Category: Fiction

We were standing in the backyard of our grandmother’s house on Canal Street, in New Orleans. The air was thick and vines hung from the trees. He wore jeans and a white t-shirt. His hair was greased just so. Eddie thrust his fist out toward an imaginary cheek. “Rotate your fist when you hit the other guy’s face,” he said.

Janine has fled, holding her arm. He’d leaned against the window to part the threadbare curtains and watched her go.

Did I say that correctly?” He looked to his daughter for confirmation.

 “Yes, dad,” she said, winking at Xavier. “The crazy book, remember?”

“That was very generous of you. Glad to hear they’ve graduated,” I said. “When they find work, they can pay you back.”

Angie shook her head and smiled, although the corners of her mouth did not lift much. She said, “That’s not how it goes. Since I earn in dollars here, I’m looked upon as some kind of financial well my family can tap into.”

I arrived with a pair of rubber boots, a notebook, and a willingness to listen. Not many knew of the lands of the dead, and fewer still made the journey. That great, open steppe, where nothing grew. I arrived at dawn when the death singers which polluted these grounds wouldn’t notice me, or so I hoped.

Dad moved in with me five months after Mom took off her wedding ring...