Page 73 of Shelter
Alberta smothered a laugh, took a bite of her dinner, and wrinkled her nose. “This didn’t really turn out great. Nothing like Flora’s,” she muttered.
I took another loyal bite and kept my face blank. Mama’s macaroni bake was a religious experience. What sat in our bowls couldn’t come close.
“Speaking of Flora, did you see her today?”
I nodded as I swallowed. “Yeah, she likes her new job. The cafe is cute.” Mama had just started working at Cafe 20.3 on the Bayou, a tiny, new restaurant and bar on the corner of University and General Mouton. I’d gone for the first time on my lunchbreak.
“So, she’s doing okay?” Concern laced Alberta’s voice. Mama’s last year had been rough. When Jolie’s Louisiana Bistro closed after Valentine’s Day more than a year ago, she’d been out of work for eight months. The downturn in the oil industry had hit everyone in Lafayette hard, and it seemed like every other restaurant in town was closing its doors. Jolie’s. Two Paul’s Urban Barbecue. The Oyster Reef.
And no one was hiring. At least, they weren’t hiring a cook in her fifties with bunions and arthritis. She’d eventually found work in the cafeteria at Magnolia Estates nursing home, but she’d said it was too depressing.
“It’s like looking at my future. And it’s not so bright,”she’d complained.
Mama had practically jumped at the chance to work in a real restaurant again. Well, not literally. Mama didn’t do much jumping these days.
I gave Alberta a shrug. “She likes the new place, but her feet hurt.”
My best friendtsked.“She needs to have them fixed.”
“Well,” I said with a sigh. “She couldn’t do it when she was out of work because she didn’t have insurance, and now she doesn’t want to do it and miss work.”
Alberta made a face. “Adulting sucks.”
I nodded, but really, it wasn’t adulting that sucked. It was adulting alone. More than once, I’d thought about moving back in with Mama so she could take care of her feet while I took care of the bills. But two things were stopping me. One was Mama and the other was Alberta. Mama made a fuss every time I broached the subject.
“I’m not an invalid, Elise Nicole, and I refuse to be treated like one.”
“You are not gonna put your dreams on the sidelines just because I have sore feet.”
And my favorite:“What makes you think I want you back for a roommate, anyway? I did that for twenty-one years. What? Is Alberta sick of you already?”
Alberta most definitely was not sick of me, and we were three years into a five-year plan. Our apartment was a compact two-bedroom on St. Joseph Street that actually belonged to Alberta’s Uncle Martin. The rent was better than pretty much anywhere in town, and we lived as cheaply as we could — cooking at home, shopping at Wal-Mart, and outfitting our wardrobes at Goodwill — so we could save every penny.
In two years, if we could find the right place — where the location was promising but the rent didn’t kill us — we were going to open a boutique jewelry store and art gallery. And we were on track to do it. I still had my booth at the farmer’s market once a month, and since I’d lived at home and gone to UL for my degree in metalwork and jewelry, I didn’t have any student debt. I’d tucked away a tidy sum over the years, but the tricky thing about a jewelry business was the inventory. Precious metals and gemstones were — no surprise — expensive, and Alberta and I had decided long ago that we’d run a business with a conscience. Fair trade or no trade. Neither one of us could stomach the idea of blood diamonds or child slavery coming anywhere near our shop, so that meant we’d have to pay a premium for raw materials just to get started.
And, yeah, Mama knew all of this. She wasn’t about to let me put any of it on hold, and if I tried, Alberta would probably lose her shit anyway. She’d lived at home while going to school just like me, but with a concentration in painting, we’d seen each other every day in Fletcher Hall at UL. We’d even had a few of the same sketching and design classes as freshmen. Now she was teaching art to first through fourth graders at Plantation Elementary, butteachingwas a term she said could only be used loosely. Most of her days were spent kid-wrangling and keeping students from declaring paint wars. She wore scrubs every day to work, and some nights she’d come home splattered like a walking, scowling Jackson Pollack.
In August, she’d say,“Nine months ‘til summer.”
On Mondays, she’d say,“Four days ‘til Friday.”
Every morning, she’d say,“Eight hours ‘til three.”
I knew in her heart she would understand if I had to put our plan on hold to see to Mama, but I truly didn’t know if she’d be able to survive it.
These worries were too depressing, so I searched for a change of subject. “Did you see Ross today at school?”
Alberta’s cafe au lait skin could not hide her rosy blush. Her lashes lowered, and she tried to mask her demure smile. “Maybe,” she said with a shrug.
“Oh?” I teased, grinning at my friend. “And how is Ross?”
“He’s…” She shook her head the way a dog shakes off water. “…fine.”
I had yet to meet the infamous Ross Wilson, but I knew he taught PE at Plantation, and, according to Alberta, he could be a model for Under Armour fitness wear. She blushed every time she talked about him. Seeing my confident, gorgeous, talented friend so flustered by a guy had me grinning.
“Did you invite him to your showing?” I prodded. Some of Alberta’s paintings were on exhibit at The Green Door Gallery downtown. For Second Saturday Artwalk, the gallery opened its doors to the downtown crowds, offering wine and hors d'oeuvres and a chance to meet featured artists. Alberta had been on a cloud for the last month, counting down the days.
She huffed a sigh. “Yes, but I don’t know why.”
