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cry and fall apart, but she would always
provoke the same situation again—they'd listen till they couldn't
take it anymore, they'd yell back at her, anything to get her out of
their face, and then she'd cry and fall apart again. She craved human
contact like a child who'd been raised by wolves, and it was usually
about as smooth for her.
    She sometimes liked a nip at bedtime, for soporific
purposes, she said.
    "Shall I get you a drink?"
    " I don't really think I care for anything."
She sounded unconvinced.
    "How about some Bailey's Irish Cream?"
    She loved that stuff, probably because it tasted like
dessert.
    " All right," she said, as if doing him a
huge favor.
    He raced down to look for some, relieved to be doing
something; anything.
    There wasn't any.
    When he came back upstairs, he saw that she'd taken
off her shoes, which he took for a good sign. "Mother, I'll have
to go out and get some. Will you be all right for a minute?"
    She looked at him. "I guess so." He thought
perhaps she was afraid.
    "Are you sure?"
    " I guess so."
    He had to get out of there. "I'm putting the
alarm on. Don't worry, no one can get in."
    He had in mind to go instantly to the House of Blues,
but in the end he couldn't bring himself to run out on her. For one
thing, he had to take her back for the damned house check.
    He got the liqueur and returned to find the phone
ringing: the cop asking them to come back. He took his mother home,
brought her back, and then utterly amazed himself, the way he spoke
to her—the way a good son was supposed to; the way he never did.
    "Now, Mother, I want you to undress and get
under the covers while I pour us a little drink. Will you do that for
me now?" He thought he saw a flash of surprise in her eyes, but
she didn't say anything.
    "I'm gonna close this door now, to give you a
little privacy. When I come back, we'll have a nice drink together.
Will you get in bed for me now?"
    She nodded.
    He took a while opening the bottle and finding
glasses, to give her time to obey. When he knocked on the door, she
said, "Come in," and this time she was tucked in. She still
had her makeup on, but he wasn't going to quibble.
    "Good, Mama. You need to get some rest." He
hadn't called her "Mama" since he was twelve.
    The television hummed in the background, and he was
suddenly afraid she would see the news and that his father's death
would be on it. "Let's turn this off, shall we?"
    He poured her a drink and handed it to her. He poured
himself one and sat on the stool that went with the dresser. He had
no idea what to say to her. She was the one who talked—talked and
talked and talked, much to the discomfort of everyone around her. His
relationship with her consisted of fending her off.
    Finally, she said, "Do you think she killed
him?"
    "Who?"
    " Reed."
    "Reed?" He would have been as shocked if
she'd said Hillary Clinton. "Why Reed?"
    "What he did wasn't right. All that child ever
wanted in her life was to run that restaurant—that and please her
daddy. And he took everything away from her."
    Grady felt a tingle. Oh, God,
another lovely evening in the House of Blues.
    The House of Blues was a club, one of several in
various cities, but still the biggest thing to hit New Orleans since
the casino was voted in. It was artfully funky and low-down, full of
Louisiana native art. Its sound system had probably cost millions.
Its acts were top of the line. It perfectly captured the city's idea
of itself, every college student's fantasies, every baby boomer's
memories, and managed somehow to be the exact club Grady would have
built—any music lover would have—if he just had unlimited funds.
Grady went there a good three times a week, every time he got to
feeling depressed.
    But he had first been attracted by the name. He'd
always been disappointed that there wasn't really a House of the
Rising Sun. When he was about twelve, maybe thirteen, he'd spent a
lot of time thinking about the song's second line: "It's been
the ruin of many