“Eric didn’t know,” Aubrey said. “He only knew about it because your dad went to live with him for a few months after it happened. Well, after it came out. Apparently your dad was pretty wrecked by the whole thing. Kim has divorce papers filled out?”
I couldn’t imagine my father and Uncle Eric in the same room, much less living together. But the big break between them hadn’t happened until I was in high school. Of course they’d had a history before that. They’d grown up together, gone to the same schools, known the same people. They were brothers.
If it was true, if something had happened, maybe my father would have turned to Eric. Maybe they’d had the kind of relationship back then that would allow it, even if it had all gone to hell later. But my mother?
All my life, I had seen her as a pale shadow of a woman. She’d made dinner, cleaned house, taken me and my two brothers to church. She had done as Dad, the full-on patriarch of the house, told her. The few times she had talked about a life before marriage, it had been when Dad wasn’t around. Mousy, repressed, controlled, and oh-my-God asexual. I’d always been amazed that my folks had managed to have three kids. And my father—razor-cut hair, starched shirt, reading the Bible and scowling—had seemed like the perfect match for her.
And she had had an illicit affair that almost ended the marriage? The idea of her wrapped in some lover’s embrace, risking her reputation—her soul—in order to have sex, was insane. She would never have done it. It wasn’t possible.
Or maybe it was. A lifetime of interactions between my parents suddenly shifted focus. My father’s gruffness and need for control suddenly looked like a constant need for reassurance. My mother’s submission became a kind of years-long apology. Everything about my childhood—love, family, sex—came into focus.
“Jayné?” Aubrey said again. I was only vaguely aware he’d been repeating my name for a couple minutes.
“Sorry,” I said. “What?”
“Where are the papers?”
“What papers?”
“The divorce?”
“Oh. In my pack.”
Aubrey levered himself up with a grunt and passed into the kitchen, returning a minute later with the papers in hand. I watched him as he flipped through them, nodding to himself now and then, sometimes smiling wryly.
“And you’ve had these since Denver?” he said.
“Yeah.”
“And you just didn’t mention it because . . . ?”
“I was afraid you might still be in love with her and not sign them,” I said. Apparently being in shock had a clarifying effect. I had barely admitted that fear to myself, and I sure as hell hadn’t intended to bring it up here, with him.
Aubrey stood framed in the kitchen doorway, the light from behind him making him seem larger. Like a still frame from a movie, projected on a huge screen. Then he shrugged and took a pen from his pocket.
“Okay,” he said as he signed them, “I can see that.”
“Kim still loves you,” I said.
“I know. And she’s great, but . . .”
He folded the papers and tucked them into his shirt pocket. The urge to explain why she left him— that she’d been sleeping with Eric and her conscience couldn’t take it anymore—rose in me, but I couldn’t tell if it was because I wanted him to know
everything or if it would only have been to cement his decision.
“My turn?” he said.
“Um. All right.”
He squatted down in front of the couch and took my hand. His eyes were bloodshot and there were circles under them like bruises. The wounds on his collarbone and chest peeked out over his shirt, the scabs a black crust, the flesh around them puffy and red. He took my hand.
“What we did yesterday? I have to thank you for that. I needed . . . I needed something. Not sex, exactly. Or not just sex. But being with you matters to me.”
My heart jumped up to my throat somewhere and got stuck. I fought to speak.
“Thank you,” I said. It seemed profoundly inadequate.
“I’m a little messed up right now,” he said, his face going a little colder, more focused within himself. “What happened with . . . Marinette . . .”
He’d been violated. His body hadn’t been his own to control. I knew enough girls who’d had occasion to say the same things that I heard what he couldn’t bring himself to speak.
“I understand,” I said.
“If what we did was a onetime thing, I can accept that,” he said. “If it’s more than that, I’d love it. I love you, Jayné. You’re funny and sexy and smart.
And vulnerable in ways you seem totally unaware of. And you make me laugh.”
My chest felt hollow and full at the same time. I love you. The most common, used, trite words in the world, but my eyes were tearing up just the same. Aubrey wiped his thumb across them, and the world became a little less wavy.
“But seriously, I’m kind of messed up right now,” he said. “And it may take me a while to get my head back on straight.”
“Oh, I will so totally wait,” I said.
“You don’t have to,” he said. “But it would be great if you did.”
I leaned forward, slipped down to the floor, and wrapped my arms around him. We were both crying again. It felt wonderful and heartbreaking and a lot like relief. My uncle Eric broke it up.
“Hey. You’ve got a call.”
I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand, kissed Aubrey quickly on the cheek, and went to the kitchen. My pack was open where he’d left it. The cell phone was in the side pocket. The caller ID said it was my lawyer.
“Jayné, dear, we’ve had something of a lead. Amelie Glapion? The grandmother?”
“Yes?” I said, looking for a seat. There was no table in the kitchen. We’d have to take care of that.
“A title search shows she owns several properties around New Orleans. Rentals, it appears. Her
financial position is tenuous these days. Not enough diversity in the portfolio. She married her fortunes too much to the city, and between the hurricane and the housing market . . . well, I’m sure you understand.”
“Then you have a good address for her?”
“Sadly, I have a half dozen,” my lawyer said. “Who precisely lives where is somewhat obscure. If one were the suspicious type, one might call it a shell game. I can have each one checked, but since you specifically asked that no contact be made . . .”
“No, don’t. Just send me the addresses and I can take it from there.”
“I thought you might say that. Did you know, by any chance, that Glapion was Marie Laveau’s married name?”