Boulevard by Jim Grimsley Page A

rain was washing the edge of the gallery, sweeping down at a slant out of the sky. He had heard nothing in the bathroom except the sound of his own breathing, but now he heard low, rumbling thunder, the air heavy with moisture even inside the room. He threw open the windows,protected from the rain by the roof of the gallery. What a sound, what a hissing, everywhere. Along the gutters in the street below the water was running a foot deep.
    He turned on the lamp in the twilight and sat by the open doors watching the rain for a long time, then reading his books, first leafing through the picture book about the French Quarter, afterward picking up his paperback novel about two men traveling together back in time and the world they find there. He could relax and pay attention to the book for the first time since arriving in New Orleans, maybe because he had a job, or because he had begun the transformation he had foreseen when he was leaving Pastel. He understood his present world, the narrow room, the high windows, the torrent of rain, well enough now that he could surrender to the book, for a few hours anyway, till time to go to bed.
    He called Flora the next day, Sunday, to tell her he had found a job. He caught her at home with a headache, puffing her cigarette audibly, sipping coffee, and trying to clear her throat. “Sweet Thing, I am so glad you called me.”
    â€œYes ma’am. Well, it’s good news, don’t you think?”
    â€œWell, I hope you don’t have to work in food service for very long,” she intimated. “Jesse has been in food service his whole life and look where that’s got him.”
    â€œYes ma’am.” He understood from this that Jesse was sitting at the kitchen table too, scratching his nose or the inside of his ear, looking completely vacant, as he usually looked in the morning.
    â€œYou being careful in that French Quarter?” She pronouncedit “korter.”
    â€œYes ma’am. But I don’t think it’s dangerous.”
    â€œYou’d be surprised.”
    â€œReally. I been walking around since I got here, even at night, and I never feel like anybody is following me, or anything.”
    â€œWell,” she took a drag on the cigarette, “you walk around with that kind of careless attitude and somebody will drag you off in an alley one of these days, you watch. And nobody will know what happened to you.”
    â€œYes ma’am.”
    â€œI know what I’m talking about. There’s things that happen in New Orleans that you’d rather not even imagine.” Her words took on a curious authority over the long-distance line. Jesse must have coughed, with the cigarette smoke swirling around him in that trailer kitchen, because Flora snapped, “Go in the living room if you can’t stand my smoke, you tattooed son of a bitch.”
    â€œAre you going to church today, Grandma?”
    â€œNo. I didn’t get my dress out the cleaners this week.” They had made this joke before; they both laughed and felt better, and he imagined Jesse sulking in front of the TV with his toes buried in the shag carpet. “It’s a lot of Catholics in New Orleans,” Flora noted.
    â€œI know. There’s a great big church they go to. In a square right here in the French Quarter.”
    â€œI know exactly the one you’re talking about,” she said, and after a moment added, “My phone bill wouldbe sky high with the two of us gabbing about nothing.”
    â€œI’ll get me a phone pretty soon,” Newell promised, “then I won’t have to call collect.” He waited a moment, then asked, “You heard from Mama?”
    The mention of his mother put Flora on her guard, no different than any other time. “No. I don’t ever know when she’s going to call.”
    â€œAll right. Well, you tell her I said hey. If you talk to her.”
    They said good-bye, and there he stood