One Midnight (ONC 2024) ✔️

Chapter Six- The Phone Call

2019

"Hello?" I ask, as I hold my phone to my ear. There is nothing on the other line but indistinct chatter and dishes breaking, the sound like a million shards crashing to the ground. "Jeff, you there?" He has to answer. After all, he is the one who called me. I wait for his answer on the other end, but there is nothing but the harsh spear like pattern of the dishes crashing in my brain. Could it be that Jeff is leaving Bourbon Street like I thought? Is he caught up in the parade of people also leaving?

"Jeff, please answer me!" I speak. "Are you there?" The sound of the dishes breaking is going to give me a headache. It's piercing through my ears and into my brain. "Come on, Jeff. Answer me."

I am about to hang up when I hear that smooth baritone voice coming from his end, the sound like sweet honey flowing. My heart squeezes in my chest. It's been so long since I've heard him on the other end that for a moment, the entire world around me seems to fade away. No, girl. Get it together. He is not your fiancé anymore. Get a hold of yourself, Corinne.

"Corrie?" he asks, slurring his words. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"What?" I ask. "I'm not doing anything."

"You called me, Corrie."

"You called me, Jeff. Not the other way around."

"No, I didn't call you. You called me. Remember what we talked about? For you to stop calling me? I want you to stop calling me. It's over between us. Over. Comprende?" He slurs his words and says something indistinct, perhaps to Bessie. It sounds affectionate. Different from how he usually speaks to me. He stopped speaking to me that way years ago. Pretty much after we got engaged.

"Jeff," I say, walking away from the entrance to the French Market and facing the rest of Decatur Street, Cafe du Monde close in sight. "I didn't call you."

"Oh, I think you did," he says, drawing out his words and then laughing.

"Don't you dare gaslight me, you drunk asshole!" I scream into the phone as a small group of people brushing past me with concern in their eyes. "You called me. Look at your stupid call log when you're sober and see for yourself."

"I'm not the asshole, Corrie." He scoffs, his breathing heavy in between his laughter. "So what if I've had a few hurricanes? It's freaking Mardi Gras."

There's a strange crackling sound, and soon after, a soft feminine voice coos into the other line.

"Corrie?" the voice asks, sounding cheery as always. Bessie.

"Bessie." I suck in a deep breath; my stomach contorts in a painful twist. Now I've got her on the other line. Just great.

"You should have known better than to call Jeff. How pathetic of you," she says.

"I didn't call him, Bessie. He called me."

"Oh, that's even more pathetic, girlie. You think I don't know you want Jeff back? It's pretty obvious. That pathetic poetry that you put on social media for everyone to see? Get a life. He doesn't love you. He loves me."

Corinne, you are better than this. Don't let the tears come out just because one bitch is telling you these awful things. Stand tall, just like Mom always told you to do.

"I don't care," I say, my voice laden with venom. "I don't care. You're just trying to get to me, aren't you? Trying to cut me where it hurts and I will not stand for this bull. That so-called poetry you're talking about isn't even poetry. It has nothing to do with Jeff, Bessie."

"Yeah, uh huh," she says absently, with a scornful laugh accompanying that.

"The lyrics are an emotional line that the main character in Marie Guidry's opera La Soubrette sings when she is desperately in love with the one man that she cannot have."

"That's not helping your case, girlie. She even has Jeff's last name? You are obsessed with anything that is connected to Jeff, Corrie. Get over it already. It isn't my fault that you're so bad in bed. Leave him alone, ok? Stop showing up outside his family's house, too. They're getting uncomfortable."

I throw the phone on the ground, grunting as I pull on my hair. Stinging tears pool in my eyes. I don't even know where I am. The last of the Mardi Gras crowds brush past me. I bring myself down to the cobblestone pavement and crawl, trying to reach for the phone that is just beyond my reach. Who is Bessie to say those horrible things to me? I don't even care about Jeff's family. I just love that home. It's the reason I always have to stop and stare at it every time I see it. I didn't even realize that they noticed me outside. There's something about it — something that pulls me in and keeps me almost as if I am suspended, entranced by it. It calls out to me every time. And the whole thing about Jeff loving Bessie? Stings. Does he whisper words to her like I love you in a tender way? He never really did that with me. Each time, it was in an obligatory, robotic way. I try to keep the thoughts out of my mind. I think of the lyrics that I wrote on a Facebook status, words that spoke out to me while studying Marie Guidry's opera. A broken heart beats with all the same pieces, and it still wants the same person.

When I retrieve my phone, I sigh. It's cracked again. This time, it's in the shape of a flower. At least that's what it looks like to me. I look around, noticing I'm standing right in front of Cafe du Monde. Did I really walk that far when I was on the phone?

As I stand in front of the open patio of Cafe du Monde, a warm breeze brushes past against me like a gentle kiss. I close my eyes, letting the breeze envelop me. Why does it feel so comforting? The chatter and the clattering of dishes fade away, and I feel lighter with every breath I take. Until I feel nothing at all.

"Marie Antoinette."

I open my eyes. Did someone just say Marie Antoinette? I look around, but no one seems to speak. I bring my focus back to the Cafe du Monde, but it is completely gone. There is nothing there but cold, hard ground. Dirt. Cypress trees all around me. Silence. Sweet, languid silence that fills my heart with relief. It floods through my veins; the sensation intoxicating as I melt. The hum of cicadas roars into my ears, its sound like a symphony. Bullfrogs groan their deep groan, like a bass singing their operatic solo for everyone to hear.

"Marie Antoinette," a voice behind me says.

"Oh, Officer Moreau. I did not expect to see you back so soon. I thought you had gone to Biloxi for the week."

"Change of plans," he says with a nod. "I must wait for something important to arrive here from Paris."

"Oh, I understand."

"What are you doing here alone so late at night?" He narrows his gaze, cocking his head to the side.

"I am not sure," I say. "I had troubles sleeping, Officer Moreau, so I was on my way up to the river. For some peace."

The man standing in front of me seems familiar, but there is a dense fog which clouds my vision. He steps forward. Is it Nicolas? A part of me wants desperately to ask him, but my mouth cannot form the words. It is as if I am locked inside my body, words flowing freely out of me, but not the words I wish to say.

"You should not upset your husband by being out alone so late at night."

Husband? Am I hearing these words? Do my ears need to be checked? Husband? Since when do I have a husband? What on earth? I almost did, but that was a complete and total failure on a catastrophic scale. I think I would know if I had a husband.

"Yes, Officer Moreau," I say. "I will make my way home now. I do not wish to be in trouble with my husband."

No. No, Corrie. What are you saying? Husband? In trouble with the law? What? God, what is going on?

"I will accompany you," he says. "La Nouvelle Orleans may be nothing more than trees and a few of our homes, but there are still dangers that lurk in the forest."

I nod. "Thank you, sir. I would like that very much."

The tall man walks ahead of me. He looks so very much like Nicolas, except he is not carrying his flute. Where is his flute? Why is he dressed in such strange clothes? Is the moonlight deceiving me or what?

The light, almost placeless feeling I grab onto desperately, is fading from my bones. I want this feeling inside me forever, but I slip further away until my body crashes to the cobblestone pavement. The familiar sight of Cafe du Monde stands in front of me.