Page 1 of The Big Easy & Other Lies
Chapter 1
The lime green corduroy was a fine wale, soft as cashmere against my fingertips, and I needed it for my senior design project the way reality stars need TMZ cameras. But it was stuck in the middle of a fabric tower higher than my head. I calculated the odds of yanking the corduroy free without toppling the whole stack.
With a prayer to the patron saint of hoarders, I tugged hard and it flew out, the momentum ping-ponging me between a wall of yellowed newspaper piles and a mountain of empty Coke cans. The fabric tower tipped, and I leaped free of the crash only to trip on the tail of a stuffed fox and sprawl into the hallway.
I hopped back up to assess the damage behind me in the guest room. A mudslide of textiles blocked the narrow passage I’d excavated into this section of Aunt Delphine’s hoard. With my heart in my orange Chucks, I froze and waited for the yelling. She would kill me for touching her stuff—most likely death by lecture. I waited to see if the ruckus would summon her from the den. Usually once she settled in for herWheel of Fortunefix, only Pat Sajak himself, showing up to whisk her away for an illicit weekend in the nearby French Quarter, could come between Delphine and her shiny, flat panel TV.
Rufus, an orange tabby, was the only soul who showed up to investigate. He rubbed against my jeans and wandered out again.
“Camille!” Delphine yelled and then coughed, a nasty rattle that wore on my nerves.
“Yes?” I called back, hoping I sounded innocent.
“You ain’t getting in my stuff, are you?” Her gravelly voice betrayed her two-pack-a-day smoking habit.
“No, ma’am.” I wasn’tinit now, only standing there making eye contact with it.
“Where are you?”
“I thought I heard something. I was checking it out,” I called back. A beat went by with no response, and then another. I let out a slow breath out and edged back into the room to nudge the fabric muddle with my toe. I had to get this cleaned up, or at least looking on par with the mess everywhere else in the house.
I didn’t want to tackle the clean-up until she fell asleep, so I scooped up the corduroy and headed to my room. The fabric smelled musty, and I’d have to lay it out in good light before I knew whether I’d liberated trash or treasure. I made it to the second stair when Delphine hollered again. “Camille! Get in here.”
Wincing, I dropped my find and made for the den. Those few steps meant threading between a decade’s worth ofSport Fishingmagazines, dusty boxes, and a stack of bagged dog food. Delphine’s border collie had died when I was nine, but the dog food stayed.
Everything stayed.
I bumped a box, and rodent feet skittered. I shuddered; I would never get used to that sound.
Delphine didn’t look up when I walked in. “Are you working tonight?”
I wished I could lie and have an excuse to escape the house, but there was nothing scheduled for Parties by Picou Catering. Miss Annie didn’t have me working until the LeBlanc’s big Labor Day party on Monday. I’d almost be willing to give up the money from that job if it meant staying home and avoiding the LeBlanc’s daughter, Angelique. But her mom was a good tipper. And that right there was pretty much why no one liked the LeBlancs but everyone went to their parties anyway: money. People put up with a lot for money. I couldn’t judge that.
“Camille,” Delphine snapped.
“Sorry. No, ma’am. I’m not working tonight,” I said.
“I’m hungry,” Delphine said. “Go make supper.”
“You ate a little while ago. Maybe you should have a snack. I could make you a light salad.”
“Don’t sass me,” Delphine said. “You act like it’s going to take you a culinary degree to heat up something in the microwave. Just go do it.” She turned up the volume on Pat Sajak.
I headed for the kitchen.Excuse me for trying to follow the diet guidelines from your doctor,I said to Delphine in my head, the only place I dared defy her. Last week, Dr. Wyatt had told Delphine to quit smoking and quit eating processed foods. She ate junk all day, but she was wiry and malnourished. Delphine had told Dr. Wyatt to shut up. Then she drove home, plopped down in her recliner, and made me heat up a TV dinner for her.
A calico cat named Rags lay on the kitchen threshold, forcing me to step over him and squeeze past a wall of Coca-Cola cartons full of more empty cans. This “collection” gave way to a pile of pizza boxes and potato chip bags blocking the entrance to the laundry room.
In Delphine Riveau’s house there were no options for fresh or healthy dinner choices other than the salad I crammed into the crisper drawer every week; if it didn’t come out of a box or from the freezer, she wouldn’t eat it. The fridge was for soda, beer, and now yogurt. Lots and lots of yogurt. Delphine had gotten a deal at a grocery case lot sale two days ago and had double coupons, besides. So we had a fridge full of yogurt and one lonely bag of lettuce.
After fishing out a raspberry yogurt for myself, I snagged some pretzels from the huge box of mixed snacks Delphine had bought at one of those grocery warehouses. They were an off-brand and tasted stale the first day she brought them home, but I knew not to complain. Otherwise, I’d have to hear about the gall of me wanting the fancy name brand stuff when I cost Delphine her whole social security check every month.
Complete BS, by the way. Her compulsive shopping ate up her monthly check.
With Delphine’s nuked fish stick dinner in hand, I weaved back through the junk lining the path to the den. I had to fumble with her TV table by myself since she couldn’t be bothered to interruptThe Wheel,especially since she wouldn’t see her boyfriend Pat Sajak for two whole days over the weekend. I deposited the steaming dinner and turned to leave.
“Where you going?” Delphine demanded.
“To get you a fork. I forgot one.”
