In the French Quarter of New Orleans, an air of anticipation was felt around 4 p.m., regardless of the day of the week, time of the year. On a June Saturday in 1985, a lifelong resident of the 700 block of Dumaine Street, a woman who thought she had seen everything there was to see, saw something that stopped her in her old gold slippers.
It was not out of the ordinary to see this pale woman in her fifties outside of her half shotgun double around this time. Miss Aimee Mercier snuck out in her worn red kimono, off-white hair bandeau, and dark sunglasses aflutter every day. She repeated this ritual unlocking her ancient door, looking both ways, and snatching her perfectly folded Times-Picayune/States-Item newspaper.
The paper was an amazing thing in a city of decay, still sadistically rubber band bound, laying in wait since roughly 5:30 that long ago morning. A cynical person might wonder how such a pristine and available article should remain untouched upon stoop on the heavily trafficked street. The explanation was simple: Miss Mercier was French Quarter royalty.
On this particular afternoon, Aimee stretched her arm down and grasped her paper, but instead of quickly retreating inside, she waited as she heard the locks turning next door. The other side of the double was occupied by her younger sister, Zelia, and her teenage son, Sky. This extruder was neither, but a familiar scrawny teenager.
His black hair was spiked up unnaturally into a Mohawk and he was dressed in an unseasonably warm orange polyester jumpsuit. Yet, it was the mysterious something he was dragging out that brought the most attention upon himself. Unaware of a witness, this young man laboriously hauled an oversized, apparently heavy, black lawn and leaf bag down the four steps to the sidewalk.
Aimee tilted her long ivory neck to the left and cleared her throat dramatically.
The young scamp turned guiltily.
“Heavens, Johnny,” Aimee exclaimed, pointing at the bag accusatorily with her newspaper. “I hope that’s not my nephew in there.”
“Uh, no,” he replied with a shake of his head, simultaneously slinging a sweat droplet from his ruddy nose into the air. “Just some trash, Miss Aimee.”
She paused before motioning with her newspaper for him to carry on. Perhaps she had released him too hastily because as he slowly lugged the peculiar bag down the sidewalk, she thought she saw an ax under his arm, thankfully devoid of blood. But, then again, one could never be sure.
* * * * *
“What the hell happened to my tree?” Zelia Mercier-Devine roared.
Her son, Sky, nervously dug in his pocket for nothing at all. In his fifteen years, he had never seen his mother so freaked out. Her green eyes were crazed and her right hand was still pointing in the direction of the courtyard. In his defense, Sky’s voice sounded unusually high.
“Well, Johnny saw on T.V. that the cops were looking for pot plants from helicopters. He said they were above the Quarter. He said he was taking a chance doing it during the day but he didn’t want us to get busted. Johnny did us a favor, Zeal.”
She screamed, “That little acid freak probably imagined that and he came here and chopped down my tree?”
Zelia gave a swift punch to the wall before hunching her body to the floor. In a fetal ball, the forty-three year old ex-hippie shook her head slowly side to side, her long brown locks flicking the green carpet like lethargic snakes.
“It was a tree, my tree, my tree,” she moaned. “I loved that tree. That tree loved me.”
Abruptly, another voice interrupted Zelia’s mourning. “What the hell is going on in here?”
Aimee had undergone a metamorphosis in two hours. She now stood in her sister’s living room wearing a shiny black cocktail dress, lace stockings, and pointy black patent leather stilettos. Her artificial audacious red hair was pulled tightly into a chignon. A tiny black cocktail hat with a rhinestone horseshoe hatpin was perched upon her head slightly, jauntily askew. She pursed her red painted lips at Zelia’s pathetically slumped condition then questioned her nephew with her big blue eyes.
Sky whispered, “Johnny cut down the tree.”
Aimee released a loud horsy laugh. She bent her knees and hit her chest with her black satin purse. “Oh, that’s rich. So, that’s what he was doing.”
Zelia lifted her head. “You mean you saw him kill my tree?”
Aimee laughed again. “Oh no, Darling. I just saw him dragging off the body.”
* * * * *
The memorial service was like any of Zelia’s smoking soirees; however the marijuana and sandalwood fogged air on this evening was also laced with sadness and loss. Jethro Tull’s Aqualung played at an audible yet respectable volume. Zelia and her three closest friends sat atop luxurious purple velvet floor pillows in a circle. On the green carpet, the smiling face of a vintage beauty on an old metal Coca-Cola tray was obscured by small piles of pot and a neat row of white joints. An ornate red and brass bong stood at attention. Votive candles gave the smoking circle a warm glow.
“The tree served us well. We are smoking the last of her crop,” Zelia said wiping a tear from her cheek.
She took a long hit off of a slender joint. Looking around her living room, she silently reminisced. The realization that she was now out of a marijuana supply forced her to see this camorra in a new light. Exhaling, she said, “I’m glad you all could make it.”
“Course, Zeal,” said Byron, a forty-two year old clerk at an independent record store. He stroked his long brown curly beard. His other arm was resting on a stack of zines, the top one titled The Ungarbled Truth.
“We’re here for you, Babe,” he added before burying his beard in the bong.
Zelia regarded Lorin. He made bamboo flutes that he sold from a T.V. tray at the flea market. Every Saturday and Sunday afternoon, Lorin sat in a metal folding chair with his long legs crossed and played his flute. Locals and tourists gravitated to the alluring flute music. While impressed by his talent and craftsmanship, few of his listeners ever purchased a flute. As a result, Lorin was forced to put out a hat for tips; a necessity that has him at age fifty, earning less than a street performer.
For the last five years, Zelia has had a mad, deeply passionate, secret crush on Lorin. She was instantly attracted to his blonde, disheveled, boyish good looks but it was his soulful brown eyes with the lonely longing of a misunderstood artist that had won her heart. She let her own eyes dreamily roam his body until she was distracted.
“Pass the lighter,” commanded Ophelia with an authoritative air.
Zelia handed over her orange lighter without comment. On many a night Ophelia had irritated her but Zelia found her especially annoying this evening. Of all her friends, she was the youngest at twenty-six, the most flamboyant, and also the one most likely to betray her.
Coffee barista by trade, Ophelia swore she made the best cappuccino in North America. Her bragging extended to everything in her life, from her motorcycle to the sheer silk dresses she wore braless. Ophelia was notorious for her caffeine inspired chats and diatribes by day and her pot induced flights of fancy by night.
Rumors floated around the Quarter detailing her lurid trysts at the coffeehouse after hours. Some evenings, she was sighted flying down the narrow streets on her motorcycle wearing a huge black hat with a long purple feather, licking the air wildly. Despite Ophelia’s legendary image in the French Quarter, Zelia knew the real story. Her true identity was Beth Katowitz, an insecure and painfully shy Jewish girl from New Jersey, who came to New Orleans to reinvent herself.
Ophelia lit her joint, lifted her head, and exhaled. Grabbing her long black hair with one hand and draping it over her left shoulder, she shrugged. “What’s wrong? You can just grow another one, right?”
Zelia’s coughed. “Do you know how long it would take to grow another tree that big? How many years have you been smoking my pot, Beth?”
Ophelia gasped. “How dare you.”
“Now, now, Zeal. She’s young,” Byron said in his deep fatherly tone. “You’re obviously upset but we’re gonna take care of you. Don’t worry.”
Zelia searched her friends’ faces. She wanted to believe Byron but although she loved them, she realized how long they’d been mooching off of her. “So, does anybody know anybody?”
Lorin said, “I heard the Rastas at the Market say it’s a dry summer.”
“I know people,” Ophelia boasted. “It won’t be a problem.”
Byron offered, “I still have a stash and we’ll all pool together. We’ll take care of each other.”
* * * * *
“I need to get high,” Zelia whined to her sister.
Aimee sat at her Art Deco vanity, applying a coat of red lipstick. Through the mirror, she regarded her pouting sister sitting on the floor. Zelia’s arms hugged her legs like a punished child.
She pointed the lipstick down at her. “What about your inner circle? Surely someone has some reefer for you.”
Zelia frowned. “The summer’s dry but there must be pot out there somewhere. You know, I feel newly widowed all over again. Everyone was so reassuring at the service when Don died but none of them wanted to be around me again until they were sure I wouldn’t cry in their presence.”
Aimee batted her eyes. “People are so uncomfortable with death.”
“Yeah. Well, everyone said they were sorry about the tree and sure Byron came by a few times and gave me a dime bag or two but now I just feel abandoned. Ophelia claims she gave it up. Even Lorin just shakes his head. I got so desperate, I called Johnny. I apologized to him for cursing him out after the thing and asked if he had a source. It’s hopeless. I need to get high.”
“Why don’t you grow up and have a cocktail?” Aimee asked dryly.
“Alcohol? I haven’t had a cocktail since high school.” Zelia watched her older sister batting her eyelashes coated with mascara in the mirror. “And the bar scene is your scene not my scene.”
“I’ll take you with me.” Pointing at Zelia’s Indian suit, Kameez and Shalwar, both of brown silk, she said, “But you can’t wear those pajamas.”
“Hey! Even if I wanted to go out with you, I wouldn’t let you give me a makeover. Just look at your feet. Look how your fashion decisions have permanently deformed you.”
Aimee reluctantly examined her left foot. It was true. Thirty years of brutally cramming her feet into AAAA narrow pointy pumps had left them eternally altered. Even barefoot, her toes were mangled, each outer toe desperately trying to cover the next inner one to conform to a shoe no longer there.
“Who but an ancient Japanese emperor would find that attractive?” Zelia drove her point home.
Aimee pried one toe away but it quickly jerked back. “What’s done is done.” She sighed.
Looking up, she studied her younger sister’s naked face and straggly hair. “Anyway, you can wear flats but you must wear a dress and I have to do something with that hair. Also, just a smidge of lipstick, okay?”
“I don’t think so.” Zelia recalled the last time she had been out drinking. It was an ugly memory of her as an intoxicated teenager wearing a soiled prom dress. Having gotten separated from her date, she walked home without a chaperone, a journey that had her nearly raped. After arriving home, relief was not the reward as her parents relentlessly reprimanded her until she vomited all over her bedroom.
“Oh, come on. It’ll be fun. We’ve never been out together.” Aimee covered her legs with black stockings and hooked them to her garter belt. “When’s the last time you’ve been out of the house at night anyway?”
“Prom night, twenty six years ago.” Zelia grimaced. “Oh, no, that’s not true. Don and I went to a restaurant on our first date.”
Laughing, she said, “Coincidentally, nine months after that first date, I became an aunt.”
“Yeah. Well, I blame the wine for that. He never took me out again.” She giggled. “He was probably scared to.”
“Come out with me. I promise you won’t get pregnant.” Aimee put a hand up, scout like.
Zelia shook her head. “It’s just not my scene. I’m not a social butterfly. I like staying inside with friends. I don’t mind hearing the commotion out there, but I don’t want to be a part of it.”
“What a shame. You have a serious case of social anxiety because you’re addicted to an illegal substance. I guess if marijuana was legal and alcohol wasn’t, I’d be the cloistered one. What an idea.” Aimee smirked as she put on her punishing stilettos.
“I’m not addicted. I just like pot, a lot.”
“I dare you,” she teased.
Loud punk rock music thundered through the plaster wall.
“Oh, that noise,” Aimee complained. “What is that they’re listening to?”
“The Sex Pistols. I had no idea it sounded this loud over here.”
The prospect of going next door and soberly sitting in her room while Sky and Johnny played their music was grim.
“Maybe just tonight,” Zelia conceded.
“Hoorah.” Aimee jumped off of her vanity seat, an old piano bench, and patted it enthusiastically for her sister to take occupancy.
Zelia sat and stared at her image in the enormous mirror. Seeing the mischievous delight in her sister’s eyes, she asked, “Why do I feel scared?”
“Scared of feeling pretty?”
“Oh, please.”
Aimee got to work with a hairbrush. Brushing Zelia’s brown hair, she said in a knowing tone, “Once you got past that awkward period of pimples and pubescence, you were quite lovely.” She threw her hands up dramatically. “Then you gave up entirely on grooming. Actually, it often seemed you were aspiring to cultivate the epitome of plain.”
Defending her younger self, she protested the insult. “I was taking a stand. It was the 60’s after all. I was making a statement against the objectification of women.”
“Fine, fine.” Aimee swept the long hair into a classic French twist. Applying a bobby pin at key points, she added, “I understand your feminist views but must you have hairy legs while you’re spouting such lofty thoughts?”
“I shave now.” Zelia demonstrated, lifting one loose pant leg.
“Well, thank Heavens for that.” Aimee knelt in front of her. “Close your eyes.”
She brushed some translucent powder on Zelia’s face. “I’m all for equal rights, of course. However, I think the Women’s Movement caused some unfortunate societal changes.”
Opening her eyes, she asked, “Like what?”
Aimee smeared Zelia’s lips with sheer pink lip-gloss. “Well, we do have that twelve year age difference, which I hate to remind myself of. My point is that you may feel differently.”
“I’ll try to keep an open mind.”
“Alright. Well, take the pressure on women to work. Everything’s calculated on a two income family these days. It’s assumed. It’s unfortunate for women who’d like to stay home and raise their children. Also, men are afraid to be gentlemen. In my day, ladies were treated like ladies. Today, some men are downright rude to women.”
“So, you would give up equal rights so some women could stay home and men would keep opening doors for you.”
Aimee raised her left eyebrow. “Now, now, Zelia. I think people should be more polite in general. I’ll hold a door open for a man or a woman. I rather like the idea of gentlehuman.”
“That word will never catch on,” Zelia warned.
“Perhaps not, but nonetheless.” Aimee opened her cedar armoire. “Hmm, I think this green taffeta will suit you. Yes, it’ll bring out your eyes.”
Zelia smirked. “Are we going to a Mardi Gras ball?”
“No, Darling. We’re going to greet my public.”
* * * * *
Aimee Mercier and Zelia Mercier-Devine exited the doors at 823 Decatur Street under the neon sign reading Tujagues Restaurant. They strolled down Decatur in the direction of Esplanade Avenue.
“That was wonderful,” Zelia admitted. “How’d you afford it, Aim?”
Aimee put her arm around her sister warmly. Along with Shrimp Remoulade and beef brisket with Creole sauce, Aimee had also enjoyed two Sazeracs. The sultry summer night was thick in its intensity but afforded an eagerness unfelt in any other city but New Orleans. Perhaps it was this mysterious anticipation of excitement that allowed its inhabitants a forgiving attitude to an unforgiving humidity during the summer months.
“The book, Darling,” Aimee stated proudly. She lowered her eyelids dreamily. “It still takes care of me.”
“That drinking pamphlet from like 20 years ago?” Zelia asked in disbelief.
Aimee released her arm from her sister’s shoulder. “That drinking pamphlet, as you so wickedly called it, happens to be 120 pages long. While true that it was never released in the deserving hardback form, it has never gone out of print since 1962.”
Aimee stomped a foot in exclamation. Always prepared, she pulled out a new copy of the book from her large black patent leather purse and handed it to her little sister.
Zelia flipped through the book and found a narrow newsprint excerpt from a review of a recent printing. She squinted under the neon lights to read:
Although countless guide books have replaced it in popularity, Aimee Mercier’s Through the Sazerac Glass: A Native’s Guide to Drinking in The French Quarter of New Orleans was the first of its kind and remains shelved in every gift shop in the French Quarter. The book’s instant celebrity in 1962 had freed the author from a hopeless thirteen year career as a b-drinker and had elevated her to local stardom. With no editions added to the original manuscript, the book is now terribly outdated as it recognizes none of the newer bars and lounges. However, it is considered a classic for its historical background and Miss Mercier’s witty observations of the Quarter’s traditional mainstays, which are still quite alive today.
—G.M. Julep
“Well, I’m sorry,” Zelia apologized. “I had no idea.”
Aimee sighed. “I forgive you, Darling.”
They crossed Ursulines Street. They stopped at Molly’s.
“Let’s pop in here for one or two,” she said.
The sisters sashayed up to the bar. Aimee tapped the shoulder of a seated man with a long white ponytail. He turned and smiled.
“Evening, Aimee,” he said. “Who’s your friend?”
“This, Patrick, is my baby sister, Zelia.”
Zelia awkwardly smirked. “Hi.”
“She looks all grown up to me.” He eyed her up and down despite Aimee moving her tall frame between them
Aimee asked, “Where’s Jim?”
“Haven’t seen him,” he said.
The young bartender approached them. “What will it be?”
“The usual for me, Darling.” She turned to Zelia. “Now, I let you slide with one glass of wine at dinner but you simply must have a cocktail now.”
Zelia winced. Her last cocktail had been a whiskey sour. That drink was followed by five more which blurred her vision, confused her, and eventually regurgitated themselves up violently. Thinking the opposite of sour, she said meekly, “Uh, maybe something sweet.”
Aimee piped in, “Give her a White Russian.” Turning to her sister, she promised, “Don’t worry; you’ll love it. It’s like melted ice cream.”
“About the book,” Patrick said. “I think Jim’s hurt that you haven’t added this place. You know he’s waiting for you to come out with that second edition.”
Aimee rolled her eyes. “Heavens, Mr. Monaghan will be waiting a long time. When do I have the time for that? Anyway, I’d have to include all those new riff-raff bars with their silly novelty drinks.”
“You gave Pat O’s a good ten pages and you hate that place with its Hurricanes,” he said.
The drinks came: a White Russian, a Sazerac, and a Chablis Cassis. Zelia sipped the drink and smiled.
Aimee took a big swig, swallowed, and defended her outdated book. “That was a long time ago, Patrick. Pat O’Brien’s has a respectable origin as a speakeasy. As I stated in my section on it, ’Storm’s a Brewin’ were the passwords. The Hurricane’s a tropical rum drink. They concocted it because to get whiskey back then, you had to buy twice that amount of rum.”
“I know the history,” he interrupted.
“But today,” she continued, “that place has become such a tourist Mecca, that locals like me, are repelled by it. I mean they’re making money hand over fist, but it’s like Disneyland with all those souvenirs.”
“Fair enough,” Patrick said raising his wine glass with a nod. “But Molly’s deserves the recognition.”
“Agreed. She wasn’t born yet to be included, but this bar is doing just fine without being in my book. I’m here after all.” Aimee grinned and downed her Sazerac. She motioned to the bartender for another round.
Zelia was only half-way through her White Russian when another comrade was placed next to it. She sipped her first drink and listened to her sister lecturing Patrick on some slip of bar etiquette.
Tuning her sister’s voice out, she listened to Billie Holiday’s singing from the jukebox. As she began her second drink, Billie was followed by Edith Piaf. The juxtaposition of the French voice with the Irish décor amused Zelia. Searching the faces of the patrons, she tried to determine who had dropped in the coins to create the experience.
No one was dancing; no one was singing; and no one else even appeared to be listening to the music. Everyone in the bar, even the bartender, was engaged in conversation; everyone but her. She stared at the back of her sister’s red hair and downed her drink.
Suddenly, Aimee jolted off her stool and declared, “We must be off.”
Zelia sighed. “Oh good. I was just about to say that I was ready to go home.”
“Home?” she scoffed. “No, Darling, we still have to make the rounds. . . . Lafitte’s, the Absinthe House, maybe the Napoleon House if you’re up to it.”
Zelia gulped at the list of bars her sister had on the night’s roster. “I think the only thing I’m up to is going home to bed.”
“Oh, Zelia.” Her slumped shoulders conveyed her disappointment.
Outside on Decatur Street, Zelia stumbled a little before Aimee caught her arm. She veered her little sister to the right and down Ursulines Street.
Alongside The Ursulines Convent, Aimee tried to persuade her to stay out longer. “The night is fresh and young. Can’t you feel the possibilities in the air?”
“This air just makes me feel sticky.”
Zelia listened to taffeta shifting as she moved down the dark quiet street. Sh-sh-sh-sh. It was an absurd sound, reflecting how she felt about the dress in general. As they crossed Chartres Street, Zelia was mentally taking that ridiculous garment off and replacing it with a worn extra large Jimi Hendrix t-shirt, which had once belonged to her late husband, Don.
Aimee stopped. “Look in there. Those two are certainly taking advantage of the night’s possibilities.” She smirked with amusement.
Zelia peered into the dark coffeehouse. It had been closed for hours but a red café light was on and the shop wasn’t deserted. Up on top of the bar was a seated woman, her long arms behind her as supports. Her neck arched up while her breasts exposed themselves from her thin dress. Between her spread legs, a man’s head bobbed. Zelia’s jaw dropped.
“Come now, dear sister,” Aimee whispered. “You’re not that sheltered.”
Zelia remained still.
“Darling, stop gawking. I know they’re exhibitionists, but we should be moving on.” She gave her sister a nudge.
Zelia stared until the man had finished his task. He lifted his head. The woman, Ophelia, laughed as she drew her legs up sideways on the bar.
“Lorin,” Zelia mumbled. She watched him stand taller to give Ophelia a kiss on the lips.
Realizing what her sister had witnessed, Aimee put her arms around her. Turning left on Royal Street, she asked, “You want to get a drink?”
Zelia nodded.
Lafitte’s Blacksmith Shop was candlelit and shadowy. Yet, the mood around the piano was light and lively. An ageless woman played the piano and sang, “They can’t take that away from me.”
The sisters sat at a nearby table.
The pianist winked at Aimee. She sang, “I don’t like crap games, with barons and earls. Won’t go to Harlem, in ermine and pearls. Won’t dish the dirt, with the rest of the girls. That’s why the lady wears a hat.”
Aimee caressed her cocktail hat and blew a kiss at her friend for her attentions. Zelia watched this gesture with disdain. She was in a horrid mood after seeing Lorin with Ophelia. She didn’t want to go home, but her sister was annoying. She thought if she had to hear one more “darling” tonight, she was going to scream. She knocked back a whole White Russian. She watched Aimee get up and put a bill on the piano.
Zelia ordered another round. Scanning the room, she remembered this was one of the oldest if not the oldest building in New Orleans. History made Zelia feel small. She hunched and wondered if anyone was looking at her from the shadows.
Aimee returned. Seeing the fresh drinks, she said, “Glad to see you’re enjoying yourself.” Pointing to the piano, she said, “Now, that’s some real music not like those awful Sex Pistons.”
“That’s The Sex Pistols,” Zelia corrected. Remembering Sky and Johnny, she wondered what kind of mess she’d find. She frowned and took a sip of her new White Russian. She gulped as she saw a man approaching them. He was a man, she was sure, but he was wearing a long blonde wig, a black boa, and the exact green taffeta dress she had on.
“Dame Aimee,” he squealed.
They exchanged Hollywood kisses. “Randy Andy.” Aimee touched his boa and asked, “Are these coque feathers?”
“Of course, but I just call ’em cock feathers, Honey.”
She slapped his chest. “Oh, you!” Turning to Zelia, she said, “Let me present my sister, Zelia.”
He pursed his lips. “Same dress.” He hissed, “Bitch!”
“It’s hers,” Zelia said, annoyed. She drained her glass before standing. “Excuse me. I have to go to the ladies’ room.”
He straightened his back as she turned hers on him. Pointing from Zelia to Aimee, he raised an eyebrow and remarked, “Well, you two are like night and day.”
The bathroom was damp and windowless. Zelia tried the lock but it was broken. As she squatted over the toilet seat, she felt dizzy. A glance in the mirror revealed her face distorted. She saw a halo of another self along with the true image.
At the table, Aimee and Andy were whispering conspiratorially. Zelia poked her with a finger.
“We have to go now,” she ordered.
Aimee fanned her hands, palms up at her Sazerac. “Darling, I’m still drinking.”
“Take it with you,” she commanded with another, more aggressive poke.
“Okay, no need to get surly.” Turning to Andy, she apologized, “Sorry, big sister has to put little sister to bed. Night, night.”
Aimee was almost out the door with her sister on one arm and her raised glass held at shoulder height, when Andy stopped them.
“Go-cup, Sweetie.” He handed her a plain plastic cup with a disapproving shake of his head.
“Oh, Heavens,” she cursed. Pouring her cocktail into the flimsy cup, she reminisced, “Back in the day, Darling, everyone brought their glass to the next bar and in the morning, the barkeeps sorted it all out.”
Zelia was seeing the sidewalk in double. She tugged at her sister’s arm. “Now, Aimee.”
“Ta, Ta,” she said with the air of a celebrity.
“He’s a nef-farious queen, isn’t he?” Zelia slurred.
Aimee laughed. “Ooh, that’s the booze talking. Nefarious? Hardly. I wish he were. Poor Andy; the most interesting things about him are that he’s gay and happens to dress in drag sometimes. Otherwise, he’s vanilla ice cream.”
“Ew, ice cream. I think I’m going to be sick,” Zelia groaned.
They left Bourbon Street by turning onto Dumaine. Fortunately for Zelia, they had only a half block to walk. Aimee opened her door of the double and led her sister straight through to the bathroom at the end of the shotgun.
Aimee held her maternally in front of the toilet. Zelia puked up an unsightly and unrecognizable collage of undigested Shrimp Remoulade, a piece of beef brisket with Creole sauce, a glass of wine, and four White Russians. Aimee stroked her sister’s head lovingly. She felt responsible.
When she was empty, Zelia slumped into her sister’s arms. “Oh, I’ll never drink again.”
“There, there, my Love,” Aimee consoled in her deepest, sweetest voice as she dabbed Zelia’s mouth with toilet tissue. She promised, “We’re going to have many adventures together. We are daughters of New Orleans. We are the Dames of Dumaine.”
Zelia lifted her head. “No, Aimee. I’ll never drink again.”
Unsatisfied with that declaration, she dismissed it. “That’s just the vomit talking.”