The Traiteur's Ring (24 page)

“No,” he said simply.

“Good,” she landed a playful punch on his taunt arm. “’Cause you’re stuck with me.” She jumped up and pulled him to his feet. “Hurry, I don’t have very many more minutes of spontaneous activity in the schedule.”

They wandered around, each pointing out particularly amusing individuals among the rapidly growing throngs of partiers in the Quarter that arrived with the night. As the crowd grew, so did the intrusive voices in his head, but he continued trying to force his mind to ignore the cacophony of sounds. After a while he didn’t have to think about it at all. The words became dull background, like when you finally stopped thinking about the howling wind outside in a storm.

He saw the old man again at Fritzel’s, a small jazz pub with a European feel, where they stopped to share another drink before dinner. The music turned out to be pretty good, even for so early in the evening, and they decided to sit for a while and enjoy the soft but angry melodies of a jazz quartet sitting in wooden chairs on the small stage. They found a table towards the back, but the room wasn’t that big. The music filled it nicely.

The old man leaned against the wall, shifting his slight weight back and forth in rhythm to the music. His eyes were closed, and his yellow teeth split his leathery face as he clicked his tongue against chapped lips beneath his battered ball cap. Ben watched him for a moment, and his wife’s voice faded into a blur with the ones in his head as he craned his neck to catch the old man’s eye.

“What’s up?” Christy asked and turned to look behind her at what might have caught his eye.

The old man opened his eyes and saw him. When he did, his grin got bigger. He again gave him the crazy salute with a tug at the weathered beer cap. Ben rose to his feet and headed towards him, unsure what he would say, but definitely done with being stalked. He felt Christy’s tug on his shirt but brushed it away.

“Where are you going?”

“I’ll be right back,” he answered without looking. He weaved through the tight crowd, now and again losing sight of the old Cajun, but then picking him up again as he slipped through the maze of people. The old man had stopped his crazed, trance-like moves to the music, and instead just followed Ben’s progress with jaundiced eyes, his stained teeth sending grins of encouragement.

Only a few yards to go and he jostled his way through a frustrating two step with a waitress who carried an enormous tray of drinks on one shoulder. His back and forth dance with the waitress, whose eyes pleaded with him not to knock into her and send her buffet of liquor crashing to the floor, temporarily blocked his view of the Cajun. Finally he stopped, gently took the waitress by both shoulders and stepped around her.

“Excuse me,” he said without looking back to see if she smiled or flipped him the bird.

And, the man was gone.

Again.

Goddammit, I know he was here.

Sho’ ‘neff dat, Bennie boy. We be jawin’ ‘bout dis tin, jes few minute mo’ boy
.

The voice sounded crystal clear – way too clear to be real and emanating from the chattering jazz-filled room. Frustrated, he balled up a fist and nearly punched the wall where the ghost of a man had been. Instead, he did his four-count tactical breathing for a few cycles until the pounding in his temple went away, and his fist relaxed and stopped quivering.

He looked back and caught sight of Christy who now stood by their table and their eyes met. She shrugged with both hands up towards the ceiling in the universal “What the hell?” gesture. Ben looked around and spotted the bathroom sign gratefully pointing toward a short hall just past the wall where his imaginary Cajun had taunted him. He pointed to the sign and shot her a sheepish grin. Christy chuckled and shook her head, but she took her seat.

Ben pushed through the battered, glossy black painted door into the men’s room. An older guy, his gray and thinning hair pulled back in a desperate-to-not-be-old ponytail, stood at the in-floor urinal, both hands above him where his forearms supported his weight against the dingy wall as piss dribbled slowly out of him, now and again spattering on his sandal-clad feet. Ben strode to the mirror and turned one faucet, which spun loosely and did nothing, and then the other. Clean looking water spit out into his hands. He bent over and splashed it on his face. The cold of it felt good, and he wet one hand and rubbed it across the back of his neck. Then, he raised his head slightly and peered at himself in the mirror.

The face looking back at him didn’t look crazy – or at least not any more than the identical face he had stared at every day of his life. The eyes looked intense and put upon – but not crazy. At least he didn’t think so (but what crazy person really thought he looked crazy, right?). He blinked hard, and the tap water caused a dull burn in his eyes for a moment.

My sweet goodness, that is a fine lookin’ man. I could butter up that ass and eat it.

Ben glanced behind him in the mirror and caught the pony-tailed owner of the voice staring at his ass. The man looked up, saw Ben’s eyes in the mirror, and blushed.

“Jess need to wash my mitts,” he said with a shrug, holding up soft fingers with long nails and two gold bracelets on his right wrist.

“Sure,” Ben said and pulled thin paper towels from the dented dispenser to his right. Then, he stepped out of the way.

He decided it would be awkward if he had to take a leak ten minutes from now and forced himself to pee before he left the bathroom. He stood at the urinal and forced the small amount of urine out of his bladder and alternated between efforts to understand what the hell his hallucination meant and competing efforts to not think about it at all. Neither effort won,  and he zipped up and left the bathroom still confused but dedicated to changing the apparent course of the evening.

I’m on my honeymoon, Goddammit.

“Everything okay?” Christy asked as he slipped back into his chair beside her.

For a moment, he looked at her and considered just telling her about the crazy things circling his cluttered mind.

She’s my wife now – she deserves to know.

“When you gotta go you gotta go,” was all he managed.

“Are you feeling alright?” she asked, and he felt a twinge of guilt at her concern.

“Oh, yeah,” he sipped his wine – a little sweeter than the last one. “Just waited ‘til nearly the point of no return.” He laughed with some effort, and she seemed to relax.

The wine tasted good, and the music sounded great. He slowly relaxed back into their evening, and soon his crazy imagination seemed like an annoyance rather than an emergency. Twice more he considered telling her about it, but never did. Eventually, hunger won them both over, and Christy pulled out her trusty French Quarter map and brochure.

“Authentic New Orleans but not real expensive?”

“Sounds right,” he said.

Christy had thought about Tujaques, but the ‘E’ for expensive on her map and the ‘reservations recommended’ steered her instead to the ‘M’ for moderately priced Petunia’s. The guide sold them with a promise of authentic Cajun and Creole tastes, and they finished their wine and together chugged tall glasses of water with lemon (hydrate or die his Team training reminded him – perhaps just as true in bar hopping as in conducting combat operations).

They walked hand-in-hand and chatted about nothing. Back on Bourbon Street, they headed west, and the five minute walk to Saint Louis Street provided more entertainment in the form of the alcohol worshippers along the way. Just past Toulouse Street they had to step over the legs of a man who stretched out across the sidewalk, the girl straddling his waist alternating between bending over to kiss him and sitting up to tilt back her plastic cup of disinhibitor. Again, they both thought of Reed and Amy and laughed.

By the time they arrived at Petunia’s, just a short stroll north of Bourbon toward Dauphine on St. Louis Street, Ben felt great. The voices in his head were drowned out nicely by those on the street, and Christy’s warm hand in his made him feel safe from his walking dreams.

*   *   *

Compared to the rising din of partiers on Bourbon Street, Petunia’s seemed relatively sedate, which felt perfect to Ben. Set in a hundred and fifty year old French Quarter town house, the restaurant delivered what they had paid the brochure company to promise – huge portions of authentic New Orleans cuisine. Together they waded through giant, bowl-like plates of Shrimp Creole and bowtie pasta with seafood and Andouille sausage. They sopped it up with fresh, warm bread and washed it down with more red wine (a Shiraz she told him) and more water to keep the evening from ending in headaches and fitful, sexless sleep.

They talked about the beach, and Christy described for him the ocean perched condo that waited for them at the resort she had booked in Destin Beach a few hours away.

“They have Hobie cats and sunfish at the resort, and we can rent snorkeling gear if we want. They even can arrange some scuba diving for us if you think you want to do that.”

“It sounds fantastic,” Ben told her over spoonfuls of rich, spicy food. He could tell how excited she was to get there. He wondered if they could check in a day early. Maybe they should get the hell out of New Orleans tomorrow instead of the next day and get on with their real vacation. New Orleans seemed to do nothing for him but conjure up ghosts and nightmares.

“Maybe we should just head there tomorrow,” he said and watched her face.

Christy seemed to consider a moment.

“We probably could,” She took his hand. “I think we should head up to where you’re from after breakfast tomorrow though. I want you to find some closure to whatever that place still holds on you, baby.”

Ben looked down, but he nodded. She was right. He had to finish – if only to prove the dreams really were just dreams and that no Voodoo magic waited for him in the swamp. He needed to say goodbye to all that once and for all.

“By the time we go up there and back, it’ll be pretty late in the day,” she pointed out. “Maybe we just have a nice dinner, spend the evening in bed abusing each other, and get an early start for Destin on Tuesday?”

“That sounds great,” he smiled. He loved her so much. He looked at her and saw she looked down at her plate, still half-covered with creamy seafood. He worried she looked distracted. “What’s wrong on your side, hon?”

She looked up with a genuine softness. “Nothing at all,” but she blushed a little. She took a fork and poked at her food. “There is something I wanted to talk to you about.” She looked at him with warm soft eyes that didn’t look troubled but held no clues as to what was on her mind.

“Okay,” he waited.

“Well,” she began softly as if picking her away around some obstacles. “When you were in,” she glanced around, not wanting to give away any military secrets he guessed, “you know – when you were away,” she continued.

“Yeah?”

It came tumbling out of her.

“Ben, when you called me that night and told me about that little girl and how you wanted us to adopt her – well, I guess that night really got me thinking.” Her eyes held his but looked wet now. “Ben, I love you so much, and I know we’ve only been married for like a day and a half, but – well,” she sighed, and her face blushed again.

“What is it, Christy?” Ben asked. He wasn’t sure if he should be worried. He did know he had no friggin’ clue what they were talking about.

“Okay,” she took his hands, holding them softly in her own, and a deep breath. “Ben, when were you thinking we should think about having kids?”

A wave of relief spread over him. “She wants kids” seemed much easier than “‘you seem like some kind of lunatic to me.” He squeezed her hands quickly.

When did he want kids? He realized Jewel had left him with an ache that felt completely unfamiliar. He had wanted to be a parent to her with everything he held inside him. He knew the circumstances and the situation had impacted those feelings immensely. But he also realized Africa had left him with that yearning – a desire that went beyond Jewel. He always knew one day he and Christy would make babies together. But ever since Jewel, he realized the right time for children from his perspective was yesterday. He loved this woman with all of his heart and starting a family to share that love seemed natural and perfect.

Ben realized Christy still watched him expectantly. He leaned across the table, his shirt nearly dragging in Shrimp Creole along the way and kissed his wife deeply.

“I’m ready whenever you are, baby,” He touched her face. “I love you so much that it seems like having babies with you is the next thing. Hey,” he chuckled as he sat back down, “we got a license now and everything.”

Christy held his eyes.

“Are you sure you don’t want to wait awhile? Just be married for a bit?”

“We can,” he said. “But, baby, we’ve shared a life and made a home together for a long time now. I don’t need time to see what that’s like. I’m ready to move forward, and I think for both of us that means kids, right?”

“It does for me, I know,” her face beamed. “I was just thinking you might need time.”

“I’m ready,” he told her again. He realized the thought of children suddenly seemed more like an immediate need. “We can wait as long as you need, but I’m ready.” His mind flashed to little Jewel, her face nuzzled against his neck and her voice giggles and smiles.

“Well,” she continued. “While you were gone I stopped taking the pill. Just to give my body a little break, you know?”

He nodded.

“I mean I took another kind of precaution last night and the last two weeks,” she didn’t elaborate on exactly what kind of precaution, “but I could stop taking anything if you want.” She stared at him expectantly and nibbled on her lower lip. He felt her thumb tap nervously on the back of his hand. “I mean it would probably take a little while anyway,” she said to fill the short silence, “and I would use something tonight, because, you know, I’ve been drinking and stuff.” She watched his face. “What do you think?”

Ben leaned over again, and this time kissed her forehead.

“I think we should make a baby.”