As I drove back across the causeway, my mind rolled like the clouds that were still sending down a boot-heavy rain. I felt years of hatred, fear and anger draining out of me, a kind of rain itself, and I knew that Corene, the sight of her there in that locked place, had done that for me. Now what could I do for her?
One thing I wasn’t going to do was tell Blackie and Au Lait where to find her, or what had happened. Maybe search out her people in New York and talk to them, confidentially. Corene needed friends now, not disciples.
Fame, pressures, loss of private time and life-what had done it to her? Or was it just something in her from the start, coiled up in there, waiting? I guess no one knew. Maybe no one would ever know. I found myself trying to reconstruct what happened between New York and New Orleans, to make a story of it, the plan, the execution. Getting on the plane knowing what she was going to do, her future in a suitcase at her feet. It all seemed so voluntary. But was she really in control? Or driven?
Finally, I guess, it wasn’t that much different from the way we all make up our lives by bits and pieces, a piece of a book here, a song title or lyric there, scraps of people we’ve known, clips from movies, imagining ourselves and living into that image, then going on to another and yet another, improvising our way from day to day through the years we call a life.
I gave it up and sat watching the wipers slap rain back from the windshield. Every couple of miles there were small stations where you could pull off and call for help. There wasn’t much else but water and sky and rain.
I thought about Harry. I thought about Dad and about Janie, my wife for just over two years, and my son. For a moment, as lightning flashed and the storm rumbled in its far-off heart, I became Corene again, as I had in a momentary flash back there: play of light and dark on the ceiling, gone even the words that would let me say what I watched, what I felt, what I had lost. But unlike Corene I had only to imagine a new life, and lean into it.
At the office there were the usual messages from downstairs and the usual accumulation of mail. A yellow envelope stood out from the rest. I picked it up and ripped it open.
YOUR FATHER DIED TODAY AT FIVE AM STOP FUNERAL FRIDAY AT TEN STOP CALL ME STOP LOVE MOM
I sat there for a long time without moving, thinking how it had been: the expectations and disappointments, the fights, recriminations, misunderstandings, all of it getting worse and worse as time went by. But there were good things to remember, too, and finally I got around to them. Dad and me working on my first car in the backyard, a battered old Ford coupe. Getting breakfast together and watching day break in the woods above the town where we hunted squirrel and rabbit and came across Civil War miniballs which always brought him to thoughtful silence. The night he pulled out his old trumpet and played the blues for me that first time, when I realized that somehow he’d had a life before me, one that didn’t have anything to do with me-and that my own pain was somehow the world’s.
I lit a cigarette. LaVerne had the money, I had the time. Just call Blackie and tell him I couldn’t find Corene, that’s all there was to it. I’d be a free man in more ways than one. Then call Mom.
I finished the cigarette and reached for the phone.
Outside, the rain had stopped. The night was black like me.