The Grandfather Clock (20 page)

Even the best-kept sections of
downtown New Orleans have a rough look about them. When you live
there, you don’t notice it until you go to another city and realize
how clean other places are. New Orleans has a lot working against
it. Its low elevation and humidity make it so damp that walls
change color, tiny pieces of metal in concrete mix make rust spots
that leave long stains as rain sheets over it. Old taxis and buses
beat patchwork streets to rubble and buildings are fit together
like pieces of broken glass. You never know how people are going to
react to the city and Marianne looked stricken. Celeste was quiet
as I drove with them both in the back seat.

After a full day of travel, we were
all exhausted entering the hospital. I did the talking as we were
directed to Claudette’s room. I offered to let them go alone, but
Marianne insisted I join them. I didn’t want to, but followed
tentatively.

I hardly recognized the woman in the
bed. She was intubated, and had IVs coming out of both arms. Part
of her head was shaved where they had operated to relieve pressure
on her brain. I could see that she had broken a tooth. I knew
immediately that Claudette was gone, even if the machine next to
her showed otherwise. The doctor did a lousy job of telling us that
there was nothing to be done. He implied a sense of hope when there
was none.

As he left the room, I followed him
out the door. We had a conversation without ambiguity. There was no
real brain activity. She couldn’t survive on her own, but she
wouldn’t necessarily die quickly, and she wouldn’t
recover.

I went to the door and motioned for
Celeste to come outside. “It’s not good,” I said, feeling myself
creep into the same false tone as the doctor. I told myself to
stick to what it was, and what it was not. “They can’t do anything
for her. She will not wake up.”

“
Will they take her off
the machines?”

“
They will, with
Marianne’s consent. Do you know if Claudette had a living
will?”

“
What is that?”

I searched for a French term. “Last
wishes? Um…”

“
Un testament,” she
said.

“
That sounds right,” I
said.

“
Michael, we know so
little about her life here. And I really doubt it.”

“
Do you think your mother
is prepared for this?”

“
I hope so.” Celeste
turned to look at her mother, seated by the bed and holding
Claudette’s frail hand. Marianne looked as worn as we all felt and
Celeste sighed.

Marianne rubbed her eyes. “I need some
time here with her. Let’s deal with the doctors
tomorrow.”

I woke up at four in the morning,
unable to go back to sleep. It was strange to set out into the
familiar smells and light of the early French Quarter morning. I
followed the Mississippi River, watching the barges push up river.
The last of the late night partiers were trudging to their hotels.
It seemed like a dream. A fear crept in that I would be back there,
fighting through twelve-hour shifts, opening 400 bottles of beer in
a night, stashing dirty one-dollar bills into a cloudy
jar.

Delivery trucks made their way to the
market and a few merchants hosed down the sidewalks in front of
their establishments. I took a coffee to go and walked back through
the quarter. I passed a darkened Ol’ Toons and then crossed over to
Bourbon Street where the smell of bleach and trash mingled. Someone
once said that the food was so good in New Orleans that even the
trash smelled good. It had to be the biggest lie I’d heard about
the city. I loved New Orleans, but I couldn’t live there and love
it anymore. I sat down and thought about Claudette, letting the
sadness finally sink in.

The sun was beginning to hit the
balconies above Chartres Street when I got a call from Celeste
inviting me to breakfast. When I got back to the hotel, she and her
mother were having French pressed coffee and croissants. Something
I’d rarely seen them have in Paris. Marianne startled me with
unusual cheer. I looked to Celeste to get a sense of the
situation.

Claudette snapped, “Don’t you two
start giving looks. Yes, my sister is gravely ill, and I’m here to
say goodbye. I don’t want your long faces making this more dour
than it already is.”

“
Mom, I’m sorry. But it’s
okay to be sad.”

“
I am so sad. But I can’t
go through this like that. Isn’t this the place where they have a
parade for a funeral?”

“
You want a parade?”
Celeste asked.

“
No. Let’s not go that
far. Celeste, be yourself. Michael, I will need your help arranging
for her to be taken home to be laid to rest in France.”

“
Of course.”

“
This morning, we have to
go to the hospital, to let her go. I don’t want her hooked up like
that longer than she has to be.”

Seeing Marianne take the situation in
such stride was a relief. In fact, I think I was having more
trouble with the suddenness of everything. Marianne had a brief
conversation with a doctor before going into the room alone. At my
urging, Celeste went with her. I waited more than a half hour, but
it seemed much longer. Celeste peeked from the door and waved me
in, holding a tissue to her red nose. The space around Claudette’s
bed was clear of the machines and monitors. A blanket covered her
up to her shoulders. The lights were dimmed. Marianne sat in a
chair holding Claudette’s hand. Only she still didn’t look like
Claudette to me.

“
She’s gone,” Celeste
whispered.

I nodded and hugged
Celeste.

When the nurse handed me a plastic bag
containing Claudette’s purse, the sight of it, and the smell of her
perfume and cigarettes, took me back to the bar. She would place it
on the chair next to her. Sometimes she’d reach in and pull out
something for me, be it a book, a picture, or the plane ticket that
took me away from New Orleans. The truth was, I had been closer
with Claudette than anyone over the past six months. She had been
my dearest friend since ending my engagement and leaving Florida. I
could tell that Celeste recognized this.

When we opened the door to Claudette’s
house and the smell was familiar, even if I’d only been there on a
couple of occasions. Mail had piled behind the door and a radio was
on in the kitchen, tuned to NPR. She had been on the Tulane campus,
where she was teaching as an adjunct instructor that semester, when
she collapsed. It was heartbreaking to enter a home that someone
intended to return to.

A cat meowed at the living room
window.

“
Did she have a cat?”
Marianne asked.

“
She fed a stray,” I said.
“I should tell the neighbor.”

I walked outside, with little
intention of finding a neighbor. The cat could wait. Being inside
the house was too strange. This was unexpected territory for my
relationship with Marianne. I suddenly felt a pang of guilt over
the dumbbell in the safe.

Celeste was observing both of us, as
if unsure how to grieve herself. I didn’t often “need” a drink but
this was one of those moments. I walked back inside to a side table
containing a crystal bottle. I had no idea what was in it, or how
long it had been there, but I poured a little in a dusty glass and
took a drink. I waited for the bite of straight alcohol, and it
never came. It was good bourbon.

Celeste caught me leaning against the
mantle with the bourbon. “Share?” she asked. I poured a little
more, almost feeling like I was stealing. As if I should make sure
to leave enough for Claudette.

Marianne looked through the house.
“What are we going to do with all of this stuff?” she
lamented.

I looked around, not sure what to
say.

Marianne continued, answering her own
question, “I will come back and deal with this after we take her
home.” Only Claudette’s body would cross the Atlantic.

Marianne gathered up a stack of
mail.

“
Mother, let me help you
with that,” Celeste said, in English.

Marianne held up her hand. “It’s okay.
I’m fine, really.” A tear fell ran down her face and Celeste hugged
her. I felt uncomfortable watching their embrace, so I moved to the
kitchen. On the refrigerator was a picture of me, Celeste and a
Thanksgiving turkey.

It was dusk when we left the Garden
District. I had placed a phone call to a funeral home that promised
to get back to me on a price to arrange for Claudette’s body to be
returned home. City workers were prepping Canal Street for Mardi
Gras and I realized how lucky we were that Claudette didn’t fall
ill then.

Leaving the house, Marianne composed
herself, forcing herself to raise her chin. Celeste showed nothing.
Getting into the car, I looked back at the house, random thoughts
entering my mind. Claudette had mentioned that she wanted to have
her house painted gray and white. Her sudden departure left all
these things undone. My mind would not rest. I thought about my
mother and her grief.

The word, “Dinner?” broke my trance.
Marianne was looking at me. “We should eat. Is there someplace
authentic you recommend?”

It was late afternoon. We went to a
restaurant I knew would be quiet. Marianne ordered wine and toasted
Claudette. “A full life, not fully lived,” she said. I watched
Celeste, who was quiet. No one ate much, but the meal was an act of
normalcy after a taxing day.

The streets were getting busy when we
left the restaurant. We walked slowly, without much conversation.
Then Marianne stopped in her tracks. “Look,” she said, pointing up
at the street sign, “St. Peter. At the gate to heaven.”

Celeste put her hand on her mother’s
shoulder, the pair juxtaposed against Bourbon Street just a few
feet ahead.

“
Show me where you met,”
Marianne said.

I led us to Ol’ Toons, taking a deep
breath before entering.

“
Well, I’ll be damned,”
Dan said. “What in the hell are you doing here?”

We shook hands and hugged and I
introduced Marianne and Celeste.

“
Claudette passed away
today,” I said. “She had a stroke the other day.”

Dan offered his condolences, nervously
wiping the bar. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

“
You could make me a
drink,” Marianne said forcing a slight smile.

“
This is where she sat,” I
said, pointing to the stool near the end of the bar.

“
What an odd place for her
to come,” Marianne said, recognizing the drab, unremarkable
setting.

“
There’s a guitar player
who plays some French songs,” I said. “He always played a song for
her.”

“
And then she met you,”
Marianne said. “Life is funny.”

Our walk back toward the car sent us
past The Steak Pit, evidenced by a young girl holding an over-sized
sign announcing “Huge Ass Beers.” Niel Young’s, “Southern Man,”
poured out of the bar.

“
That’s my friend Brian,”
I said.

“
Who?” Celeste
asked.

“
Playing,” I said, looking
in the door at Brian perched on the tiny ledge above the
bar.

“
You should go see him,”
Marianne urged.

“
No,” I said, “it’s
okay.”

“
No,” she insisted. “You
came all this way for us. You two go. I’m tired. I’m going to take
a taxi back to the hotel.”

“
I’ll go with you,
Mother,” Celeste said.

“
Nonsense,” Marianne said.
“I’ll be fine. I’m fine. I could use a little time
alone.”

Suddenly, Marianne was gone and
improbably, I found myself with Celeste in a familiar New Orleans
bar.

Brian finished the song and declared,
“A ghost just walked into the bar tonight, ladies and gentlemen.”
He promptly went into his own version of “Michael Row the Boat
Ashore,” with lines like “Micheal owes the rent and more.” He
finished his set and came to our table.

“
Brian, this is
Celeste.”

“
This the one with the
tattoo of the...”

“
No,” I said quickly.
“Celeste is my landlady’s daughter. You remember Claudette. Her
niece.”

“
Ohhh!” he blushed.
“Soccer player guy.”

Celeste blushed and I apologized for
Brian’s lack of manners.

“
It’s okay,” Celeste said.
“Klara is my best friend. I let her have him. As a gift. If I
couldn’t have him, I wanted her to have him.”

“
You taking her by Ol’
Toons tonight?” Brian asked.

“
Already went,” I
said.

We lingered and listened to the
beginning of Brian’s next set before meandering through the Vieux
Carré. Celeste insisted on ordering Hurricanes from a sidewalk bar
and the street turned into a blur of music and lights.

“
I’m sorry about the
comment I made about Klara to your friend,” Celeste said. “About
letting Klara have you. It was, I don’t know,
conceited.”

“
What? Don’t worry about
it.” I was surprised she felt the need to say anything.