Annunciation Street Blues
By John Cody Bennett
(1)
The last time it had felt right was during that summer in New Orleans in 2012. She was there for three months and had planned her stay in accordance with what she knew he preferred. It was mid-July, and humid, and most days she wore only a swimsuit top and a pair of jean shorts. In the backseat of her Jeep were a couple of suitcases filled to bursting, with the flounce of a dress protruding from the teeth of the biggest one, as if she had packed hastily and without care. It was quiet at night, save for jazz at Dos Jefes, and from the apartment it was a short walk to the bars and the shops on Magazine Street, to Whole Foods, CC’s Coffee, and to restaurants like Domilise’s Po-Boys.
There was a cypress tree in the yard and deep fissures in the sidewalk where beneath it the knees had jostled for space, erupting to the surface after much struggle, to sunlight and to the scent of the river. She couldn’t believe she was here: it resembled too much an adolescent’s fantasy fostered by repeated viewings of A Streetcar Named Desire, and yet it was these dreams that most satisfied her, like awakening each morning in D —’s arms to the cry of a neighborhood peacock outside their window, or sipping coffee at the kitchen table, reading Rimbaud’s poetry and listening to Lucinda’s World Without Tears on the Vintage Victrola. She was of one mind in these moments — clean, bright, tranquil, and active — and that was a gift.
Mostly, she stayed in the apartment while D — was at work, but at least once a day, she slipped out to the porch and sat in a camp chair and read Stanley Booth’s The True Adventures of the Rolling Stones and imagined the lives of unhurried pedestrians who passed beneath her gaze. Each one was a blank canvas awaiting swift and delicate brushstrokes, a portrait in need of attention. But then sometimes it would rain, mainly in the late afternoon, and instead of watching the pedestrians, she observed with curiosity and a little excitement and dread the metamorphosis of the potholed street into a widening lagoon that swamped the sidewalks and rose nearly four inches against the tires of her Jeep. It was a fact of life in New Orleans, these incredible rains, but whereas D — was long inured to threats of floods and destructive hurricanes, the prospect of another Katrina and the subsequent evacuation of the city sloshed inside the recesses of her consciousness and reminded her that any and all beauty in this world could be swept away. Of course, she must never let D — see this anxiety, as he would want to dispel it, but he could not.
Incidentally, this dynamic had existed between them since the start of their first relationship almost a decade ago, and it was a defense mechanism she couldn’t change, although it differed greatly from her natural impulses. It was a pattern at this point, a learned behavior, and like dogs in those old experiments, as soon as she was with D — she responded to him in her habitual way, softening the sharp edges of her emotions until he felt secure and untroubled by the placidity of her love. She could never tell him, for example, how jarring it still was sometimes to speak of their future together as if a happy outcome was necessarily assured, as if a moment’s beauty could be extended indefinitely. Indeed, she knew that D —, despite his confidence, could never have survived a conversation of that sort: he was weaker than she was, so she said nothing.
Every day, D — returned from his restaurant job in the Quarter at about 3:00 in the afternoon, and by the time he arrived, she would have showered and blow-dried her hair and straightened her bangs as she knew that he liked. At a nearby bakery, she would have purchased an éclair or a couple of beignets for the two of them to split, and more often than not she would have made the time to wander over to Octavia Books to peruse the poetry for an hour or so until she had to head back. D —’s apartment in the old boarding house on Annunciation Street was only a block from the bookstore, and sometimes as she resumed her walk she would speculate on the strangeness of her life, of her being here in New Orleans with D — and not somewhere else.
Her thoughts, on an average day, were more happy than pensive, but still when she reached the apartment door, she would knock first instead of simply entering it, and, before turning the key in the lock, would wait for D —’s familiar exclamation: Come in, baby! Come in!
How long have you been home? she would ask him, exactly as expected.
Not long, he would say on cue. Now, come here.
He was sitting in bed with his back to the wall, stark naked under the covers and drinking a Schlitz. He reached to take her by the wrist, turned her body to face him, and kissed her hand. He lowered his voice and talked to her in that tone he reserved for these moments, describing their intimacies in great detail, until she settled down beside him and peered into his eyes. Still speaking — unnecessary, but not unwelcome — as he unbuttoned her shorts and slipped them down. Is that it? he kept asking her. Is that what you want? Is it good for you? Is it good? She could hear Mick in the kitchen, the twang and jangle of “No Expectations,” and responded yes.
When it was over, they stayed and spooned on the bed in that front room of D —’s studio apartment. The place was small, with a bathroom and a kitchen, but with no closet to speak of, and in addition to the bed, the only furniture consisted of a wardrobe, a TV, and a bookshelf, plus a table and a couple of chairs in the kitchen, and that was it. Naturally, she romanticized its faults, and yet it was she alone who cleaned the kitchen and the bathroom and who switched the bedsheets . . . not once in three weeks . . . only maybe it hadn’t occurred to him . . . but why not?
He was hungry, and in the kitchen as she divided the beignets and the éclair, he spoke at length about his day at the restaurant, and then began to discuss politics — the ends and outs of the upcoming presidential election — a favorite topic of his, but not hers. It was hot in the apartment, and a bit smokey from a combination of incense and cigarettes, and from his seat at the table, D —’s gaze could follow her as she moved from the fridge to the counter, and as she stood on tiptoes to reach the plates in the upper cabinet. D — observed her silence and tried to puncture it: What is it you’re thinking about? he asked her. What’s up? Is there . . . something?
She was determined to answer him, but, unable to articulate the stirrings in her heart and cowed by the expression of concern that animated D —’s face, she complained instead about the weather in New Orleans, about her fear of hurricanes, and grew increasingly annoyed when D — told her to calm down: D —, God, you don’t understand . . . I love it so much . . . I’m just scared.
Her voice trembled a bit, now, and she didn’t know how or why it had come to this point — she had not intended to worry D —, much less to chastise him — and yet all the same there was something pleasing about the sheepishness in his eyes as he strained to comprehend her emotions. He asked her to come and sit with him on the bed, and she did so, and slowly relaxed.
He cloaked her in one of his arms, whispered questions in her ear, and elicited responses: Uh-huh; Yes, that’s true; OK, I guess so; Yes, yes, you’re right. She recalled that last week, when she had had another incident and reacted in a similar way, that he had remained with her inside the mess of these feelings for about 15 minutes, but today only for 10. Perhaps D — was less unnerved by her fears than she had initially thought? Was he comfortable again? Unconcerned?
She felt his fingers on the small of her back, and then down into her shorts: she let it happen. He laughed and joked with her and teased her that maybe he was too tired, but that was their game. It was a routine they had shared for weeks: delightfully fun, of course, but no longer a surprise.
And yet suddenly, she imagined that she had heard J —’s name on his lips — a soft gasp of air, a subtle plea — and afterwards, once she had snooped in his text messages, she discovered on his phone an exchange between the two of them that mirrored in its flirtatious bent the kind of messages she herself had received long ago. She was a bad liar — always had been — and it took him no time at all to detect in her jerky movements and stumbling speech the fears that she sought to conceal. Sure enough, he excelled in his reassurance: Listen, I know what you’re thinking, but J — and I are just friends. Remember, there is a camaraderie that occurs in restaurants, but it has nothing to do with us, and it’s not a threat. You know I love you, you know.
She was tempted to destruction, could end it all, could call J — now and extract it from her, could pack up her things and be branded forever as the Crazy Ex-Girlfriend, as the Irrational Bitch. She could return to Shreveport and to her parents’ place, but northbound on I-49 was such a long way, and even in high school she had dreamed of New Orleans, and so how could she go? Instead, she accepted the gift of D —’s denials, curled up beside him on the bed, and took a nap.
(2)
She slept for two untroubled hours, and as she awakened with D — on the bed, she blinked at him, nestled her head against his chest, and said hello. His arm was around her waist, and as she yawned, he scratched her back, and together they sat up. The sadness from earlier in the afternoon was completely forgotten, an unfortunate dispute, a memory they had easily jettisoned. He leaned in for a kiss; she obliged him; and he pressed caressing fingers into her dark hair. You better go brush your teeth, he said. Brush your teeth. And use some mouthwash.
Soon enough, they were back at the table in their normal spots, but without much to say. She had never considered herself a great conversationalist, at least not with D —; in fact, her tendency was to say little at all and to allow him instead to lecture on whatever topic was foremost in his mind — usually politics, but also literature or classic albums, it was always much the same. His thoughts and opinions were well-founded, of course, but at times they overwhelmed her: she would smile without amusement, nod her head, interrupt him with an apology and run to the bathroom, or simply check her phone. He always seemed impatient, even if he didn’t say it, like he was tsk-tsking her lack of focus, accepting with a bit of disdain her silly quirks. Still, his brown eyes were magnetic, and there was a depth to them, an energy that kept her entranced. It’s true, she had waited a long time for this stay in New Orleans, and had toyed for six months with the idea of living with D — after visiting the city in January and making out with him in the elevator of the Windsor Court. It had all passed so quickly: the long-distance courtship and the regular visits, their nights in the backseat of her Jeep, the bottles of Cava and old movies and Chinese takeout. Naturally, she couldn’t help but love him when remembering these things, and yet there was a nagging voice in the back of her head, a word of panic and angst, a noise not unlike that shrill call of the peacock, that spoke insistently to her fears and wouldn’t shut up: Stop . . . stop . . . stop! Waters rising, rains come, a flood is upon us, a flood?
She ached with the pain of explaining how she felt, but to cross with D — into that territory was to welcome to life a change so drastic and alienating that she feared to face it alone.
At last, D — switched the record, returned his Beggar’s Banquet to its shelf, and put on some Dylan. He unzipped his backpack, produced a bottle of pink liqueur, and he poured a glass.
Look here, he said. Got this from a guy at work. Strawberry limoncello. Here, have a sip.
She brought the drink to her lips, and on her tongue she tasted its ephemeral sweetness.
(3)
There was thunder in the distance, and the sound of rain outside the apartment window.
It’s beautiful, she said, although perhaps there was a bit more that she could have added.
I feel the same way, said D —. Rain in midsummer is the best of all. It’s quite something.
It was annoying that he always agreed with her, that he was compelled as if by reflex to affirm her opinions and placate her whims. It was condescending, and yet he would not have understood: Fine. Sure. You’re wrong. I hate the rain. What do you want me to say? Who cares? She was reminded of high school and of those summer months in 2004 when she and D — had first met — a long time ago, sure, but not much was different. The images saturated her mind — beautiful ones; sad ones, too — but they all wearied her: Matchstick Men on the couch and the thrill of his hand on her leg; a first kiss in the Tinseltown parking lot; walks around Turner’s Pond and drinks in Dixie Inn; the Homecoming Dance; and their break-up. Too much, too soon, she had said, and she had thought she was through with him, but somehow her life had tricked her, and here she was. Now, they had an unspoken covenant: no talk of the past, or of the future.
At the window, there was a bird in search of shelter from the rain; it looked a bit like a pigeon, but was more dignified. They both wanted in some vague way to be of assistance to this creature, and yet the bird was indifferent to their conversation about its welfare and flew off after only a few minutes. It was remarkable how pleased they both were by the sight of the bird, and they talked together about it for some time, until at last D —, with a surge of emotion, rose from his seat, crossed to where she waited by the counter, clasped her hand in his, and sighed deeply.
Myra, he said. Can I talk to you about something? It’s about you and me. It’s about this.
She stopped him: No, D —, I can’t. I’m sorry. Not now. I can’t handle it now. I’m sorry.
Come on, he said. We both know something is off. We have to communicate. We have to.
He tightened his grip on her hand, but she was unresponsive and lifeless in his embrace.
It’s the old days, he said. Cagey, cryptic. Flakey, too. Unreliable. You haven’t changed.
He continued to reproach her in this way even as he released her hand, and she wanted to caution him that the cruel words said now in the heat of his anger could not be unspoken. None of it mattered: alone on the bed with his arms crossed, he cursed and shook his head and fumed at her iniquity. She picked at the seam of her jean shorts — something to do — and emptied her thoughts of all need and expectation. She recalled a line of Rimbaud’s and reeled it in and out of her mind: Madame X établit un piano dans les Alpes. Madame X établit un piano dans les Alpes.
Bob, too, was still spinning in the kitchen: “The Ballad of Frankie Lee and Judas Priest.”
It was always just nostalgia and wishful thinking, D — said. I knew that. And you knew.
But that night as she slept, she couldn’t help but to dream of D —, except in this fantasy world of her subconscious, he existed, now, not as a lover or as an ex-boyfriend or as a companion from her past, but instead as a book on a shelf, a holy book, a text to be studied and inspected for years to come, to be explicated, a tissue of imaginings, of meanings unfathomable.
Outside, the rain continued until morning, and at breakfast as it slacked off, she and D — heard again the sound of the peacock and observed pedestrians in the street, and neither of them spoke. A hurricane would come and go before summer’s end, but Myra would not witness it. She would be a world away from Annunciation Street, from New Orleans and D —, from floods and storms, from dreams and desire, from the Annunciation Street Blues that had suffused her heart.
THE END
Author Bio: John Cody Bennett is an English and World History teacher at The Birch Wathen Lenox School in New York City, a graduate of Sewanee: the University of the South, and a Fulbright scholar from Louisiana. He has published fiction in Across the Margin, The Bookends Review, The Militant Grammarian, and others, and is currently pursuing a Master’s in History at the City College of New York.