Oleander DreamsChapter 8
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“Cher, what you need is a good, strong gris-gris.” Agile fingers working a penknife over a small chunk of cypress, Frère Michel grins at me, showing the few teeth he has left. “You give me that ole bourbon you got, and I’ll make you one.”
I smile and sip my bourbon and branch water, then tip the glass in his direction. “You know you can’t have it. The doctors say your liver is on its last legs as it is.”
We’re sitting close to the bridge leading from Dumaine into Louis Armstrong Park. It’s a gorgeous Saturday afternoon a few weeks after Mardi Gras. The trash from the crowds is cleaned up and everyone is as sober as a judge for Lent. I’m drinking for medicinal purposes. That chemistry midterm was brutal.
He gives me a hurt puppy dog look, even though his eyes twinkle. “You is a hard woman, Natalie Delphine Reynolds, meaner than my Matilde, rest her soul.”
I laugh and hand him the glass. He sighs happily and tips his battered fedora, then brings the glass to his lips. I expect him to down it, but he lets the barest trace of bourbon wet his mouth.
Shaking his head, he hands it back and looks down at his whittling. “They say I might get a new liver someday.”
I lean over and squeeze his shoulder. “That would be a very fine thing.”
Laughing, he says, “Non, not for me. A gift like that need to go to a young person with more years than I got left. Too precious to waste on an old street musician.”
He’s probably right, but I refuse to say the words. Everyone has to make their own choices in life, and Frère Michel has lived a good one, despite his problems with demon rum. He holds up what he’s made.
It’s an oleander flower barely the size of my thumbnail, incredibly detailed and so delicate I can see dew on the petals. I imagine I can almost smell the sweet perfume. “That’s beautiful,” I breathe, entranced by the intricate carving.
“One more thing, then it’ll be ready to chase away all your demons, cher.” He bores a hole in the stem and threads a thin gold chain through it. I don’t ask where he got the chain. He wouldn’t tell me. It’s likely one of his customers dropped it in his banjo case, or he found it on his daily trek down Bourbon for lost items.
“There we go,” he says, holding it up. The charm gleams in the sun, outshining the golden chain carrying it. “Lean forward and I’ll do the clasp.”
I turn and hold up my hair, letting him put the chain around my neck. I hear a click and the charm hits my sternum, just above the upper curves of my breasts. It’s warm from his hands, and comforts me. I think I’ll carry a piece of Frère Michel with me forever, long after he’s gone.
I spin around and try to hug him, but he’s already faded. His sad smile is the last to go, and I hear him whisper, “Lord bless and keep you, Natalie Delphine.”
I inhale and my eyes fly open. Trying to control my movements, I stop myself before I reach for my throat. I’m almost afraid to touch, but I need to know.
My old friend is dead. His liver finally gave out and he was interred in Holt Cemetery. His resting place is under an exercise center now. I’m almost glad he didn’t live to see what became of his beloved city, but it was a glorious funeral, shutting down the whole of Orleans between Bourbon and City Park. He would have loved it.
I roll away from the camera. Frère Michel had whittled on occasion, but I’d never known him to carve a single thing. It was so real, though. I could almost taste the sweetness of good bourbon on my tongue and smell the slightly musty stench of the canal surrounding Louis Armstrong Park.
Ofelia
- 18.06.2022
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