Chapter 34 MARCEL
Chapter 34
M ARCEL
The human mind works in unpredictable ways. When he glanced through the windows of Minetta Tavern and saw the Black woman sitting at a table, a whole series of images he thought were long forgotten paraded before his eyes. It wasn’t so much the sight of her that made him anxious but the memories flowing uncontrollably inside him. The scent of marigold and talcum powder, the taste of rice and beans, and the lyrics to “A Peanut Sat on a Railroad Track,” a song that took him back to his childhood, stuck in his head.
He considered turning around and walking away. He was angry, terrified, and agitated. His pulse was racing, his palms were sweaty, and his mouth felt gritty. The everyday sounds on MacDougal reverberated in his ears like a distant echo. Fresh doubts and fears assailed him. He shook his head, trying to get his thoughts in order. It had taken a lot for him to come this far; three days overcome by Shakespearean indecision. To give in or not to give in; that was the question. But Siobhan was right. A story unresolved in the past always shows up again in the future.
And this was his story, waiting for him in a restaurant in the Village to have dinner.
He took a deep breath and opened the restaurant door. The aroma of roast meat and béarnaise sauce would have whetted his appetite any other day, but that evening it provoked a profound nausea. He walked with determination through the low light, trying to step only on the white tiles on the checkerboard floor; he wasn’t sure why. He went past the long bar and the red leather booths until he reached the table occupied by the woman who must be his mother. He barely recognized her. The person watching him, her face contorted by emotion, seemed a complete stranger. Wearing a ridiculous straw hat, she had more gray hairs and wrinkles than he had expected. It was in her profoundly dark eyes that he finally found the essence of Claudette Dupont.
“Hello, Marcel.”
Hearing his name in his mother’s mouth sent a shudder down his spine and almost rendered him senseless.
“Mrs. Dupont,” he replied, in the long silence that followed.
“I’d rather you called me Mom.”
“I’m afraid you lost that privilege a long time ago.”
“Well, then, call me by my first name, if you don’t mind.” She gestured at the empty chair. “Sit, please.”
Marcel sat opposite her with a rigid, haughty posture. He folded his arms over his chest and slid one leg under the table. He averted his gaze, looking anywhere except at the person before him.
“I’m glad you came. You’re very—”
“Different from when I was eight?” he broke in. He couldn’t disguise the sarcasm in his tone.
“I was going to say handsome. Although you always were, from the day you were born. You were a beautiful baby.”
He narrowed his eyes and sighed.
“Spare me the cheap sentimentalism, will you?”
Claudette nodded with a sigh.
“I took the liberty of ordering iced tea while I waited.” There were two highball glasses with ice and lemon on the table. His mother held one out to him, keeping the cardboard coaster underneath. “You loved it when you were little.”
“I don’t want tea,” replied Marcel. “And I’m not staying long, so say what you have to say, and then I’ll be on my way. I’m a busy man. Of course, thanks to my treacherous sister, you already know that.”
“Please don’t be mad at Charmaine,” she said, adopting a maternal air. “I just want the best for the family.”
“Sorry, what family are you referring to? The one you abandoned twenty-eight years ago?”
“Son ...” Claudette stretched her hand over the table and tried to reach Marcel’s, but he jerked away.
Then he did look at her.
“Don’t touch me.”
A silence laden with shards of glass fell between them.
“I know you feel resentful toward me, and you have every right to. All I ask is that you hear me out, Marcel. I owe you an explanation.”
“Why now?”
“Because this is when you need it most.”
“Who? Me or you?”
Claudette removed the ridiculous straw hat and set it aside.
“Your father made me very unhappy. And I’m sure you know I’m not lying about that,” she said, dabbing the sweat on her forehead with the corner of a napkin. “I only married him because I was pregnant with Charmaine, and my parents—your grandparents—had cut me off. That was my first mistake. The second was believing I could settle for the life that awaited me with him.” She paused to take a sip of iced tea. “I always wanted to be an actress; that was my dream.”
“I had no idea,” said Marcel, giving her a surprised look.
“There are lots of things you don’t know about me. Anyway.” She flapped her hand. “When you’re a Black woman in the poorest neighborhood in New Orleans, opportunities to fulfill your dreams don’t come along very often,” she said. A spontaneous sound of agreement left Marcel’s lips before he was aware of it. “Bernard didn’t support me either. To him, actresses were little more than whores, tarts who wiggled their asses for the camera to provoke men. He wanted me to stay at home waiting for him to return from the carpenter’s shop, with clean clothes, dinner on the table, and legs open. And I did that. And eventually I forgot about my dream.”
Marcel squirmed in his seat. He identified with certain aspects of the story. The old man had tried to quash his dream of being a writer too. But feeling sorry for the woman who had abandoned him with nothing more than a carelessly scrawled note, like something you would scribble before running to the corner store, wasn’t part of his plans, so he berated himself immediately for any sympathy he felt toward her.
“To cut a long story short, one day you got tired of playing the submissive wife, and you left.”
“It isn’t as simple as that, Marcel. Your father made my life a living hell when I asked for a divorce.”
“And what do you think he did to us after you left, huh?” he asked.
A tear was caught on Claudette’s eyelashes, and she blinked it away.
“I swear, there hasn’t been a single day when I haven’t regretted leaving you with that man, but I couldn’t take you with me. If I had, he would have accused me of kidnapping you. Being involved in something so sordid would have been traumatic for you.”
“‘Traumatic’?” The word churned his stomach. “It was traumatic enough waiting for you day after day on the porch, not knowing why you had left or whether you would ever come back. It isn’t fair, you know that? Parents are supposed to weather life’s blows so their kids don’t have to. That’s the deal.”
The woman’s eyes filled with tears. Marcel felt an inexplicable distress seeing those drops spilling over her cheeks. Although he wanted to remain dispassionate, he couldn’t.
“Here, clean yourself up,” he said, handing her his own napkin. “Your mascara’s running.” His mother nodded gratefully. “Can I ask where you went?”
“First to Houston. Then to Los Angeles.”
“The movie mecca. Did you get a role?”
“Not one. Turns out I was a terrible actress, after all that.” She sniffed. “Although I worked as a maid for Marsha Hunt for fifteen years; that’s as close to fame as I ever got or ever will. Now I live in Napa.”
“Did you ever try to contact us?”
A furrow of anguish formed between her brows.
“Not until after the flood. I went back to New Orleans to look for you both. You might not believe me, but it’s the truth. The storm had destroyed the house, of course. I looked all over, even under the rubble. No one knew a thing, no one had seen a thing. I didn’t even know if you were alive. Then, one day, divine providence led me to your sister in Tremé. She told me all about you. What you did for a living, where you lived, what you called yourself, and how badly your father had treated you since I left. That man”—her lips contorted in resentment—“he’s gotten what he deserves. I felt so guilty I wanted to take the first flight to New York, but Charmaine asked me not to. You didn’t want to be found. Your writing career was just taking off, and my return might have thrown you off-balance. So, I resigned myself. I don’t know if that was the right decision. I only know that all your sister and I wanted was to protect you. So I returned to Los Angeles and got on with my life. Since then, I’ve stayed in touch with her in secret.”
Marcel felt his head hammering so badly he could barely think, and his vision grew blurred.
“What do you want from me?” he asked, grimacing with pain from that sudden migraine.
“I want you to stop suffering on my account.”
“Please, don’t,” he cut her off. “You don’t know anything about me.”
“I know that you’re one of the best writers in North America and that you’ve sacrificed a lot to get where you are. I know you’re a generous man who has helped people who probably didn’t deserve it. I know you’ve been furious at the world since you were a child, and you don’t allow anyone to get close. And I also know that you’re not happy.”
Marcel let out a sarcastic laugh.
“Who the hell do you think you are to show up after all these years and spout this shit?” he replied, with such force that people turned to look at him.
“The woman who brought you into the world, Marcel. And nothing can change that, however many mistakes I’ve made.”
“If you came to New York thinking you can play mother to me, you can get right back on the plane to Los Angeles or wherever the hell you live.”
“Napa. And I’m not going back. I’ve decided to stay here.”
“Here?” he said, incredulous. “Wouldn’t you be better off going to Louisiana and living with your daughter?” he said. “She’d be delighted to have you. She’s a great one for forgiving parents who have systematically fucked up their kids’ lives.”
“Marcel, I get where you’re coming from. Just try to see it my way, please. You’re my son, and I want to be near you. I’m not asking you to allow me into your everyday life—or even for you to forgive me. I’ll be happy to breathe the same air as you and know that you’re making good decisions.” She paused. “Look, Charmaine told me everything. I know there’s a special girl, the first one. Don’t let her slip through your fingers just because your mother couldn’t do any better. Keep going.”
He lowered his gaze and fixed it on his right hand, which was drawing meaningless shapes on the palm of the left. He remained silent, wondering what would have become of their lives if his mother had never left. And for a moment, the briefest of moments, he thought he understood why Claudette was there, why now and not before.
“I think I should go,” he announced after a confused silence, standing up from the table.
“Fine. You have my number. Call me whenever you want. I’ll wait as long as it takes.”
When he got home, his head hurt as though he had been beaten with a lead pipe. He took a couple of pills, switched off his phone, and got into bed. Before long he was fast asleep. That night he dreamed he returned to New Orleans to rescue his mother and sister from the flood after Katrina.
And then he dreamed that Siobhan was rescuing him.