Page 22 of The Shop on Royal Street
CHAPTER 8
Two weeks later on a Saturday afternoon, on my front porch I sat on an old plastic lawn chair that had been found hidden beneath the banana tree in the backyard. I’d discovered it and a second toilet after I’d hacked the plant back to a size that was more fruit tree and lessLittle Shop of Horrors. My current sitting position could best be described as “splayed,” something Melanie would definitely not approve of. The effort of lifting my water bottle to my mouth was more than I could handle, and most of the water trickled down my chin and neck in cooling relief.
Every muscle in my body ached, the raw skin on my knuckles and knees burned, and my hair, skin, and clothing were wet enough to wring out. Late August in New Orleans was just like that in Charleston: hot, humid, and unbearable. True to his word, Beau had sent a demolition crew to the house to help tear out laminate floors and Formica countertops and what remained of the derelict kitchen and bathroom fixtures; the work was interrupted for a period of time by an asbestos-abatement team to deal with that unwanted surprise. The demolition crew always showed up long after the sun had risen andwere gone long before dusk. I wanted to ask them why, but it was a rotating cast of faces with none repeated. I’d made a point of asking Jolene if we could make a stop at the Ruby Slipper Cafe on our way to the house in the mornings so I could get a large box of Bam Bam Biscuits and a jug of iced coffee. But even though the guys on the crew seemed appreciative, it wasn’t enough to get them to return.
I’d been working by myself all morning. After watching Jolene break off all of her nails and destroy an impressive collection of linen shorts over the last couple of weeks, I made the executive decision to relegate her to the social-media-and-publicity portion of the renovation until it was time to do the interiors and décor. Her mother was an interior designer—I’d seen photos, and her family’s funeral home really was the prettiest I’d ever seen—and Jolene had a great eye, judging by my memories of our freshman dorm room. I was pretty much color-blind when it came to paint and floor finishes, and knew what I liked only after the fact. But what Jolene lacked in proper renovation attire she made up for in dogged determination. One of her recent coups was the deal she’d made with a flooring company to supply the tiles for the bathroom floors and kitchen backsplash below cost in return for free advertising on the JR website and YouTube channel and a mention in any of the print coverage. When I’d asked her how she’d accomplished that, she’d smiled broadly and said, “If you can’t run with the big dogs, stay under the porch.” I wasn’t exactly sure what that meant, but I was thrilled to get the price cut.
My phone rang where it rested on my thigh, stuck to my skin with sweat. I opened my eyes wide enough to see that the call was from Dr.Sophie Wallen-Arasi, a professor of historic preservation at the College of Charleston and Melanie’s best friend. Ever since Melanie told her I was restoring a Creole cottage in New Orleans, she’d been sending me reams of instructions on the most authentic methods for renovation, many of which—like picking berries to make my own paint—made me cringe. I’d made the mistake of mentioning I was eager to get an electric sander for the floors, and from her shocked and horrifiedreaction one might have thought I’d said I was going to meander naked outdoors. I declined the call before pouring the rest of the water in my bottle over my head.
“Hello, Nola!”
I waved to my neighbor Ernest across the street as he attached a leash to his brown and white Havanese dog, Belle, before attempting another walk—or “drag and carry,” as he and his partner, Bob, called it. Not that I blamed Belle for her reluctance to move. It was too hot outside to do anything more strenuous than blink. Unfortunately, Belle’s vet had put her on a strict diet-and-exercise regimen due to Bob’s habit of bringing home tasty scraps from his job as a waiter at Upperline.
Ernest and I were both grateful for Bob’s culinary expertise; I was sure I would have starved if not for the lovingly prepared meals he’d brought over. With so much work to do on the house, and with my full-time job, I didn’t want to waste time eating. I always asked Ernest to join me, but he would politely decline with an implausible excuse, like the need to express Belle’s anal sacs. I had no idea what that was, but I was fairly certain that I didn’t want to know.
“The planters are looking great!” I called out, nearly depleting my energy reserves. On the first day of the demolition, Ernest and Bob had come over to introduce themselves and Belle, and asked if I was going to be keeping the coffin planter in the back garden. Now they had a matched pair in front of their porch, each containing artificial Christmas trees that were currently decked out in red, white, and blue for the upcoming Labor Day weekend. I was looking forward to seeing what they’d do for Halloween.
Ernest waved again, then proceeded to tug on the leash, dragging the stiff-legged Belle for several feet before giving up and hoisting her in his arms.
Beau’s truck pulled up at the curb in front of the house. I considered sitting up straight and making myself presentable, but the mere thought exhausted me, so I didn’t move as I watched him through droopy eyes. He aimed his phone at me, which acted as a jolt of ice water to the face and jerked me up to a sitting position. “Put that thing downunless you want me to grab it and stomp on it before throwing it at your head.”
“Does that mean you don’t want to be photographed today for the JR Properties website? I wanted to get you in action hand sanding the floors.”
“Do I look camera ready?” I pointed to my sodden T-shirt and dripping hair.
An odd look crossed his face. “I’m guessing that’s not up for discussion, so I’ll hold off on candid shots.” He gave me an ice-cold bottle of water before sitting down on the steps and unscrewing the top of another bottle.
“Thank you. And please give me plenty of warning when the official photographers and video people are scheduled. Melanie and Jack will want to see everything, and I don’t want to give them anything to worry about.”
“Yeah. About that. The people I had in mind are booked way out. Jolene overheard me telling Mimi and she had a suggestion. So I’ve hired Jaxson Landry. I believe you’ve already met him.”
“The lawyer?”
“Yeah—we go way back. Great guy. He’s apparently an amateur photographer in his spare time and would love to chronicle the rest of the renovation. I’m sure he’ll want to make a schedule that works with you. Sound good?”
“It does. I’m just amazed that every professional photographer is booked. And what’s with the rotating work crew? It’s like a new group every day or so. Is there a huge building-and-renovation boom that I’m not aware of? Things would move faster if I had consistency in the crews you send. Having different people here every few days is almost like starting from scratch. I waste a lot of time going over the same things every day.”
“Something like that.” He didn’t meet my eyes. “The guys did tell me that you’re very nice to work for and they appreciate the food. Not so much the posted schedules. Lamont said he hasn’t seen a potty break schedule since kindergarten.”
“I learned that from Melanie. I’ll try to make them bigger and more colorful next time. Maybe with cute graphics or something, to make them friendlier.”
Beau raised an eyebrow. “Or not use them at all. I think the point was that they’re grown men who know what they’re doing and don’t really need posted schedules.”
I sighed. “Well, at least it’s not personal. I was starting to get the feeling that they didn’t like me or something, or that I wasn’t working as hard as they were. I will admit to not being able to swing a sledgehammer as hard as they can, but I did a lot of damage to the wall separating the rooms upstairs. Lamont told me he was impressed.”
“Did he?” Beau asked with a smile.
“He did. And I’d like to have him return, but after three days I haven’t seen him. Jorge—the young guy who I think might be completely deaf—is the only one who shows up consistently, and even he hasn’t been here today. I think he said something about taking his mother to the doctor, but it’s difficult to understand him. He’s a hard worker and I’d love to have him back. I’d love to have anyone back. And the generator. They always take it with them when they leave, and I can’t afford one right now.”
Beau scratched the back of his neck. “Yeah, well, unfortunately, consistent workers and schedules aren’t generally part of the renovation process. We have a lot of jobs going on and I’m doing my best to get you workers here. But you know how it is—sometimes there’s a waiting period to let drywall mud set or floors dry, and I can only spare a few guys to work here for a period of time.”
I watched him closely as he looked everywhere but at me. “Yeah, well, I’ve joined the Faubourg Marigny Improvement Association and the Preservation Resource Center. They’ve all been nice and friendly, and very helpful, especially after I explained that I wasn’t demolishing anything original to the house, and I wasn’t altering the facade. They practically hugged me when I told them I had no plan to make it a short-term rental—apparently there’s an ‘Airbnb epidemic’ in the Marigny. But I can’t get anyone to actually come inside. They keeprecommending that I refer to their online videos and other resources—which are definitely helpful but don’t really substitute for hands-on, you know? So, fine. People are freaked out because the house is supposed to be haunted, and yeah, someone was murdered here a long time ago. But at the end of the day it’s just a house—my future home. I’m certainly not sensitive to ghosts, and I know the majority of people aren’t, either. So I don’t understand why it’s such a problem to come inside.”
Beau just nodded as if I wasn’t telling him anything he didn’t already know.
“I asked for a recommendation for a good electrician who understands old wiring and how to update it in a reno, but everyone is apparently booked for the next year. I’ve been waiting for the electrician you promised me two weeks ago, and I’m getting desperate. We need to be able to plug in fans upstairs and downstairs or the few workers I do manage to get will die of heatstroke, and then what will I do?”
He shrugged, his gaze fixed on the wall behind me, his fingers snapping a rubber band I’d noticed he always wore on his wrist. “This is New Orleans. People have strong beliefs about... things. Practically every block in the city has a church, a voodoo shop, and a tarot card reader, among other things. I think the workers are probably freaking themselves out and imagining things. Because you and I know that there is always a logical explanation to every supposed haunting. Just not everybody sees it that way.”
