WE STOP TO EAT AT A LITTLE CAFÉ. I’VE LOST TRACK of streets and turns. The Quarter is like a maze of old brick and scrolly ironwork. Everything starts to look like everything else. My mother seems to have her bearings here, which is ironic because she is a woman without bearings in general. She is quiet now, tucked behind her menu, focused. I sag into my chair with relief.

“I met your friend,” I say after a few moments.

“Clifford? I know. I introduced you.” She doesn’t even glance up, but her voice is bright and warm like sunshine. She is happy. We are talking, having a late lunch together. We are like other mothers and daughters.

I rearrange the sugar packets in their holder. Pink. Blue. Pink. Blue. Yellow. Pink. Blue. “No. Not him. The one in the church.”

She looks up, her brows coming together between her eyes. “I don’t know who you mean.”

“Don’t you?” I lean back in my chair. “He’s kind of young. Scruffy. Terrible dresser.”

She stares at me.

“Bit of a lush,” I add.

Her eyes flit back to her menu, and her smile tries to remedy itself. “Doesn’t ring a bell. Are you sure he’s a friend of mine?”

Is her voice an octave too high?

I shrug. Thinking back on it, he didn’t really say as much. But he knew my name. And he said he knew Moony. “Pretty sure.”

She sets the menu down, impatient. “What was his name?”

“He didn’t give it,” I have to concede.

“A friend of mine with no name?” She chuckles.

“Wouldn’t be the first time, I’m sure.” It’s a low blow, but I can’t help myself.

She sighs and places her elbows on the table. “Catia, I don’t have church friends.”

“Apparently, you have one.” I am about to say more, but we are interrupted.

A server approaches our table, brown skin gleaming against the stark white press of his button-down shirt and black tie. His teeth, I note, line up like the matches in the book I found, in perfect rows. His eyes are the color of toasted acorns. They slide to me, and I try to pretend I don’t notice. He is young. Older than me, but not by much.

“What’s good? You ladies ready?”

I fold my menu and glance up casually. I order a crawfish po’boy and fries even though I don’t really like meat all that much. I’m not really a vegetarian, just not a fan. The po’boy is to satisfy my mother, who won’t shut up about crawfish this and Cajun that, as though I haven’t been living in Louisiana the last umpteen years. I flash her a smile to make sure she notices.