Before dawn he began hearing things. He was the kind of man who could wake up in the morning without opening his eyes, letting a new day come to him through sound instead of light. This morning he listened to shrimp boats and tugs, long-winded with their whistles, complaining in the fog. A trawler blared out for the railroad bridge, and a big upriver push boat squalled a crossing signal with its long-bell air trumpets. He heard, too, the sawmill whistle spilling its hoarse note onto the town, griping about sunrise.

He opened his eyes, feeling the idea of Colette flow through him like blood tingling in a waking leg. His bruised leg. Getting up in the dark bedroom, he searched above his head for the pull cord to the light. He felt the tingle on his wrist and closed his fingers on it. In a minute his grand-père appeared in the open door in a starched khaki shirt, scratching an elbow. He hadn’t put his teeth in yet.

“Hey, boy. Comment ça va?”

“Ça va. Why don’t you rewire this place and get some regular light switches?” He pulled his jeans on and buckled his belt.

The old man sniffed. “Hah. My ’lectricity ain’t ashame of the wire it’s in. Why should I be ashame of that, me?”

“You gonna burn this place down.”

“Some people ought to worry about they own house.” He looked down the hall toward the kitchen. “What’s wrong with yours that you got to sleep here with me in my little place?” He pointed a thick finger at the linoleum.

“Nothing.”

“Hah. Colette, she threw your ass in the street. Something’s wrong in that house.”

“Damn. Who’d you talk to?”

“Little Russell’s daddy. He gets up early, so I called him and he told me that.” He back-stepped into the hall, and the kitchen light gave life to his iron-gray hair, which was oiled back out of his way. “You know, I was married sixty-one years, and your grand-mère never had to lock me out the house.”

Paul bent to comb his hair in the foxed mirror above the mahogany dresser. “You coulda talked all day and not said that.”

“Maybe you need to hear it, you.” The old man toddled closer and Paul could smell the Old Spice and coffee. “You married to the prettiest girl in six parishes and all you do is read books on machines, drink beer, and play the accordion.”

Paul brushed by and slid into the hall. “Hey, that puts me right up there with Charles Manson, don’t it?”

“Who?” The bushy eyebrows went up like wreaths of stickers.

“Never mind. You got some breakfast?”

“Pain perdu. You scared Colette won’t fix you none?” His grand-père waddled after him.

He gained the kitchen and looked at the two places set on the porcelain table. It seemed he was already out of his house, misplaced. He brushed back his dark hair and sat down, staring long at the chipped plate.