A suitcase walking into a gritty old bar will almost always get my attention. It implies not only flight but also a sudden need for a strong drink while in transit. The fact that she had gotten dressed in the early 20th century and hadn’t changed since was of less interest to me. It’s the Quarter. We’re all in costumes, even when we’re just pretending to be normal people, sometimes especially.
It wasn’t an enormously elaborate costume anyway – she wasn’t playing someone born to cotillions, but maybe a handmaid from some backwater town, come to New Orleans to find honest work.
Aside from myself and a glassy-eyed old creep at the back of the bar, I don’t think anyone noticed her arrival.
Being a young man of virtue, well, a relatively young man of relative virtue, I expressed concern when she sighed all the way from her end to the middle of the bar where I sat under a ceiling fan bracketed by aged leather football helmets. Her sigh came from somewhere down near her instep and worked its way up and out into the world.
She was perched precariously by the door, not sure about the crowd or the dark, I suppose, so she hung near to daylight and safety.
“Rough day?” No reaction; no notice. I gave it a moment. “Rough day, miss?”
Slowly, so as not to startle herself, she drew her gaze my direction, stopping just short of my eyes.
She nodded a reluctant yes. That raised my sympathetic interest another notch. Here was a fine and lovely flower of Southern womanhood, securing a quivering porcelain bosom in what must have been her grandmother’s dress, sitting barside at the Old Absinthe House. There aren’t a lot of places less likely for her to find herself. What was an ostensibly gallant man to do but move closer to this lost lamb? Slowly closer, of course. I closed the distance by half, still leaving three safe seats between us. There was plenty of time to close in, plenty of time for two visitors to find mutual comfort in the Vieux Carre.
A thousand stories flowed through my head like spring melt down the Mississippi. None of them came close to the reality, rather to the truth that finally emerged, reality or not.
“Would you like a sympathetic ear?” I demonstrated respect for her space, and was stimulated by her wariness, admittedly in an untoward way.
In response, her next sigh could only be described as an out of body experience, not only for her – I assume – but also for me. A man two bar stools opposite me turned so it must have impacted him as well. When she sighed, there was a wind, one that travelled inward toward her as she inhaled, cold and heavy-laden, then even more frigid and burdened out again as she exhaled. Her sigh didn’t say no. A less avaricious man would’ve read it as a “No” however, and would’ve perceived a need for distance.
I felt at the time that I’d imagined it, but I truly had the sensation that a thin cloud of condensation appeared over her head. Preoccupied with his cell phone, I don’t think the other patron had noticed her until that moment, but that caused him to lift his head and look around as if transported to some achingly alien place. I should have heeded that perception. It would have saved me from a chill that comes to me even now. I feel it in my bones at times of its own choosing, summer or winter, day or night. Constant, no, but it comes often enough that I wear it like a cloak.
I did not heed that perception, however. Instead, as often happens with males of our species, I became paternalistic, patriarchal, and protective. And yes, her vulnerability piqued my prurient interests. Four key “P’s” of manhood, it would appear.
After the sigh, and another pause where everything about and around her seemed to come to a stop, she nodded with downturned mouth. I moved to the seat next to her. She scooted away a bit, but managed not to bolt.
I laid, ever so softly and without weight, my hand upon hers, which despite the fact that it was July in New Orleans and our establishment lacked any form of air conditioning, bore a chill and the dryness of old parchment. It was quite in harmony with the chill that flowed inward toward her at her sighing. At the time, it brought me no concern – my first wife’s body was often frigid in multiple dimensions and contexts, year round.
She glanced my way, her deep blue eyes shining indigo with the afternoon light behind her. Granted, gold and blue don’t make indigo, but I missed it then and won’t belabor the point now. They shone indigo at me, and sometimes when I close my eyes, they still do.
Those indigo eyes poured out upon me, in fact. She looked at me, into me, through me. Not through me at the person sitting behind, but through me – past my parents and into my grandparents. I would say into my psyche, but at the time, I didn’t believe myself burdened with such a device. Still, it was more a gaze down into where I’d come from, not into the depths of me, per se.
The man opposite me, who had turned toward us a moment ago, suddenly evicted himself from the stool he occupied and took up residence in a far corner, shaking his head as he went.
I extended my hand and my name “My name is Drake, by the way.”
She reached back daintily and responded, “Evangeline.”
“My pleasure.”
She nodded and left the introductions there. She paused, swallowed, and then proceeded with her story.
“I’ve been trying since this morning to find a woman named Mary Deubler, but when I went to the address on my Grandmama’s letter of introduction, it was some long gray office building. When I asked someone at the front door, they said the building had been there easily thirty years, and they’d never seen or heard of anyone like that living close by. My fiancé died of the flu, and my grandmother sent me here, thinking that Miss Mary would let me board there and find me a job. There’s no place to work back home, and this is kind of a last resort. I’m sorry – I shouldn’t be telling you all this. I’m just so tired. It feels like I’ve been doing this forever.
“First – I’m very sorry about your fiancé. That had to have been a shock. Hardly anyone dies of the flu these days.” She looked like she wanted to take exception to that, but then let it lie. I felt sad for her, but I confess that her vulnerability also whetted my appetite. “Maybe a gentleman can give some assistance.” I held my hand out and she laid the envelope thereon. The sender was unintelligible, but the recipient, though written in pencil, was clear: Miss Mary Deubler, c/o Chateau Lobrano d'Arlington, 225 Basin Street, New Orleans, Lousiana. No zip.
I tried to parse the address in my head, but all I could really tell was that it was outside the Quarter, which is no great feat, since ninety-five percent of the city is outside the Quarter. Altogether, there are probably no more than twenty streets in the Quarter, counting both east-west and north-south, and it was less than a mile square. Not hard to index, even on your third drink.
Right then, the bartender came from around the back of the bar and started to wipe distractedly just to my left, right in front of Evangeline. His head was down and he was paying no more attention than he had been since I arrived.
I held her envelope up toward the bartender and asked, “So what’s the right direction for this nice lady to head?”
He puzzled at me, then leaned in toward the envelope.
He read the address and shook his head. “Hell, that’s up by the Iberville.” He plucked the envelope from my fingers and held the envelope up closer to the light as though some secret message might bleed through. He then dropped it on the damp bar and resumed his cleaning.
Evangeline and I shrugged and looked at each other.
“Sorry, friend, the young lady and I are both visitors here, but Iberville’s the next street over, isn’t it?”
He looked from me to the seat next to me, then around the room. "Lady?"
The man wasn't going to make any tips on his manners, that's for sure. I toyed with the idea of hitting him, but that wasn’t get her anywhere, and would most definitely provide me a sound thrashing, so I just scowled. “… the address … How would I find it if I were looking?” I leaned hard on the personal pronoun, and tried to look in some small way formidable.
“Iberville projects, not the street. It’s north of the Quarter about two blocks.” She and I continued to look lost. “Go about four-five blocks north from our door and maybe a block to the west. You’ll cross Rampart, but won’t get as far as Canal after you turn. Big buildings, look like hell, can’t miss ‘em. Thing is ..”
We waited patiently to find out what the thing was.
“... thing is, I don’t remember any houses up that way. Sure she’s not in the projects?”
He tugged the edge back toward him for another glance.
“All I know is she has a large home with a number of girls who live there, a boarding house, as I understand it. They probably all work nearby around here.”
Before he walked off again, I asked for another Jack Daniels, neat, and an iced tea. I figured she was thirsty, but not the type for hard liquor.
“Ice tea and Jack? That’s a new one. I’m pretty sure we don’t have any tea brewed at the moment, though.” His tone suggested that they hadn’t had any tea brewed in decades. “Ice water, then.” He shrugged, but filled the order and slid them to me, then went back to his more completely disinterested state. He’d shared what little information he had, which poured over our heads like rain on a duck, and he was done.
“So, “ I waved the letter in the air, as if weighing it, “… is that where the envelope took you?”
“That sounds exactly like the place …”
Now it was my turn to sigh, but it lacked the soul that Evangeline’s had. It was weak and willowy, a mere whisper of disappointment, and not a manifesto. My sighs have since improved, however.
“How about I get you a real drink and ~”
She shook her head and eyed the dew running down her water glass. No. She didn’t appear shocked or suddenly ill at ease. She’d answered that question before. Maybe many times before. She knew the answer before the question had been asked.
My glass was gone, so I wriggled my finger over the glass as though casting an incantation. It must’ve been a valid one, though, because by the time I glanced back, it was refilled.
“Well …” I’ve always found it a good word when starting a sentence when I don’t know what’s going to come next. It didn’t jump-start anything, however.
“Well …” I tried again. “Well, it’s already after five. Everyplace we might check is probably already closed. I might have some time to help you tomorrow, but we should probably get you squared away for the moment.” One step at a time. I never think of the trap as I’m laying it, but that time I did, for some reason. How many times had I lured a trusting and desperate young woman into my bed? All the same, maybe I was being lured. Despite her fresh-off-the-bus appearance, it somehow seemed that this wasn’t the first time she’d been in this town, in this bar, and in this predicament, though the bartender showed no sign of recognition.
“So, have you eaten, Evangeline? Can I assume you have someplace to stay in case you don’t find her?”
“I haven’t eaten since … well, since I got here. And ... to stay …” She looked off into the distance, like the answer would hop into view, or at least into her head, if she just looked there for a moment.
“Yes, yes, I must have a place to stay, mustn’t I?” I decided to take it as a declaration and not a question. Her voice was more confident than her face. It crinkled and bunched up, trying to squeeze a little more truth out of her words.”
“Well, just down the way here is about the best place in the world to get a muffaletta.”
That just tightened her face more, so I clarified, “A sandwich … You’ve never heard of a muffaletta, I suppose.” And her head shook again. She seemed to use her glass as much as a shield as she did a refreshment.
“Maybe another place ..?” I could probably use something more substantial than a sandwich myself. “Anyway, when we’ve finished our drink, maybe we could grab a bite together.”
She cocked her head my way. “You’re asking me to dinner?”
I smiled, trying to warm her a tiny bit. “It would be my pleasure.”
She cocked her head the other way and after a moment of taking my stock, said, “That would be alright, I think.”
Hungry or not, she was in no hurry to finish her water. I was in no hurry to leave the place drunk, so I slowed myself to keep pace with her. Sure, it would get watered down, but it wasn't like anything important was going to evaporate.
When we left there, the light was almost horizontal, the sun increasingly eager to escape behind the buildings of the business district. Her suitcase, which she allowed me to carry, seemed improbably light.
The evening crowds were swelling, so we wove a path through the early drinkers. I led, using the suitcase as a wedge of sorts, and she trailed behind me, only keeping hold of each other by our fingertips. Her fingers hadn’t warmed any while we talked. They were still bone-cold. I’d turn from time to time to throw a reassuring smile over my shoulder, and I’d see her face on the edges of my vision, rippling in the periphery of perception.
A block east on Bourbon, I realized she’d probably feel a lot more comfortable at Galatoire’s than some random place to the east. It was on the same block, the other direction and other side of the street, when we walked out the door. I could have thrown her suitcase that far. She’d be better off there than some noisy booze hall with a half-rate po-boy or etouffee.
I set the case down and turned to confer, and her fingers slipped from mine. The crowd flowed around us – around me – and she was immersed somewhere out of sight. I reached for the case, and it was gone as well. Had she slipped around me and made off with the case? Why? How? Had she had a sudden change of mind? That seemed a lot more likely than the possibility that she and then her suitcase had suddenly gotten abducted. I climbed up on a crate to look over the crowd, and there was nothing. Random faces approached and then passed, and none of them were her. Not on this sidewalk, and not on the opposite side.
I waited. Two minutes? Five minutes? Twenty? No idea. I waited until I was thirsty, which was probably much less than twenty minutes, then turned back toward the Old Absinthe.
I hoisted myself up on the same barstool I’d been on, and the glassy eyed man who’d moved away from Evangeline earlier sat next to me, holding two glasses of a cloudy green liquid, which had to be absinthe. He slid one in front of me. I just touched the glass. It was ice cold, but hadn’t yet started sweating. He had great timing.
He patted me on the chest. “Stay here. My bladder’s about to explode. You got back sooner than I expected.”
“Why were you expecting me back? Was she running some kind of scam that fell apart? What’s your stake in it, buddy?”
He laughed and shook his head as the laugh became a cough. “She always vanishes, my friend. She’s been vanishing for … a long time, and the men almost always come back, and after hearing the story, they – we - always need a drink. But that'll have to wait a moment."
So, he peed, and returned, and told me what he’d figured out about Evangeline, who’s been vanishing for a hundred and twenty some years on her way to Mary Deubler’s sporting house up in Storyville.
He was right. The drink came in handy. I argued with him for an hour and accused him of being twelve kinds of crazy, but it was a straw argument.
It is crazy, but if you could've seen Evangeline like I saw her ...
I wonder if she ever made it to the sporting house, but lack the nerve to do any research, because I don't want to know the wrong thing. I tell myself I'd just find the wrong Evangeline anyway. I also tell myself she turned around and went back to whatever dirt crossroads town she'd come from, but if that were true, she would never have gotten stuck in her loop, would she? I've been back to the city plenty of times, and I've spent most twilights on that same stool at the Absinthe House, but I've yet to see her again, and I wonder and wonder what it would take to change her path.
It wasn’t an enormously elaborate costume anyway – she wasn’t playing someone born to cotillions, but maybe a handmaid from some backwater town, come to New Orleans to find honest work.
Aside from myself and a glassy-eyed old creep at the back of the bar, I don’t think anyone noticed her arrival.
Being a young man of virtue, well, a relatively young man of relative virtue, I expressed concern when she sighed all the way from her end to the middle of the bar where I sat under a ceiling fan bracketed by aged leather football helmets. Her sigh came from somewhere down near her instep and worked its way up and out into the world.
She was perched precariously by the door, not sure about the crowd or the dark, I suppose, so she hung near to daylight and safety.
“Rough day?” No reaction; no notice. I gave it a moment. “Rough day, miss?”
Slowly, so as not to startle herself, she drew her gaze my direction, stopping just short of my eyes.
She nodded a reluctant yes. That raised my sympathetic interest another notch. Here was a fine and lovely flower of Southern womanhood, securing a quivering porcelain bosom in what must have been her grandmother’s dress, sitting barside at the Old Absinthe House. There aren’t a lot of places less likely for her to find herself. What was an ostensibly gallant man to do but move closer to this lost lamb? Slowly closer, of course. I closed the distance by half, still leaving three safe seats between us. There was plenty of time to close in, plenty of time for two visitors to find mutual comfort in the Vieux Carre.
A thousand stories flowed through my head like spring melt down the Mississippi. None of them came close to the reality, rather to the truth that finally emerged, reality or not.
“Would you like a sympathetic ear?” I demonstrated respect for her space, and was stimulated by her wariness, admittedly in an untoward way.
In response, her next sigh could only be described as an out of body experience, not only for her – I assume – but also for me. A man two bar stools opposite me turned so it must have impacted him as well. When she sighed, there was a wind, one that travelled inward toward her as she inhaled, cold and heavy-laden, then even more frigid and burdened out again as she exhaled. Her sigh didn’t say no. A less avaricious man would’ve read it as a “No” however, and would’ve perceived a need for distance.
I felt at the time that I’d imagined it, but I truly had the sensation that a thin cloud of condensation appeared over her head. Preoccupied with his cell phone, I don’t think the other patron had noticed her until that moment, but that caused him to lift his head and look around as if transported to some achingly alien place. I should have heeded that perception. It would have saved me from a chill that comes to me even now. I feel it in my bones at times of its own choosing, summer or winter, day or night. Constant, no, but it comes often enough that I wear it like a cloak.
I did not heed that perception, however. Instead, as often happens with males of our species, I became paternalistic, patriarchal, and protective. And yes, her vulnerability piqued my prurient interests. Four key “P’s” of manhood, it would appear.
After the sigh, and another pause where everything about and around her seemed to come to a stop, she nodded with downturned mouth. I moved to the seat next to her. She scooted away a bit, but managed not to bolt.
I laid, ever so softly and without weight, my hand upon hers, which despite the fact that it was July in New Orleans and our establishment lacked any form of air conditioning, bore a chill and the dryness of old parchment. It was quite in harmony with the chill that flowed inward toward her at her sighing. At the time, it brought me no concern – my first wife’s body was often frigid in multiple dimensions and contexts, year round.
She glanced my way, her deep blue eyes shining indigo with the afternoon light behind her. Granted, gold and blue don’t make indigo, but I missed it then and won’t belabor the point now. They shone indigo at me, and sometimes when I close my eyes, they still do.
Those indigo eyes poured out upon me, in fact. She looked at me, into me, through me. Not through me at the person sitting behind, but through me – past my parents and into my grandparents. I would say into my psyche, but at the time, I didn’t believe myself burdened with such a device. Still, it was more a gaze down into where I’d come from, not into the depths of me, per se.
The man opposite me, who had turned toward us a moment ago, suddenly evicted himself from the stool he occupied and took up residence in a far corner, shaking his head as he went.
I extended my hand and my name “My name is Drake, by the way.”
She reached back daintily and responded, “Evangeline.”
“My pleasure.”
She nodded and left the introductions there. She paused, swallowed, and then proceeded with her story.
“I’ve been trying since this morning to find a woman named Mary Deubler, but when I went to the address on my Grandmama’s letter of introduction, it was some long gray office building. When I asked someone at the front door, they said the building had been there easily thirty years, and they’d never seen or heard of anyone like that living close by. My fiancé died of the flu, and my grandmother sent me here, thinking that Miss Mary would let me board there and find me a job. There’s no place to work back home, and this is kind of a last resort. I’m sorry – I shouldn’t be telling you all this. I’m just so tired. It feels like I’ve been doing this forever.
“First – I’m very sorry about your fiancé. That had to have been a shock. Hardly anyone dies of the flu these days.” She looked like she wanted to take exception to that, but then let it lie. I felt sad for her, but I confess that her vulnerability also whetted my appetite. “Maybe a gentleman can give some assistance.” I held my hand out and she laid the envelope thereon. The sender was unintelligible, but the recipient, though written in pencil, was clear: Miss Mary Deubler, c/o Chateau Lobrano d'Arlington, 225 Basin Street, New Orleans, Lousiana. No zip.
I tried to parse the address in my head, but all I could really tell was that it was outside the Quarter, which is no great feat, since ninety-five percent of the city is outside the Quarter. Altogether, there are probably no more than twenty streets in the Quarter, counting both east-west and north-south, and it was less than a mile square. Not hard to index, even on your third drink.
Right then, the bartender came from around the back of the bar and started to wipe distractedly just to my left, right in front of Evangeline. His head was down and he was paying no more attention than he had been since I arrived.
I held her envelope up toward the bartender and asked, “So what’s the right direction for this nice lady to head?”
He puzzled at me, then leaned in toward the envelope.
He read the address and shook his head. “Hell, that’s up by the Iberville.” He plucked the envelope from my fingers and held the envelope up closer to the light as though some secret message might bleed through. He then dropped it on the damp bar and resumed his cleaning.
Evangeline and I shrugged and looked at each other.
“Sorry, friend, the young lady and I are both visitors here, but Iberville’s the next street over, isn’t it?”
He looked from me to the seat next to me, then around the room. "Lady?"
The man wasn't going to make any tips on his manners, that's for sure. I toyed with the idea of hitting him, but that wasn’t get her anywhere, and would most definitely provide me a sound thrashing, so I just scowled. “… the address … How would I find it if I were looking?” I leaned hard on the personal pronoun, and tried to look in some small way formidable.
“Iberville projects, not the street. It’s north of the Quarter about two blocks.” She and I continued to look lost. “Go about four-five blocks north from our door and maybe a block to the west. You’ll cross Rampart, but won’t get as far as Canal after you turn. Big buildings, look like hell, can’t miss ‘em. Thing is ..”
We waited patiently to find out what the thing was.
“... thing is, I don’t remember any houses up that way. Sure she’s not in the projects?”
He tugged the edge back toward him for another glance.
“All I know is she has a large home with a number of girls who live there, a boarding house, as I understand it. They probably all work nearby around here.”
Before he walked off again, I asked for another Jack Daniels, neat, and an iced tea. I figured she was thirsty, but not the type for hard liquor.
“Ice tea and Jack? That’s a new one. I’m pretty sure we don’t have any tea brewed at the moment, though.” His tone suggested that they hadn’t had any tea brewed in decades. “Ice water, then.” He shrugged, but filled the order and slid them to me, then went back to his more completely disinterested state. He’d shared what little information he had, which poured over our heads like rain on a duck, and he was done.
“So, “ I waved the letter in the air, as if weighing it, “… is that where the envelope took you?”
“That sounds exactly like the place …”
Now it was my turn to sigh, but it lacked the soul that Evangeline’s had. It was weak and willowy, a mere whisper of disappointment, and not a manifesto. My sighs have since improved, however.
“How about I get you a real drink and ~”
She shook her head and eyed the dew running down her water glass. No. She didn’t appear shocked or suddenly ill at ease. She’d answered that question before. Maybe many times before. She knew the answer before the question had been asked.
My glass was gone, so I wriggled my finger over the glass as though casting an incantation. It must’ve been a valid one, though, because by the time I glanced back, it was refilled.
“Well …” I’ve always found it a good word when starting a sentence when I don’t know what’s going to come next. It didn’t jump-start anything, however.
“Well …” I tried again. “Well, it’s already after five. Everyplace we might check is probably already closed. I might have some time to help you tomorrow, but we should probably get you squared away for the moment.” One step at a time. I never think of the trap as I’m laying it, but that time I did, for some reason. How many times had I lured a trusting and desperate young woman into my bed? All the same, maybe I was being lured. Despite her fresh-off-the-bus appearance, it somehow seemed that this wasn’t the first time she’d been in this town, in this bar, and in this predicament, though the bartender showed no sign of recognition.
“So, have you eaten, Evangeline? Can I assume you have someplace to stay in case you don’t find her?”
“I haven’t eaten since … well, since I got here. And ... to stay …” She looked off into the distance, like the answer would hop into view, or at least into her head, if she just looked there for a moment.
“Yes, yes, I must have a place to stay, mustn’t I?” I decided to take it as a declaration and not a question. Her voice was more confident than her face. It crinkled and bunched up, trying to squeeze a little more truth out of her words.”
“Well, just down the way here is about the best place in the world to get a muffaletta.”
That just tightened her face more, so I clarified, “A sandwich … You’ve never heard of a muffaletta, I suppose.” And her head shook again. She seemed to use her glass as much as a shield as she did a refreshment.
“Maybe another place ..?” I could probably use something more substantial than a sandwich myself. “Anyway, when we’ve finished our drink, maybe we could grab a bite together.”
She cocked her head my way. “You’re asking me to dinner?”
I smiled, trying to warm her a tiny bit. “It would be my pleasure.”
She cocked her head the other way and after a moment of taking my stock, said, “That would be alright, I think.”
Hungry or not, she was in no hurry to finish her water. I was in no hurry to leave the place drunk, so I slowed myself to keep pace with her. Sure, it would get watered down, but it wasn't like anything important was going to evaporate.
When we left there, the light was almost horizontal, the sun increasingly eager to escape behind the buildings of the business district. Her suitcase, which she allowed me to carry, seemed improbably light.
The evening crowds were swelling, so we wove a path through the early drinkers. I led, using the suitcase as a wedge of sorts, and she trailed behind me, only keeping hold of each other by our fingertips. Her fingers hadn’t warmed any while we talked. They were still bone-cold. I’d turn from time to time to throw a reassuring smile over my shoulder, and I’d see her face on the edges of my vision, rippling in the periphery of perception.
A block east on Bourbon, I realized she’d probably feel a lot more comfortable at Galatoire’s than some random place to the east. It was on the same block, the other direction and other side of the street, when we walked out the door. I could have thrown her suitcase that far. She’d be better off there than some noisy booze hall with a half-rate po-boy or etouffee.
I set the case down and turned to confer, and her fingers slipped from mine. The crowd flowed around us – around me – and she was immersed somewhere out of sight. I reached for the case, and it was gone as well. Had she slipped around me and made off with the case? Why? How? Had she had a sudden change of mind? That seemed a lot more likely than the possibility that she and then her suitcase had suddenly gotten abducted. I climbed up on a crate to look over the crowd, and there was nothing. Random faces approached and then passed, and none of them were her. Not on this sidewalk, and not on the opposite side.
I waited. Two minutes? Five minutes? Twenty? No idea. I waited until I was thirsty, which was probably much less than twenty minutes, then turned back toward the Old Absinthe.
I hoisted myself up on the same barstool I’d been on, and the glassy eyed man who’d moved away from Evangeline earlier sat next to me, holding two glasses of a cloudy green liquid, which had to be absinthe. He slid one in front of me. I just touched the glass. It was ice cold, but hadn’t yet started sweating. He had great timing.
He patted me on the chest. “Stay here. My bladder’s about to explode. You got back sooner than I expected.”
“Why were you expecting me back? Was she running some kind of scam that fell apart? What’s your stake in it, buddy?”
He laughed and shook his head as the laugh became a cough. “She always vanishes, my friend. She’s been vanishing for … a long time, and the men almost always come back, and after hearing the story, they – we - always need a drink. But that'll have to wait a moment."
So, he peed, and returned, and told me what he’d figured out about Evangeline, who’s been vanishing for a hundred and twenty some years on her way to Mary Deubler’s sporting house up in Storyville.
He was right. The drink came in handy. I argued with him for an hour and accused him of being twelve kinds of crazy, but it was a straw argument.
It is crazy, but if you could've seen Evangeline like I saw her ...
I wonder if she ever made it to the sporting house, but lack the nerve to do any research, because I don't want to know the wrong thing. I tell myself I'd just find the wrong Evangeline anyway. I also tell myself she turned around and went back to whatever dirt crossroads town she'd come from, but if that were true, she would never have gotten stuck in her loop, would she? I've been back to the city plenty of times, and I've spent most twilights on that same stool at the Absinthe House, but I've yet to see her again, and I wonder and wonder what it would take to change her path.
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