A PALE HORSE

The sun was high, the Quarter was sweltering, and Peter groaned inwardly. Even though he loved his ancestral home on Governor Nicholls Street, and living in the old part of the Crescent City normally suited him well, he did not partake in the festivities. Many New Orleanians didn’t, sort of like a native of Las Vegas shunning the Strip unless company from out of town has come to see the sights, Peter thought. Being a “shut-in” was much preferred to being engulfed by the massive sea of drunken revelers that would wash over the area’s already barely-tolerable party streets for the next two weeks. Loud music, even louder people, and no sleep.

Eh, it’s not like I really sleep all that much, anyway, thought Peter. It gives me more time to work… so there’s that. Peter’s home, the building at 529 Governor Nicholls Street, had been in his family for seven decades, ever since the 1936 state constitutional amendment that afforded the VCC power to go about preserving and protecting the Quarter’s history and landmarks. His grandfather, Pierre-Jacques Devereaux, a diplomat and, from what Peter knew of him, a master negotiator that would make today’s heavy-hitters look like dilettantes, spearheaded the effort and cut himself a sweet deal on some of the properties left when the French Creole moved to the University district. The house at 529 was what was left to Peter, and he loved his grandfather’s legacy. The bottom floor had always been a business, rented to a friend or relative of Grandpa’s, up until a few years after Peter was born. Since he was six years old, the lower part had been occupied by La Cuisine Ouverte, owned and operated by a sweet family who made, in Peter’s opinion, the best food in New Orleans. Rose Manette was the current occupant and, when not serving her customers, she was serving the Quarter’s single residents as matchmaker. She seemed to have a particular mission to find a mate for Peter, much to his chagrin. Peter loved Rose like another mother, but wished she would leave well enough alone. She knew he had a painful shyness that dogged him where the fairer sex was concerned, yet she refused to relent. The “dates” she arranged for Peter usually only lasted long enough for a cup of coffee and an awkward, mumbled conversation, many times followed by Peter spilling something or getting the hiccups. That was if he even showed up. Normally, he couldn’t muster the courage.

Although Peter loved women, he lacked whatever the thing was that allowed a man to talk to them. It was nearly impossible for him to even approach a girl, let alone have a conversation. The lone exceptions in his life currently were Dr. Jo, his assistant at Guardian, Tammy Pryde, and Momma Rose. Other than them, he couldn’t think of a recent time when he was able to put more than two sentences together. Luckily, Peter thought, Rose was older and matronly, in a nice way. If he couldn’t talk to her, he would starve to death!

As he walked down Canal, he was lost in his thoughts and did not see the couple being ushered out of The Saint Hotel by the sticklike doorman. Motion to his left caused him to flash back to reality, and he noticed the woman first. She was exquisite; athletic, bronze, blonde, and shimmery… and rapidly coming towards him. He made a move to sidestep the lady and was startled by the blast from the horn of a waiting taxi. He jumped, and, as would be his luck, he ran right into her, knocking her backwards. The man, who had stopped to say something to the doorman at the Saint, only frowned and shook his head.

Peter gathered himself and awkwardly reached out to help the women steady herself, but she brushed him away as if he were a bothersome insect. He could tell from her manner that she was a VERY independent person and would not be requiring his assistance. His, or any other man’s, for that matter. She turned and gave Peter a haughty look, “Excuse you!” she said in a disdainful way.

Peter, a little stung by her reaction, attempted to speak, but then he fell into the most striking set of eyes he had ever seen. The woman was quite a bit shorter than his six foot frame. He stood there looking down at her and tried to think of something to say.

WORDS… thought Peter. SAY WORDS!

“The polite thing to do is apologize for almost knocking me over…” she prompted.

Peter found his voice finally and muttered an “I’m sorry.” Well, two words, he thought. Yay.

“Yes, I can see that.” she said in a cold voice then sighed noticing his discomfort. “You should be more careful! A fall in these”, she pointed down to a pair of deathly- spiky, peachy-colored high heels, “could have ruined them… and me!” They looked torturous, in his opinion, which was in keeping with what he was imagining to be her personality.

“They look dangerous to me, and sort of impractical.”

“Well, they can be,” she admitted. “but they make this outfit, don’t you think?” she asked him.

Peter looked at the stunning woman, who did seem to be perfectly color coordinated, right down to her jewelry, and only then realized that he had spoken his thought aloud.

He gulped and pressed on, “I think they are lovely and, if you are planning to go into the Quarter in them, a big mistake.” Peter told her.

“Jimmy Choo’s are never a big mistake!”, the woman said, feigning an offended tone, yet her eyes gave him the impression she was attempting to be playful, and he thought he recognized a teasing glint. She was making sport of him, nothing more. Just then the handsome man returned for her.

“Poydem lyubov?” he asked her in what sounded like Russian to Peter.

“What? Oh, Max! You know I have a hard time with Russian!” She pouted prettily. She answered Peter’s questioning expression, “Maxim wants to know if I am ready to go.” She told him. She smoothed her dress, adjusted her sunglasses, gestured broadly to the late afternoon street and said, “Have a grand evening, Mr…?” she prompted.

“Devereaux. Peter Devereaux.” He returned. “And you are?” He asked her. “Magdalene Preston,” she said, “but my friends call me Maggie.” She said with a wink.

“Maggie. A pleasure.” Peter backed a step from the couple, taking the measure of the large Russian as he did, and addressed them both, “Hope you two have a fun evening!” He turned back to the pretty blonde, adding, “Don’t let the shoes kill you.” He thought and added, “I think I would have chosen something…” he paused as if thinking of an alternative. “Pragmatic.”, he finished with a smile. “At any rate, have a good one.” He turned and continued down Canal Street, whistling as he went. He watched her reflection in the window as he walked and saw her looking at his retreating figure with a piqued expression.

Maxim noticed her gaze follow the local man toward wherever he was going, and he took exception to the fact that her gaze was not on him.

He looked at her and then at the retreating Peter again and asked, “Would you like I hurt him? He knocked you down, almost.”

She smiled up at Maxim, “No. He was just an aggravation. Let’s not spoil our evening.” She leaned in and kissed him on the cheek, then she lay her delicate hands atop both of his broad shoulders and shook him, as if to wake him up. “Let’s go have some fun!” She gave him a flirtatious smile and they got into the cab that would take them into the quarter.

Peter was stunned. He had TALKED to her!... whoever “her” actually was.

What kind of name was Magdalene, anyway? He wondered why he wasn’t discomfited at any point in their conversation. This is big! he thought. Giddy at this new ability, he stopped walking. I was able to talk to her without swallowing my own tongue, he thought to himself. If I could talk to a stuck-up, rich tourist girl, maybe I could talk to a nice girl the same way, he thought. It had been a red-letter day, as far as Peter was concerned. He picked up the pace of his walk, and he let the late afternoon sun wend its way down his face as he considered his multiple triumphs. First the return of the memory of his dream with Michael and now his encounter with this mystery woman, both breakthroughs happened in one day! Peter was elated with his progress for the day and wished that he could tell Dr. Jo. She would understand how important it was and she would commend him on his bravery.

For thirteen years, Peter had been fighting a losing battle with his inner demons, Doubt and Fear. He remembered all too clearly his accident, and the trauma and pain it brought him. He could not let himself be near any of the girls in high school, because as Dr. Jo put it, he associated the pain from his snake bite and near-death experience with a girl. Girls utterly paralyzed him with fear. As it turned out, this ended up being a good thing for him. Less/ no girls meant no distractions and no sidetracking from his ambition to become an engineering student. He was to be an engineer, just like his father had been. Along the way, though, he gave in to what turned out to be a very lucrative impulse. Peter had always been interested in movies and comic books with sci-fi and fantasy themes, and, from the time he attended his first comic-con, he had been fascinated by the world of cosplay and replica design. Peter didn’t have the courage to actually BE a cosplayer, but his company had developed a reputation for being the finest outfitter and replica weapons and equipment designer in the world. They had done work on the highest grossing films and most successful TV shows of all time, all while developing new technology. Peter was well-known and quite wealthy, and he had done it while mostly not having to talk to women.

But today he had! Maybe this was the breakthrough that Peter had been waiting for! At that moment a group of young women on their way to the Quarter overtook Peter from behind. As they walked past, a very pretty blonde stopped the group amid some animated conversation. Peter stopped as well, watching this play out, just out of earshot. The blonde turned to walk back towards him, with the giggles of her group following her. She walked up to him with sparkling blue eyes and a thousand watt smile, and he couldn’t breathe.

Oh, no, he thought. This has to be a mistake! It’s happening again?? Peter couldn’t believe that the old fear had engulfed him so quickly and completely, but here it was, big as day and apparently here to stay.

She didn’t notice his petrification as she asked him, “Are we going the right way to get into the Quarter?” happily awaiting his response, unaware that he was fighting the urge to turn and run.

His throat tightened and his chest felt heavy. He felt the blush creep its way up his face until he was sure he was as red as a beet. He couldn’t talk, only raise an arm and point in the direction the pedicab just took.

The blonde looked from him to the direction he pointed, and with a disappointed look motioned her friends to join her in the direction Peter pointed.

He heard one of her friends say to her, “Oh my God! That guy was so rude! They don’t even speak to girls here? Brooke, you’re such a loser magnet!” With that statement, Peter helplessly watched Brooke and her gaggle of squawking friends walk down the street. A little further on, the group elicited a catcall or two from some younger boys. That activated some giggles from the girls in response, and it seemed to be more the reaction they were looking for from the local men. Feeling at a loss, again, Peter decided that walking home through the quarter was not as pleasing a prospect as when he started. He hailed a pedicab to take him home.

“Governor and Decatur, please.” He said limply. Once seated, he leaned back as far as the seat would allow. He watched as he passed the same group of girls, giggling and dancing their way to the festivities. The partygoers were coming out of the woodwork, and soon the quarter would be impossible for anything other than foot traffic. The parade would start soon, and the beads would fly from those on the floats and from those men who would like to see more of the pretty ladies on the street. Peter felt sickened by the spectacle that was his beloved NOLA at Mardi Gras, but he also knew how the neighborhood and the city would be benefiting from this debauchery. This was, after all, the most profitable time of the year. Peter’s cab passed Jackson Square and was approaching the French Market. The smells on this side of town varied from fresh bread and beignets to the overripe smell of the Mississippi River. The pedicab came to a stop at a two-story white building with a wrought iron fence surrounding an upper balcony. It was bordered with hanging flower pots on the railing and a few selective flower arrangements outside a quaint restaurant. A lovely older woman was just coming through the front doors with a broom in hand to sweep the non-existent trash from the café area out in front of the building. She looked up as Peter emerged from the pedicab.

“Mon chou (Sweetie!)!” she said with a motherly smile, and rushed to greet him in a quick embrace, her broom knocking his elbow. “How was your appointment today?” she asked him.

Peter smiled warmly at the older woman, who he thought of as a second mother, rubbed his sore elbow, and said, “It was excellent!” The pronouncement once again lightened Peter’s mood. “I think I made a breakthrough today, Momma Rose,” he told her excitedly. “I remembered part of what happened after my accident,” he told her in a rush, “but that’s not all that happened, I had a conversation on my way home…” he paused for dramatic effect, “with a lady.” He finished with a flourish. He grabbed her broom as if it were a guitar and gave it a triumphant strum. He bowed as he handed it back to her, but she let it clatter noisily to the ground. Rose was clearly stunned. Momma Rose’s eyebrows had nearly reached her hairline and she had to sit on one of the vacant chairs.

She looked up at him and smiled, “Thank the Maker for this blessing!” she said, “I was beginning to think this day would never come! Your folks should have been the ones to receive this happy news, mon chou.” She said, a little sadly.

Peter frowned and asked her, “Which part?”

She smiled at his serious expression, and answered, “The part where you remembered your accident. Mon dieu! (Heavens!) It has been almost thirteen years and you could not remember anything except jumping into the water. Your poor mother…” She trailed off. Peter’s mother never stopped hoping that he would come to terms with what had happened to him when he was a child, and she never stopped believing that the nightmares would stop. She was always his biggest fan, and, right now, he missed her terribly. “I never had a doubt that you could talk to a woman!” Rose’s statement snapped Peter back from his mother.

“Is that so?” He asked. “How could you be so sure?” “Because”, she said, “you have been talking to me for years. And you talk to Jeanne!” There was no nonsense in her tone, or her statement for that matter.

“I know, Momma Rose,” he started, “but you know it’s not the same thing!” Peter raked his hair and looked uneasy. She smirked.

She knew, but she asked, “How so? Are we not women, Peter?”

“Uhm, yeah… yes! Yes, you are, but not in the… same way.” Peter fumbled the statement as the blush rose to his face. “I have to go, Momma. I think I hear the phone upstairs.” He turned and fled into the open door of the kitchen and the stairs leading up. “Petit menteur! (Little liar!) You haven’t had a phone upstairs in years!” She laughingly scolded his back as he went. She shook her head, picked up the broom she had laid aside and started to sweep the sidewalk and eating area. She said a silent prayer of thanks on Peter’s behalf and chuckled at his earlier embarrassment. She always thought Peter would make some lucky woman a fine husband and, she knew, when he found the right one, he would have NO problem communicating with HER!