Andno.It’s not Jourdan’s ghost.
Choosing a seat on a brocade sofa piled high with velvet pillows, Cash pats the space next to him. Maggie obliges, balancing her Sazerac on her knee. She leaves the other end of the sofa open for me. But I know if I sit beside her, there’ll be no way to keep from brushing against her.
I might be cranky, but I’m not a masochist.
Grabbing a round, tufted ottoman, I pull it in front of them.
From the gilt mirror to the heavy red curtains held back by silk rope, from the shiny gold replica of an Egyptian sarcophagus to the abundance of beads and ornate antique furniture, the whole room screams New Orleans excess and kitsch. Groups of folks are scattered around, speaking in hushed tones. What happened here all those years ago seems to call for quiet. But there’s still the occasional burst of laughter or squeal of delight.
“I’ve heard objects go flying across the room sometimes.” Maggie shivers, getting into the spirit of things.
“If that’s true, I reckon it’s the work of a human hand and not a ghostly one,” I tell her.
She scowls. “Spoilsport.”
“Children, children,” Cash scolds. “The ghost of Pierre Jourdan isn’t going to feel comfortable making an appearance with you two squabbling.”
Maggie continues to frown at me, but dutifully clamps her mouth shut. For the next couple of minutes, the three of us absorb the atmosphere, which feels less like it’s filled with a spectral presence and more like it’s filled with air from the kitchen.
It’s hot in here.
Shrugging out of my sports coat, I catch Maggie appreciating the way my dress shirt clings to my shoulders. Two weeks ago, I would’ve been grinning like a possum eating a sweet tater to see want for me in her eyes. Now? I’m hankering for so much more that all I can manage is a dark glower.
When she sees me frowning at her, a blush sneaks up her neck to stain her cheeks. She lowers her eyes, concentrating needlessly hard on the liquor in her glass.
“How long do you think you’ll be remembered after you die?” Cash leans back against the sofa.
Here we go again. “This preoccupation you’ve developed with death is starting to concern me,” I tell him.
“It’s not a preoccupation with death,” he counters. “It’s a preoccupation withlife. With the big questions of life. And I realize you’ve probably been pondering them in that sensitive soul of yours since you were old enough to read Nietzsche, but some of us are only now coming around to them.”
He grins, and it reminds me of the old Cash. It’s a grin that says,Come on. Lighten up.
“I suppose it depends on if you’re famous, or if you come back as a ghost,” Maggie muses. “I mean, famous folks end up in the history books, so they’re remembered for centuries. And if you come back as a ghost, well…” Her eyes widen as she gestures around the room. “I guess you’re remembered for as long as the place you’re haunting stays standing.”
“Yeah,” Cash says, “but even then people only knowofyou. They don’t knowyou. So is that truly being remembered?”
“It’s a preposterous question to begin with,” I say. “What does it matter how long you’re remembered after you’re dead? You’redead. You won’t care.”
“Not true.” Cash lifts a finger. “If you’re not a believer in a spiritual afterlife, then the only parts of you that remain here on earth after your body is turned to dust are the parts you leave behind in the hearts and minds of others.”
“So you answered your own question. You’re remembered as long as the folks you loved, and the folks who loved you, are alive and well.”
“Which is all fine and good for people who have kids and grandkids and great-grandkids. Their legacy, theirmemory, can stretch on for decades. But what about people who die young? Not only are they robbed of a long life, but they’re also robbed of a longafterlife.”
I frown as I ponder his statement. “You aren’t thinking about life and death the right way. It shouldn’t matter how long you live, or how long you’re remembered after you die. The only thing that holds any consequence is what you do with the time you have.”
“It’s not the years in your life, but the life in your years?” Cash asks. “Isn’t that a bit cliché?”
“Yeah,” I admit. “But for a reason. It happens to be true.”
He tucks his tongue in his cheek. “Did we just answer the biggest question of all? What is the meaning of life?”
Maggie chuckles. “Nietzsche’s got nothing on us.”
Cash grins at her, but then suddenly grunts and sits forward to test the scar above his temple with his fingers. He follows the circle of raised flesh to the new line of wounded skin across his forehead.
Maggie lays a hand on his arm. “You okay?”
