“That’s a man who’s running on a timeline,” she said.
I set out walking toward Canal Street. “Do you think he’s ill?”
“I think he knows something about his body that he’s decided is nobody else’s business.” Papers shifted on her end. “In my experience, he’s likely to be counting the days or weeks left.”
“I grew up in your office,” I said.
“Yes.”
“I know what that looks like.”
“I know you do.”
She asked, “How is the bodyguard?”
I glanced at the three spires in Jackson Square. “Professional. Steady. Calm in a way that would be insufferable if he were less often right.”
“Mm.”
“That wasn’t a compliment.”
“It sounded like one.” She paused. “Are you giving yourself permission here, or are you already finding reasons not to?”
I should have moved on to another topic. Instead, “He leaves when the job ends.”
“Then you need to figure out what happens after.”
“Mama.”
“I didn’t say make a permanent decision by Tuesday. I suggest that you don’t build the wall before you’ve stood in the room. You know the difference.”
“I have a job,” I said.
“So does he. And yet here you both are.” She let that settle for a moment. “Your grandmother’s pouch is in your pocket.”
I stopped. “How did you know that?”
“Because you carry it with you when you’re trying to sort something out.”
“I have to go,” I said.
“Eat something.”
“I always do.”
I hung up.
Before I reached Canal Street, I turned toward the river. I chose a bench facing the Mississippi where it curved broad and brown past the levee, higher than the streets behind it, carrying its usual freight of silt and commerce. Two container barges were moving downstream.
I sat there long enough for my pulse to even out. Then my father called.
“Luca.”
“Hi, Papa.”
“You mentioned Henri Fontenot the other day.”
“Yes.”
