The guy with the fried head at your place probably wasn't a
serious effort.
"I say
'probably.' I'm half-Jewish, half-Irish, I don't eat in Italian restaurants.
I'm outside the window looking in a lot of the time. Hey, you're a bright guy,
I know you can connect on this."
"Enjoy it,
Mingo," I said, and hit on the door with the flat of my fist for the
turnkey to open up.
L ater that same day, just before I was to sign out of the office,
the phone on my desk rang.
It was like hearing
the voice of a person who you knew would not go away, who would always be
hovering around you like a bad memory, waiting to pull you back into the past.
"How's life,
Karyn?" I said.
"Buford will be
in Baton Rouge till late tonight. You and I need to talk some things out."
"I don't think
so."
"You want me to
come to your office? Or out to your house? I will, if that's what it
takes."
I left the office and
drove south of New Iberia toward my home. I tried to concentrate on the
traffic, the red sky in the west, the egrets perched on the backs of cattle in
the fields, the cane wagons being towed to the sugar mill. I wasn't going to
give power to Karyn LaRose, I told myself. I owed her nothing. I was sure of
that.
I was still trying to
convince myself of my freedom from the past when I made an illegal U-turn in
the middle of the road and drove to the LaRose plantation.
S he wore a yellow sundress, with her platinum hair braided up on
her head, a Victorian sapphire broach on a gold chain around her neck.
"Why'd you park
in back?" she said when she opened the door.
"I didn't give
it much thought," I said.
"I bet."
"Let's hear what
you have to say, Karyn. I need to get home."
She smiled with her
eyes, turned and walked away without speaking. When I didn't immediately
follow, she paused and looked back at me expectantly. I followed her through
the kitchen, a den filled with books and glass gun cases and soft leather
chairs, down a darkened cypress-floored hallway hung with oil paintings of
Buford's ancestors, into a sitting room whose windows and French doors reached
to the ceiling.
She pulled the velvet
curtains on the front windows.
"It's a little
dark, isn't it?" I said. I stood by the mantel, next to a bright window that gave onto a cleared cane field and a stricken
oak tree that stood against the sky like a clutch of broken fingers.
"There's a
horrid glare off the road this time of day," she said. She put ice and
soda in two glasses at a small bar inset in one wall and uncorked a bottle of
Scotch with a thick, red wax seal embossed on it.
"I don't care
for anything, thanks," I said.
"There's no whiskey
in yours."
"I said I don't
want anything."
The phone rang in
another room.
"Goddamn
it," she said, set down her glass, and went into a bedroom.
I looked at my watch.
I had already been there ten minutes and had accomplished nothing. On the
mantel piece was a photograph of a U.S. Army Air Corps aviator who was sitting
inside the splintered Plexiglas nose of a Flying Fortress. The photo must have
been taken at high altitude, because the fur collar on his jacket was frozen
with his sweat, like a huge glass necklace. His face was exhausted, and except
for the area around his eyes where his goggles had been, his skin was black
with the smoke of ack-ack bursts.
I could hear Karyn's
voice rising in the next room: "I won't sit still for this again. You rent
a car if you have to . . . I'm not listening to that same lie . . . You're not
going to ruin this, Buford . . . You listen . . . No . . . No . . . No, you
listen . . ."
Then she pushed the
door shut.
When she came out of
the room her eyes were electric with anger, the tops of her breasts
serious effort.
"I say
'probably.' I'm half-Jewish, half-Irish, I don't eat in Italian restaurants.
I'm outside the window looking in a lot of the time. Hey, you're a bright guy,
I know you can connect on this."
"Enjoy it,
Mingo," I said, and hit on the door with the flat of my fist for the
turnkey to open up.
L ater that same day, just before I was to sign out of the office,
the phone on my desk rang.
It was like hearing
the voice of a person who you knew would not go away, who would always be
hovering around you like a bad memory, waiting to pull you back into the past.
"How's life,
Karyn?" I said.
"Buford will be
in Baton Rouge till late tonight. You and I need to talk some things out."
"I don't think
so."
"You want me to
come to your office? Or out to your house? I will, if that's what it
takes."
I left the office and
drove south of New Iberia toward my home. I tried to concentrate on the
traffic, the red sky in the west, the egrets perched on the backs of cattle in
the fields, the cane wagons being towed to the sugar mill. I wasn't going to
give power to Karyn LaRose, I told myself. I owed her nothing. I was sure of
that.
I was still trying to
convince myself of my freedom from the past when I made an illegal U-turn in
the middle of the road and drove to the LaRose plantation.
S he wore a yellow sundress, with her platinum hair braided up on
her head, a Victorian sapphire broach on a gold chain around her neck.
"Why'd you park
in back?" she said when she opened the door.
"I didn't give
it much thought," I said.
"I bet."
"Let's hear what
you have to say, Karyn. I need to get home."
She smiled with her
eyes, turned and walked away without speaking. When I didn't immediately
follow, she paused and looked back at me expectantly. I followed her through
the kitchen, a den filled with books and glass gun cases and soft leather
chairs, down a darkened cypress-floored hallway hung with oil paintings of
Buford's ancestors, into a sitting room whose windows and French doors reached
to the ceiling.
She pulled the velvet
curtains on the front windows.
"It's a little
dark, isn't it?" I said. I stood by the mantel, next to a bright window that gave onto a cleared cane field and a stricken
oak tree that stood against the sky like a clutch of broken fingers.
"There's a
horrid glare off the road this time of day," she said. She put ice and
soda in two glasses at a small bar inset in one wall and uncorked a bottle of
Scotch with a thick, red wax seal embossed on it.
"I don't care
for anything, thanks," I said.
"There's no whiskey
in yours."
"I said I don't
want anything."
The phone rang in
another room.
"Goddamn
it," she said, set down her glass, and went into a bedroom.
I looked at my watch.
I had already been there ten minutes and had accomplished nothing. On the
mantel piece was a photograph of a U.S. Army Air Corps aviator who was sitting
inside the splintered Plexiglas nose of a Flying Fortress. The photo must have
been taken at high altitude, because the fur collar on his jacket was frozen
with his sweat, like a huge glass necklace. His face was exhausted, and except
for the area around his eyes where his goggles had been, his skin was black
with the smoke of ack-ack bursts.
I could hear Karyn's
voice rising in the next room: "I won't sit still for this again. You rent
a car if you have to . . . I'm not listening to that same lie . . . You're not
going to ruin this, Buford . . . You listen . . . No . . . No . . . No, you
listen . . ."
Then she pushed the
door shut.
When she came out of
the room her eyes were electric with anger, the tops of her breasts
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