When Mary returns, she carefully wraps up the beignets I couldn’t finish in a paper napkin and slips them in her bag. I help her carry the folding table and chair all the way back to our apartment, grateful to finally see the little courtyard come into view. Butcher is sitting out front on the fountain’s edge, smoking again.

“Evening,” he says as we pass.

“Evening, Jim,” my mother calls over a shoulder. “Have you met my Cati—my Cat?”

“Sure have,” he responds. “Smart girl.”

I’m not sure what he means by that, but it seems rude to ask for clarification on a compliment.

“Gary stopped by,” he continues. “Says he’ll be back tomorrow.”

My mother nods. I wonder what she’s hiding about the elusive Gary. When we get inside, she mutters, “He’s always watching.”

“He’s smoking,” I assure her, hoping she doesn’t begin to tell herself stories about Butcher to stoke her fears. I remember her paranoid delusions often started with a little seed of discomfort—maybe a friend who turned down her invitation to dinner, or a boyfriend who stopped calling. Even as a young girl, I could see the way her mind would take this nugget of unpleasant truth and begin to weave a story around it, layer by tedious layer, moving farther and farther out to the edges of reality until she could no longer follow her way back in.

I wonder what she’s hiding about a lot of things, like Catholic school, my father, greeting cards, and Moony. I wonder about Daniel and his dreamy eyes and perfect smile. I wonder about our little house sitting vacant in Moony’s town and whose lawn Deena will be pooping on now. But mostly I wonder about St. Louis Cathedral and the man with the peppermint schnapps. I wonder how he can look so young and sound so old. I wonder how he knew Moony…knows me. And I wonder why I trusted him when everything I’ve been taught says I shouldn’t.

IX.

I HAVE TURNED BACK AT LEAST A HALF DOZEN TIMES, my application pressed against my stomach. I don’t know Daniel or anyone else at the café. I don’t have to apply. But I need money, and I have an in there. And I am the one who asked about a job. Impulsive as it felt, it also felt good. Like I was taking charge of something. But even this inner struggle cannot push last night’s dream from my mind as I wind my way through the Quarter. It hammers at my brain with relentless acuity.