The Ying on Triad (11 page)

I didn't think it possible, but Jack's smile grew wider.
"That's nice."

"She was transferred to Johnson City."

Jack nodded again, keeping his eyes on Diane. "That's
really nice."

"One of the homes where President Johnson once
lived," she said, her own eyes fixed on Jack.

"That's nice," he said once again.

"I'm anxious to see it," Diane said.

Jack nodded. "That's nice." He continued to stare at her
for another moment until he realized what he had said. "I
mean, I'd like to see the house too," he mumbled, his eyes
still locked on hers.

Witty repartees obviously were not one of Jack's strong
suits, so I did what I could to help out. "Jack, why don't
you take Diane out to the complex and show her the apartment. No sense in wasting time. She might want to move
in tonight." I smiled inwardly at my deft maneuvering.

Without looking at me, Diane gushed. "I think that
would be absolutely wonderful, that is, if you don't mind,
Mr. Edney"

"Not a bit, not a bit." Jack gushed back. "And call me
Jack."

She smiled coquettishly. "All right, Jack, but you have
to call me Diane"

Suddenly I was jealous. I had made every effort to
dump her on Jack, but now she had dropped me like the
proverbial hot potato. Hold on, Tony, I reminded myself.
That was what you wanted. On the other hand if that were
so, why did I feel as if I had been jilted?

They headed for the door, eyes still fixed on each other.
Not even looking in my direction, Diane said, "Thanks,
Tony. See you later."

I had the distinct impression that the remark was simply an afterthought. I was nothing more that the period at
the end of the sentence.

Jack confirmed my feelings. Without looking at me, he
mumbled over his shoulder, "I owe you, buddy."

I watched as she climbed into his Cadillac, leaving her
SUV in my driveway.

Janice had dressed as Little Bo Peep in black pumps,
long white stockings, a billowing dress, lacy bonnet, and
pigtails. A shepard's staff topped off the ensemble. I was
decked out in a devil's outfit, replete with two horns and
a pitchfork.

We tucked into her little Miata, but neither her staff nor
my pitchfork would fit inside with the top up, and the
weather was too chilly to ride with a window down.

Grudgingly, she accepted the fact that she was reduced
to riding to the party in my Silverado. I tried to pacify her.
"A lot of the folks at the party drive pickups. No one will
notice."

"I will," she replied with a petulant curl to her lips.

"I'll bet Nora Charles wouldn't mind," I said, teasing her.

"I'm not Nora Charles," she snapped.

I shook my head. Poor little rich girl. If anyone ever
tries to convince you that money-piles of money-could
never spoil you, don't believe him. In all fairness, Janice
did try to fit in with the masses.

Once we drove off, the first subject she broached was
Diane.

Making a concerted effort to appear blase about the
whole matter, I explained what had taken place and
added, "She and Jack seemed attracted to each other"

"Good!" she sniffed. "Maybe she'll leave you alone"

Downtown, we turned off 1-35 onto the access road.
The Hotel Chateaubriand was on the corner of Fifth and
Congress.

The corners of Fifth, Sixth, and Seventh Streets and the
access road were the gathering spots for homeless,
vacant-eyed winos and tattered itinerants scrabbling for
coins to purchase another bottle of Thunderbird wine.

In the mornings they waited for contractors looking for
day workers. At night they panhandled cars stopped at the
light signals.

We hit a green light, and as I turned onto Fifth, I gave
a cursory glance at a small cluster of dirty men standing
under a street light. They all looked the same, pinched
faces, hollow eyes, and patched clothes that hung from
withered bodies. I shivered, wondering how they could
tolerate such a life.

Half a block past the huddle of winos, one of the faces
suddenly exploded in my head. My old man! John Roney
Boudreaux! One of the winos looked exactly like him.

I cut sharply at the next corner.

Janice looked around at me in alarm. "Tony! What on
earth are you doing?"

"Nothing. I saw something back there I want to take
another look at"

"What? There was nothing back there but those horrid
winos. What-" she stopped abruptly. With a tone of disbelief, she asked, "Do you think-" She pressed her fingers to her lips.

Janice had accompanied me to our family reunion the
previous year on Whiskey Island in Atchafalaya Swamp
where she had met my father, who as usual stayed drunk the entire three days, not even sobering up when he stole
my laptop.

"I don't know if it was my old man or not. I didn't get
a real good look. It wouldn't surprise me though. You
remember, he was here in town a couple years back. It's
been over a year since I saw him. As far as I know," I
added with resignation, "he could be dead, or he could
show up on my front porch tonight." I circled the block,
but by the time we made it back to Fifth Street, the small
cluster of men had vanished into the dark alleyways and
shadows of dumpsters filled with garbage.

As with any social affair that Janice condescends to
attend, the Halloween affair at the Chateaubriand was a
gala event of bright lights, haute cuisine, enough alcohol
to float a city, and spirited music by which ghosts and
goblins could dance the night away.

I wish I could say we won prizes for the best costumes,
but that coveted award went to a couple dressed in a caricature of the old farmer and his spinster daughter in the
classic painting, American Gothic.

During the gala, Beatrice Morrison, CEO of Chalk
Hills Distillery and number one in Austin's social register,
sidled up to me as I ladled spiked punch into two cups.
"Hello, Tony. How good of you to come" Honey dripped
from her words.

I'd been around her enough to know when she was setting me up. "Thank you, Mrs. Morrison. I'm pleased to be
here" My words were just as honeyed.

"Oh, Tony, you know me better than that. Call me
Beatrice"

Holding the full cups, I turned to face her. "All rightBeatrice"

She laid her hand on my forearm the way society people do when they're going to spread a piece of choice gossip. "Janice is always bragging on your Cajun dishes"
Her brows knit slightly. "Would it be too much of an
imposition to ask you to bring a container of-I think she
called it court bouillon-to my reception day after tomorrow? We'll have a silver serving dish for it."

"Catfish court bouillon?"

"Yes that's it. I couldn't remember the name," she
replied in a tone that suggested the word catfish was not
in her social lexicon.

What could I say? I wasn't flattered because I knew she
was asking just to please her niece who had come to love
French cuisine, especially those dishes with a Cajun flair.
"No problem at all, Mrs.-I mean, Beatrice. Will five gallons be enough? That's the largest pot I have"

She smiled brightly. "Splendid"

"But," I added, stopping her as she turned to depart, "I
might not be able to stay for the entire reception. I'd like
to," I said, "but I have work to do"

If possible, her smile grew brighter. "Too bad. We'll
miss you"

Sometime during the Halloween gala, a slow rain
began, a cold drizzle that penetrated to the bone. I left
Janice at the front door of her condo around one o'clock
with the promise to pick her up at eight. She wanted to
play Nick and Nora Charles again.

"Dress warmly," I warned her. "Tomorrow looks like
it'll be a miserable day"

The drizzle remained steady. Oncoming headlights
reflected off the shiny roads, creating a blinding glare, and
in the rain, the asphalt pavement seemed to disappear. As
I headed north on Lamar, I spotted a soaked figure on the
shoulder of the road. His hat pulled down and the collar of his coat drawn tight about his neck, he hunched his head
and shoulder into the rain.

For a moment, I considered giving him a lift, but compassion gave way to wisdom and I drove on.

To my relief, my driveway was empty. "Good," I muttered, parking the Silverado under the carport, relieved
that Diane was out of my life. I shivered as I climbed out.
"This night is not fit for man or beast," I mumbled. As the
words rolled off my lips, I remembered the solitary figure
trudging along the side of the road.

The chiming of the doorbell pulled me from a sound
sleep at 2:40 A.M. I lay motionless for a moment, thinking
I had dreamed the doorbell, but then the chiming rolled
down the dark hall and into the bedroom again.

"Who the .." I mumbled as I swung my legs over the
side of the bed and flipped on the night-light. I slipped
into my robe and house shoes and groggy with sleep,
padded to the door.

The bell rang again just as I flipped on the porch light.
I peered through the viewer. All I could see was the top of
a soggy hat, and then the hat tilted back. My eyes popped
wide. I couldn't believe it. To quote Yogi Berra, "Deja vu
all over again"

I opened the door and stared at my old man, John
Roney Boudreaux. He tried to focus his bloodshot eyes on
me. "This Tony Boudreaux's place?" he croaked.

Filled with mixed emotions, I stared at him. I nodded
slowly. "Hello, John" I couldn't call him Pa, not after
Whiskey Island.

He rubbed a dirty fist in his sunken eyes and squinted
up at me. "Tony? I didn't recognize you, boy."

Stepping back from the door, I motioned for him to
come inside. "Come on in where it's warm" There was no
feeling in my voice.

He staggered inside, clutching an almost empty bottle
of wine in his hand. The rain had disintegrated the paper
bag in which he had carried the bottle. The only remnant
of the bag was the collar of paper under the bony hand
grasping the neck of the wine bottle.

Water dripped from him, soaking the carpet. I took his
elbow. "Come on into the kitchen"

He didn't resist.

I gave him a chair at the table. I didn't mind water on
the tile floor.

He plopped down and promptly took another drink.

Making an effort to suppress the anger suddenly boiling in my veins, I said, "I'm surprised to see you after the
family reunion at Whiskey Island last year"

"Reunion? What reunion?" his slurred reply was barely
intelligible.

"Summer of last year, at Whiskey Island," I snapped.

For several seconds, he looked up at me with glazed
eyes. His tongue grew thicker, "Don't 'member no
reunion"

I stared at him, a rain-soaked, withered drunk. My
anger faded away, replaced by a weary indifference.
"You're wet. I'll get a towel and dry clothes. Then I'll fix
the couch for you"

My father nodded slowly and began disrobing in the
middle of the kitchen.

Later, after he had passed out on the couch, I stood staring down at him, still expecting perhaps not a flood of
emotion or feelings, but at least a tiny ripple. There was
nothing.

Then I remembered the solitary figure in the rain. It
was probably my old man. I tried to imagine the cold he
must have felt. "No," I muttered, "he was probably too
drunk to feel the cold"

With a deep sigh and a weary shake of my head, I
padded back to the bedroom, not looking forward to what
I was certain would be a sleepless night.

To my surprise, I eventually dozed for a couple hours,
awakening to a dreary morning of cold drizzle and a
father with no compunction whatsoever about stealing
anything he could get his hands on.

I glanced at the clock: 6:15 A.M. No time to waste. I
rolled out of bed and headed for the kitchen to put on the
coffee. John Roney lay on his back, still as death, his
mouth gaping open, snoring lightly.

What to do with him while I was gone? Leaving him
alone in my apartment could very likely make me a candidate for accessory before and after the fact, whatever
the fact might be. I knew exactly what he would do. He'd
prowl through the apartment for anything to pawn. His
major goal in life was the next bottle of cheap wine.