Chapter Eleven
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Maggie
Charlie Chaplin once said that a man’s true character comes out when he’s drunk.
If that’s true, Cash’s true character is fractious and nonsensical and a little bit sad.
“For Pete’s sake,” I complain, teetering under his weight. “You’re heavier than you look.”
“Sssturdy bones,” he slurs.
“Sturdy bones and about ten pounds of whiskey and beer,” Luc adds.
We’re on either side of Cash, trying to support his stumbling steps on the way to his house. I guess I wasn’t paying attention to how much he was drinking. One minute, we were singing and dancing and reminiscing about the time Cash climbed a tree in Louis Armstrong Park on a dare from Luc and disturbed a nest of bald-faced hornets.
“That winged mob stung you about twenty times before you fell outta that tree and started running toward me and Maggie May.” Luc laughed.
I was quick to add, “With the hornets in hot pursuit.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Cash waved us off. “But the joke was on you two. You both ended up in the duck pond with me.”
See? All good. And then, the next minute, he was hardly able to keep his feet under him.
“Are you sure it’s only the booze?” I ask Luc now, worrying my bottom lip with my teeth and trying not to turn an ankle on the uneven sidewalk. High heels were not made for New Orleans streets. What was I thinking?
“Don’t talk about me like I’m not here,” Cash complains. Only, when he says it, it sounds more like,Don tall bout me lie I’m not ear.
“That does it.” Luc squats next to Cash, and before I know it, he has Cash over his shoulder, holding on to Cash’s legs while Cash’s torso and arms dangle down his backside.
Cash starts laughing. But it’s not the easy, carefree laugh from earlier. This one’s tinged with pain, too much alcohol, and maybe a little hysteria. It hits my ears like the piercing civil defense sirens the city blares when bad weather is headed our way.
“Sssack of taters!” He shoots a fist in the air.
Luc and I remain silent as we turn down Cash’s street. Luc because he’s upset. Me because I’m beginning to realize just how serious things are with Cash and the head injury and the drinking.
Clenching my fists, I doggedly follow Luc up the stairs to Cash’s front door. I’m shocked when he turns the knob and the door swings wide.
Not that the French Quarter is a hotbed of criminal activity like some other parts of the city—the worst that usually happens here is some drug use, a lot of public intoxication, and the occasional mugging—but still…no one leaves their doors unlocked. That’s inviting trouble. A guy who’s planning to start a security business should know that.
Luc hits the light switch on the wall, and I get a look inside, instantly understanding the unlocked door. There’s nothing here but a couple of folding chairs on either side of an old milk crate and a queen-size mattress on the floor. A pile of blankets and one pillow rest in disarray atop the mattress, and over in the corner is a huge mound of debris filled with strips of wallpaper, pieces of broken cabinetry, and three old paint buckets.
How can Cash live like this?
Even the lighting is depressing. A single bulb hangs from wires in the ceiling.
I want to tell Luc to turn around and take Cash to my place. But before I open my mouth, Luc kneels and deposits Cash on the mattress with the care of a father putting down an infant child. Worry puckers his brow as he straightens.
“I’m gonna grab you a glass of water,” he tells Cash, disappearing through a doorway I assume leads to the dining room and kitchen.
“Maggie?” Cash mumbles, and old habits and instincts—see, Itoldyou they’re hard to break—have me flying to his side. I’m not sure my feet touch the floor.
“I’m here.” I sit on the edge of the mattress.
When he fumbles for my hand, I don’t hesitate to let him take it. His wide palm is rough and dry. I remember the first time he ever put it on my body.
We’d been friends-who-flirt for months and officially dating for almost six weeks. Our make-out sessions had become increasingly steamy, and then one day, behind the gym, he slipped his hand under my shirt. I can still recall the heat of his palm skating over my ribs. By the time he pushed up the cup of my bra so he could palm my breast, my knees had turned to Jell-O.
