“Damn it, she was looking me in—”

Colette slowed down and made her voice deep. “And then, and then…”

“And then she blew up all over my truck.”

“It was her defense mechanism,” she shouted.

“Defense, hell, Colette. The woman was like a big balloon somebody pumped up with puke. I mean, she flew around.”

“And when you saw you weren’t gonna get any action, you finally drove her home. She had to beg you to stop and let her throw up some more.”

“That’s a lie. I stopped five times for her to open the door and lean out. I like to’ve ralphed myself, the truck was so full of her. I had whitecaps on the floorboards.”

Colette turned to the priest again. “And you know what he told her the last time she made him stop?”

“Aw, Colette.” Paul put up his hands. “It was a joke. You remember. An old joke from high school.”

“You want to know what he told my sick first cousin?”

“Colette, she wanted me so bad she was cross-eyed. And I wasn’t gonna do a thing.”

“The last time she leaned out over the road, he said, ‘Hey, if you throw up a little round thing, you need to save that,’ and Clarisse asked, ‘Why?’ and he said, ‘Because that’ll be your asshole.’”

Father Clemmons began to back away. “That was not very compassionate,” he said quickly, “and if you want to talk, I’ll be in the rectory all afternoon.” He began to cross the street.

“Father,” Paul called after him. But the priest was already on the opposite sidewalk, waving backward over his shoulder.

Colette pointed a slender finger at him. “You can date all you want. Check your mailbox every day, because more separation papers are coming, T-Bub.”

He walked toward her, but she backed away. “Come on, now.”

She flipped her hair behind her shoulders and pointed a long fingernail at him like a weapon. “And you know what? I think I’ll go on a date tonight.”

He froze. “A date? Who would date you?”

“You bearing-head bastard. Bucky Tyler has been hitting on me at the bank.”

Paul squinted. “Who the hell’s that? That guy from Texas? The cowboy?”

“He’s got money and style.”

“He’s a worm for Texaco. He screws old people out of their mineral rights. Come on, let’s talk about this. You can be sweet.” He felt threatened, truly threatened, for the first time.

“Can’t. I got to call for a date.” She bobbed off to her little car like a schoolgirl and was gone in five seconds. Out in the river behind the house, the bridge tender blew a warning signal for a tugboat. Paul put his head into his truck cab and pulled it out again, turning for the hose. I have to get everything put back together, he thought.

Four

He didn’t see his wife for several days. His parents demanded a raft of repairs and he puttered around oiling hinges, changing faceplates on outlets, replumbing the kitchen sink. The morning of the third day, he was tired of replacing the old thin-skinned brass pipes on every sink in the house, so he walked away down the levee to visit his grand-père Abadie, who was so old that nobody went to see him anymore. When he was in his late sixties, everyone in the family enjoyed checking on the dried-up fisherman to help him out. When he was in his seventies, the family members continued the tradition of visits and little gifts. But then Grand-mère died, the old man sailed into his eighties, and people didn’t come around as much, as if to say, It looks like you’ll be around forever, so why should we bother you? And why are you living so long? Paul found him in the kitchen of his unpainted wooden house, making morning coffee for the second time.