“One is a color,” Bucky said. “Two or more is a color story. Surely you know that.” And he left.
A dozen family and friends were gathered around the derringers, newly mounted on the wall above a plaque boasting their provenance. After Bucky and Ivy had named their baby John-Tyler, Eleanor felt she had no option but to give them the pair of guns. Joe, sitting in a low chair in the corner of the antique-choked living room, had a different opinion.
Quentin returned with a cocktail napkin.
“If you’re in animation, there’s a fellow you should meet,” Quentin said. “Bucky’s dear friend from Vandy. He draws that show we all love with the girls on the ponies.”
He handed Eleanor a cocktail napkin with a name in Sharpie. Lester Lewis.
“Lester Lewis?” Eleanor said. “Lester works for me. Hang on a second. Bucky told you his friend Lester works on Looper Wash but failed to mention I’m his boss?”
“Ooh, it looks like I stepped in something,” Quentin said, and tiptoed off.
There were no books in the house, only a shelf of scrapbooks. Eleanor scanned the spines. LE DéBUT DES JEUNES FILLES 1998; COURT OF KHAOS 1998; SHERWOOD FOREST 2004; BIRTH OF JOHN-TYLER 2005—
“The priest is waiting!” It was Ivy. “We have a very short window.” Tiny, pink John-Tyler slept in her arms, his antique lace christening gown so long, a uniformed nurse had to carry the train.
St. Louis Cathedral, “the cathedral” to locals, is the oldest in North America. It’s a favorite spot for tourists to cool off; the church remains open to the public even during weddings, christenings, and funerals.
Inside, thirty family members stood in the front with hymnals; Joe, the atheist holdout, waited outside.
During the ceremony, it was a challenge to hear Father Bowman’s blessings of John-Tyler Barnaby Fortune Gammill Charbonneau Fanning over the competing bands in Jackson Square. Every time the church door opened, the family got a blast of the ubiquitous “When the Saints Go Marching In.” The proceedings had to be paused after a chicken was spotted in the nave and tourists surged in to take photos. One knocked over Granny Charbonneau’s cane. During the lull, Eleanor found herself next to Bucky needing something to say.
“You’re really going all in with this John Tyler connection.”
It was the tone of Eleanor’s voice that caught the ears of the family. Bucky stared at her, perfectly composed, his eyes daring her to continue.
“It’s too bad he was the worst president,” Eleanor said. “Did you know his death was the only time the Capitol didn’t fly the flag at half-mast for a president?”
Now even tourists were straining to hear. Eleanor thought she’d throw in something extra, a lagniappe, they call it in New Orleans.
“With fifteen children,” Eleanor said, “the question isn’t who is a direct descendant of John Tyler. The question is, who isn’t. I mean, half the people here.” She lazily gestured to the tourists in their tank tops.
Bucky’s face reddened. No further eye contact was made.
Out on the steps, Eleanor found Joe leaning on a column in the stifling heat.
“You made the right decision,” she said with a kiss.
Ivy flitted out and squeezed their arms.
“Listen, y’all. J.T. hasn’t been sleeping through the night. I think we’re going to go home, just the three of us.”
Bleary-eyed tourists shuffled down Bourbon Street carrying daiquiris in giant bong-like things. The stench of last night’s vomit lingered despite that morning’s convoy of water-spraying trucks followed by a foot brigade of men with push brooms, scrubbing. Three kids in shorts and porkpie hats meandered; at their sides dangled a slide trombone, trumpet, and white bucket that rattled with a pair of drumsticks. Waiters in tuxedos and cooks in whites leaned against the fronts of restaurants, smoking or just taking in the lazy river of humanity. There were no alleys in the French Quarter, so waiters, cooks, and shopkeepers took their breaks on the sidewalks. On one side of the street a kid had attached tops of soda cans to the soles of his unlaced Air Jordans. He tapped in a loose-limbed burst and then stood there. His friend across the street answered back. Neither seemed particularly committed. A man rode slowly by on a too-small bicycle, knees out like chicken wings, one hand on the handlebars, the other gripping a tangle of fishing rods. Three plastic milk crates were parked in the street, unclaimed. The kids with the instruments shrugged and sat down on them. The heat was getting to everyone.