Page 114 of The Fourth Option
Gloria nodded. “For twenty years, before I settled down. I worked forLifeandNational Geographic. Traveled more than I stayed put.”
“The portfolio in the entry hall is impressive.”
She cut a piece of meat and chewed slowly. “Mementos,” she said. “I hold on to things.”
“So do I. Was it always wildlife?”
“No. I did some slice-of-life work here in the city. There were so many photographers back then. You had to find your own angle.”
“She’s being modest,” Belle jumped in. “Her work’s in galleries. She shot the Preservation Hall Jazz Band in the seventies.”
Gloria waved a hand. “That was luck. I happened to be there. My most popular photographs were of the Mississippi River; people on the boats, wildlife in the inlets and swamps.”
“I saw the alligator picture. And the blue heron.”
“Good eye,” she said. “Most people think it’s a crane. That was for a piece on the Bayou. New York sent me down for it, but it was easy with our place out there.”
“There’s a family place out on the water,” Belle explained.
“It’s not one where you’d ever want to swim, but my husband, God rest his soul, hunted and fished out there. I took photos. It’s rustic. No power, no plumbing. But peaceful.”
“Your husband sounds like my kind of guy.”
“We had some times out there, Alexandre and I. He ran a bakery onRoyal Street. We sold it years ago, but I still bake. These baguettes were his recipe.”
Walker chewed slowly, savoring the crust. “Delicious.”
The conversation softened into the kind of respectful quiet that settles over a table when the meal is nearly done and the company is good. How did he end up here? A retired military working dog, a goth girl, her grandmother, and a man who had spent most of his adult life looking over a gunsight, sharing a meal like family.
“You’ll stay with us tonight,” Gloria said.
“Oh, I couldn’t,” Walker replied, shifting uncomfortably in his chair.
“You certainly can. Belle tells me you live in your van. You’ll stay in the room over the garage. Belle tells me you have some work you need to do together.”
“Belle tells you a lot,” Walker said, glaring at the young woman in black.
“She tells me everything,” Gloria said playfully.
“I do not, Grandma.”
“Did you or did you not ask me to fix his haircut?”
Belle dropped her head, face flushed red.
“This is mortifying,” she said.
“Then it’s settled. I used to cut Alexandre’s hair. I’ll fix you up. Then you and Belle can get to work.”
The room above the garage was small and smelled faintly of cedar, old paper, and the remnants of chemicals that contributed the sour tang of peroxide. A table sat beneath a shelf of white ceramic jugs. Neat, clean, and tidy, everything had its place. It was warm, but a window AC unit tried its level best.
“She used to string sheets across the rafters to make a darkroom,” Belle said. “Connor and I would hang out up here.”
Walker examined the space, taking in the slanted ceiling, the single lamp, the twin bed with pillowcases still showing fold creases. A black Gibson electric guitar was on a stand, plugged into an amp.
“Want to play me some of that industrial punk?” he asked.
“My music drives Grandma a little batty. You are welcome to give it a strum.”
