdone by a girl?
" At
this point his father would let his wrist flop and affect a falsetto.
"Grady Hebert. Faggot writer. Excuse me—
unpublished
faggot writer
. La-di-da—di—da. I guess
little Reed'll just have to do your job."

Grady worked every summer as a prep cook in the
restaurant, and loathed every second of it. He spent his days
chopping vegetables, the heavy chef's knives leaving bruises on the
inside of his forearm. He peeled potatoes, he cleaned, swept, and
mopped, he cored and scored, he made stocks, he peeled shrimp until
his fingers wrinkled, he cracked crabs, he cut and ground meat, and
he learned to make forty gallons of gumbo at a time.

Why was kitchen drudgery more masculine than writing?
He'd struggled with that, and he hated himself for it. Now, of
course, and even then, deep down, he knew his dad's taunts meant
nothing. They were just bullying. But they had left their mark.

He was sweating, and it wasn't just from the press of
the crowd.

Why can't I think of something nice about him?
He ordered another beer, and tried.

Really tried.

Another memory came back: his dad flopped down in his
chair, watching television, his tie not even loosened, smelling of
the day's sweat, grunting, not answering if the kids spoke to him.
"He's tired," Sugar would say. "He's just too tired
for y'all right now."

But Grady had found that if he sat on the floor
underneath the arm of Arthur's chair, his dad would eventually touch
him on the head, tousle his hair. Grady had asked Evie to stroke his
hair, and later Nina, and other women.

He felt his face go red; he hadn't put all that
together.

But that was nice, wasn't it? When he touched my
head?

He could remember the warmth and strength of his
dad's hand.

It gave him a slightly fuzzy feeling; or maybe that
was beer on top of Bailey's.

I wonder if I'll miss him?

And then another vignette: Arthur walking around
Hebert's, dressed in a dark suit, white shirt, perfect tie;
immaculate, his thatch of white hair giving him a Walker Percy
distinction—the platonic ideal of the southern gentleman.

The main dining room was a palace to Grady's eyes
then: the prisms of the chandeliers caught the light and sent it back
to the silver, lined up so perfectly on the white linen.

The dark wood of the chairs, the tiny tiles of the
floor, the poufs of the window shades, the waiters' tuxedos—it was
stately, yet so reassuring, so warm, like a comforter covered in
satin. When his parents took him there, he was a prince in his dad's
castle. Arthur was king.

He moved smoothly around the dining room, greeting
everyone, sometimes sitting down, telling a joke, touching the men's
shoulders. He was grand; he was regal. Grady was proud to be his son.

Later, all that had looked phony and he had learned
the word glad-handing, which he had said once with a teenagers
contempt, and only once. His father had struck him.

His mother had been no help: "It's what puts
bread in your mouth, you idiot. or course it hurt his feelings."

They were that way with each other, forever
explaining each other's points of view, complaining that he could
never see anything but his own.

But he was never permitted to have one.

Don't get into that, Grady old boy. Go back; go
back to ten or twelve.

He saw his father, gliding about the dining room,
everyone smiling at him, and he got the fuzzy feeling again.

That's it, Grady, stay with it. Stay with it now
and see if you can feel a human feeling. You're supposed to be sorry
when your father dies. If you can't, you'll never eat garlic again.

He was drunk enough to look in the mirror above the
bar, to make sure he could see his reflection.

All right, it's there. You're not Undead yet
.

But if you're alive, why don't you feel anything?

Actually, you do. Admit it, why don't you? Your
throat's closing on you.

Oh, God, he never had a chance to be a person. He
died without having the least idea.

Finally, he felt the tears. Automatically, he stole
another glance in the mirror, to see if they showed. It was way too
dark, of course, and he would have felt silly if he hadn't got
distracted.

There was a blonde standing behind him, in a black
dress. A gorgeous skinny woman with hollows in her cheeks, a little
wasted-looking.

He whirled. "Evie?"

The blonde smiled. "Leslie."

He was surprised that he had said it aloud. She
didn't look that much like Evie. Her eyes were brown and had the glow
of health in them. Evie's were blue-green, slightly washed-out.
Tragic.

The last time he'd seen her, her hair was dirty and
hung in hunks, as if it had broken off in places. She was wearing
filthy jeans and a halter, so that her thinness showed, her wrecked,
pathetic body—her ribs, her shoulders, fragile as fish bones. He
had tried to keep himself from looking at the insides of her elbows,
but he couldn't help himself. One of them was horribly bruised.

That was five years ago.
 
 

4

Sugar was wrong about being able to sleep. She was to
mad. Her fists clenched and her neck got stiff she was so mad.

She had tried to make the marriage work. For
thirty-odd years she'd tried, but Arthur was determined not to have a
marriage, even though legally he did and even though he lived with
her. She wanted closeness, she wanted to really know him, but he
wanted to keep her as far away from him as possible. He did it a
number of different ways—staying at the restaurant all the time,
being short with her, even downright nasty when he felt like having
other women.

Getting himself killed.

I hope you're satisfied, Arthur.

She held her teeth tight together. She was pissed
because now it was never going to work, she was never going to have
the marriage she wanted. All those years of praying, out the window.

Goddummit, God, I mined my knees for nothing.

He was a bad father—she was always having to
explain his behavior to the children—and he was a bad husband. He
hadn't slept with her in twenty years. That is, he hadn't made love
to her; he slept with her every night and acted so goddamned pious.

His lady friends came right into the restaurant,
right in there with their little giggling girlfriends, their gay
gentlemen friends,their mothers. Whenever Arthur comped a woman and
her daughter, everyone knew. She'd seen it herself at least once. He
said the mother was someone he worked on a committee with and he owed
her because she'd voted right. He thought that was how the world
worked, and he expected Sugar to buy it too.

Votes bought with
pommes de
terre soufflés
.

What a small mind.

And what a liar, when all along he was sticking it in
the daughter, who might as well have had the word "floozy"
tattooed on her cleavage.

That was years ago, but there was always someone. She
heard him on the phone, whispering, whispering all the time.

God, I hate the bitch. If she comes to the
funeral, I swear I'll snatch her bald-headed.

She'd learned the phrase from a maid she once had
who, in the end, she had also wanted to snatch bald-headed. She
turned on her side, furious.

She'll probably wear black, maybe a veil; maybe
she'll tell people she's Mrs. Hebert
.

That had happened before. She knew somebody it
happened to. The man wasn't a bigamist, the mistress was nuts, that
was all. I don't care.

I don't care if everyone in the city knows. It
reflects on Arthur, not me.

She was crying.

She sat up in bed, surprised.

What the hell am I going to be by myself? I've
been with Arthur all my life.

A key rattled. "Reed? Dennis?"

She struggled into her robe, forgetting slippers.

"It's Grady, Mother. I went out for a while."

She hadn't heard him leave. Maybe she had slept
briefly.

"What time is it?"

"
Late. Can I get you anything?"

She pattered downstairs. "Grady, I've been
thinking. It's outrageous the way your father treated me."

"
What?"

"
Listen. What's done is done. But now we have to
get rid of Nina. I can't take her crap anymore. The woman has to go.
And if she comes to the funeral, I'll ask her to leave. I will,
Grady, I swear it." She could feel the tightness of her lips;
she liked the feeling.

Grady plopped in one of Reed's aqua-covered chairs,
hands at his sides, keys slipping out of his fingers. He looked
tired.

"Nina?" he said. "Why are you mad at
Nina?"

"Because she's your father's mistress, that's
why. You know that as well as you know your name."

"Nina?" he said again. He seemed slow
tonight. She wondered if he was drunk.

"Of course Nina. She has been for years."

"
Mother, Nina's black. Have you forgotten Dad
hated black people?"

"He didn't hate Nina."

"He more or less did, actually. Reed brought her
in, and he only put up with her because she's so damn good at what
she does he couldn't do without her. He paid her about half what
she's worth, and Reed couldn't do a thing about it."

"She got what she wanted."

"
Which was what? A fat old racist who farts in
bed? Mother, get serious. She wouldn't look at Dad if he were the
last man on earth."

"
I can't believe you're talking to me this way.
Your father's dead and this is the way you're talking."

"A very good point, Mother. My father's dead. My
sister's missing. My niece is missing. My brother-in-law is missing.
My mother can't stay in her own house because it's got blood all over
the walls. Good God, why are you making up stories about Nina?
Haven't you got anything better to think about?"

"You're drunk."

"Well, frankly, I think that's more appropriate
to the situation than crazy accusations cut out of whole cloth."

"What am I supposed to think about, if not my
husband's extramarital activities?"

"I don't know. How about the funeral?"

"Oh. The funeral. When should we have it?"

"Well, I think under the circumstances, it can't
be right away."

"What circumstances?"

"Dennis and Reed. Sally." She heard tight,
cold anger in his voice.

"Well, don't get mad at me."

"
Sorry."
 

"Grady, what am I going to do?"

He was staring at his watch. He looked up, surprised,
perhaps at the fear in her voice.

"Do about what?"

"
All day. What am I going to do all day?"

He spoke gently. "You don't have to do anything.
Friends are going to come, with food. They'll take care of you. You
get to rest for a while."

"
I'm not like that. That's not who I am."

"Now, Mother——"

"
I'm a doer."

He stood up. "What would you think about going
back to bed?"

"
You go. I can't sleep."

She sat down on a silk sofa that never, though there
was a baby in the house, showed the slightest bit of wear.

Without Reed and Arthur, who'll run the
restaurant?

She felt a flutter of excitement as the answer came
to her.

Miss Nina is going to
be in for a little shock.

* * *

Skip shaped her body to Steve Steinman's and slipped
an arm around his waist. He stirred, pulled on the arm to bring her
closer.

"What time is it?"

"You don't want to know."

"Mmmmm."

He'd been with her almost a week, and he was going
home soon. She began to rub his back.

He said, "How about a heroin dealer?"

"What?"

"For my project. A profile of a heroin dealer."