“Look, I don't want to leave.”
“We've gone over this. There's nothing for you here, Dad.”
“How can you say that! There's a good hundred years of our family here. I love you, Molly, but I swear sometimes you don't have the sense God gave a toad. I know what this is about. That husband of yours put you up to this, didn't he?”
“His name is Martin, Dad... And yes, he's concerned. I'm concerned. Hell, all of us are concerned. Those trailers keep popping up in the news. I mean, look at this article from the Chronicle...”
“You mean to tell me you brought a horror story all the way from Houston to frighten me out of my city? Our city, I should say. You think I don't know how it is? I'm the one living it, not you, not your husband. That trailer may kill me, but at least I'll die where I belong. Something you'd do well to remember, Miss Lives-in-Houston-Now.”
“Daddy, Martin and I are only... And despite your wishes, that's Misses.” She exhaled. “Don't talk about dying, please. We've been through enough.”
“Oh, mon petite fluer, dying is the last thing I'll do.”
“We're about as Creole as Howard Stern, Dad. Lay off the patois.”
“All of a sudden, my daughter is an expert on our family tree? Even if we're not Creole by blood, it seeps into you. Probably through the food... Though I suppose it might skip generations here and there.”
“This? Again?”
“I have no idea what you're implying, Molly.”
“Just because he's... you know what? I'm not even going to give you the satisfaction. Thanks for brunch, Dad. I'll call from the hotel to let you know I got back safe.”
“Molly, please. Please. Stay. Just stay. Indulge an old man.”
“Dammit, Daddy...”
“I know, I know. I'm being less than pleasant company right now. I'm sorry... It's just... Well, I've been thinking more and more about your mother. It's been four years, today.”
“Oh... God. You're using Mom as an excuse for your behavior? Ugh. I don't know why I bother sometimes. She at least liked him.”
“This isn't about him, as much as you'd like it to be. And I think you know that. I know you two have rebuilt your life, put down roots. I just wish you'd respect the ones I have here.”
“What roots, Dad? A plot of land with a concrete slab on it? A bar covered in mold that needs to be torn down?”
“That plot of land has been our family's legacy. The same with that bar. That bar paid for your way through Tulane, as much as you hate it. That bar is where I met your mother. Your brother would have understood.”
“Malcolm? If you hadn't noticed, he left, too, And all that bar meant to me is that I didn't see my Daddy. You were always there, never home.”
“When did you get so cold? Yes, I worked a lot. I had to, I had the two of you to think about, and your mother. I didn't want to be away, but someone had to make the money. Your mother did her best. And yes, Malcolm left to join the Army, but he'll be back once his tour is done, I'm sure. He, at least, has this city in his blood.”
“What does that even mean? That's just something people say when they want to justify staying in this hell hole. I just wish you'd face the truth, Dad. New Orleans has seen it's day.”
“Says the 30 year old elementary school teacher. When did you become an urban planner? Or is this more clap trap from that husband of yours? Or was it a particularly prophetic finger painting from one of your students that showed the death of the Crescent City?”
“You son of a... God! You never respected anything I've done!”
“When you stop sounding like a petulant teenager, I just might.”
“Says the stubborn three year old. Malcolm's not going to come back to this city. He might have come back before the storm. There aren't any jobs, nothing's here. What kind of future is that?”
“He's got to come back, sugar. He's got to take over for me. That's why I'm rebuilding. That's his future. The jobs will come. As long as the music is here, we'll be here... Look, I didn't want to go into this with you, but I'm not going to be around for much longer.”
“What? You're only 55!”
“56, but that's splitting hairs.”
“Who gives a shit about exact figures? What the hell, Daddy?”
“It was the cigarettes, sugar. They're a killer. I quit too late, apparently. They say I've got about six months, maybe a year. That's why I've got to get the bar fixed. I'm working on borrowed time.”
“No, Daddy, you've got to sell that thing. Come move in with us...”
“I am not going to be babysat in my final months by my daughter and her white husband in some foreign desert wasteland! It's bad enough that you hate the city; I'll be damned if I'm an object of pity. I'll die on my own terms, in my own town, and be buried next to your mother.”
“Fuck you, Dad. Die in your bar. If you get in trouble, don't bother calling.”
“Sugar, that'll be the last thing I do”
