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No Quarter
by Samuel Wilkes “An absinthe to end our trip?” Leif asked. “I shouldn’t,” Estelle whispered. They stepped to the bar anyway. The last one before their hotel. Estelle removed her broken heels. Leif lit a cigarette. Shadows from Jackson Square flashed on the alley cobblestones. Their final New Orleans night slid out from under them. “We’re about to close,” huffed the pirate bartender. “Just one absinthe, please. And a water. We’ll be quick,” Leif begged. The buxom pirate winked, grabbing two glasses. They watched the water drip over the sugar cube as a milky green fog curled in the glass. “We needed this trip,” Leif said, turning a smile towards his wife, hoping she had recovered from her breakdown at dinner. One burning ember died in the ashtray, left from a passerby they never saw or heard. Its remaining trail of smoke bowed to the rickety ceiling fan. Leif watched his wife’s blue eyes skip up and down until she responded. “I’m sorry I ruined our expensive dinner.” “You didn’t ruin anything,” Leif lied. “It’s just. It’s just I’m running out of hope. I’m afraid it’s not going to happen for us.” Again, as at dinner, Leif didn’t know how to respond. Throughout the three years of trying and two miscarriages he had never heard her so defeated. Then she lifted as if struck with an answer, “How about this? If I’m not pregnant by spring, I say we just move down to the Quarter and live like artists. We can sit in the cafes all day, travel, paint and do whatever the hell we want. Maybe that’s what we were meant to do anyway.” He knew she was just venting, but he still didn’t know how to respond. He smirked to let her know she was overreacting and grabbed her hand. The two relocated to a table in the courtyard, away from the large pirate, away from the confines of the closet-sized bar and away from the burden of uncertainty. A violinist, sitting on a bucket across the street, tuned up a Brahms piece. Leif sipped on the green-eyed muse. Estelle watched, turning her water, tangled in her thoughts. “You know Vincent van Gogh and Manet used to drink this,” Leif said, offering a reprieve from her current concerns. “They say it contributed to van Gogh slicing off his own ear.” She looked up from her glass, one thin eyebrow arched upwards, “Well, I’m glad I declined your drink offer now.” “Well, you never really know. But just think if he didn’t drink the stuff. We might not be talking about him today. Might not have ever had The Starry Night.” She smirked a playful smile and loosened in the night air. The two continued dissolving into past centuries, far from the ticks of clocks. Then worked their way to the present, reminiscing on their New Orleans vacation; with the curvy brass aphrodisiacs, the naked yells, her bruised feet, the leering eyes, the crowded stage and the stumbling streets. Leif recalled his last time in the Quarter. Same alley bar. During his college days with a girl before Estelle. He couldn’t remember her name, just her talk of other people’s money and fake music. He thought of the choices and the blind luck that led to the present; to have Estelle as his wife and to want no other. He wanted to tell her that any child would be lucky to have such a gentle soul as a mother. He wanted to tell her that he’d be willing to keep trying for another three years. That life will work itself out. “I’m closing up,” the pirate announced, killing the mood. “I can’t have you here anymore.” The two resigned from the table and continued down the alley towards Royal Street and towards their room. Leif held Estelle’s broken shoes as she tiptoed on the damp pavement. Unknown echoes bounced behind them. “Is that selfish?” she asked, swaying against his side. “I don’t think so. She warned us they were about to close. She can’t—” “No, what I said earlier. About moving down here. About giving up.” He stopped and peered up into the starless night as if an answer might be found there. “How about we flip a coin?” he said on an impulse, hating the sound it made. “Don’t be crass, Leif.” “If it’s heads, then we go back to trying. Tails we move down here and forget—” “Leif!” As the silver coin flipped under the lights, he glanced to find the hope in her eyes. He caught the piece in his hand and quickly covered it. “Well?” she pleaded, clutching his arm. “It’s heads!” “How do you know? You haven’t even looked.” “What do you want it to be?” he asked, already knowing the answer. He slowly put the coin in his pocket without looking, giving her ample time to stop him. He then kissed her forehead, holding his lips there for a lifetime, hoping everything he couldn’t say at that moment would be understood. Distant unknown horns began playing a goodnight waltz to the Quarter. Leif gripped Estelle’s hand as they shuffled across the dim sidewalk into the lights of the hotel. |
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