Chapter 13 MARCEL
Chapter 13
M ARCEL
He had to put the book down. The scene he had just read put him on edge. It wasn’t anything extraordinary in literary terms; on the contrary, you might even say it lacked depth. But simply visualizing Miss Harris as she was described on those pages, naked and moaning with pleasure, stiffened a certain part of his anatomy, which constituted a problem.
A very big problem, by all appearances.
He grimaced, feeling uncomfortable.
“Fuck. Just what I needed,” he muttered, breathing heavily.
He knew that Siobhan herself was the protagonist of With Fate on Our Side . Why the hell did she have to tell him that? Now he couldn’t get the image out of his head, and the very idea of getting turned on thinking about her tortured him. Marcel didn’t want to fantasize about a woman who, in turn, fantasized about some Prince Charming who didn’t fade after the first wash. A woman he didn’t even particularly like, with whom he had nothing in common beyond a contractual agreement. He hid the book under a cushion as though it were a sinful temptation and decided he wouldn’t bother finishing it. What for? For his mind and his testosterone to betray him? He had more important things to do than allow himself to be consumed by matters of the flesh.
He exhaled emphatically and stood up to free himself from the clutches of desire. He needed to move his body. He had spent a large chunk of the Fourth of July lying on the sofa reading a stupid romance novel. You need to take a long hard look at yourself, boy . In his defense, he had to admit that Siobhan wasn’t too bad at building narrative tension, which had kept him turning pages. He noticed that it was getting late and wondered whether the little princess had kept her part of the bargain. He saw that he had a message from her but didn’t manage to read it before an incoming call flashed up on the screen.
It was Charmaine.
He sighed and briefly considered not answering. Talking to his sister always ended up putting him in a bad mood. It was always problems, problems, and more problems. Of course, given how stubborn the eldest Dupont sibling was, he knew she would only keep trying to reach him.
“It’s nine o’clock, Chaz,” he said as he answered.
“Mm-hmm. So what? Is there a telephone curfew or something? And it’s only eight in NOLA. Anyway, it’s good to hear your voice too, little bro.”
Marcel rolled his eyes.
“Spare me the sarcasm. Why are you calling?”
“I need a reason to call you now?”
“Chaz ...” His voice betrayed the fact that his patience was wearing thin. “What’s he done this time?”
Charmaine sighed.
“He’s been acting up for a while. As soon as he sees me, he goes crazy. He acts like I’m out to hurt him and ... Well, he tries to defend himself. I’ve changed nurses twice in the last month because no one can handle him for long. I’m desperate, Marcel. Why don’t you come home?”
An irritating lump formed in his throat. The very idea of returning under these circumstances was inconceivable.
He swallowed.
“Impossible, Chaz. I’ve got a lot going on right now, with the novel and everything.”
“Well, I need you to make whatever arrangements it takes for you to come help me out.”
“Aren’t you listening to me? I just said I can’t. I live here, in New York.” He paused, took off his glasses, and placed them on the coffee table. “Listen, if you need more money, you only have to ask,” he added, massaging the bridge of his nose to relieve the tension.
“No, it’s not about that. I ... It’s just that I can’t take it anymore. This situation is too much for me. It’s getting worse.”
Silence.
“Well, you know what I think,” Marcel said brusquely.
“Yes, and you know how I feel. I don’t think abandoning Dad in this condition is a viable option.”
“Admitting him to a clinic where he gets the round-the-clock care he needs isn’t abandoning him. Think about it. I would deal with the bills, and you could get your life back. Anyway, the demented old goat doesn’t even recognize you.”
“Marcel Javarious Dupont! I forbid you from talking about our father that way!”
“Give me a break, Chaz. He got what he deserves. It’s called karma.”
A new uncomfortable silence settled over the telephone line.
“You’re not coming, are you?”
“Not while the old man’s still at home.”
“You’re so pigheaded! Can’t you back down for once in your life? You weren’t here for Thanksgiving or Christmas or Mardi Gras. I don’t even remember the last time you honored us with your presence.”
He remembered. And his memory of that trip to New Orleans wasn’t exactly a pleasant one.
“No, Charmaine. I’m not going to back down. I’m not like you, okay?”
“Damn right you’re not like me. You behave like a rich white guy who’s forgotten where he came from.”
A bitter laugh escaped his throat.
“How interesting. It doesn’t seem to bother you all that much when you get the monthly check.”
That had been a low blow, and he immediately regretted it.
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry too,” she muttered, before hanging up.
Marcel expelled the very last drop of air from his lungs. He remembered all the times as a child when Charmaine had sat on the edge of his bed and told him stories. His favorite was about Rougarou, the wolfman of the Louisiana swamps. And all the times she had tended the wounds he incurred chasing swamp beavers. And all the times she had dried his tears.
His sister had been his mother, his father, and his friend.
His family.
And he couldn’t help feeling like a swine.
But he needed some way to protect himself against everything that had turned him into damaged goods.