Page 65 of The Shop on Royal Street
Thibaut’s eyes widened. “Oh, okay. Well, that’s interesting.”
“What did he say?”
“It means that you can’t lie.”
We all looked over at Beau, including the dog, who stopped licking my chin and neck long enough to turn his head.
Jolene walked over to Beau and put the back of her hand on his forehead. “How long has he been like this?”
“Well, when he got here this mornin’ he didn’t look so good, but said he was fine. He went upstairs and took pictures of that closet and hallway, but he still didn’t look so good. He said he didn’t take any Tylenol because he was fine, so Jorge here jumped in his car and came back with his mama’s broth. Says she always keeps a batch in the freezerjust in case.” He jerked his head in Beau’s direction. “He’s been like that ever since.”
Jolene unscrewed the thermos lid and took a sniff. “Smells like cherry Kool-Aid.” She stuck her finger inside and tasted it before screwing up her face. “Oh, my word. That’s a grain-alcohol punch.”
Jorge said something in Portuguese to Thibaut. Turning toward us, Thibaut said, “It’s his mother’s special recipe. She uses the Kool-Aid to make it taste better and the grain alcohol to make the patient forget they were ever sick.”
Jolene screwed the lid on before turning back to Beau. “Does anything hurt?” she asked Beau.
Shaking his head, he slurred, “Nothing hurts. I feel pretty good.” He gave her a drunken smile.
Not trusting his judgment, Jolene prodded the lower-right side of his abdomen, eliciting a loud giggle. “No pain there, then?”
He gave her another loopy smile. “Nope. I liked that. Do it again.”
Jolene stood, her hands on her hips. “Well, he’s just pitiful. At least it’s not appendicitis. My guess is it’s just some kind of bug he picked up and it needs to run its course. But that’s not going to happen if he won’t stay in bed.”
She frowned, and I could almost hear the cogs in her brain spinning. “I make an excellent chicken soup and we have a couch. My car is big enough to lay him down in the backseat with the dog for company, and the trunk is big enough for hatboxes and probably whatever else is in the attic.” Jolene wagged her finger at me. “I told you that a big car is an asset.”
“Only if you know how to drive it. Besides, don’t you think Beau would be better off at home?”
“Absolutely not. Trust me. I’ve nursed people before and I know what I’m doing.”
“But did they survive?” I asked, not entirely joking.
In the end, Thibaut and Jorge were able to fit all the contents of the closet in Bubba’s trunk, since—as Jolene reminded me—her grandmother had never owned a car that couldn’t carry eight bodies and thetools to bury them. The men wouldn’t let us carry anything, and they even managed to put Beau in the backseat without dropping him. I placed the dog next to him for company, then jumped in the passenger seat up front.
“You should probably call Mimi to let her know where Beau is,” Jolene suggested.
“Good point. Although I’m not ready to talk to her until I’ve spoken with Beau about the hairbrush and Mr.Bingle. She might bring them up.”
“Then text her. That’s what we Gen Zs do best, right? She might actually think it’s weird if you call.”
“True.” I texted Mimi that Beau was staying at our apartment because he was still feeling under the weather and that Jolene was going to make him chicken soup. I made it clear that both Jolene and I would be there and that he would be sleeping on the couch, but I left out the part about the thermos from Jorge and the mystery ingredients.
I waited a few moments for her to respond, and when she didn’t, I tossed my phone into my backpack. “I hope she calls his girlfriend, Sam, so she doesn’t worry.”
“Or not,” Jolene said, a purely wicked smile gracing her innocent face.
•••
I awoke to a rough tongue lapping my cheek. I sat up in the pitch dark, disoriented for a moment as I imagined I was back home in Charleston with Porgy and Bess, who’d slept on my bed since they were puppies. Except they weren’t puppies anymore, and I wasn’t in Charleston. And the stray dog, albeit bathed and bandannaed, had been given strict instructions to stay in the cute blue dog bed with the Tempur-Pedic bottom—Jolene’s insistence—on the floor by my bed. He’d apparently disagreed and had waited until I was asleep to assert his place next to me.
I gently pushed him away, then stood to place him back in his own bed. I hadn’t named him yet, because I wasn’t going to keep him. I couldn’t. I loved dogs, and even made Melanie and my dad FaceTimeme with Porgy and Bess. But I wasn’t in any kind of position to take care of a dog or any other living creature. Taking care of myself was still a relatively new concept. I continued to feel as if I were walking on ice, not quite steady and taking it slowly, being careful not to slip or fall through a hole. I wasn’t even sure if I could handle a goldfish yet.
I stopped, still holding him in my arms, listening. Yes, there it was. The sound of a man’s voice, speaking quietly and pausing at intervals. I put the dog back in his bed with a stern warning to stay, then quietly let myself out of my bedroom. The scented night-light that Jolene had placed in the little hallway that was between our bedrooms and separated the bathroom from the dining area illuminated the lower half of the teacher’s desk and a man’s feet.
By a quick process of elimination—necessary, since I was still half asleep—I realized the man was Beau. I took a step closer, then froze when I saw the dangling cord from the landline telephone bounce across the shaft of light. Beau was talking on the disconnected phone. Either he was sleepwalking or I was losing my mind. Or both.
I could never remember what to do with a sleepwalker. Wake them up? Don’t wake them up? Lead them back to bed? I began to step backward toward my bedroom to let him sort it out himself, but a single word made me freeze again.Mom.
