“CAN YOU get me a little closer to the Quarter?” Matt shouted above the noise of the Hummer’s engine as they exited the highway at Poydras Avenue only to plow through standing water covering the streets.
He’d stopped crying by the time they’d reached the Superdome, almost immune to the crushing emotions that gripped his heart to see his hometown so devastated. But seeing the crowds of people overflowing out of the Superdome and onto its steps—men, women and children, almost all black—shocked him more than anything else so far.
Several National Guard vehicles parked nearby, as soldiers helped to load only a small number of those waiting into the backs of the trucks. There had to be thousands of people here.
“There’s more inside, I heard.” The driver nodded at the scene.
“There’s so many people.” Matt ran his hand through his hair. What if Lane and Sebastian had tried to come here? Good God, how would he ever find Lane in this crowd?
“They walked, swam, waded from all over the city to get here. Supposed to be more down at the convention center.” The convention center too?
Matt let more tears fall without bothering to wipe them away. The driver had given him a few glances but just nodded when Matt said, “I was born and raised here.”
The driver shook himself as if throwing off the scene outside. “We can get just about anywhere in this baby. Don’t worry. I’ll take you where you want to go. Then I’ll head back to the Dome, drop my supplies, and pick up some evacuees.”
Matt sat back, brought the camera up, and continued snapping photos. “Thanks. Go to St. Charles Avenue and up to Canal, if you can. I want to catch some shots of more familiar streets.”
The Hummer cruised on, then turned on St. Charles as Matt shot more pics.
They reached Canal Street, and the Hummer rolled to a stop in the dry portion of the neutral ground where the buses and streetcars usually ran. Matt hopped down and went to the back to grab his duffle bag and the carton of supplies, mostly MREs and liter bottles of water.
He put the duffle bag over his shoulder, then popped open a silver luggage trolley and placed the carton on it, tying it down with bungee cords. When he finished, he signaled to the driver and watched as the huge truck pulled away.
He turned to face the Quarter and took a deep breath. Please God, let them be there.
St. Phillip and Burgundy.
Lane and Sebastian. Would Lanie be surprised to see him? Hell, yeah, but not in a good way, that was for sure. Maybe he should offer the supplies first, sort of a peace offering?
He tried his cell phone again, hitting their dad’s number, but that same damn busy signal he’d heard for nearly two days buzzed in his ear. He shut his phone, got his camera out, and started across the street.
He walked down Canal to Burgundy and traveled down it into the French Quarter.
The narrow streets were empty except for parked cars along one side. No one walked around; no one sat on the stoops. All the shutters were closed tight to the street. He knew if Lane and Sebastian had stayed, they’d most likely be living in the back of their house, just like the homes had been designed for. Built on a swamp, New Orleans had been rife with disease in the early years of the city. Designed to do all the living off the street, most of the houses had courtyards at the back in which to escape the heat and sickness.
Matt passed a bar. The door stood open. He stopped and stepped into a darkened, hot room. A few people, sitting at one or two tables, had gathered there, and they looked him over. He could read the distrust in their gazes.
“I’m with the press. Can I get an interview?” he asked.
They motioned him over, and he introduced himself, then sat. They were a ragged lot in sweat-stained shorts, camp shirts, wife-beaters, and flip-flops. None of them had had a bath in days, but then neither had he.
He snapped a few pics as he asked questions, enjoying the familiar N’awlins accent that took him right back to his former life here. When he’d gotten enough shots, he put down the camera.
“I’m looking for a friend who lives around here.”
“Who’s dat?” one of the women asked.
“His name’s Lane.”
They shook their heads.
“Sorry, dawlin’ but don’t know him.” She looked over to the bartender. “Hey, Freddie, you got dat old phone book?”
The bartender nodded, went to the end of the bar, and bent over. He came back up and dropped a thick phone book on the counter. “Here ya go.”
“Thanks!” Matt rushed over to it, flipped it open, and searched for Lane’s name as he ran his finger down the listings. “Got it.”
He memorized the address, closed the book, and slid it back toward the bartender.
“Want something to drink?” he asked Matt.
“What do you have?”
“There’s not much left.” He shrugged. “What I don’t have is water and ice.” He motioned to the rows of liquor. “But if you want a highball, I can mix it with some soda. Still got a bit left in the canisters.”
“Thanks. I’ll take just a soda.”
“It’s hot,” he warned.
“That’s okay. I’ll take it.”
The bartender poured him a glass. “Four bucks.”
Four bucks for a soda? Seemed high to Matt, but he didn’t care—it was a soda.
Matt gave him the money and a dollar tip, then returned to the table. After finishing his drink, he gathered up his things, said good-bye, and left.
Out on Burgundy he trooped along, pulling his carton of supplies behind him, counting off the streets he passed. He hit St. Ann and knew there’d just be a few more streets until St. Phillip.
Time to man up and face the music, or at least, Lane’s wrath. As he walked he relieved his favorite fantasy, the one where Lane welcomed him back as if they’d never been apart. Fat chance that would happen.
He’d settle for being friends, forget best friends, and with Sebastian in the picture, it’s the best he knew he’d ever do. Lane had moved on, leaving Matt stuck in the morass of, in the words of one of N’awlins’ favorite Saints’ coaches, Jim Mora, “Woulda, shoulda, coulda.”
LANE POURED the last of his water bottle on the cotton washcloth, rubbed the bar of soap on it, then handed it to Sebastian. “Here, use this.”
“Is this your subtle way of telling me I smell?” Sebastian took it from him and frowned. “Are you sure we can spare the water?”
“Yes, I’m sure. I have more water in my apartment, you know. Go ahead.”
Sebastian rose, took it into the bathroom, and closed the door. A few minutes later he returned, holding the cloth out between his pinched fingers. The scent of his favorite cologne wafted around him.
“Take it if you dare.” He had changed into a T-shirt that proclaimed “Suck my head, eat my tail” and had a huge red boiled crawfish on it.
Lane hid his snicker.
“Don’t laugh. I’m down to the dregs of my wardrobe.” He looked down at the shirt and made a face. “Normally I wouldn’t be caught dead in this, but….”
“You’ve got other clothes you haven’t worn, Sebastian. If you hate the T-shirt, why not wear them?”
Sebastian’s mouth dropped open. “And sweat in them? Heavens.” He clutched at his heart as if in pain. “Those clothes weren’t meant to be sweated in, dear boy.” He shuddered. “In my current state of deshabille, these will do.”
Lane chuckled. “Really, there’s no way you smell worse than I do.” He dropped the cloth in a small plastic pail of water and swirled it around to clean it. The water, already a light gray, darkened another shade.
“I’ll have you know I can stink with the best of them.” Sebastian grinned, then motioned to the back door. “I’m going to sit outside on the porch. It’s cooler there.”
“Sure. I’ll be out in a bit, after I clean up.” Lane took out the washrag and squeezed it out, then added some clean water and soap to it. After working up the lather, he pulled off his T-shirt, which modestly claimed “Acme Oysters,” and ran the cloth over his arms, chest, belly, and his back. Then he scrubbed under his arms and dropped the rag into the pail again.
They’d been taking sponge baths for two days. It helped, but Lane could still smell himself. He got his deodorant and rubbed some in his armpits, hoping it’d help. Sure, there wasn’t anyone around but Sebastian, but Lane took the old man’s lead to cover up whatever smells still floated in the air around him.
He decided not to put his shirt back on and joined Sebastian on the porch, where the man had stretched out on a wicker couch covered in thick, bright floral cushions. The sun beat down on the bricks of the courtyard, and the fountain stood silent and waterless.
“So which one of those boys is you?” Lane grinned and pointed at the bronzes.
“All of them. I’d just turned nineteen and caught the eye of an older sculptor. I spent the entire summer being posed, sketched, and painted, among other things.” He winked at Lane.
Lane snorted. “I’ll just bet.”
Sebastian gave a wave of his hand. “He grew bored with me and tossed me over for a man his own age.” He rolled his eyes. “Can you imagine? Being dumped at nineteen for a man of forty-five?”
“Being dumped, yeah, I got that down. But older? That must’ve been a real blow to your ego.”
“Of course not. I put it down to insecurity about his inability to satisfy me.” He gave Lane a devilish smile.
“Stamina, right. I remember.” Lane laughed.
They sat in the quiet shade for a while, until someone pounded on the front door.
Sebastian looked at Lane, and Lane looked at him. “Who could it be? The police? Rioters? Looters?”
“Knocking at the door? Not likely. I’ll see who it is. Stay put,” Lane ordered as he rose from his chair. He made his way through the house, and, despite his order, Sebastian followed.
Lane frowned at Sebastian, and he shrugged. “It’s my house. It might be someone I know.”
“Okay. Just stay out of sight, okay?”
“You’re so protective. I like that in a boy toy.”
Lane leaned against the door, trying to hear anything at all. The banging started again, and Lane jumped, stumbling back into Sebastian, who pushed him forward.
“Stop that!” Lane whispered.
The knocking stopped, and a voice called out, “Lane! Lane! Are you in there?”
Lane’s heart stopped. Fucking stopped. He froze, eyes wide, mouth open, as all the color drained from his face down his neck, sliding out of his body to pool in his feet.
“It’s for you,” Sebastian whispered. Then he touched Lane’s arm. “Are you all right, dear boy? You look as if you’ve just seen a ghost.”
“I think I just did. I mean, heard, I mean….” He fumbled over his thoughts as they formed into words. Matt. Matt stood on the other side of the door.
Lane blinked and touched the cut crystal doorknob.
“Aren’t you going to open it? Who is it?”
“It’s Matt.” Lane forced the words out.
“Matt? Your Matt? One glorious night of heaven and gone in the morning Matt?”
Lane shot Sebastian a look. “That would be the one.”
“What’s he doing here?”
“How do I know?”
The banging started again. “Lane! Please open the door. It’s Matt.”
It’s Matt. As if, even after a hundred years, Lane would forget the sound of Matt’s voice.
He turned the deadbolt. Click. Then twisted the knob and pulled the inner door open. Then he raised the thick iron bar holding the outer wooden door closed and let it drop. He stepped back and pushed the shutter open.
“Hello, Matt. What are you doing here?” Lane gripped the doorframe as if his life depended on it. His standing up sure did because, right at this moment, his knees had turned to Jell-O.
Matt stared at him, opened his mouth to speak, ran his gaze over Lane, and swallowed hard.
Lane’s brain kicked into gear. He stepped forward and pulled back his arm, curling his hand into a fist.
“I’m here to find you, Lanie. I brought you some—”
His fist cut off Matt’s words as he smashed it into Matt’s mouth. Matt’s lip split under his knuckles, the hard enamel of his perfect teeth, and he watched as Matt’s head rocked back with the blow.
“You bastard!” Lane growled and took another step forward.
“Fuck! Lanie!” Matt held his hand to his mouth as blood dripped through his fingers.
“Don’t you dare say ‘What was that for?’ because you know damn well what it was for.” Lane’s chest heaved with anger and passion. The anger he understood, but the passion?
He didn’t want to understand that at all.
How could Matt still look so damn good after all this time? How could Lane’s body still want to rub up against Matt’s? How could his heart sing and leap at the sight of the man who’d broken it?
Matt held up his hands to ward Lane off. “I brought supplies.” He pointed to the carton next to him as he still held his mouth. “Thought you might need them.”
Sebastian called from behind Lane. “Did he just say he had supplies?”
“Yes,” Lane said over his shoulder.
“Invite him in, Lane.”
Lane sighed and stepped aside. “Come in. You can leave your bag here.”