S.E.C.R.E.T. (Secret 1)

Two days after flying back from his funeral in Ann Arb

or—where I sat alone because Scott’s family blamed me for his death—I got a phone call from Will. At first, his voice kind of threw me, its timbre so much like Scott’s, minus the slurring.

“Am I speaking with Cassie Robichaud?”

“You are. Who’s this?”

“My name’s Will Foret. I own Café Rose? You dropped off a résumé last week. We’re looking for someone to start right away for the breakfast and lunch shift. I know you don’t have a lot of experience, but I got a good vibe from you when we met the other day, and—”

A good vibe?

“When did we meet?”

“When you, uh, dropped off your résumé.”

“I’m sorry, of course I remember. Sorry, yes, I could come in on Thursday.”

“Thursday’s good. How about ten-thirty. I’ll show you the ropes.”

Forty-eight hours later, I was shaking Will’s hand, and shaking my head at the fact that I actually hadn’t remembered him—that’s how out of it I’d been that night. We joke about it now (“Yeah, the time I completely bowled you over with my first impression, that you don’t even remember!”), but I was in such a fog after that fight with Scott that I could have spoken with Brad Pitt and failed to notice. So meeting Will again, I was taken aback at how unassumingly handsome he was.

Will didn’t promise I’d make great money; the Café is just a bit north of the hot spots, and isn’t open at night. He mentioned something about expanding upstairs, but that was years away.

“Mostly locals hang out and eat here. Tim and the guys from Michael’s bike shop. Lotta musicians. Some you’ll find sleeping in the doorway because they’ve played on the stoop all night. Local characters who like to linger for hours. But they all drink a lot of coffee.”

“Sounds good.”

His job training consisted of an unenthusiastic tour where he pointed and mumbled instructions on how to use the dishwasher and the coffee grinder and where he kept the cleaning supplies.

“City says you have to wear your hair tied back. Other than that, I’m not too picky. We don’t have uniforms, but it’s a fast turnaround at lunch, so be practical.”

“ ‘Practical’ is my middle name,” I said.

“I do plan to renovate,” he said, when he saw me noticing a chip in the tile floor and, later, a wobbly ceiling fan. The place was run-down but homey and only a ten-minute walk from my apartment at Chartres and Mandeville. He told me he named it Café Rose after Rose Nicaud, an ex-slave who used to sell her own blend of coffee from a cart on the streets of New Orleans. Will was distantly related to her on his mother’s side, he said.

“You should see our family reunion pictures. It’s like a group shot from the United Nations. Every color represented … So? You want the job?”

I nodded enthusiastically, and Will shook my hand again.

After that, my life shrunk to a few essential blocks of Marigny. Maybe I’d go to Tremé to hear Angela Rejean, one of Tracina’s friends who worked at Maison. Or I’d wander antique or second-hand shops on Magazine. But I rarely went beyond those neighborhoods, and stopped going to the Museum of Art or Audubon Park altogether. In fact, it may be strange to say, but I could have gone the rest of my life in the city without ever seeing the water.

I did mourn. After all, Scott was the first and only man I’d ever been with. I’d break down crying at odd times, while on a bus or in the middle of brushing my teeth. Waking from a long nap in a darkened bedroom always triggered tears. But it wasn’t just Scott I mourned. I mourned the loss of nearly fifteen years of my life spent listening to his constant put-downs and complaints. And that’s what I was left with. I didn’t know how to shut off the critical voice that, in Scott’s absence, continued to note my flaws and highlight my mistakes. How come you haven’t joined a gym? No one wants a woman over thirty-five. All you do is watch TV. You could be so much prettier if you just made an effort. Five Years.

I threw myself into work. The pace suited me well. We served the only breakfast on the street, nothing fancy: eggs any way, sausage, toast, fruit, yogurt, pastries and croissants. Lunch was never elaborate: soups and sandwiches, or sometimes a one-pot dish like bouillabaisse, lentil stew or a jambalaya if Dell came in early and felt like whipping something up. She was a better cook than a waitress, but she couldn’t stand being in the kitchen all day.

I only worked four days a week, from nine to four, sometimes later if I stuck around for a meal and a visit with Will. If Tracina was running late, I’d start her tables for her. I never complained. I always kept busy.

I could have made more money in the afternoons, but I liked the morning shift. I loved hosing the night’s dirt off the grimy sidewalk first thing in the morning. I loved how the sun freckled the patio tables. I loved stocking the pastry display case, while the coffee brewed and the soup simmered. I loved taking my time to cash out, spreading my money on one of the tippy tables by the big front windows. But there was always something lonely about heading home.

My life began to take on a steady, reliable rhythm: work, home, read, sleep. Work, home, read, sleep. Work, movie, home, read, sleep. It wouldn’t have taken a superhuman effort to shift out of it, but I just couldn’t make a change.

I thought that after a while I would automatically start living again, dating even. I thought there’d be a magical day when the rut would fill itself in, and I’d join the world again. Like a switch would turn on. The idea of taking a course crossed my mind. Finishing my degree. But I was too numb to commit. I was slouching towards middle age with no brakes on, my fat calico cat, Dixie, a former stray, aging right along with me.

“You say you have a fat cat like it’s something that she caused,” Scott used to say to me. “She didn’t get here fat. You did this to her.”

Scott didn’t give in to Dixie and her constant whining for food. Me, however, she worked over until I caved, again and again. I had no resolve, which is probably why I put up with Scott for so long. It took me a while to realize that I didn’t cause his drinking, nor could I stop it, but there was this lingering sense that I might have saved him if I had tried hard enough.

Maybe if we had had a baby like he wanted. I never told him how secretly relieved I was to learn that I couldn’t have kids. Surrogacy was an option, but it was too expensive to be a viable one for us, and thankfully Scott wasn’t keen on adoption. That I never wanted to be a mother was never in dispute. But I still hoped for a sense of purpose in life, for something to take up that space that a yearning for children had never occupied.