I didn’t reply, instead I crossed my arms and looked away from him.

“C’mon, now, what’s the magic word?”

“Fuck you, asshole.”

“‘Please,’” he chortled, having gotten a reaction out of me. “The word is ‘please.’ Didn’t you learn no manners growing up out in that bayou?”

Hate or fear, it didn’t matter which, as long as he still had some power over me. Little increments of control, standing at my car door, barring my way, telling me we were part of a happy family, daring me to deny it. If I say “please,” he’ll have to move away. But if I say “please,” I’ll be admitting that it is his game, with his rules.

“Bayard, you shit, leave me the fuck alone.” I spun from him, walked to the other side of my car, opened the passenger door, and clambered over the stick shift to get into the driver’s seat.

Bayard tapped at my window, but I ignored him and started the car. Self-interest is his middle name; he’ll get out of the way, I thought as I slammed the car into reverse and pulled out, cutting off another car nosing through the parking lot.

“Fucking asshole, fucking, fucking asshole,” I muttered as I raced out of the supermarket lot.

“Get out of my fucking way,” I snarled at the sluggish traffic, running a yellow light, then pulling an illegal U-turn. Don’t give him the power, I thought as I forced myself to slow down. Getting a ticket is not going to make anything any better.

I found a parking spot near Cordelia’s building, but just sat in my car for a few minutes, until I finally glanced at my watch. It was now a little past seven.

It’s past and gone. You may never see him again, I told myself. With that I grabbed my fish and groceries, locked my car, and pushed Cordelia’s buzzer.

She was on the phone and waved to me as I entered. “I really don’t see the need for an aggressive course in an eighty-four-year-old woman,” she told her caller.

I bent down, kissed her on the cheek, and headed for the kitchen. As I unloaded the groceries, I eavesdropped shamelessly on her phone call.

“It’s not a matter of…” Then a pause, until she finally broke in, “The answer is no. If it helps at all, it won’t be much, and, most likely, it will make her miserable.” A shorter pause. “I may be. You can discuss it with Nolan in the morning if you want.” She hung up.

I busied myself putting the rice on to steam. Cordelia came into the kitchen.

“What a pain,” she said, a reference to the phone call, I hoped.

I turned from my steaming rice, put my arms around her, and kissed her. It was the least I could do, particularly if she didn’t like asparagus.

“That makes up for annoying young residents,” she said as we finally broke off. “Do you think I’m an ‘old woman’?”

“Maturity and wisdom, yes.”

“I doubt that’s what he meant. More like plodding and staid.”

“His girlfriend told him to wash it before she’d touch it; you’re three inches taller than he is; and he can’t stand taking orders from strong, intelligent women,” I replied.

“One of the things I like most about you is your astute mind,” Cordelia answered. “What’s for dinner?”

“Red snapper, rice—do you eat asparagus?”

“Yeah, I like asparagus.”

“Good, I wasn’t sure. And strawberries for dessert.”

“Sounds great. How about a salad? I’ve got some tomatoes that have to be eaten.”

“Okay by me, I like tomatoes,” I told her as I cut up a lemon.

Cordelia went to her refrigerator and started pulling out salad things. “How was your day?” she asked, then continued, “Cucumbers, lettuce, bell peppers, and mushrooms. Any of those you can’t stand?”

“They’re all fine. As was my day.” That wasn’t quite true, but sometimes the truth isn’t worth the effort. “How was yours?”

“Actually, pretty good. My last patient even called to cancel instead of just not showing up. And now I’m getting dinner cooked for me in the comfort of my own home.”

“I’m just a slave to love.”

“My very own love slave. I think I like that. Any chance dinner can wait?” she asked, looking directly at me.

“Fresh red snapper? The rice is already on. Aren’t you hungry?”

“Very hungry,” she said, putting her arms around me. Then she started kissing my neck just below my jawline in a very sensitive area.

“My hands are fishy,” I said to explain my not returning her embrace.

“Hands can be washed and the rice can be replaced,” Cordelia rationally replied.

Her phone rang. “Damn,” Cordelia said as she let go of me. “I’ll make this quick.” Her “Hello” was not friendly and welcoming. She immediately amended, “Oh, hi, Mom, I thought it was someone else.”

They exchanged a few pleasantries. I was referred to as “having dinner with a friend,” then it seemed Cordelia’s mother was going on about other family members, officially Cordelia’s stepsisters and brothers. Her mother had not remarried until after Cordelia was out of medical school. She lived in Connecticut with her new husband while Cordelia struggled through her residency here in New Orleans. Cordelia was, at that point, involved with a woman, and, other than a few obligatory appearances, she maintained her distance from her mother’s new family.

The process of coming out to them was still very much ongoing and had been somewhat hindered by a stepbrother telling homophobic jokes and a stepsister who considered it her personal responsibility to fix up Cordelia with eligible men whenever she visited. However, her mother knew that Cordelia was a lesbian and, after the initial shock, had been supportive. I had always sensed in the way Cordelia spoke of her mother that there was a deep bond between them. And, I realized as I heard Cordelia’s joyful laugh through the open kitchen archway, I envied her that connection.

My mother, real mother, pregnant at sixteen, had left when I was five. If she did love me, she hadn’t loved me enough to remain in the bayous taking care of me. She could have at least waited until I was in school, I thought angrily. Then when I was ten, my father, the man who raised me as his daughter, had been killed, and I had been sent off to live with my Aunt Greta and Uncle Claude in that ugly house in Metairie. Uncle Claude had been inconsequential, leaving anything to do with the kids to Aunt Greta. Aunt Greta believed in God, the Church, and Discipline. She was not a woman who dealt well with the grief and anger of a child. To Aunt Greta, I wasn’t her child, I wasn’t anyone’s legitimate child (despite my father, Uncle Claude’s brother, having actually married my mother), and she saw no reason to pretend I was.

I don’t want to think about them, I told myself as I slapped the red snapper over in its pan, rummaging through possible spices to use. Particularly the encounter with Bayard that this dinner had cost me. How do you make hatred go away? How do you keep it from wrenching bits and pieces of your life from you even after what happened is long gone, only a memory from your past?

Someone came from behind and put his arms around me, encasing me with his embrace. I spun away violently, spilling spice across the counter.

Cordelia looked at me, shock and surprise in her eyes.

It’s only Cordelia, I told myself. Not…not who it would have been in Aunt Greta’s kitchen.

“Micky. Are you okay?” she asked.

“Yeah. Sure. You scared me. I didn’t hear you.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…” She took a step toward me.

“This is a mess, let me clean it up.” I turned from her, getting a sponge from the sink to wipe off the counter. I didn’t want to be touched right now, and I didn’t know how to tell Cordelia that.

“How’s your mom?” I asked as I wiped the counter.

Cordelia leaned against the refrigerator, sensing that I needed distance. “Oh, pretty good. My stepsister Emily had twins a few days ago. She was telling me about that.”

I put the sponge back in the sink, then rinsed off my hands. “Boys, girls, or both?” I asked as I began squeezing lemon onto the fish.

“Two girls, identical twins, identical sets of lungs from what Mom says.”

I put the fish in the oven, then checked on the rice.

“Can I help with anything?” Cordelia asked.

“Finish up the salad, maybe, while I deal with the asparagus.”

Cordelia nodded, pulling out a cutting board and knife. As she cut things for the salad, she went into detail about Emily and her twins, more to fill the silence than for any other reason.

During dinner we talked of mundane things—the weather, or what didn’t directly concern us, Danny’s and Elly’s latest home improvement, Alex’s birthday party.

It was only after dinner, over the slow sipping of coffee that Cordelia reached out, took my hand, and said, “Micky, do you want to talk?”

“Maybe I should go,” I replied.

“If that’s what you want.” Cordelia didn’t let go of my hand.

“Oh, I don’t know.” Then finally, “I ran into my cousin today.”

“The one who molested you?” Cordelia asked evenly.

“Yeah, him,” was my brusque reply. “I don’t feel like having sex tonight, I really don’t.”

“We don’t have to.”

“Then I’d better go.”

“You don’t need to go. No rule says we have to make love when you stay here.”

“We’re just supposed to get in bed together and not do it?”

“Micky, you can always say no, at any time, for any reason.”

“That’s a nice thought,” I said, taking my hand away. “Let me try that some night after we’ve gotten hot and horny.”

“We’ll stop. I would never want to have sex with someone who doesn’t want it.”

“It’s not always that easy to stop. Sometimes cunts have a mind of their own.”

“I didn’t do it,” Cordelia answered. “I didn’t molest you, and I didn’t turn my back and pretend that nothing was going on. You can be angry at me, but I’m not the one who deserves it.”

“So what should I do, get a gun and blow his face off?”

“Would that solve everything?”

“I don’t know…I don’t know if it would solve anything,” I slowly replied.

“Why don’t you stay? I would hope there is more to our relationship than sex. Sometimes…it’s nice to just be with someone.”

“If that someone isn’t in a foul temper and liable to lash out at any and everybody.”

“I think I’ve had enough therapy not to take this kind of anger personally.”

“Some of us can’t afford one-hundred-and-fifty-dollar-an-hour shrinks.”

Cordelia sighed, then ran her hand through her hair. “You don’t have to see a therapist if you don’t want to; if you do, there are many that charge less than a hundred and fifty an hour; and if you did want to see someone who charged that much, I’d be glad—”

“I don’t want your money,” I cut her off.

“I know,” Cordelia sighed again. “But I do wish you would stop feeling that the only way to prove that you’re not with me for my money is to rebel against it.”

“Maybe I should go. I don’t think my temper is getting any better.”

“You’re welcome to stay, you can even sleep on the couch if you like.”

“Too lumpy,” I said as I stood up. “I’m sorry I’m in such a bad mood.”

“Thanks for dinner,” Cordelia said as she also got up. “It was very good.”

I stood indecisively a few feet from her door. Part of me wanted to bolt, fly out the door and run into exhaustion and oblivion. Another part wanted to stay here and be held, like a cat on a lap, with no expectations or demands beyond touch and warmth.

“Can I do anything to help?” Cordelia asked.

I just shook my head slightly, and mumbled, “No, nothing. I’ll be okay. I should just go home and get some sleep. I’ll be okay.”

For a moment Cordelia looked like she wanted to say something, but she didn’t, just nodded her head. Then, still saying nothing, she gave me a gentle good-night hug.

I put my arms around her and laid my head on her shoulder. Suddenly I wanted to stay. But I felt too awkward and vulnerable to ask.

She held me for a long time, as if waiting for something from me. But I made one of those bargains with myself that I knew you should never make. If she asked me to stay one more time, I would. If she didn’t, I would go. That way, I didn’t have to actively decide, or risk, anything and the responsibility was, in some way, Cordelia’s.

Finally something interrupted our embrace, the chime of a clock, a shout in the street, I wasn’t sure what broke the moment.

“Will you be okay?” Cordelia asked.

“Yeah, I’ll be fine.”

“Are…?” she started to say, then changed it to, “Call me sometime?”

“Sure, in the next day or so.” I kissed her quickly on the cheek, then turned and walked out her door, suddenly angry at her for not asking me to stay one more time.

It was only after I’d gotten into my car and was out of the Quarter that I remembered that rejection was a two-way street. Why did I think Cordelia was immune to it if it terrified me? Why would she offer again something I’d repeatedly rejected?

I was angry and alone, and I had backed myself into this corner. After I got home, I lay in bed, letting useless thoughts churn through my brain, until, with the soft light of dawn coming through my window, I fell into a restless sleep.

Chapter 14

Despite my restless night, the alarm clock showed no mercy. I counterattacked, slapping it off several times, until my brain awoke enough to remember all the things I had to do today. I was still groggy even in the shower, leaning against the wall in lethargy while the water poured over me. It was only on the second cup of quickly gulped coffee that I began to feel alert.

First on my agenda was to arrange some babysitting for Karen. I decided to indulge myself and hire the best people for the job without worrying about Karen’s level of comfort.

Muffy and Tiffany Security, Inc. The two women who ran it were not, of course, named Muffy and Tiffany. They had met as Navy M.P.s, got caught in the same witch-hunt, and were thrown out together. How romantic. Since it is hard to get a good job with “queer” typed on your discharge papers (the Pentagon was into outing before outing was in), Sara and Lucinda had gone into business for themselves. The Muffy and Tiffany moniker emerged from a Bacchanalian Mardi Gras party.

Lucinda was slight and quiet, someone you didn’t notice until it was too late. She claimed to have a bit of every race on the planet in her background. Sara was tall and wide and as dark as the darkest night. People, particularly white people, were afraid to mess with her; she fit all the stereotypes too well. Yet, in her spare time, she was a horticulturist, growing rare orchids, spoke perfect French, and wrote villanelles as meditation.

Two dark-skinned women, one of them a big butch, would be perfect for Karen, I thought as I dialed their number. More importantly, if anything did happen, I knew that no one could handle it better than Sara and Lucinda.

They were available as they did a lot of bar jobs, so their working day didn’t start until ten in the evening or so. Taking an early evening job would be “sunlighting” for them, as Sara said.

After that I started a list that I knew was going to be hard to complete—the men who had enough access to Cissy to abuse her. Teachers, Little League coaches, Barbara’s boyfriend Ted, relatives, and the like. Barbara would have most of the answers, but it would mean asking her some very uncomfortable questions. I think the real reason that those responsible deny it is because if no one is at fault, then the taint of guilt becomes dispersed, spread to the innocent and guilty alike. Was it you? Or you? Or you? Until all of us carry little pieces of guilt like some insidious dust caught on our pant leg.

I spent a long time just staring at that piece of paper as if some act of will could tell me what I needed to know. Finally the low angle of the sun reminded me of the hour and the duties that lay ahead of me. I quickly packed up and locked my office, then headed uptown to meet Barbara and Cissy.

I got there first, for which I was glad. This was strange territory for Barbara and Cissy, and I was the one who had brought them here. Lindsey’s red Jaguar was in the parking lot, as was Amanda Jackson’s car and two others. I got out and leaned against a fender to wait for Barbara and Cissy. A moment later Barbara pulled into the driveway.

“Hi, how are you?” I said as she got out of the car.

“Fine. Nervous.” Barbara glanced quickly over at Cissy, who was shutting the passenger door.

“It’ll be okay. You’re doing the right thing,” I told her.

“I know. I know that. I just wish…that circumstances didn’t compel me to do the right thing.”

Cissy was waiting for us on her side of the car. She seemed subdued and wary. I wondered what Barbara had told her. I led the way into the waiting room.

“Good afternoon,” Amanda Jackson greeted us. “You must be Cissy. Hello, Cissy,” Amanda gave her a special welcome.

Cissy nodded in response.

“Ms. Selby, could you please fill this out?” Amanda gave Barbara the usual paperwork, then she continued to Cissy, “Would you like to meet the fish? It’s important to be properly introduced.”

With that Cissy noticed the fish tank. She took a few steps toward it, as if unsure how much permission she had in this strange, new place. Amanda came beside her, then put her hand on Cissy’s shoulder and led her to the fish.

“That big silver one is Calliope. The one in the corner, with black and gold stripes, that’s Clio.”

“Who’s that?” Cissy asked, her finger pointing at a blue streak.

“That’s Erato. She’s one of my favorites.”

“How do you know it’s a she?”

“Not too many he’s have babies.” Amanda pointed to some small blue specks weaving in and out of one of the plants.

I sat and watched Amanda tell Cissy about the fish, explaining what kind they were, where they were from along with other assorted fish lore.

Barbara had just looked up from her paperwork when a soft chime sounded. “Ms. Selby, Cissy,” Amanda said, “please come with me.” She led them back into Lindsey’s office.

I sat and waited. I picked through a few magazines, but nothing seemed interesting. Amanda sat behind the reception desk, working on her computer. I thought of talking to her, questioning her about Lindsey (Does a doctor named Cordelia James call here? Did they ever sleep together?) but I knew she wouldn’t or couldn’t answer the questions I wanted answered. Also, I felt the need for stillness, to listen as if secrets being breached had a sound.

Finally I remembered something I needed to do before Barbara came out. “I’m paying for this,” I said as I approached the reception area.

“I know,” Amanda answered as she finished entering some data on the computer. “The initial consultation is free. If Dr. McNeil decides to take on Cissy as a patient, then you can start paying.”

A door opened down the hallway and Barbara came out. “She wanted to talk to Cissy alone for a little bit,” Barbara offered as explanation. She sat down on one of the straight-backed chairs, clutching her purse as if at some inquisition. In a way, she was. We were the failures. I resented Lindsey in there with Cissy, probing the dark secrets that she wouldn’t tell me. Whatever resentment I felt, I knew it was nothing compared to the hell Barbara was in.

A clock ticked somewhere, the beat of slow seconds. Finally the door down the hallway opened again and Cissy came out. Lindsey, leaning heavily on her cane, followed her, as if even the short distance from her office to the waiting room was too fraught with danger to let a young girl walk alone.

“Can I talk to you, Ms. Selby?” Lindsey asked. She glanced briefly at me, but that was all.

Cissy headed for the fish, staring at their quickly flitting shapes as if pushing aside some ugly reality that she had been forced to confront. And I knew then that it would not be easy. It would not be kind or gentle. Lindsey would produce no magic; answers, if they came, would be slow and anguished. From resenting Lindsey, I now wondered how she could pick at wounds until they bled fresh, clear blood. Even that couldn’t guarantee that the wounds would heal without hideous scars.