Down in New Orleans Part Two
Part One
Gene woke up six hours later with his face buried in Renée’s couch cushion. He checked his watch and groaned, three more hours until it was time to go back to work. Only one week left until his return to Baton Rouge where they didn’t try to kill their residents with sleep deprivation. He pushed off the couch and got as far as the kitchen threshold when Renée stopped him in his tracks.
She had that look on her face that meant someone was about to get hit.
“Gene,” Renee sighed, her accent making his name sound particularly pitiful, “I do not know what to do with you. You were supposed to come down here to help, not to pick up some random university boy.”
“I wouldn’t call it picked up.”
“You treated him last night and went out for breakfast this morning. The English language may confuse me on a rare occasion, but I am certain that translates into picking up.”
“It was a cup of coffee. During the morning. At a tourist trap. With a third person.”
Renée rolled her eyes at him. “Because cups of coffee never led to anything more. Ever. And a third person present always stops you. Did you pay?”
“What?”
“For their breakfast. Did you pay?”
“They’re guests, it’s only proper.”
“Date!” Renée yelled. She put her head in her hands. “Please tell me you are risking your medical licensure for someone who is worth it.”
Gene reached up and pulled her hands down. “He’s here with his friends, Ree, but he’s also here for them. I think, if there is anything to risk, it will be worth it. I don’t know. He’s fun to rile up.”
“Fun?”
“Is it a crime I like talking to some guy? Nothing might happen, it probably won’t, and that’ll be a loss, but.” Gene sighed. “I can always use another friend.”
Renée took her hands back and slapped his forehead. “Stop underestimating and devaluing yourself.”
Gene rubbed the spot. It didn’t hurt, but he just knew she left a mark. “So now you want me to go out with him?”
“I want you to be happy. And to shower. You smell like a hospital.”
“Alright, I’m going.” He stumbled into the closet Renée called a bathroom and wrinkled his nose at the smell. She favored vanilla and sugar scented bath products, and Gene always smelled like a cake after he used her shower.
He finished his shower in the methodical manner of the over-tired and stared at himself in the mirror once he got out. He didn’t exactly look like a prize these days; eyes bloodshot, skin pallid, bones starting to stick out. Part of it was the job, he knew that. Most of it though, the bags under his eyes and the sleepless nights, that was all the cost of memory. Always got worse this time of year, when he couldn’t forget what happened over there.
Gene never did like the desert and after Afghanistan, he could honestly state that he’d be happy staying in Louisiana for the rest of his life. He could still be at a cushy government funded job with all the latest tools and technology, traveling the world in the name of medical advancement. He just couldn’t sacrifice that much of his moral center. He owed Ron, Bill and Brad more than could ever be repaid for getting him out of that hell hole.
He left the bathroom to find Renée speaking in a rapid-fire French dialect, which meant Dr. Anna Sora was on the other side of the line. She swatted his hand when he patted her head while he walked over to his duffle bag.
“Oh, Eugene?” she called.
“Yes, cher?”
“Your cell phone rang. A Babe Heffron called for you. I took it upon myself to set up a dinner meeting for you tomorrow.”
He glared in the face of her wide smile.
“What happened to the talk about risking my career?”
“He is very polite and charming,” she said. “Anna agreed that it was best I set it up or else you would take him somewhere so very,” she paused for a moment. “Gumbo,” she finished.
“Gumbo?”
“You take him for your Cajun gumbo and it will all be ruined. One revelation at a time, Eugene.”
“I’m sure he’s used to spices.”
“Red sauce is far from the Cajun palette. Something simple. Now go to work.”
“I really hate you sometimes.”
“You will thank me later. Profusely. With chocolate.”
Gene gave her the finger and shuffled out the door. It was going to be a hell of a long day.
*******
Tourists walked by Mae-West’s as if it didn’t even exist. It was a small diner, dating back to the fifties, and established by a couple of World War II vets fulfilling a vow they had made in Belgium.
Gene made a point of stopping by for a meal every time he was in New Orleans, where the regulars made up for the lack of fine cuisine and good lighting.
That and they had the best burgers this side of the state line.
He had called Babe on his lunch break last night to set up the final details. He got ragged on for Renée’s meddling and spent most of the phone call trying to discern the yelling in the background. Still, they’d managed to set this meal up and Gene was only a little nervous.
He never really did the dating thing. It was hard enough coming from a small tight-knit Louisiana community with Cajun family traditions deeply centered around children. College was a confusing time for him over everything, from his sexuality to his own moral code.
Desperation saw him signing up with the government to pay med school costs, but he had damn near lived like a hermit during the semesters. There was always too much at stake to risk any chance for a scholarship or internship based on the close-minded board members. Doc Thibodaux couldn’t give a damn about anything, but Gene couldn’t keep running back home when times got rough.
He’d spent most of his life either working, studying, or hanging out with Merl-Francis. A hook-up here or there, a ton of coffee dates that never really counted and a few awkward relationships with men from Baton Rouge, who found Gene more amusing as a cultural stereotype than a real person left him uncertain.
He could be friends with Edward Heffron. The attraction would make things difficult, but he couldn’t help it. He liked him. Not in the middle-school way, but in the honest-to-god, we-can-talk- for-five-hours-and-still-not-be-bored way.
“So tell me,” Babe said, sliding into his chair with the ease of someone who knew dive bars and diners, “why does anyone name a restaurant after a Hollywood legend best known for certain assets.”
“Something about life saving opportunities. I see you didn’t get lost.”
“Oh, hell no. I got lost five times and walked by here at least three. Not really trying to pull the tourists in here.”
“It’s a local spot.”
“Yeah, no shit.” Babe ripped open the paper ring holding the napkins together. “So, what’s good here?”
“Cheeseburgers.”
“What? No Cajun or Creole cuisine?”
“I was warned against your weak Irish palate.”
“Don’t mock until you’ve faced down a Grandmother insistent on corn beef and cabbage every Saint Patrick’s Day. It’s not even a real tradition.”
“Then enjoy this burger in the spirit of Lent starting and the fact you won’t be able to have it again come Friday.”
“Amen to that,” Babe said. “So, how do we get a waiter here?”
“They’ll come on their own time.”
“Something’s wrong about that.”
“Yeah, well, this ain’t exactly Chili’s,.”
“Never liked that place. Too much flare on the wall.”
“I’ll take it over the Submarine Chic of Red Lobster.”
Babe’s eyes comically widened. “Dude, do not hate on the Lobster.”
“That is not a real seafood restaurant,” Gene scoffed.
“They have lobsters in a tank. And cheese-garlic biscuits. And butter-sauce. There is no need to hate on the Lobster just because they don’t serve crawfish.”
“It’s not fresh.”
“Doesn’t mean it can’t taste good.”
“Heathen.”
“Snob.”
Gene couldn’t stop grinning. Damn it, he was screwed.
“Gene, boo, I didn’t know you’ve come down to these parts again,” Sheryl cooed while she made her way over to their table.
Sheryl was one of the most musical and flamboyant waitresses in all of New Orleans, and that was saying something in this city. She didn’t even have to waitress, making more than enough money with the gigs and events she worked, but she liked being around people. The owners, Bobby and Johnny, let her get away with whatever she wanted. Anybody rude to Sheryl, or any members of the staff, were shown the door. It might have violated some rules of hospitality, but such rules only went so far when dealing with assholes with entitlement problems.
Gene stood up from the table and greeted her with a tight hug. She had known his family for years, and was one of the few people from his father’s life he always kept in touch with. She was the closest thing Gene had to an aunt, besides the Sheltons, and he hated that their schedules rarely lined up for a visit.
“I didn’t even know you were here,” he confessed.
“God shines down on us sometimes,” she answered. She fussed with his hair and tugged on the collar of his shirt. “You not eating enough, boy.”
“It’s a busy time of-” he started.
“Don’t give me that bullshit,” she cut him off. “And mind your manners.”
Gene shook his head. “Edward Heffron, please meet Sheryl St. Martine. Sheryl, this is Edward. He’s a visitor, so go easy on any surprise dishes.”
“You act like I try to force my meals on everyone.”
“I don’t think Jon appreciates your special additions to his creations.”
“A little extra spice never hurt anyone.”
“Sheryl,” he warned.
“Fine, be boring. Two cheeseburgers, fries and some slaw and cornbread coming up. Gene, I know you want some more sweet tea, but what about you Heffron?”
“Uh, Sprite if you got it?”
“Coming up,” Sheryl said. She gave Gene a quick kiss on the cheek before moving off to her next table.
“Do you know a member of the wait staff at every place in New Orleans?” Babe asked.
Gene shrugged. “Sheryl’s a nomad. I honestly didn’t know she was in the city. Half the time she’s anywhere between the Panhandle and Dallas. You just get to know people when you work odd shifts.”
“I know,” Babe said. “I’ve been working in bars and restaurants since I was fourteen. You always know your shift regulars.
They talked until Sheryl returned with their meals. Cheeseburgers with a coleslaw, cornbread, fries, Cajun corn, and carrot salad.
“Don’t give me that look,” Sheryl said. “Both of you look like a few extra sides couldn’t hurt.”
Gene just waved her off and tried not to laugh as Babe poked at the carrot salad.
“It’s not so bad,” he said.
“What is it?” Babe asked.
“Carrots, cranberries, some pecans.”
“What the hell?” Babe said with a shrug. He took a bite and nodded. “Different, not what I’d put with a cheeseburger, but what the hell do I know?”
“So,” Gene started after taking a sip of water, “are you like Spina? Running around the country trying to figure out what to do with life after college?”
“Oh, I’m still a freshman.”
Gene froze, his fork halfway to his mouth. He placed it down very deliberately and then looked at Babe. He knew Babe was younger than him, but that was going beyond Gene’s comfort level.
Babe laughed. “You should see your face right now, Gene.” He shook his head. “I’m twenty-two, but didn’t start college until last year. I had to work and save up the money. Don’t want to spend the rest of my life working off student loan debt.”
Gene coughed in his hand then took a sip of water. He shot a flat look at Babe over his glass.
“You one smart ass son of a bitch, aren’t you?” he asked.
Babe smirked. “Sorry to ruin your school-boy fantasies.” He leaned back in his chair. “To be honest about it, I don’t think college is the place for me. All my buddies went there, got some sort of degree, but I just don’t like it.”
“Not a fan of homework?”
“Nah, not that. I like the classes, but too many things interest me. I hate this whole idea of ‘you got to know you want to be this and have to take these classes to get there.’ I mean, come on, fitness walking ain’t going get me a job at the Mütter Museum.”
“Call it professional curiosity but I’ve always wanted to go there.”
“Spina can take you,” Babe said. “My brothers left me there on my own when I was ten. Hated the place ever since.”
Gene laughed at that. It sounded like something Merl-Francis would do. He studied Babe, with his open smile, and the marks and callouses on his hand from someone used to working.
“No one says you have to go to college, or that you need to do it before your thirty. Most of us have no clue about what we want to do, where we want to go in life,” he said.
“Unlike you,” Babe countered.
“I was-,” Gene paused. He fiddled with his napkin trying to find the right way to phrase it. “Let’s just say I was a special case.” And that was all Gene was willing to say. No need to unleash his Samsonite-sized baggage on Babe during their second meal together.
*****
Dinner went well, even if Sheryl snuck in a few more jibes before she let them leave. Babe tried to get the carrot salad recipe out of her, but she couldn’t be bought. They walked back towards Babe’s hotel, Gene leading the way through the streets at dusk. No need to have Babe knifed in a back alley on the way home.
“Why do all these spray painted signs mean?” Babe asked.
Gene looked at where he was pointing and bowed his head. “It depends,” he said. “When they came through, checking the houses, the clean-up crews left those marks. If the house was checked, if there was a body inside, if that body was removed. Half the time the signs were wrong. Some people came back to find their relatives still in there. No one should ever come home to that.”
Babe nodded. “You can forget, you know, going through the French Quarter that the city’s still…”
“You can say damaged. Hell, it’s always been broken. Part of the charm but, this,” Gene paused. “I just can’t imagine. I’ve been coming here my whole life and even I’m at a lost over all that’s gone. I just, these are people’s homes, their livelihoods. This ain’t supposed to happen here. Look, every city’s got is problems, but it’s not like New Orleans was doing great before all the shit went down. Always do find a way to survive, but no one’s going to forget it anytime soon.”
“And they shouldn’t,” Babe agreed.
Even here, in the parts of the city relatively undamaged in comparison, there was still debris and boarded up houses. The city officials always tried to clean it up when the press come through, but back here, on the streets away from all the tourists, it always was and always would be a different story.
“So, your first Mardi Gras,” Gene said. “What’s next on your stereotypical college student list? The spring break in Cancun?”
“Oh hell, nah. I’ve still got scarring from my last spring break at the beach and that was the friggin’ Jersey Shore. I know a guy whose done some work in Mexico. That is not a place I want to get mixed up in. Or Jamaica.”
Babe toed at a piece of broken concrete. “I spend most of my time-off visiting my buddy Bill. He’s usually in D.C., but sometimes it’s Kentucky or Texas. All depends on where the job takes him.” He smiled up at Gene, his brown eyes flashing in the glare of the streetlights. “What about you? Where do you go when you’re not chained to your stethoscope?”
“Backwoods Cajun towns where my kin live, a friends place in North Carolina, Gulf Coast when I need to get away. Louisiana got just about all I want or need.”
“Just about?” Babe asked.
“Don’t be a wiseass,” Gene said. He nudged Babe back onto the sidewalk towards his hotel. He dropped his hand down, letting it brush Babe’s as they walked the streets.
“This typical for you, Edward?” he asked. “You always go out with guys who stitch up your head in a city you never been to?”
“Gotta be honest with ya, Doc. I do it everywhere I go. I just got a thing for sutures.”
“You know there are folks like that out there.”
“God I don’t want to think about it.” Babe intertwined their fingers. “I don’t do this, ever,” he said, suddenly serious.
“I’m flattered.”
“You should be. My ma tells me I’m quite the catch.”
Gene laughed at that but didn’t doubt it. Edward Heffron clearly had a strong sense of loyalty and family, if nothing else.
It wasn’t a long walk to Babe’s hotel, only about two miles, and they both walked at a slow pace. Babe was leaving in the morning, flying out right when Gene started his next shift. This was supposed to be something fun, a friendship, maybe more, but Gene couldn’t help the sense of loss that kept creeping up. This right here, laughing and talking with this young man, practically a stranger, just felt right.
And despite all the promises of keeping in contact, including a threat or two Babe made over dinner about hiring a former spy he knew to comb the bayous for Gene’s location, he still couldn’t stop the fear that this was it. It was alarming. Gene didn’t do this. He didn’t date his patients, he didn’t outright fear the departure of men he just met, and he was never this sentimental.
Somewhere Merl-Francis was lying around and laughing his ass off for no reason.
They stopped across the way from Babe’s hotel. There were already a few college kids out on the streets, half-wasted.
“And there’s the great John Julian,” Babe murmured, his eyes fixed on a young man in a pair of raggedy jeans and a Phillies jersey. He looked vaguely like Babe in the distance, but his voice came out louder, less of an obvious accent and lacking in the confidence Babe and Spina spoke with ease.
“He the youngest of your gang?”
“That obvious?”
“Only child?”
“Do you have a degree in psychology too?”
Gene shrugged. “You and Spina talk about him like a younger sibling, someone who needs watching after.”
“He stumbles into trouble.”
Gene gave a pointed look at Babe’s head.
“Hey, a quarter of this wound is on Julian’s shoulders,” he said. “At least I have the brains to call someone if I get into trouble I can’t talk my way out of. Julian, well, he’s the trusting kind.”
Gene felt his eyebrow rise.
“Hey, I brought back-up on my first meeting with you. In a crowded place.”
“Fair point.”
“So, do you-.” Babe was cut off by Gene’s pager.
“Merde,” Gene cursed. He wasn’t supposed to be on-call.
“Work?” Babe asked.
Gene nodded, trying not to let the annoyance get the better of him. “I wasn’t supposed to be on-call, but…” he trailed off.
“Deluge,” Babe finished. “Well,” he sighed, “that fucking sucks.”
Gene nodded. “I’ve got to go,” he said. He let his fingers grip Babe’s wrist. “You’ve made for a very interesting few days, Edward Heffron.”
“Feeling’s mutual,” Babe said. He used his free hand to tilt Gene’s chin up. He pressed a chaste kiss to his lips. “Couldn’t leave without doing that first.”
Gene smiled and kissed Babe again. It wasn’t a perfect kiss, not that those really existed. They both had chapped lips, Babe’s probably from Philly’s winter and Gene’s from his current work schedule. Babe smelled like hotel shampoo and Gene probably wore the antiseptic smell of the hospital. Still, there was something more there. They were both holding back, they had to. A street corner in New Orleans wasn’t the safest place, and Gene should have left five minutes ago. But it was nice to have this, just this, simple and sweet for a few seconds more.
Gene pulled back and rested his forehead against Babe’s. He dropped his hand and forced himself back. “I really have to go but Edward Heffron, if you do not call me after you land tomorrow I will send the very terrifying group of Recon Marines I know to find you and put the fear of god into your soul.”
“Duly noted,” Babe said. “I’ll see ya around, Gene.”
“You better,” he replied. He gave Babe one last look before jogging off to the nearest streetcar stop. Some member of the hospital staff was about to get a new asshole, but Gene still had a job to do and people to take care of.
His personal cell phone buzzed with a text message.
So, just how many Recon Marines do you know?
*****
It felt good to return to St. Boniface, even if the house smelled musty from closed windows and unoccupied rooms. There was a pile of mail on the table, brought in just like Remy promised, and Evie had clearly been by if the stocked fridge was any clue.
Gene dropped his duffle bag in the laundry room and plopped down on the couch. His cell phone rang to the tune of Born on the Bayou which could only mean one person was calling. Gene jumped toward the phone and threw it open.
“When the hell did you get back to Pendleton?” he asked.
“Nice to hear from you too, Gene-Baptiste. Renée shot me an e-mail, told me you were doing something stupid down in New Orleans. Now I gotta be all busy with checking flights down there and I just got back.”
“Stay put, you swamp rat. It ain’t none of your or Renée’s business but I’ll go ahead and tell you anyway. These poor people don’t need you tear-assing through their streets.” He paused, trying to find a way to tell Merriell without letting on how much the past week meant. Not that it would work. Merriell would know, he always did. “I met a guy.”
“A patient,” Merriell said, not bothering to hide the sneer.
“For twenty-fives minutes.”
“You stitched up his head. You got his blood on you. What happened to that rule of no exchange of bodily fluids before the first official date? Even if it was the ER, that’s still a patient.”
“He’s not a regular patient, not even someone from Louisiana.”
“That’s damn near blasphemous. You trying to spoil your proud Cajun blood line?”
“Merl-Francis I am the spoiled proud Cajun blood line.”
“For which your Paw-Paw weeps. So, you met a guy.”
“It was coffee and a dinner, nothing else. We’re keeping in touch in this modern age of technology. That’s it. Now let’s talk about the more pressing matters, like are you finally done with your exercise to rejoin polite society?”
“Now you know I ain’t never been fit for polite society.”
“I’d hoped the brainwashing took this time.”
“I’m still the modern mystery,” Merriell said. Gene could hear the puff of smoke he blew into the receiver. “I’m just going through the final steps for my retirement.”
The retirement was something Merriell wasn’t too happy about but Gene knew, they all knew, he couldn’t go back. “Tell me when to come get you,” he said.
“I can do it myself.”
“Merriell Francis.”
“If you can get out here by next week it would be much appreciated. I do need some help with the move.”
“What happened to your harem?”
“They’ve all left, except Burgie. Said he can’t trust me not to burn the apartment complex down.”
“Smart man.”
“Don’t make me come down there and kick your ass twice over.”
“I’d like to see your skinny-ass try.”
“It wasn’t just coffee and a dinner, was it?”
“We’re not talking about this.”
“We might not, but I am. Didn’t take you for the romantic comedy cliché type.”
“Really, you want to go there?”
“I just want to make sure he’s good enough for my Gene-Baptiste.”
“He’s loyal and cares about his friends. If nothing else, that should make him good enough to pass your initial inspection.”
“Still want to meet him.”
“Jesus Christ, Merriell, I just met the guy.”
“You’ll see him again.”
“Oh I will? You like your Great Aunt Millie now? Seeing the future in playing cards?”
“Don’t mock the spirits, Gene-Baptiste, they’ll come back to bite you.” He paused. “You’re not forgettable.”
“And neither are you,” Gene argued.
“We’re not talking about that,” Merriell said in a tone that meant that conversational topic was done.
Gene didn’t push. Some things just couldn’t be hashed out over the phone. “So, next week?” He laid back on the couch, listening to Merriell go off about his apartment complex, life, the universe, and cab drivers with more attitude than Ray Person on Ripped Fuel.
He sorted through the mail while he listened, pausing when he found a card with a Philadelphia postmark. He ripped it open and smiled at the picture inside. It was of Babe and Gene at Café Du Monde.
On the back, in a strong, clear hand, it read Spina is both a stalker and an asshole.
Below that, in a scratchier version of penmanship followed, Just documenting the clearly momentous occasion.
Gene smiled widely, stood up, and placed the picture on the fridge, right in the middle.
Gene woke up six hours later with his face buried in Renée’s couch cushion. He checked his watch and groaned, three more hours until it was time to go back to work. Only one week left until his return to Baton Rouge where they didn’t try to kill their residents with sleep deprivation. He pushed off the couch and got as far as the kitchen threshold when Renée stopped him in his tracks.
She had that look on her face that meant someone was about to get hit.
“Gene,” Renee sighed, her accent making his name sound particularly pitiful, “I do not know what to do with you. You were supposed to come down here to help, not to pick up some random university boy.”
“I wouldn’t call it picked up.”
“You treated him last night and went out for breakfast this morning. The English language may confuse me on a rare occasion, but I am certain that translates into picking up.”
“It was a cup of coffee. During the morning. At a tourist trap. With a third person.”
Renée rolled her eyes at him. “Because cups of coffee never led to anything more. Ever. And a third person present always stops you. Did you pay?”
“What?”
“For their breakfast. Did you pay?”
“They’re guests, it’s only proper.”
“Date!” Renée yelled. She put her head in her hands. “Please tell me you are risking your medical licensure for someone who is worth it.”
Gene reached up and pulled her hands down. “He’s here with his friends, Ree, but he’s also here for them. I think, if there is anything to risk, it will be worth it. I don’t know. He’s fun to rile up.”
“Fun?”
“Is it a crime I like talking to some guy? Nothing might happen, it probably won’t, and that’ll be a loss, but.” Gene sighed. “I can always use another friend.”
Renée took her hands back and slapped his forehead. “Stop underestimating and devaluing yourself.”
Gene rubbed the spot. It didn’t hurt, but he just knew she left a mark. “So now you want me to go out with him?”
“I want you to be happy. And to shower. You smell like a hospital.”
“Alright, I’m going.” He stumbled into the closet Renée called a bathroom and wrinkled his nose at the smell. She favored vanilla and sugar scented bath products, and Gene always smelled like a cake after he used her shower.
He finished his shower in the methodical manner of the over-tired and stared at himself in the mirror once he got out. He didn’t exactly look like a prize these days; eyes bloodshot, skin pallid, bones starting to stick out. Part of it was the job, he knew that. Most of it though, the bags under his eyes and the sleepless nights, that was all the cost of memory. Always got worse this time of year, when he couldn’t forget what happened over there.
Gene never did like the desert and after Afghanistan, he could honestly state that he’d be happy staying in Louisiana for the rest of his life. He could still be at a cushy government funded job with all the latest tools and technology, traveling the world in the name of medical advancement. He just couldn’t sacrifice that much of his moral center. He owed Ron, Bill and Brad more than could ever be repaid for getting him out of that hell hole.
He left the bathroom to find Renée speaking in a rapid-fire French dialect, which meant Dr. Anna Sora was on the other side of the line. She swatted his hand when he patted her head while he walked over to his duffle bag.
“Oh, Eugene?” she called.
“Yes, cher?”
“Your cell phone rang. A Babe Heffron called for you. I took it upon myself to set up a dinner meeting for you tomorrow.”
He glared in the face of her wide smile.
“What happened to the talk about risking my career?”
“He is very polite and charming,” she said. “Anna agreed that it was best I set it up or else you would take him somewhere so very,” she paused for a moment. “Gumbo,” she finished.
“Gumbo?”
“You take him for your Cajun gumbo and it will all be ruined. One revelation at a time, Eugene.”
“I’m sure he’s used to spices.”
“Red sauce is far from the Cajun palette. Something simple. Now go to work.”
“I really hate you sometimes.”
“You will thank me later. Profusely. With chocolate.”
Gene gave her the finger and shuffled out the door. It was going to be a hell of a long day.
*******
Tourists walked by Mae-West’s as if it didn’t even exist. It was a small diner, dating back to the fifties, and established by a couple of World War II vets fulfilling a vow they had made in Belgium.
Gene made a point of stopping by for a meal every time he was in New Orleans, where the regulars made up for the lack of fine cuisine and good lighting.
That and they had the best burgers this side of the state line.
He had called Babe on his lunch break last night to set up the final details. He got ragged on for Renée’s meddling and spent most of the phone call trying to discern the yelling in the background. Still, they’d managed to set this meal up and Gene was only a little nervous.
He never really did the dating thing. It was hard enough coming from a small tight-knit Louisiana community with Cajun family traditions deeply centered around children. College was a confusing time for him over everything, from his sexuality to his own moral code.
Desperation saw him signing up with the government to pay med school costs, but he had damn near lived like a hermit during the semesters. There was always too much at stake to risk any chance for a scholarship or internship based on the close-minded board members. Doc Thibodaux couldn’t give a damn about anything, but Gene couldn’t keep running back home when times got rough.
He’d spent most of his life either working, studying, or hanging out with Merl-Francis. A hook-up here or there, a ton of coffee dates that never really counted and a few awkward relationships with men from Baton Rouge, who found Gene more amusing as a cultural stereotype than a real person left him uncertain.
He could be friends with Edward Heffron. The attraction would make things difficult, but he couldn’t help it. He liked him. Not in the middle-school way, but in the honest-to-god, we-can-talk- for-five-hours-and-still-not-be-bored way.
“So tell me,” Babe said, sliding into his chair with the ease of someone who knew dive bars and diners, “why does anyone name a restaurant after a Hollywood legend best known for certain assets.”
“Something about life saving opportunities. I see you didn’t get lost.”
“Oh, hell no. I got lost five times and walked by here at least three. Not really trying to pull the tourists in here.”
“It’s a local spot.”
“Yeah, no shit.” Babe ripped open the paper ring holding the napkins together. “So, what’s good here?”
“Cheeseburgers.”
“What? No Cajun or Creole cuisine?”
“I was warned against your weak Irish palate.”
“Don’t mock until you’ve faced down a Grandmother insistent on corn beef and cabbage every Saint Patrick’s Day. It’s not even a real tradition.”
“Then enjoy this burger in the spirit of Lent starting and the fact you won’t be able to have it again come Friday.”
“Amen to that,” Babe said. “So, how do we get a waiter here?”
“They’ll come on their own time.”
“Something’s wrong about that.”
“Yeah, well, this ain’t exactly Chili’s,.”
“Never liked that place. Too much flare on the wall.”
“I’ll take it over the Submarine Chic of Red Lobster.”
Babe’s eyes comically widened. “Dude, do not hate on the Lobster.”
“That is not a real seafood restaurant,” Gene scoffed.
“They have lobsters in a tank. And cheese-garlic biscuits. And butter-sauce. There is no need to hate on the Lobster just because they don’t serve crawfish.”
“It’s not fresh.”
“Doesn’t mean it can’t taste good.”
“Heathen.”
“Snob.”
Gene couldn’t stop grinning. Damn it, he was screwed.
“Gene, boo, I didn’t know you’ve come down to these parts again,” Sheryl cooed while she made her way over to their table.
Sheryl was one of the most musical and flamboyant waitresses in all of New Orleans, and that was saying something in this city. She didn’t even have to waitress, making more than enough money with the gigs and events she worked, but she liked being around people. The owners, Bobby and Johnny, let her get away with whatever she wanted. Anybody rude to Sheryl, or any members of the staff, were shown the door. It might have violated some rules of hospitality, but such rules only went so far when dealing with assholes with entitlement problems.
Gene stood up from the table and greeted her with a tight hug. She had known his family for years, and was one of the few people from his father’s life he always kept in touch with. She was the closest thing Gene had to an aunt, besides the Sheltons, and he hated that their schedules rarely lined up for a visit.
“I didn’t even know you were here,” he confessed.
“God shines down on us sometimes,” she answered. She fussed with his hair and tugged on the collar of his shirt. “You not eating enough, boy.”
“It’s a busy time of-” he started.
“Don’t give me that bullshit,” she cut him off. “And mind your manners.”
Gene shook his head. “Edward Heffron, please meet Sheryl St. Martine. Sheryl, this is Edward. He’s a visitor, so go easy on any surprise dishes.”
“You act like I try to force my meals on everyone.”
“I don’t think Jon appreciates your special additions to his creations.”
“A little extra spice never hurt anyone.”
“Sheryl,” he warned.
“Fine, be boring. Two cheeseburgers, fries and some slaw and cornbread coming up. Gene, I know you want some more sweet tea, but what about you Heffron?”
“Uh, Sprite if you got it?”
“Coming up,” Sheryl said. She gave Gene a quick kiss on the cheek before moving off to her next table.
“Do you know a member of the wait staff at every place in New Orleans?” Babe asked.
Gene shrugged. “Sheryl’s a nomad. I honestly didn’t know she was in the city. Half the time she’s anywhere between the Panhandle and Dallas. You just get to know people when you work odd shifts.”
“I know,” Babe said. “I’ve been working in bars and restaurants since I was fourteen. You always know your shift regulars.
They talked until Sheryl returned with their meals. Cheeseburgers with a coleslaw, cornbread, fries, Cajun corn, and carrot salad.
“Don’t give me that look,” Sheryl said. “Both of you look like a few extra sides couldn’t hurt.”
Gene just waved her off and tried not to laugh as Babe poked at the carrot salad.
“It’s not so bad,” he said.
“What is it?” Babe asked.
“Carrots, cranberries, some pecans.”
“What the hell?” Babe said with a shrug. He took a bite and nodded. “Different, not what I’d put with a cheeseburger, but what the hell do I know?”
“So,” Gene started after taking a sip of water, “are you like Spina? Running around the country trying to figure out what to do with life after college?”
“Oh, I’m still a freshman.”
Gene froze, his fork halfway to his mouth. He placed it down very deliberately and then looked at Babe. He knew Babe was younger than him, but that was going beyond Gene’s comfort level.
Babe laughed. “You should see your face right now, Gene.” He shook his head. “I’m twenty-two, but didn’t start college until last year. I had to work and save up the money. Don’t want to spend the rest of my life working off student loan debt.”
Gene coughed in his hand then took a sip of water. He shot a flat look at Babe over his glass.
“You one smart ass son of a bitch, aren’t you?” he asked.
Babe smirked. “Sorry to ruin your school-boy fantasies.” He leaned back in his chair. “To be honest about it, I don’t think college is the place for me. All my buddies went there, got some sort of degree, but I just don’t like it.”
“Not a fan of homework?”
“Nah, not that. I like the classes, but too many things interest me. I hate this whole idea of ‘you got to know you want to be this and have to take these classes to get there.’ I mean, come on, fitness walking ain’t going get me a job at the Mütter Museum.”
“Call it professional curiosity but I’ve always wanted to go there.”
“Spina can take you,” Babe said. “My brothers left me there on my own when I was ten. Hated the place ever since.”
Gene laughed at that. It sounded like something Merl-Francis would do. He studied Babe, with his open smile, and the marks and callouses on his hand from someone used to working.
“No one says you have to go to college, or that you need to do it before your thirty. Most of us have no clue about what we want to do, where we want to go in life,” he said.
“Unlike you,” Babe countered.
“I was-,” Gene paused. He fiddled with his napkin trying to find the right way to phrase it. “Let’s just say I was a special case.” And that was all Gene was willing to say. No need to unleash his Samsonite-sized baggage on Babe during their second meal together.
*****
Dinner went well, even if Sheryl snuck in a few more jibes before she let them leave. Babe tried to get the carrot salad recipe out of her, but she couldn’t be bought. They walked back towards Babe’s hotel, Gene leading the way through the streets at dusk. No need to have Babe knifed in a back alley on the way home.
“Why do all these spray painted signs mean?” Babe asked.
Gene looked at where he was pointing and bowed his head. “It depends,” he said. “When they came through, checking the houses, the clean-up crews left those marks. If the house was checked, if there was a body inside, if that body was removed. Half the time the signs were wrong. Some people came back to find their relatives still in there. No one should ever come home to that.”
Babe nodded. “You can forget, you know, going through the French Quarter that the city’s still…”
“You can say damaged. Hell, it’s always been broken. Part of the charm but, this,” Gene paused. “I just can’t imagine. I’ve been coming here my whole life and even I’m at a lost over all that’s gone. I just, these are people’s homes, their livelihoods. This ain’t supposed to happen here. Look, every city’s got is problems, but it’s not like New Orleans was doing great before all the shit went down. Always do find a way to survive, but no one’s going to forget it anytime soon.”
“And they shouldn’t,” Babe agreed.
Even here, in the parts of the city relatively undamaged in comparison, there was still debris and boarded up houses. The city officials always tried to clean it up when the press come through, but back here, on the streets away from all the tourists, it always was and always would be a different story.
“So, your first Mardi Gras,” Gene said. “What’s next on your stereotypical college student list? The spring break in Cancun?”
“Oh hell, nah. I’ve still got scarring from my last spring break at the beach and that was the friggin’ Jersey Shore. I know a guy whose done some work in Mexico. That is not a place I want to get mixed up in. Or Jamaica.”
Babe toed at a piece of broken concrete. “I spend most of my time-off visiting my buddy Bill. He’s usually in D.C., but sometimes it’s Kentucky or Texas. All depends on where the job takes him.” He smiled up at Gene, his brown eyes flashing in the glare of the streetlights. “What about you? Where do you go when you’re not chained to your stethoscope?”
“Backwoods Cajun towns where my kin live, a friends place in North Carolina, Gulf Coast when I need to get away. Louisiana got just about all I want or need.”
“Just about?” Babe asked.
“Don’t be a wiseass,” Gene said. He nudged Babe back onto the sidewalk towards his hotel. He dropped his hand down, letting it brush Babe’s as they walked the streets.
“This typical for you, Edward?” he asked. “You always go out with guys who stitch up your head in a city you never been to?”
“Gotta be honest with ya, Doc. I do it everywhere I go. I just got a thing for sutures.”
“You know there are folks like that out there.”
“God I don’t want to think about it.” Babe intertwined their fingers. “I don’t do this, ever,” he said, suddenly serious.
“I’m flattered.”
“You should be. My ma tells me I’m quite the catch.”
Gene laughed at that but didn’t doubt it. Edward Heffron clearly had a strong sense of loyalty and family, if nothing else.
It wasn’t a long walk to Babe’s hotel, only about two miles, and they both walked at a slow pace. Babe was leaving in the morning, flying out right when Gene started his next shift. This was supposed to be something fun, a friendship, maybe more, but Gene couldn’t help the sense of loss that kept creeping up. This right here, laughing and talking with this young man, practically a stranger, just felt right.
And despite all the promises of keeping in contact, including a threat or two Babe made over dinner about hiring a former spy he knew to comb the bayous for Gene’s location, he still couldn’t stop the fear that this was it. It was alarming. Gene didn’t do this. He didn’t date his patients, he didn’t outright fear the departure of men he just met, and he was never this sentimental.
Somewhere Merl-Francis was lying around and laughing his ass off for no reason.
They stopped across the way from Babe’s hotel. There were already a few college kids out on the streets, half-wasted.
“And there’s the great John Julian,” Babe murmured, his eyes fixed on a young man in a pair of raggedy jeans and a Phillies jersey. He looked vaguely like Babe in the distance, but his voice came out louder, less of an obvious accent and lacking in the confidence Babe and Spina spoke with ease.
“He the youngest of your gang?”
“That obvious?”
“Only child?”
“Do you have a degree in psychology too?”
Gene shrugged. “You and Spina talk about him like a younger sibling, someone who needs watching after.”
“He stumbles into trouble.”
Gene gave a pointed look at Babe’s head.
“Hey, a quarter of this wound is on Julian’s shoulders,” he said. “At least I have the brains to call someone if I get into trouble I can’t talk my way out of. Julian, well, he’s the trusting kind.”
Gene felt his eyebrow rise.
“Hey, I brought back-up on my first meeting with you. In a crowded place.”
“Fair point.”
“So, do you-.” Babe was cut off by Gene’s pager.
“Merde,” Gene cursed. He wasn’t supposed to be on-call.
“Work?” Babe asked.
Gene nodded, trying not to let the annoyance get the better of him. “I wasn’t supposed to be on-call, but…” he trailed off.
“Deluge,” Babe finished. “Well,” he sighed, “that fucking sucks.”
Gene nodded. “I’ve got to go,” he said. He let his fingers grip Babe’s wrist. “You’ve made for a very interesting few days, Edward Heffron.”
“Feeling’s mutual,” Babe said. He used his free hand to tilt Gene’s chin up. He pressed a chaste kiss to his lips. “Couldn’t leave without doing that first.”
Gene smiled and kissed Babe again. It wasn’t a perfect kiss, not that those really existed. They both had chapped lips, Babe’s probably from Philly’s winter and Gene’s from his current work schedule. Babe smelled like hotel shampoo and Gene probably wore the antiseptic smell of the hospital. Still, there was something more there. They were both holding back, they had to. A street corner in New Orleans wasn’t the safest place, and Gene should have left five minutes ago. But it was nice to have this, just this, simple and sweet for a few seconds more.
Gene pulled back and rested his forehead against Babe’s. He dropped his hand and forced himself back. “I really have to go but Edward Heffron, if you do not call me after you land tomorrow I will send the very terrifying group of Recon Marines I know to find you and put the fear of god into your soul.”
“Duly noted,” Babe said. “I’ll see ya around, Gene.”
“You better,” he replied. He gave Babe one last look before jogging off to the nearest streetcar stop. Some member of the hospital staff was about to get a new asshole, but Gene still had a job to do and people to take care of.
His personal cell phone buzzed with a text message.
So, just how many Recon Marines do you know?
*****
It felt good to return to St. Boniface, even if the house smelled musty from closed windows and unoccupied rooms. There was a pile of mail on the table, brought in just like Remy promised, and Evie had clearly been by if the stocked fridge was any clue.
Gene dropped his duffle bag in the laundry room and plopped down on the couch. His cell phone rang to the tune of Born on the Bayou which could only mean one person was calling. Gene jumped toward the phone and threw it open.
“When the hell did you get back to Pendleton?” he asked.
“Nice to hear from you too, Gene-Baptiste. Renée shot me an e-mail, told me you were doing something stupid down in New Orleans. Now I gotta be all busy with checking flights down there and I just got back.”
“Stay put, you swamp rat. It ain’t none of your or Renée’s business but I’ll go ahead and tell you anyway. These poor people don’t need you tear-assing through their streets.” He paused, trying to find a way to tell Merriell without letting on how much the past week meant. Not that it would work. Merriell would know, he always did. “I met a guy.”
“A patient,” Merriell said, not bothering to hide the sneer.
“For twenty-fives minutes.”
“You stitched up his head. You got his blood on you. What happened to that rule of no exchange of bodily fluids before the first official date? Even if it was the ER, that’s still a patient.”
“He’s not a regular patient, not even someone from Louisiana.”
“That’s damn near blasphemous. You trying to spoil your proud Cajun blood line?”
“Merl-Francis I am the spoiled proud Cajun blood line.”
“For which your Paw-Paw weeps. So, you met a guy.”
“It was coffee and a dinner, nothing else. We’re keeping in touch in this modern age of technology. That’s it. Now let’s talk about the more pressing matters, like are you finally done with your exercise to rejoin polite society?”
“Now you know I ain’t never been fit for polite society.”
“I’d hoped the brainwashing took this time.”
“I’m still the modern mystery,” Merriell said. Gene could hear the puff of smoke he blew into the receiver. “I’m just going through the final steps for my retirement.”
The retirement was something Merriell wasn’t too happy about but Gene knew, they all knew, he couldn’t go back. “Tell me when to come get you,” he said.
“I can do it myself.”
“Merriell Francis.”
“If you can get out here by next week it would be much appreciated. I do need some help with the move.”
“What happened to your harem?”
“They’ve all left, except Burgie. Said he can’t trust me not to burn the apartment complex down.”
“Smart man.”
“Don’t make me come down there and kick your ass twice over.”
“I’d like to see your skinny-ass try.”
“It wasn’t just coffee and a dinner, was it?”
“We’re not talking about this.”
“We might not, but I am. Didn’t take you for the romantic comedy cliché type.”
“Really, you want to go there?”
“I just want to make sure he’s good enough for my Gene-Baptiste.”
“He’s loyal and cares about his friends. If nothing else, that should make him good enough to pass your initial inspection.”
“Still want to meet him.”
“Jesus Christ, Merriell, I just met the guy.”
“You’ll see him again.”
“Oh I will? You like your Great Aunt Millie now? Seeing the future in playing cards?”
“Don’t mock the spirits, Gene-Baptiste, they’ll come back to bite you.” He paused. “You’re not forgettable.”
“And neither are you,” Gene argued.
“We’re not talking about that,” Merriell said in a tone that meant that conversational topic was done.
Gene didn’t push. Some things just couldn’t be hashed out over the phone. “So, next week?” He laid back on the couch, listening to Merriell go off about his apartment complex, life, the universe, and cab drivers with more attitude than Ray Person on Ripped Fuel.
He sorted through the mail while he listened, pausing when he found a card with a Philadelphia postmark. He ripped it open and smiled at the picture inside. It was of Babe and Gene at Café Du Monde.
On the back, in a strong, clear hand, it read Spina is both a stalker and an asshole.
Below that, in a scratchier version of penmanship followed, Just documenting the clearly momentous occasion.
Gene smiled widely, stood up, and placed the picture on the fridge, right in the middle.