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Authors: Sean Michael O'Dea
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war hero—like every other young boy, before they realize that a war hero is either a fabrication, or more likely just a soldier who didn’t piss himself before he died.” His father stared again at the storm through the windows. “I even gave him the same option I gave you: an education at the Sorbonne. But he refused, the idiot, just like you.”
“Warren will make a fine officer, father. I am sure of it. And I have no doubt that Will serve the people of this nation. He has the makings of a fine politician.”
“Of course he does; that’s why I am financing his campaign,” his father said. “There are two types of people in this world, Wage. Those who serve others and those who serve themselves.”
“Acolytes and adventurers, I remember, father. Everyone is one or the other.”
“Oh, don’t everyone just wanna run off and be the adventurer, now, hmm? Just like Wage Pascal! Little do they know how fruitless and short it is. Just ask Wage Pascal,” his father said, drawing out the syllables of his name.
Well, if you will excuse me, there is something I must do,” Wage replied, turning for the door.
“Wage!” yelled his father, “As damn hard as it is . . . I do love you, son.”
“I opened up some of your finest brandy. I’ll have Miss Marie bring up the rest,” Wage said before leaving his father to watch the storm.
Wage made his way to the study down the hall where he found William deliberating over some papers with spectacles. “Will,” Wage said.
“Wage,” he replied. “Let me guess. Leaving already? Did they open a new whorehouse in Shreveport?”
“Why? You heard something?” Wage said, making William Jr. laugh. “I am leaving, Will. I have some business in New Orleans,” he continued, glad the tension left the room. “But I promise, I will come back in just a few days.”
“I’ve heard this before,” William said.
“I know, but this time I mean it. I’m gonna come home, Will. And I am determined to help you with your campaign. It’s about time I served a noble cause, and let’s be honest . . . you gonna need all the help you can get,” Wage said.
William stood up from his chair and hugged his brother. “Thank you, Wage.”
“Thank me after we’ve won the election, brother,” Wage replied.
“Good luck, Wage, and whatever it is you are doing in New Orleans, be safe.”
“I will.” Wage patted his brother on the back. “I’ll be back soon.”
Wage made his way back to the atrium, where he put on his trench coat and slouch hat.
“You leavin’ again, huh?” Warren said from the entry way to the kitchen.
Wage walked over and put his arm around his little brother. “Warren, I mean to come back in a few days to help Will and to give you a proper send off, of course. I even know just the place for a soon-to-be-sailor.”
“You promise?” Warren asked.
“I promise, little brother.”
Wage and Warren embraced one last time, and Wage walked out into the pouring rain. But before heading dockside, he stopped by his mother’s crypt again. This time he knelt by it and traced the inscription: Clementine Claire Cuomo Pascal and Wyatt Nathaniel Pascal. Together in life and death. In heaven, may they have their wings.
“I miss you,” Wage said. And then he did something he hadn’t done in 15 years. He cried.
Detective Simon Porter
June 5, 1914
The House of Black Curtains
New Orleans, Louisiana
It was five o’clock in the afternoon when the detective hopped from the streetcar onto the packed dirt at the center of Canal Street. Dodging horse-drawn buggies and motorcars, he made his way to the broadstone sidewalk. Canal Street itself seemed as wide as the nearby Mississippi River, roughly 120 feet across with currents of motley folk. Detective Simon Porter dropped his suitcase and recorded them like one of Edison’s motion cameras: parading ladies
“Warren will make a fine officer, father. I am sure of it. And I have no doubt that Will serve the people of this nation. He has the makings of a fine politician.”
“Of course he does; that’s why I am financing his campaign,” his father said. “There are two types of people in this world, Wage. Those who serve others and those who serve themselves.”
“Acolytes and adventurers, I remember, father. Everyone is one or the other.”
“Oh, don’t everyone just wanna run off and be the adventurer, now, hmm? Just like Wage Pascal! Little do they know how fruitless and short it is. Just ask Wage Pascal,” his father said, drawing out the syllables of his name.
Well, if you will excuse me, there is something I must do,” Wage replied, turning for the door.
“Wage!” yelled his father, “As damn hard as it is . . . I do love you, son.”
“I opened up some of your finest brandy. I’ll have Miss Marie bring up the rest,” Wage said before leaving his father to watch the storm.
Wage made his way to the study down the hall where he found William deliberating over some papers with spectacles. “Will,” Wage said.
“Wage,” he replied. “Let me guess. Leaving already? Did they open a new whorehouse in Shreveport?”
“Why? You heard something?” Wage said, making William Jr. laugh. “I am leaving, Will. I have some business in New Orleans,” he continued, glad the tension left the room. “But I promise, I will come back in just a few days.”
“I’ve heard this before,” William said.
“I know, but this time I mean it. I’m gonna come home, Will. And I am determined to help you with your campaign. It’s about time I served a noble cause, and let’s be honest . . . you gonna need all the help you can get,” Wage said.
William stood up from his chair and hugged his brother. “Thank you, Wage.”
“Thank me after we’ve won the election, brother,” Wage replied.
“Good luck, Wage, and whatever it is you are doing in New Orleans, be safe.”
“I will.” Wage patted his brother on the back. “I’ll be back soon.”
Wage made his way back to the atrium, where he put on his trench coat and slouch hat.
“You leavin’ again, huh?” Warren said from the entry way to the kitchen.
Wage walked over and put his arm around his little brother. “Warren, I mean to come back in a few days to help Will and to give you a proper send off, of course. I even know just the place for a soon-to-be-sailor.”
“You promise?” Warren asked.
“I promise, little brother.”
Wage and Warren embraced one last time, and Wage walked out into the pouring rain. But before heading dockside, he stopped by his mother’s crypt again. This time he knelt by it and traced the inscription: Clementine Claire Cuomo Pascal and Wyatt Nathaniel Pascal. Together in life and death. In heaven, may they have their wings.
“I miss you,” Wage said. And then he did something he hadn’t done in 15 years. He cried.
Detective Simon Porter
June 5, 1914
The House of Black Curtains
New Orleans, Louisiana
It was five o’clock in the afternoon when the detective hopped from the streetcar onto the packed dirt at the center of Canal Street. Dodging horse-drawn buggies and motorcars, he made his way to the broadstone sidewalk. Canal Street itself seemed as wide as the nearby Mississippi River, roughly 120 feet across with currents of motley folk. Detective Simon Porter dropped his suitcase and recorded them like one of Edison’s motion cameras: parading ladies
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