—Why’d you come? she said.
—The boys were busy, I guess.
I looked around. Her Nana’s house was just how I remembered: another old villa that desperately needed a coat of paint. I tried not to look at her. I could remember how good Tala looked, dressed and undressed . . .
Mrs. O’Connor liked Burger King because it was cheap. When I arrived the next day, she was putting on makeup and drinking Coca-Cola from a large glass. “I’m almost ready,” she said. “That’s good,” I answered, “because I hate going into Mass late.” “I always love to go places late,” she said. “I hate to be on time . . .”
Tiny red potatoes sizzled on the stove as Mel rolled kale with one hand, slicing it into ribbons with the other.
“Root vegetable chowder,” she told me as I unwound my heavy wool scarf. I must have given her a look because she added, “with maple syrup,” as though this would make it better . . .
My friend, if I don’t put up things for you to “like” it’s not because I don’t love you, but because I remember what you and I used to be . . .
It was one of those days when the snow started and wouldn’t quit, so we bought beers and drank them and didn’t stop until long after dark and anyway, we were out. The apartment seemed all stained and yellow and stank of rancid burger grease. The snow just kept coming. We needed escape . . .
There had, at one time before Katrina, been a park, perhaps beneath his feet, right where a surveyor had discovered the young woman’s body. Ike couldn’t tell anymore. There was just this no-man’s-land of tall weeds between the levee and the Brad Pitt houses, their solar panels absorbing the mid-morning sun . . .
You snorted a rail so long I thought for sure it would knock you over, but you just threw your head back and asked me where I kept my champagne. With your pupils dilated, your jaw set hard, you strode across my apartment in your ridiculous red high heels and poured yourself a glass, bending down to lick up the overflowing liquid. You were still fun then, on day one. They all are . . .
It’s all been falling apart now for the last eight days—I needn’t mention the other times. I don’t think they’re important. Silly thing, really: I picked a basket of cherries, pit them, and went to put them in the freezer—pie, I’m thinking—and they dropped all over the floor. I stared at them down there and got down and punched the floor, screaming something (I didn’t think it was important to remember). Then I went to bed for eight days . . .