Walking on Broken Glass - Christa Allan [109]
“That's not very nice,” he said. “I thought you’d feel right at home. I forgot. You’re a decorator snob now.”
We both laughed, and I remembered the luxury of being with someone who knew your history, someone who didn’t need a map of your bumps and bruises, someone who could climb up into memories with you.
Peter and Dad had stayed with Carl and me while Hurricane Katrina “remodeled” New Orleans. Dad wanted to return home ten minutes after the last winds died down. Almost two weeks later, they left. Dad lived on the Northshore of the city, over one hundred feet above sea level. Two shutters were in the front garden, four of his neighbor's trees had leveled his wood fence, and every tree in a ten-mile area had wept needles and branches into his yard. Peter, on the other hand, found a stray car in his kitchen, an assortment of dead animals, and everything else ruined. He salvaged his sanity, sold the remnants, and started over. He moved to the same area as Dad, far enough away that Dad couldn’t wander over, but close enough to breed contempt.
“I can’t believe Dad spent all that time with you and didn’t tell you about Dani.”
I tucked one of the throw pillows behind my lower back. Pregnancy back aches already. “Dani? I thought you said he was dating? He's … wait a minute. He's dating a man?”
“D-a-n-i. That kind of Dani.”
“We didn’t exactly have the world's best weekend. I’m sure Dad drowned in all the drama. You know how he adores being involved in any confrontation,” I said. “Are we eating real food anytime soon? This baby and I will pour gravy over that media suite soon and serve it with rice.”
“Come on,” he sighed, but playfully. “I now have to take care of big baby and little baby.”
“Don’t be a martyr. Red is not a color you wear well.” I poked him as we headed out the front door. “Take me anywhere I can feast on a fried shrimp po-boy.”
Peter drove along the lake front where the serpentine seawall edged the expanse of Lake Pontchartrain. On the right the street split a wide expanse of grass and oaks in varying stages of regrowth and the edges of neighborhoods on the left. The stores facing the lake were like the end-cap displays of a grocery: seafood restaurants from formal to frumpy, coffeehouses, bistros, and an assortment of buildings between their before and after photos.
Peter parked near Sissy's, a newish seafood restaurant, meaning the owners hang out and still care what the customers think. Since it was early evening and the old-fashioned fans on stands on the deck stirred the warm air, we ate outside. I had a “drunk moment” passing the long, shining brass-topped bar, dozens of glasses like so many empty mouths to be fed, hanging over it. I made myself not think of that first sip of beer and followed Peter to our table.
The issue for my brother wasn’t that our father dated; it was the woman he’d chosen to date. Dani met Dad three months ago. Dani's good friend waitressed at the restaurant where my parents and a group of friends ate dinner every month. After Mom died, Dad continued to eat with his friends. On one of those nights Dani “suddenly” happened to show up.
“What can I get y’all to drink?” Our server, Nick, placed two sets of silverware rolled in napkins on the table. “Our evening specials are Apple Martinis—”
Peter interrupted. “Just two unsweet iced teas. Heavy on the lemons.”
Was it my imagination that the servers seemed disappointed when no one ordered a drink? Or was that alcoholic thinking?
I thought everyone paid attention to how many times they drank or when everyone postponed tasks because what was the point, really, to make the bed when it would just get messed up later?
One of the advantages of hanging around other alcoholics was the “aha” moments when you’d hear someone's story and know being afraid to check the mailbox is alcoholic brain. My brain had to dry out to realize it was wet.
I doubt Nick or Peter thought about iced tea as much as I did.
“So, there