His mother fixed his breakfast as usual, grits, boudin, and a cup of strong coffee, which stayed on the back of his tongue as he walked to LeBlanc’s Machine Shop, taking the levee that snaked past the backyard and along the Chieftan River. He spent the morning patiently turning a long propeller shaft in a lathe, seeing his worried face in the tool-polished Monel. At noon, he used the gritty phone in the spare-parts room to call Colette at the bank. He shook the sweat and metal shavings from his arms, then dialed her number, buzzed her extension.

“Hello, Paul, what do you want?” she said as soon as she picked up the receiver.

He waited a beat. “How was your morning?”

“Come on. What do you want?”

“Today’s what, Friday? The casino calls heating up?”

There was a disgusted snort on the line. “Half the morning I wasted on the phone with local housewives over at that Indian place. When somebody drains the checking account and maxes out the Visa playing the slots, they call to transfer funds from savings, and the switchboard gives them to me to deal with. I’m supposed to advise them to lay off, but they’re like bugs drawn to colored lights. I was put on earth to deal with dumb asses.”

He winced, but listened to more of her complaints, closing his eyes to store the ring of her voice in his memory for the empty days ahead. And it did ring. Even when she was scolding him, it held a fine, anvil-like music.

“Why are you calling?”

“Maybe we can talk over a nice lunch?”

“Where we gonna get a nice lunch in Tiger Island? At the Little Palace? The table by the men’s room, so I can smell the toilet?”

“There you go again.”

“Well, it’s the truth. If I want a fancy meal, I have to fix it myself.”

“You want me to drive to New Orleans for lunch?”

“You could move there. They pay good in New Orleans.”

“I’d rather live in the piss trough at the Little Palace.”

There was another snort on the line. “Suit yourself. Look, I got to go. A light’s blinking on my phone. Some other intellectual giant is amazed that a slot machine hasn’t made her rich.”

“Wait.” He choked on the word. “Why won’t you take me back?”

The line was quiet for a moment. “Maybe I can’t trust you to take care of me anymore.”

The back of his neck became hot. “We got a good marriage. I take you dancing. We eat out. When we get some money put by, we’ll get a house. Why do you hate me all of a sudden? I got the separation papers in the mail.”

“I don’t hate anybody. Hating is a waste of my time.”

“Then let’s talk.”

“I don’t think so.” The line fell quiet again. “Not alone, anyway. It’d have to be in a public place.”

“Colette, I’m your husband.”

“With somebody else along for the ride.”