A hot feeling prickles behind my eyes. It’s probably fine and dandy for some guys to burst into tears after getting released from prison, but I’m not sure a two-day stint qualifies for waterworks. So I throw an arm around her shoulders and hasten her over to Maggie, taking deep breaths the whole way.
“Luc?” Maggie blinks at me uncertainly.
The way I reckon it, I’ve got two choices. I can give in to my heartache and turn a cold shoulder, play it all emotionless and aloof. Or I can listen to the words of the venerable Otis Redding andtry a little tenderness.
Since only one of those lets me pull her into my arms, it’s a no-brainer.
She chokes on a sob and goes up on tiptoe, threading her arms around my neck. I rest my cheek atop her head. Like always, the feel of her (so soft) and the smell of her (both sweet and wild) are enough to have my stomach turning cartwheels.
When she steps back, I force myself to drop my hands from her waist.
“It’s good to see you out of orange.” Her eyes are overly bright.
Glancing down at the jeans and heather-gray sweatshirt one of them must’ve brought for me to change into, I twist my lips. “Oh, I don’t know. I could get used to prison-wear. It’s like going ’round in pajamas and slippers all day.”
“Don’t say it.” Mom waves her hands as if to scrub my words from the air. “Don’t even think it.”
I give her a wink to let her know I’m kidding, then I let my expression turn serious. “Now, which one of you posted my bail?” My eyes fix on Maggie. “Please tell me you didn’t hit up Miss Bea. I hate thinking of her—”
“Maggie put up her own money,” Mom declares. “And forevermore, she’ll be first in my nightly prayers.”
Maggie tries to make light of the situation. “Out of curiosity, where did I rank before today?”
Ignoring the joke, I frown at her. “You had half a million bucks lying ’round?”
“She had to use the bar as collateral.” Mom beams at Maggie. “The building, all the liquor, the whole shebang.”
And now my stomach isn’t cartwheeling. It’s sinking.
She put her livelihood, the thing she bought with her parents’ life insurance money, her most prized possession on the line. For me.
“It was nothing,” she’s quick to assure me. “I mean, it’s not like you’re going to skip out or anything, right?”
“Maggie May…” For a guy who’s supposed to be good with words, I’m at a loss.
“Like I said, it’s nothing.” She changes the subject. “So what do you want to do on your first day of freedom? Take a walk by the river? Stop by Central Grocery for a muffuletta? Go have a Grasshopper at Tujague’s?”
“You make it sound like I’ve been locked up for twenty years instead of two days.”
“Itfeltlike twenty years,” Mom insists. Winding an arm around my waist, she hugs me again. When I complain she’s cutting off my circulation, she squeezes me harder.
“I think number one on the agenda should be a visit to the hospital. How’s Cash?” I’m looking at Maggie, but to my surprise, she’s looking at my mother. “Mom?” I lift an eyebrow.
“I took him some crab cakes while Maggie was making the arrangements for your bail,” she explains, her face clouded with worry. “He seems fine. I mean, he was cutting up and carrying on like always, but…”
When her voice drifts off, I prompt, “But what?”
“But he looks bad, Son. Pale. Getting skinnier by the day.”
I’ve been watching Cash’s downward spiral for months now. Still, it hurts to hear him described in such stark and unflinching terms.
“You and Maggie go on.” She pats my arm. “Go pay him a visit. I’m sure it’ll cheer him up. In the meantime, I’ll head out to the swamp house and get to making some of those Cajun-spiced shrimp with the remoulade you like. I bet you’re hungry enough to eat the north end of a southbound goat after two days of jail food.”
My stomach rumbles in agreement. That’s all she needs to hear before squeezing me one last time and then jumping into her Honda.
Maggie and I spend the drive to the hospital engaged in either pointless small talk or pointed silence. Proof that the hug in the parking lot didn’t repair the damage done between us.
On Canal Street, we get stuck waiting for a funeral procession to go by. Two white horses pull a black wagon with a mahogany casket inside. A roving brass band follows behind, playing a slow, sad version of “Down by the Riverside.” Trailing them, men in their Sunday best march and sing, and women with parasols wave white handkerchiefs and twirl to the beat.
