him sideways, her mouth full of French deliciousness. Billy’s eyes started trembling.
Jackson said, “Calm down. Calm down. It won’t affect you that quickly.” He slid his water over and Billy drained it in one gulp. He pushed his plate back, claiming he would not combine caffeine and sugar in one meal.
Imogene, after finishing three beignets, turned her eyes to the man in the corner. She had a better angle than Billy. She could see more of the young man’s profile. While calming Billy’s nerves, Jackson saw the art postcard Imogene held in front of her. She leaned over as far as she could. Jackson was reaching under the table to pat Billy’s leg while Billy cupped his face in his hands, mumbling about the repercussions of such an ingestion.
“You’re not going to have a panic attack. You’ll be fine.” Jackson could say it all he wanted, but how well he knew of the hours he had seen his partner lying prostrate on the couch or the bed during one of his episodes. “Just take some deep breaths.”
Imogene swiped the camera from Jackson and started taking pictures on the sly. She held the camera under the table and snapped it. The flash lit up the boys’ legs and caused the other customers to turn toward her. Billy closed his eyes at the sight of the flash.
“Don’t worry about her, Billy. She’s just taking some pictures of this famous place.”
Billy shook his head. “Of our feet and the floor of this famous place?” He breathed in deeply and exhaled.
Imogene stretched her arm out and snapped a picture of the back corner, illuminating the wall near the mysterious man. He pulled his hood over his head, put a couple dollars on the table, and then jumped up from the seat. Imogene didn’t take her eyes off him, and she shot another picture as he walked toward her. When the man pushed past Imogene, the table shook and rocked her against Jackson. Billy kept his eyes closed.
Imogene turned around and told the boys, “That’s Buddy right there, boys, walkin’ through the crowd.”
Buddy stopped at the window out front on the sidewalk and lit a cigarette. He glared at Imogene from the sidewalk. She took a picture of him through the window, and he turned around and hurried toward across the street to the park.
The boys were focusing on Billy’s TMJ episode.
“Hey, while y’all are holdin’ hands and worryin’ yourself over God knows what, I just seen that fellar from the Gilbert boy’s painting.” She studied the last picture she’d taken, still on the camera screen. Jackson leaned over it. Even with the glare from the café window, the man’s face looked identical to the face in the postcard. “Oh, yeah, no doubt ’bout it. That’s him, Jackson. Ya know it?” She handed him the camera and the Bacchus postcard.
He studied it and then released Billy’s hand. “Yes, that’s Buddy all right. Buddy the hustler, the guy Glenway painted…and lived with.” Jackson scrubbed his mouth with a napkin, flipped a twenty-dollar bill in front of Imogene, and stood up. “I need to go speak with him. Come on, Billy. You can walk off that buzz.”
“What’s Mama gonna do?” he asked, looking at his mother.
Jackson said, “She can sit right here and rest her legs till we get back. We’re just going outside for a minute.” Billy threw his satchel around his shoulder and followed Jackson, who made it to the street crossing.
Buddy was standing in a park bench area. He stopped and spoke with a man wearing a Hawaiian shirt, a man whose legs were covered in scabs. He looked sickly. His bald head gleamed in the sun. Buddy held onto the sides of his hoodie to keep his face concealed. Jackson held a copy of the Bacchus postcard as he approached. “Excuse me, are you Buddy?”
The man shot Jackson a quick look, part anger and part fear. His lip curled as he focused his eyes on his questioner.
“I’m Jackson Miller, an old friend of Glenway Gilbert’s. I’m told you’ve been living with him for a
Jackson said, “Calm down. Calm down. It won’t affect you that quickly.” He slid his water over and Billy drained it in one gulp. He pushed his plate back, claiming he would not combine caffeine and sugar in one meal.
Imogene, after finishing three beignets, turned her eyes to the man in the corner. She had a better angle than Billy. She could see more of the young man’s profile. While calming Billy’s nerves, Jackson saw the art postcard Imogene held in front of her. She leaned over as far as she could. Jackson was reaching under the table to pat Billy’s leg while Billy cupped his face in his hands, mumbling about the repercussions of such an ingestion.
“You’re not going to have a panic attack. You’ll be fine.” Jackson could say it all he wanted, but how well he knew of the hours he had seen his partner lying prostrate on the couch or the bed during one of his episodes. “Just take some deep breaths.”
Imogene swiped the camera from Jackson and started taking pictures on the sly. She held the camera under the table and snapped it. The flash lit up the boys’ legs and caused the other customers to turn toward her. Billy closed his eyes at the sight of the flash.
“Don’t worry about her, Billy. She’s just taking some pictures of this famous place.”
Billy shook his head. “Of our feet and the floor of this famous place?” He breathed in deeply and exhaled.
Imogene stretched her arm out and snapped a picture of the back corner, illuminating the wall near the mysterious man. He pulled his hood over his head, put a couple dollars on the table, and then jumped up from the seat. Imogene didn’t take her eyes off him, and she shot another picture as he walked toward her. When the man pushed past Imogene, the table shook and rocked her against Jackson. Billy kept his eyes closed.
Imogene turned around and told the boys, “That’s Buddy right there, boys, walkin’ through the crowd.”
Buddy stopped at the window out front on the sidewalk and lit a cigarette. He glared at Imogene from the sidewalk. She took a picture of him through the window, and he turned around and hurried toward across the street to the park.
The boys were focusing on Billy’s TMJ episode.
“Hey, while y’all are holdin’ hands and worryin’ yourself over God knows what, I just seen that fellar from the Gilbert boy’s painting.” She studied the last picture she’d taken, still on the camera screen. Jackson leaned over it. Even with the glare from the café window, the man’s face looked identical to the face in the postcard. “Oh, yeah, no doubt ’bout it. That’s him, Jackson. Ya know it?” She handed him the camera and the Bacchus postcard.
He studied it and then released Billy’s hand. “Yes, that’s Buddy all right. Buddy the hustler, the guy Glenway painted…and lived with.” Jackson scrubbed his mouth with a napkin, flipped a twenty-dollar bill in front of Imogene, and stood up. “I need to go speak with him. Come on, Billy. You can walk off that buzz.”
“What’s Mama gonna do?” he asked, looking at his mother.
Jackson said, “She can sit right here and rest her legs till we get back. We’re just going outside for a minute.” Billy threw his satchel around his shoulder and followed Jackson, who made it to the street crossing.
Buddy was standing in a park bench area. He stopped and spoke with a man wearing a Hawaiian shirt, a man whose legs were covered in scabs. He looked sickly. His bald head gleamed in the sun. Buddy held onto the sides of his hoodie to keep his face concealed. Jackson held a copy of the Bacchus postcard as he approached. “Excuse me, are you Buddy?”
The man shot Jackson a quick look, part anger and part fear. His lip curled as he focused his eyes on his questioner.
“I’m Jackson Miller, an old friend of Glenway Gilbert’s. I’m told you’ve been living with him for a
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