A Morning for Flamingos (Dave Robicheaux 4)

"I'm in the one-day-at-a-time club. Tomorrow takes care of itself. I've got three tickets to the LSU-Ole Miss game tonight. We'll take Alafair with us and have crawfish at Mulate's, then go on up to Baton Rouge."

She didn't answer for a moment; then she said, "I'm flattered you want me to meet your daughter, but do you think maybe you're trying to fix yesterday's mistakes?"

"No," I said, and felt my throat color.

"Because if your conscience bothers you, or if you feel that somehow you need to make amends to me, I want you to stop now."

"It's not that way."

"Which way is it, then?"

"It's a beautiful day. It's going to be a fine weekend. Why not take a chance on it?"

"You made a choice for both of us thirty years ago, Dave. I didn't have a chance to participate in it. Since then, most of my choices have turned out to be bad ones."

"Boots, I'll never intentionally hurt you again."

"We get hurt worse by the people whom we care about. And they seldom mean to do it. That's what makes it so painful, kiddo."

"At any point you wish, you just say, 'Let's go home, Dave. Let's not try to be kids again.' It'll end right there."

"People make lots of promises in the daylight."

This time I simply looked back across the table at her. Her hair was so thick and lovely I wanted to reach over and touch it.

"Are you sure this is what you want?" she said finally.

"I can't think of anything better in the whole world," I said.

I dropped her off at her house, went back to the apartment and packed, left a message for Minos on his answering machine; then two hours later she and I were on our way across the Atchafalaya Basin, on a perfect blue and gold fall day, the wind blowing across the bays and saw grass and dead cypress, the elevated highway like a long white conduit into the past.

You never forget an LSU-Ole Miss game: the tiers upon tiers of seats filled with people, the haze around the banks of lights in the sky, the thunder of marching bands on the field, cheerleaders tumbling like acrobats, Confederate flags waving wildly in the crowd, Mike the Tiger in his cage riding stiff-legged around the track, the coeds with mums pinned on their sweaters, their breath sweet with bourbon and Coca-Cola—then, suddenly, one hundred thousand people rising to their feet in one deafening roar as LSU's team pours onto the field in their gold and purple and white uniforms that shine with light and seem tighter on their bodies than their very muscles.

Alafair fell asleep between us on the way back home, and I carried her into her bedroom and tucked her in. Then I heated some boudin, and Bootsie and I ate it at the kitchen table. Her face was sleepy with the long day, and she smiled and tried to stay attentive while I talked, but her eyes kept shutting lazily and finally her hand slipped off the side of the table.

"I think it's time you went to sleep," I said.

"I'm sorry. I'm so tired. It's been a wonderful day, Dave."

"It'll be an even better one tomorrow."

"I know," she said.

"Good night."

"Good night. I'm sorry to be so tired."

"It's all right. You're supposed to be tired. I'll see you tomorrow."

She went into the back bedroom, and I could see the light for a few minutes under her door. I turned on the television set in the living room and lay down on the couch. Her light went off, and I stared at a late show starring a famous actor who had been deferred from service during the Vietnam War because he had been the sole support of his mother. I didn't blame the actor for his deferment, but I didn't have to watch him, either. I turned off the set and lay back down on the couch with my arm over my eyes. I heard the scream of a nutria out in the marsh, the sound of night birds out in the bare sugarcane fields behind my property, the occasional thump of pecans falling to the ground in the front yard.

It had been a fine day. Why did I always expect more out of the day than perhaps I had earned?

A few minutes later I heard her click on the bedside lamp; then she opened the door and stood framed against the light. She didn't speak. Her face was dark with shadow, her body outlined against her white nightgown, her short-cropped hair diffused with light.

I went into the room with her, and she closed the door as though it were her house rather than mine. She clicked off the lamp, smoothed the pillows, pulled back the covers, then touched my face with her hand, kissing me on the mouth, lightly at first, then her mouth opening and wet, her face changing the angle, her tongue inside me, her eyes opening and shutting but always focusing on mine as though I might somehow elude the moment she was creating for both of us.

She worked her nightgown over her head and lay down partially on her side with her knees close together, her palm behind her head, and waited for me. When I lay down beside her, she stretched out against me, breathing on my neck and chest, rubbing her hair against my face as though she were a cat. I kissed her eyes and mouth and breasts, and felt the smoothness of her stomach and thighs and the contours of her hips. I brushed her hair with my palm, stroked the stiffness of it where it was tapered at the back of her head, smelled the expensive and delicate perfume behind her ears.