My Juliet Page 9

  Juliet sits up in bed and looks at the restaurant across the way and the diners at the windows along the street.

  “Sweetie, do me from the back,” she says to Sonny.

  She rests on her knees and leans forward with her chest and chin resting on a pillow. Her rear is sticking up. Sonny, slow to respond, stands behind her and rests his hands on her hips. “Actually,” she says, reaching back and showing him the place, “I meant the other back.”

  Half a minute goes by and he doesn’t do anything. “I’ve never done this before,” he says.

  “Neither have I.”

  “Are you sure about this?”

  “Just do it, Sonny. Let’s see what happens.”

  At first the pressure is great and it seems she will tear in half but after he finds a rhythm she starts to relax and he probes deeper. She keeps her face turned toward Houlihan’s and the noises she makes are different from the ones she was making just a few minutes before. “Look, Sonny,” she whispers, then points outside.

  He glances over at the street and the restaurant where a woman, huge and frowning, sits with a fork poised at her mouth. The fork is coiled with spaghetti, and the woman’s mouth is open wide to accept it. Her eyes, however, are trained on them; she seems shocked into paralysis.

  When Sonny begins to withdraw, Juliet reaches back and slaps him on the leg.

  “Whuh . . . ?”

  “Come on, goddammit. Finish.”

  Juliet rests her face on the bed and clutches the sheets and slowly rocks against him. It feels better with the audience down below and Juliet’s cries grow louder and she curses and praises him, both at once, all the while waiting for a knock on the door, a voice ordering them to stop.

  “We’ll get arrested,” Sonny says.

  “Everything . . . Give it to me . . . Yes!”

  “The cops’ll come. They’ll come, Julie!”

  “It’s New Orleans, Sonny. New Orleans! Come on, baby. It’s what you do! It’s . . . what . . . you . . . do. . . .” She slaps him on the leg again.

  Even after Sonny finishes and falls over on the bed Juliet stays as she is, pleasuring herself with one hand and teasing her nipples with the other. “I like it when people watch,” she says. “I think it makes me come harder.”

  Sonny pulls a sheet off the bed and wraps it around his middle.

  “You aren’t embarrassed, are you?”

  “To be honest I don’t know what I feel.”

  “God, Sonny, you’re so beautiful, you’re so perfect. If I had a cock like yours I’d want everyone to see it. Know what else I’d do?” He doesn’t answer and she says, “I’d play with it all the time.”

  Juliet props herself on an elbow and looks out at the restaurant. There are fewer diners at the windows than before, but those who remain are real troupers. Every last one is watching.

  A man raises a hand and Juliet waves back.

  “I think we’ve just given new meaning to the term dinner theater,” she says.

  Minutes later someone arrives at the door and raps the knocker and shouts to be let in. Sonny wrestles the sheet closer, but Juliet can’t seem to find anything to cover herself with. She considers getting dressed, but whoever is in the hall seems eager.

  Naked, she pulls the door open.

  “You can kick us out,” she says to the befuddled figure in the hallway, “but I’ll need a refund in cash for both tonight and last night. If you can’t do that, I’m afraid I’ll have to sue.”

  “It’ll be at the registration desk,” comes the reply. “You’ve got half an hour.” The man raises a finger as if to wag it, but something in Juliet’s expression stops him.

  While Sonny is in the bathroom, Juliet sits naked on the balcony and adds to “The Proof.”

  “The birds and the bees were different from how you said, Mama. They were better. Me, I love to fuck even when it hurts.”

  Sonny lives in the same house where he grew up, a two-story double owing in appearance to no single architectural period but rather to that amorphous claptrap style that once existed in his father’s brain. Mr. LaMott built the house himself when he returned from Korea, and budget constraints forced him to exclude all extravagances except for screened-in porches, a stone barbecue, and the carport that Hurricane Betsy flattened in 1965.

  The other side of the building, originally conceived as a source of easy income, for thirty years has housed one alcoholic malcontent after another, the latest a wife beater with a habit of urinating on the banana plants from his second-floor bedroom window.

  Chartres Street and the levee are all that stand between the house and the Mississippi River, an uncomfortable intimacy for many Bywater residents, but for Sonny one that informed his childhood with dreams of floating away on a raft and never returning. After years of living in cheap Uptown efficiencies he moved back to the house when his mother died and his father volunteered to check into a nursing home, and he plans to remain only as long as he has to. That is to say, only until he can attract buyers for his paintings or until he finds a girlfriend/wife with better digs—prospects that appeared unlikely until a few hours ago.

  As much as Sonny likes the prospect of being alone with Juliet, he is uncertain about letting her stay over. Not that the house has changed much since she last saw it, but he still can’t get past the fact that she grew up in one of the city’s most important homes and, as he explains now, “this is more a glorified camp than anything.”

  She’s parked her rental car on the street, and this is another concern. In New Orleans, and in this neighborhood in particular, the incidences of auto theft are so many that off-street parking often seems the very key to happiness. If his house isn’t embarrassment enough, how about having her car ripped off fewer than a hundred feet from his front door?

  “I hope you don’t mind roughing it,” Sonny says, leading her up an outdoor stairway to the entrance on the second floor.

  She shakes her head. “I just want to be with you, I don’t care where.”

  It’s well past midnight and Sonny needs sleep. He totes Juliet’s bag into the living room and places it on the sofa, then he showers, brushes his teeth, rolls deodorant under his arms, sifts talcum powder on his groin and splashes cologne on his neck and chest. When he finishes, his body gives off a riot of scents that negates any possibility that she’ll take him seriously, and this recognition brings him to wonder if he should just start over and shower again.

  “Sad sack,” he says to the image staring back at him in the lavatory mirror.

  Sonny lies in bed under the covers wearing briefs and a T-shirt and he watches as Juliet strips naked and rubs lotion on her hands and legs and removes her makeup with cotton balls soaked in witch hazel. All these years apart and suddenly they’re an old married couple, executing their routines in silence before calling it a night. “You make me happy,” he says in a sleepy mumble. “You’ve always made me happy.”

  “You make me happy, too.”

  The last image he registers is that of Juliet dragging a brush through her hair, as she stands naked before the mirror on his closet door.

  Toward dawn Sonny awakens to an empty bed and a river breeze from the window. A digital clock on the nightstand says 5:14 A.M., too early for him to get up, too late for her to still be awake. Across the room French doors leading to the porch are open a crack, allowing a tendril of smoke to drift in. Sonny shifts his weight to an elbow then reaches out and runs a hand over the other side of the bed. It’s cool enough to suggest she hasn’t been there for a while.

  “Julie, what’re you doing? Come back to bed.”

  He finds her on the porch sitting on a metal patio chair and gazing off at a sky stripped of stars and black with distant thunderheads. Her hair hangs in a yellow sheet and her skin radiates a color as weird and vivid as that of bones. Sonny recognizes the scent of marijuana smoke in the air, and this brings him stalking heavily across the wood floor.

  “Julie, time for bed. Let’s go back inside.�
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  She is slow to respond, slow even to look at him. “Give me a minute. Let me finish this first.”

  “Finish later. Come on, baby.”

  “I’ll finish when I goddamn want to finish. Jesus, Sonny.” The remark is so dark and hostile, and so unexpected, that even she seems surprised by it. “Go back inside,” she says. “I’ll be there in a minute. I’ve got some things to sort out in my head.”

  He sits at the foot of the bed and watches through the open doors as she comes to her feet and takes another long drag before dunking the joint in a plastic cup. She’s facing in the opposite direction now, out toward the city, and Sonny can see her breasts hanging full and thick by her rib cage, and down in the space between her legs an untamed tuft of hair illumined by a neighbor’s security light. It is immortal, this picture, and he vows to paint it one day. The light and the hair and the girl and his heart madly beating in his chest.

  He will not be able to show the heart without confusing the image, but if he gets Juliet right you will see the heart anyway.

  When she comes back inside she elbows the door closed and everything is dark and quiet and he watches her, afraid to talk for the risk of upsetting her again.

  He lies on his back with his head in the palms of his hands, his lean, well-muscled body dark against his underclothes.

  “I wish it were true,” Juliet says, standing at the foot of the bed. Her voice is as small and pitiful as a little girl’s. “I wish all of it were true.”

  “You wish what was true?”

  He waits but she gives no answer. Instead she crawls toward him on the bed, her breasts dragging across one leg and then the other as she weaves left and right. Sonny feels his breath go thin, then the burn when all the air seems to have left his lungs.

  She pauses and lies flat against his cock and the dense, bound-up weight of her breasts momentarily pins him there. She settles beside him at last, and when he turns and presses his mouth against hers he tastes a salty wetness on her face.

  Juliet lets out a sob and grabs him hard, digging her nails in his back. “What Anna Huey said to get me here,” she says. “I wish it were true. I wish she’d just die, Sonny.”

  He doesn’t respond but to pull her closer. He wonders if any words can help a misery as big as hers, and he wonders if any act short of seeing Miss Marcelle slipped in a tomb will mediate a peace in Juliet’s mind. He’s just a fence artist, and before that he tended bar. Who is he to fix anything?

  “She killed him, Sonny. She killed my father.”

  “Your father drowned, Julie. He drowned in Lake Pontchartrain. We were dating at the time and I went with you to the funeral. For weeks after, it was the biggest story in all New Orleans. I clipped the stories out of the Picayune.”

  “Sonny, I’d get everything if she died. I’m her only heir and that’s the law in this state. Help me, Sonny. I’d get the house.”

  “I’m not sure I’m hearing you right, Julie. At least I hope I’m not hearing you right.”

  “We could live there. It would be ours and I’d never need to leave again. I’m just so tired of running when all along I know where I should be, and that’s living on Esplanade. You don’t want me to go away again, do you, Sonny?”

  A long time passes and neither of them says anything and Sonny watches as daylight shows in the cracks of the curtains and colors the walls.

  “Tell me how it is Miss Marcelle is supposed to have killed him.”

  “How? You mean the details how?”

  “Yeah. How’d she do it?”

  “You remember how Daddy’s big thing was the yacht club? Sure, you remember. He kept his boat at the marina. Well, one day he and Mother were out on the lake. It was a Sunday afternoon and they were sailing and they were arguing like they always did. My father was having an affair, and I share this with you now because I want you to understand why she did it. He was involved with a much younger person, and he was in love, and when he told her as much she flew into a jealous rage and hit him with something, an oar probably. He fell overboard, into that horrible water, and when he tried to get back in she hit him again.”

  “With an oar?”

  “I think that’s what it was. I keep seeing one, anyway.”

  Sonny shakes his head. He knows this story. “You’re talking about a movie. Julie, I saw that one. It had Elizabeth Taylor.”

  “I can’t believe you’d bring Elizabeth Taylor into this conversation. And here I am trying to explain to you the most important thing in my entire life.”

  It also had Montgomery Clift and that horrible Winters woman, Shirley or Shelley, Sh—— something. Nowadays it often aired on Sunday-morning TV between church programs and cooking shows. The name of the film escapes him, however.

  “Let’s look at it another way,” Sonny says. “The New Orleans Police Department must not’ve thought Miss Marcelle killed him. She’d be counting the hours on death row in the state penitentiary for women right now.”

  Juliet gets out of bed and walks to the closet and stands watching him in the mirror. Knots the size of bottle caps throb in either side of her jaw and her eyes are narrow slits. It’s just a reflection, but that doesn’t make looking at her any easier.

  “You know what?” she says. “Sometimes you piss me off you’re so naïve. Sonny, the police in this city . . . anybody can buy the stupid police. You’re such an innocent, you know that?”

  “All right, I’m an innocent. But I still don’t think your mother killed anyone, let alone your father. She’s a lady, and a nice one.”

  “You little ninny. You little Ninth Ward ninny. When are you ever going to grow up?”

  “Me grow up? Why don’t you grow up? You’re the one who ran off to California and showed what you’re all about by making those movies.”

  She wheels back around and faces him and her lips quiver and angry tears drain from her eyes. Why couldn’t she have just come to bed like a normal person? Does a normal person smoke a joint at five in the morning then accuse her mother of murdering her father?

  She starts putting on her clothes, fighting each article as if it were to blame. “When they found him in Bucktown Harbor—God, you’re dumb! When they found him his head was all bashed in. You tell me, where are the rocks in Bucktown Harbor?”

  “Juliet, you’re crazy.”

  “There are no rocks, motherfucker. Maybe if they’d found him along Breakwater Drive, somewhere down by the Point, say, I could see it. You have a rocky shoreline there. But, Sonny, his body never came ashore. They had to fish him out. And with his skull like that.”

  Sonny is leaning against the headboard, his eyes lowered in concentration. “Maybe a boat hit him. Maybe something in the water got to him—I don’t know, Julie, a lot can happen to a body out in that lake, especially a drowned one. And not only rocks.”

  She’s got everything on but her shoes now. “Let me tell you one other thing before I go,” she says. “And let me say it loud and clear. Dickie Boudreau puts you to shame.”

  “Dickie Boudreau? What does he have to do with anything?”

  “Let me share something else with you, you goddamn creep—”

  “Dickie’s a happily married man. He’s got a family and a home and his wife—let me share this with you. Dickie Boudreau’s wife never made any movies having sex with her boyfriend. Dickie Boudreau’s wife’s got class. She goes to Mass, she goes to her kids’ ball games. She doesn’t need to perform in front of people in a restaurant just to get off—”

  “How do you know what she needs or doesn’t need to get off?”

  “Oh, shut up. Just shut the fuck up.”

  “One more thing . . .” And now, tears wiped away, she seems perfectly calm; his violent response was what she was angling for. “When I was looking at your pictures on the fence last night? Well, my first impression was that you’re an amateur. And I wonder why they even let you hang them there. I mean, there oughta be a law! That beautiful fence, and then all your weak shit clutt
ering it up. I’ll be honest with you, Sonny, I’ve never seen an artist as lame as you. Not ever. Not in my whole, entire life.”

  “No?”

  “More than no. More like fuck no. You’re pathetic.”

  Juliet is no less kind to the screen door on her way out, nor to the stairs as she descends them.

  He hears the door of her rental car slam shut, then her tires laying rubber, then the engine roaring as she puts a distance between herself and his shack in Bywater.

  Every sound she makes has a concussive effect, but Sonny feels none of them as much as the silence when he stands at the window and looks toward the road and realizes she’s gone.

  It isn’t easy to find a legal parking spot near Leonard’s weekly/monthly on North Rampart Street. Juliet navigates the blocks of the upper Vieux Carré a few times before stopping in a tow-away zone marked with metallic reflector stripes. She puts on the car’s caution lights and locks the doors, then files past a clutch of winos lounging by the entrance.

  The Garden District and the Barbier family estate are only a few miles away, and yet Leonard lives in the kind of fleabag where heroin-addicted jazzmen go to die. The hotel, if it really is one, is named for its street address, which this morning is nowhere to be found on the building’s distressed façade. Hanging from the rafters of the second-floor gallery is a shingle, once white. “Rooms,” it says, “with Stove-&-Ref. WEEKLY-Monthly.”

  Long considered an offbeat destination friendly to Bohemian types, the French Quarter today is home to scores of trust-fund babies who choose to slum it for a few years before resigning to their preordained lives of wealth and privilege. It isn’t uncommon to find children of the country’s most important families living there in pseudo-poverty, nor in other of the city’s dangerous neighborhoods. But it is strange to find a local boy living in such a place. Local boys tend to travel elsewhere, far away from Mom and Dad and old school chums keen to their pose, to prove that being a millionaire at eighteen doesn’t preclude them from being hip.