Someone finally showed up in a banged-up, muddy car. “One of you Phil?”
“Yeah, and this is my friend Nestor.”
“Get in back.”
“What should we do with our suitcases?”
“Like Ah said, get in back.”
“Who are you? Are we related?”
“Does it look like we’re related?”
“I guess not. What’s your name, anyway?”
“Stop with the questions.”
Wow. No personality going on here.
“What about the stuff on the seat?” There were empty soda and beer cans. Newspapers. Maps. Paper towels. Empty bags from fast-food restaurants that still smelled of french fries.
“Like Ah said, get in back.”
I just looked at Nestor and shrugged. I went around to the other side of the car. We threw everything on the floor. We got in holding our suitcases on our laps. My knees were scrunched up against the front seat. Nestor had more legroom, so I sat a little sideways. At least the car windows were open, which helped with the smell of stale food.
Nestor whispered, “Where’s the Southern charm you told me about?”
I had no answer.
About twenty minutes later, we pulled up to a stately mansion. Like something in the movies. The name St. Pierre was written on the mailbox in fancy gold lettering. Long walk from the mailbox to the house. They probably took their car to get their mail. Chains of Spanish moss dangled from live oak trees. Even at night, the scent of the flower garden filled the air.
“This is beautiful.” Nestor was impressed.
“Wait until you see inside.” It had been many years since I had last been there, but my memory as a very young child had stayed strong as I remembered the love from my mom’s family. I knew all about the New Orleans celebrations, parades, music, and the food.
“Get out,” the driver told us.
We struggled with the suitcases. I swung my legs around, got out and walked around the back of the car. From the corner of my eye, something half caught my attention. I looked away but quickly looked back.
Why is there a Texas license plate on the car?