My Juliet by John Ed Bradley Page A

important this is. How Sonny should pay attention. “Believe it or not, I did it because I wanted to eat, and because I had rent to pay, and because I was stupid. It was the worst mistake I ever made in all my life. I don’t think you’d want to be judged by every mistake you made in the past. The difference between your mistakes and my mistakes is that mine are on videotape. It was a long time ago anyway. I can’t believe we’re talking about it now.”
    Sonny can feel himself cooling off. And it seems he’s breathing better. He can hold her eyes with his eyes without much effort. “Exactly how long ago was it?” he says.
    â€œOh, a year, year and a half.” From the way she sounds it could be a lifetime.

    They finish and walk parallel with the river on Decatur, passing cafés and souvenir and praline shops, squeezing past tourists who, mesmerized by competing jazz combos stationed every few hundred feet, crowd the sidewalks and make the going slow.
    In time they come to the French Market, an area that Juliet has always identified with home even though it now seems less designed to serve the shopping needs of neighborhood residents than to satisfy the whims of tourists looking for an authentic Creole experience. At this hour the place is nearly deserted, as most of the vendors have gone home for the evening. Juliet stops to observe garlands of garlic hanging from the rafters, too far to reach, and no doubt placed there to ward off evil spirits. On the tables balsa-wood crates for produce stand empty.
    Where, she wonders, are the salesmen in porkpie hats popping open paper bags and dickering loudly over prices with customers? Where are the ancient French Quarter dowagers determined to cook fresh or not at all?
    Juliet pouts to show her disappointment.
    â€œIf ever I lose my Beauvais family legacy this is where I hope to end up,” she says. “Selling okra and acorn squash and lima beans and homemade fig preserves.”
    â€œRemember years ago how crazy the market used to get every spring when the first batch of Creole tomatoes came in from Plaquemines Parish? I remember the fistfights, people practically killing each other to get to them.”
    â€œYes,” she says. “And that’s how they’ll be for my squash and okra.”
    As they stroll from one end of the cool, dark pavilion to the other, Juliet describes how it felt to be in the Beauvais earlier today, to see the rooms and smell the smells. All the same old ghosts were hiding in the shadows, and she wonders if Sonny noticed them on his visits there. Her father and her father’s father. The father of her father’s father. They whispered to her when she went upstairs to her bedroom. They begged her to return and bring the house back to its former glory. Put simply, they didn’t want a Lavergne and a cleaning woman living among them any longer.
    â€œYou’re joking, right?”
    She shakes her head.
    â€œYou’d think ghosts would have better things to do than haunt a house,” Sonny says. “And then to concern themselves with nice people like your mother and Anna Huey. . . .”
    â€œMaybe they know something you don’t.”
    â€œThink so? Like what?”
    â€œI could give you a list, Sonny. Show you the proof. Would that help?” Before he can answer she says, “My feet are tired. Listen, why don’t we go back to my room and lie down.”
    They start on their way again, silent now as they head uptown. Juliet takes his hand in hers and studies each of his fingers. Blips of oil paint stain the skin and his nails are cracked and dirty, palms padded with calluses.
    â€œI was going to be a writer,” she says. “Remember that?”
    â€œYou were always scribbling something.”
    â€œAnd you were going to illustrate the dust jackets for my books.”
    â€œThat was a long time ago, Julie.”
    She brings his fingertips to her