The Neon Rain (33 page)

Clete blew Dodge like the town was burning down. He packed two suitcases, forged his wife’s signature on a check against their joint account, and left his car double-parked in front of the airport with both front doors open. A month later I received a postcard from him that had been mailed in Honduras. The card showed a Mayan pyramid in Guatemala.

Dear Streak,

Greetings from Bongo-Bongo Land. I’d like to tell you I’m off the sauce and working for the Maryknolls. I’m not. Guess what skill is in big demand down here? A guy that can run through the manual of arms is an automatic captain. They’re all kids. Somebody with a case of Clearasil could take the whole country.

See you in the next incarnation,
C.

P.S. If you run into Lois, tell her I’m sorry for ripping her off. I left my toothbrush in the bathroom. I want her to have it.

I used my retirement money to buy a boat-rental and bait business in New Iberia, and had my houseboat towed from New Orleans through Morgan City and up the Bayou Teche. Annie and I rode on the boat the last few miles into New Iberia, and we ate crawfish
étouffée
on the deck and watched our wake slip up into the cypress and oak trees along the bank, watched yesterday steal upon us—the black people in straw hats, cane-fishing for goggle-eye perch, the smoke drifting out through the trees from barbecue fires, the crowds of college-age kids at fish-fries and crab-boils in the city park, the red leaves that tumbled out of the sky and settled like a whisper on the bayou’s surface. It was the Louisiana I had grown up in, a place that never seemed to change, where it was never a treason to go with the cycle of things and let the season have its way. The fall sky was such a hard blue you could have struck a match against it, the yellow light so soft it might have been aged inside oak. H