UnConventional Read online

  “You could look into adoption,” Mel offers. “Heck, take one of mine!” She tries to laugh, but her face remains sympathetic.

  “Stephen? Raise someone else’s kid? I think he’d dye his hair fuchsia and join a punk band first.”

  Melanie chuckles softly, but her eyes are fixed on mine. “Go tonight. Look sexy, and have fun. Be happy. God knows you deserve it.”

  Chapter Seven

  As we pull away from the hotel, I’m trying to decide how close to sit next to Santiago in the back of the cab. He left his crutches in his room, and his chair is disassembled and stored in the trunk. He smiles at me.

  “You look incredible, Di,” he says.

  I glance down¸ a stray piece of hair falling across my face. “You mean that as in ‘beautiful’ or it’s ‘impossible to believe’ I look this good?”

  “Hey,” he says, touching my chin with the tips of two fingers, nudging my head up, forcing me to look at him. His eyes are soft, the yellow specks just barely visible in the remaining sunlight streaming through the windows.

  For a moment, we’re silent, looking at each other, the rumble of the car beneath us, the faint sounds of the cabbie’s radio leaking back to us.

  He sweeps the strand of hair behind my ear, raising goose bumps as a slight shiver courses through me from the subtle graze of his fingertips on my cheek. “I guess that’s what I get for dating an editor,” he says, trying to joke, but his face is serious. “You look beautiful.”

  I study his eyes, not fully believing him, but they’re sincere. “Thanks.” I smile. “You’re not bad on the eyes, either,” I say, feeling my cheeks pink, just the hint of a flush.

  He’s dressed the most casually I’ve seen him—if I don’t count the gym—loose-fitting indigo jeans and a printed, charcoal-gray tee. He looks down at himself, flashes that unabashed grin. “It’s pretty hard to fuck up a T-shirt and jeans.”

  We laugh.

  He smiles, glances out the window for the first time, and his face transforms into anger. He uses the passenger’s seat to pull himself forward a little, closer to the cabbie. “Why the hell are you taking St. Charles all the way to the river?”

  I take a moment to check the scenery too, spying the swamp-green streetcar rumbling past through my window as we drive through the Garden District. I feel a pang, relieved the cabbie didn’t decide to take Tchoupitoulas. I press fingers into my eyes. It’s bad enough I teared up at breakfast; Santiago doesn’t need a full-out breakdown on our way to dinner.

  He’s still arguing with the cabbie. “If I’d wanted the scenic route, I would have told you to go this way.” While driving along St. Charles Avenue is picturesque, it’s definitely not the lightest on the meter. “Forget it. We’re nearly there anyway.” He pushes himself back into the seat, lets out a frustrated sigh.

  We pass Nashville, the street I grew up on, where my parents lived until they died, where I walked all the way from St. Charles and Napoleon the night they were killed. I’ve avoided that street for over a decade, and there it is, its blue sign seemingly so benign, tilted slightly, covered in a thin layer of algae.

  “Great way to pad your pocket,” he mutters to himself, then cuts off. I feel a hand on my arm, and when I turn to look at him, it’s through misted vision. His face softens, eyebrows dipping, taking my hand. “Are you okay?”

  I hesitate, reach for my medal, then remember I left it behind. Finally I manage a faint nod as a tear traces down my cheek.

  “You’re too cute to cry,” he says, half teasing. He offers me a handkerchief—because of course he’s the type of guy who has one—the initials SD in dark charcoal script in one corner.

  “Remember I told you my mom died ten years ago?”

  He nods.

  “My father too. It was a car accident, very sudden, not far from here. I left New Orleans after that and haven’t been back till now. A lot of memories.”

  “I’m sorry,” he says softly, squeezing my hand.

  I shake my head, try to smile, but the tears are fighting me. “It’s okay; I needed to do this. And you’re definitely a big help.”

  He smiles faintly. “Do you know the song ‘Cielito Lindo’? You’ve probably heard it. It’s a beautiful song, even if it’s Mexican, not Cuban,” he says with a grin. “The chorus goes, ‘Ay, ay, ay, ay, canta, no llores, porque cantando, se alegran, cielito lindo, los corazones.’”

  I laugh. His voice isn’t entirely on key, a little too deep and scratchy, but that makes it even more endearing. I wipe my eyes, feeling suddenly better, especially with the look he’s giving me, annoying cabbie completely forgotten, as if cheering me up is his only concern.

  “See, it’s true,” he says, brushing his thumb against my cheek.

  I blink, confused. I took French all through high school and can understand a little Spanish from what I picked up in college, but I’m far from fluent. Something about singing and hearts?

  He smiles sweetly. “We should sing instead of crying, because singing makes our hearts happy.”

  I know what makes my heart happy. His looking at me like that, touching me so soothingly. “Thanks,” I say, folding up his handkerchief and offering it back. “I love to sing. I do it all the time without thinking, but…” I take in a breath, look away. “It’s not always…appreciated.” Stephen hates my music, and my singing, especially when I do it in public, which embarrasses him.

  “Well, I’ll always appreciate it,” he says, beaming. “I thought you were adorable the way you sang even with your headphones on.”

  I blush but don’t mind. “Yeah, I tend to do that.” I reach for his hand, nesting my tiny fingers between his much chunkier, rougher ones. Still, somehow we fit together. “What does ‘cielito lindo’ mean?”

  He leans back in the seat, squeezes my hand, points out the window. I can just barely see what’s quickly turning into a clear night sky. “Literally? Beautiful little sky. But it also refers to the singer’s beloved. Both words can be terms of endearment.”

  “So…am I lindo?”

  He laughs softly. “Linda,” he corrects. “Yes.” He kisses my fingertips, and I want to swoon. Really. “I already told you you were beautiful.”

  * * * *

  Cooter Brown’s is nestled in the Riverbend, where St. Charles Avenue meets Carrollton. Walk a few feet, across train tracks, over the levee, and you’ll hit the Mississippi River. The neighborhood institution is part of a row of shops—flanked by an optometrist’s office on one end, and a tattoo parlor and Thai restaurant, the bar occupying the spot nearest the river. Once inside, I’m pleasantly surprised and yet comforted by one of the great things about New Orleans—time may pass, hurricanes may come—even devastating ones like Betsy and Katrina—but all in all, nothing much changes. Cooter Brown’s, which likely didn’t suffer much in the way of flooding during the storm due to its proximity to the river—looks exactly as it did the last time I was here, over a decade ago.

  One thing that has changed?

  “IDs?” the man at the door asks us as soon as we enter.

  Santiago slips his out of his wallet, hands it to the man, who barely looks at it before turning to me. I pat my sides, stupidly, used to wearing pants, and realize—shit!—I left my phone, key, and ID in my room. I lean in to Santiago and whisper, “I, uh, forgot mine.”

  He nods it off and looks up at the guy. “Oh, my wife accidentally left her purse at home.”

  The guy looks at Santiago, then at me, rolls his eyes, and waves us in. I’m grateful for Santiago’s help, but I’m temporarily lost in the way my stomach bubbled up when he called me his wife. Even though I hardly know him, even though I know it’s a silly, Di-are-you-still-in-middle-school feeling, I can’t help it.

  “I can’t believe they carded us!” I whisper harshly to Santiago. “They never checked IDs when I was in high school.”

  He looks up at me with his telltale grin and shakes his head, pointing toward the kitchen. “I’m sure a lot of things have changed since
you were last in New Orleans,” he says.

  The music from the bar filters into the ordering area, which is small but open and uncluttered, and only one other collection of patrons occupy the space, giving Santiago room to roll in and back up to see the menu, plastered high on the wall. Although I can tell by the little smile on his face that he already knows what he wants. I don’t blame him. The fried oysters really are the best in the city, even if—I glance over at the cook perched between the counter and a row of deep fryers, long dreadlocked hair hanging down, cigarette perched in the corner of his mouth—you don’t want to talk to the health inspector.

  “Order whatever you want,” he says. “But that oyster platter has been calling my name for a long time.”

  I glance at the menu—for the most part, typical bar food, exactly as I remember: sandwiches, po’boys, burgers, appetizers, and of course, fried seafood. If things haven’t changed, the gator quesadillas are delicious, but I worry about looking like a pig if I order too much. It’s been so long since I’ve had good New Orleans food, I want everything.

  “Why don’t you just order for us?”

  He leans back. “That’s a dangerous proposition.”

  “How so?”

  “We’ve only known each other a day. I have four sisters, remember? Every intelligent man knows that when a woman says she doesn’t know what she wants, she really does and is testing to see if you know what she wants.”

  I have to stifle a laugh. Stephen always orders for me, partially because I almost always get the same thing. “It’s all right. I’ll trust you.”

  He beams at that. “Why don’t you get our drinks? We can meet up near the back bar. It’s a slow night, so it’ll be closed and relatively quiet and secluded.” Before I can ask what he wants, he says, “Get whatever you want for yourself, and—”

  “Let me guess: a rum and Coke for you?”

  He smiles and nods, then turns and pushes toward the counter. I know I should be freaking out about being here, in a bar with so many memories. At least I didn’t meet Stephen here. I wouldn’t have been able to walk through the door if I had. Still, I find I’m…excited. For a moment, I can forget that I’m thirty, not nineteen, that I’m married. I can just be with Santiago. Even if it’s only this one night, I can remember it for the rest of my life.

  * * * *

  Cooter Brown’s is actually huge by New Orleans standards, with a large, L-shaped bar and rows of long, tightly packed tables. I pass them, drinks carefully balanced in hand, along the wide pathway, past the booths with the logoed mirror graffitied with years of patrons’ messages. I’m sure if I looked carefully enough, I might still find Di was here scrawled in permanent marker.

  In the back is an equally large space, a second bar and booths on one side, and two pool tables on the other. It’s summer, and a Tuesday, so the place is relatively empty, the tables free. I glance over at the dark corner where Santiago asked me to meet him and head for the other end instead. After setting the drinks down, I get to work arranging the balls for a game just as Boys Like Girls’ “The Great Escape” starts to pump out of the speakers. Forget yesterday, I try to remind myself, singing along absently. That’s what tonight’s all about.

  I hear a chuckle. “We’re number 535,” he says, pulling up beside me, just as I remove the triangle. “I’m guessing this means you want to play?”

  I cross to the wall and grab two cues. “If that’s okay with you.”

  He laughs, taking one and easily slipping it behind him into one of the crutch holders mounted to his chair. “Sure. I used to play all the time in college.”

  “Oh, so you’re good?” I ask, chalking up my cue.

  He grabs one of the nearby tumblers, gestures with it. When I nod, he takes a sip. “I wouldn’t say that. I’m probably even worse now—”

  “Because of your muscle disease?” I take a gulp of my beer as I realize how casually I asked that, hoping I can hide my blush.

  He looks at me, his head tilted to one side, his face unreadable. Not angry, more perplexed, like he’s not sure what to do with me. I feel like a dragon is trapped inside me and writhing to get free. Breakdown in the cab? Check. Saying the wrong thing five minutes into the date? Check. How long before he decides he’s tired and wants to call it a night, realizing how much of a mistake I am? I guess I can credit Stephen for that. We might not spend as much time together as I would like, but he hasn’t left me.

  I’m still trying to stutter out some kind of apology when he speaks.

  “Well, that too, probably. But I was thinking more that it’s been over a decade since I played.”

  I blush fiercely, force myself to speak. “Me too. Do you want to break?”

  “Ladies first,” he says with a relaxed smile, gesturing with his drink.

  I gulp some more beer before setting it out of the way. “You just don’t want to embarrass yourself,” I blurt, then blush deeper. Maybe I should just shut up, I think, but he’s laughing.

  I take a steadying breath, line up my shot. Stephen’s actually very good at pool. We used to play all the time when we were first together, but Stephen makes everything too logical. Obviously, geometry, physics play a role, but it’s a game. It’s supposed to be fun. Something Stephen can’t understand. He was always trying to convince me the shot I was going to take was wrong, usually taking the cue from my hand so he could “show me” how to do it right. So I gave up.

  I pull back. Let go with force. The balls scatter around the table, several solids sinking into the pockets. I turn, surprised when I hear Santiago shout. He’s smiling, toasting his glass at me. I feel ridiculous and yet happy, a pleasant warmth in my chest. And it’s not just the alcohol, although I reach for my beer and take a few more gulps.

  We play for a while, and Santiago wasn’t lying. He’s terrible. Constantly scratching, missing the cue ball, getting the angle wrong, not hitting with enough force, skimming the pockets, or knocking my balls in instead of his own. I can’t tell if he’s just bad, if he’s really rusty, or if it’s a side effect of his muscle disease. Or, as I suspect is at least partially the case—he’s not trying very hard in order to give me an easy win.

  “So much for my manly prowess,” he says with a laugh as he scratches again.

  I retrieve the ball for him, palming it, perched on the edge of the table. We’re onto our second—or is it third?—round of drinks, and I’ll probably win on my next turn, but it’s been a while since I felt this relaxed.

  “It’s okay. You can blame it on the rum.” I tilt my glass toward him, then drink. “Speaking of,” I say as I watch him line up his shot. “Do you know what the name Cooter Brown refers to?”

  “A turtle or a whore would be my guess.” He takes his lip between his teeth, concentrating, then lets the cue go. It’s a good shot, and though he doesn’t sink the ball he was aiming for, it confirms at least some of my suspicions.

  I laugh as I walk the table, planning my move. “The name comes from the Civil War. Supposedly, there was a man named Cooter Brown who lived right on the border between North and South.” I take my cue, chalk it up. “But he didn’t want to be recruited by either army, so he made sure he was too drunk for either side to want him.” The balls sail across the table, but I miss the pocket by a few inches. “Figures a bar in New Orleans would take its name from a guy who spent his life drunk so he didn’t need to get involved.”

  Santiago laughs and pulls himself along the table to get closer to the cue ball. “You know, New Orleans and Santiago de Cuba actually are pretty similar. Both cities were influenced by French and Spanish.”

  I finish the last of my beer. God, I love this place. I’m not a huge beer drinker, but they have so many on tap I can’t resist. “Really?”

  He nods, takes his shot, knocking my ball in. He laughs, shakes his head, leans back, gripping his stick with one hand. “In fact, my mother’s family actually lived in Louisiana at the time of the purchase, before they moved to Cuba. They were French.�
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  I let this sink in. “So you’re saying our ancestors could have met, theoretically. Maybe even fallen in love.”

  He laughs, his dimple showing. “You are a writer. Speaking of… You promised you’d tell me about your novel.”

  I press my beer glass to my face, trying to relieve the heat. “I can’t believe I told you about that.” I sigh, stare at the table. I only have one ball left, plus the eight ball. Nearly all of Santiago’s stripes lie scattered around the felt, but I can see by the glint in his eye he’s been having fun anyway.

  “Come on,” he says, pulling himself closer to me, hands on the tables to meet me in the gap between them. “I’ve never met a writer who didn’t like to talk about their work,” he says with a sly grin, but his eyes are a different matter. They remind me of how he looked at me in the cab, when he was trying to comfort me. In the dim light, his eyes are darker, deeper somehow, but the sincerity in them, the focus—those amber specks barely distinguishable from the rest—oh, God, if only…

  He’s looking up at me, I’m looking down at him, his lap so inviting. I have to turn away, focus on my penultimate shot—or my last if I can manage to hit both the final ball and the eight ball at once, in order.

  “Look, Di, I’m sorry. I didn’t want to put you in a bad spot. I just think it’s great that you’re doing what you want. That takes courage.”

  I snort, then hurriedly take my shot to distract us both. It’s a disaster, sending my final ball reeling in one direction and nearly knocking the eight ball in. I look around for a drink to steel my nerves, but they’re empty. I swallow, glance at him out of the corner of my eye. Over the last decade, I’ve gotten used to not having anyone to go to for comfort. Stephen is good with tasks: arranging my parents’ funeral and interment, for example. But tears? Without my mother’s shoulder to cry on, the last few years have been…