〈0036 Hot Bath and Saints〉
The black Suburban came to a quiet stop outside a redbrick building at the eastern end of the Warehouse District.
As always, Mr. Whitaker opened the rear door. Lydia and Cynthia thanked him as they stepped out.
“Have a pleasant evening.”
With that courteous farewell, Mr. Whitaker drove away.
Lydia turned back, her eyes crinkling in a smile.
“This is your second time here, isn’t it?”
Cynthia nodded, looking up at the four-story redbrick building before her.
The old brick warehouses, remnants of the port’s nineteenth-century trade, had been converted into buildings housing condominiums, shops, and offices.
“It used to be a warehouse. They converted it into a mixed-use building.”
“Our place in Brooklyn is like that, too. Though I heard ours used to be a garment factory.”
Cynthia followed Lydia toward the entrance. Apart from the melting snow wetting the edges of the sidewalk, everything looked just as it had the previous week.
The Vietnamese restaurant on the ground floor was bustling with dinner customers.
In the Italian café next door, a middle-aged couple sat drinking coffee at a table deep inside.
The small jewelry shop beyond it had already lowered its shutter. It sold semiprecious stones.
Lydia stopped so suddenly outside the Vietnamese restaurant that Cynthia nearly walked into her back.
“Want to have some pho or fried rice here before we go up? Or get takeout?”
Cynthia looked at the menu beside the entrance. Growing inexplicably nervous, she peered inside as well.
It was nothing like the pho places she sometimes visited in New York or Boston.
The ceiling was high, with fans turning slowly overhead. Lamps of milky glass hung beneath brass shades.
In the warm light, rattan chairs and tables dressed in white linen stood in neat rows.
Dark wooden louvered partitions separated the tables, and waiters moved calmly between them.
It looked as though someone had transplanted an entire fine restaurant from Hanoi, the sort that officials from the governor-general’s office might have frequented in the days of French Indochina.
‘How much is it?’
Phở Bò / Beef Phở — $30
Cơm Chiên Hải Sản, Cajun-Style / Cajun Seafood Fried Rice — $32
Cynthia swallowed and shuddered.
‘Fried rice costs thirty-two dollars here?’
‘It’s twelve at a shabby takeout place in New York. Eighteen at an ordinary restaurant. Does sitting in those chairs under those lights make it thirty-two?!’
At twelve dollars, she would have said yes immediately.
At eighteen, she might have hesitated, but she would still have asked if it was all right.
At thirty-two, though, she felt uncomfortable even with Lydia paying.
Cynthia peered inside again.
The waiters wore white shirts, black vests, and white aprons. One approached a table and, with a courteous gesture, set down a bottle of wine before bringing out the pho.
“I…”
Her voice trembled faintly.
Lydia waited a moment, watching Cynthia’s eyes move between the menu and the restaurant. Realizing she felt uncomfortable, she gave a small nod.
“All right. I’ll cook, then.”
“Pardon?”
“Let’s go upstairs. I have food at home.”
Lydia stopped pressing the idea of eating out and went inside the building.
Cynthia hurried after her.
Lydia held her key fob to the reader, and the communal entrance unlocked.
Inside, the structural additions and utilities installed during the conversion had been left exposed.
Steel H-columns coated in black fireproof paint stood between the old brick walls. The gray concrete core and steel beams had no finish covering them. Metal electrical conduits, water pipes, and rainwater pipes ran in orderly lines along the walls and ceiling.
They passed through the industrial-style corridor, where the old warehouse’s bones mingled with modern utilities, and took the elevator to the fourth floor.
Soon, the door to Apartment 402 opened, and they went inside.
Lydia took off her coat, immediately rolled up her sleeves, and went into the bathroom. Water began running. Before long, she came out, drying her hands on a towel.
“I’m running you a bath. Go have a nice warm soak.”
“A bath, not a shower?”
“You’ve been on a plane for hours. When you’re tired, your immune system weakens. That’s when a virus comes calling with a little gift called a cold.”
“Um…”
Too tired to quite follow Lydia’s turn of phrase, Cynthia gave an awkward smile and blinked.
“Oh dear. Did I just sound like a nurse? Old lessons. They slip out sometimes.”
Lydia chuckled and took out a bath towel for her.
“I’ve put some bath salts in, too. Go relax.”
Towel in hand, Cynthia wandered toward the bathroom.
The fresh scent drifting through the open door brought an involuntary smile to her face.
“It smells… so lovely. It almost feels like a waste to have it all to myself…”
“Does it? Shall I join you, then?”
Lydia tossed out the joke as casually as anything.
Cynthia’s heart gave a lurch.
“W-w-w-what?! Both of us in one bathtub?!”
Lydia chuckled and shrugged.
“I’m joking. How would we both fit in that little tub? Go on, have your bath. I’ll get the rice started.”
“Oh… yes…”
Cynthia ducked her head. Lydia tilted hers.
“Why do you look disappointed, though?”
“I don’t! I don’t!”
Hunching her shoulders, Cynthia hurried into the bathroom. Back in the kitchen, Lydia was rinsing the rice when Cynthia’s peculiar reaction came to mind.
‘Could she… be into women?’
She thought about it briefly, then shrugged.
‘So what?’
It had nothing to do with making music and performing together. After leading a band with Katty, this was hardly anything new to Lydia.
She put the rice in the rice cooker and pressed the button.
Gumbo began bubbling in a pot on the induction cooktop. Lydia took celery, tomatoes, and lettuce from the refrigerator and made a salad. Then she brought out several glass jars and spooned their contents onto plates.
Pickled cabbage. Pickled cucumbers. Pickled carrots. All homemade.
Finally, she took out a few eggs she had boiled earlier, peeled them, and cut them in half on a plate.
Just then, Cynthia emerged from her bath. She wore a bathrobe, with a towel wrapped around her head like a turban. Her eyes widened at the sight of the table.
“W-wow…”
“Save the compliments until you’ve eaten. Come here. Let me dry your hair first.”
“I can dry my own hair.”
Cynthia answered quickly, her cheeks rosy, but Lydia pointed to the sofa.
“Sit there and stay still.”
Unable to say anything more, Cynthia sat.
Lydia stood behind the sofa and switched on the hair dryer.
Each time Lydia’s long fingers parted her hair and brushed her scalp amid the warm air, Cynthia hunched her shoulders, unable to move.
She was nearly twenty. Having someone dry her hair for her was terribly embarrassing. But somehow, asking Lydia to stop did not feel like an option.
“Why are you so stiff?”
“It’s been… such a long time since anyone did this for me.”
Lydia’s hands paused briefly. Then she resumed moving the dryer as though nothing had happened.
“Then just let me do it today.”
Whirrr…
As her hair dried, Cynthia gazed absently at the framed pieces on the living room wall.
Two platinum records hung side by side.
“Those are your solo albums, aren’t they, Ms. Coleman?”
“A long time ago.”
“They both went platinum.”
Between the two records hung a Rolling Stone cover featuring Lydia. In a burgundy evening gown, she stood with her eyes closed, embracing a microphone on its stand. It was from about ten years earlier.
“That’s… you, isn’t it? You were even on the cover of Rolling Stone.”
“That was when I was doing mainstream pop. I’ve cut ties with that world.”
Cynthia read the words on the cover.
‘Heir to the Divas of ’90s Pop.’
“There. At least you won’t soak your pillow now.”
Looking pleased, Lydia switched off the dryer.
Cynthia drifted into thought.
A pop diva who had released two platinum albums ten years ago was drying her hair and making her dinner. Was this really happening…?
‘I only started at Berklee last fall. I’m just a kid who’s finished one semester and is starting her second. What have I done to deserve all this?’
While Cynthia sat overwhelmed, Lydia had been asking her something.
“Cindy, where have you been all this time? I’ve asked you three times whether you brought a change of clothes.”
“Oh! Oh no! The yellow Uma Thurman tracksuit Ms. St. Claire gave me! I left it at the dorm!”
“…A yellow tracksuit? Louise practically had you cosplaying Kill Bill.”
Lydia could not help laughing. Cynthia looked stricken.
“I meant to bring it, but I forgot…”
“Then wear something of mine tonight.”
Lydia went into her room and returned with a black New Orleans Saints sweatshirt and a pair of joggers.
A little later, Cynthia came out of the guest room wearing the borrowed black Saints outfit.
Lydia’s clothes were about a size too large. The sweatshirt’s shoulder seams hung low and its sleeves covered the backs of Cynthia’s hands. The joggers fell in loose folds.
But Cynthia looked delighted, turning this way and that in front of the mirror.
“Thank you! I love it. It’s nice and roomy.”
Lydia tilted her head.
“What are you so happy about?”
“I feel like I’m one of the Saints.”
“…The Saints don’t have a women’s team…”
“I meant Saints Row.”
Unlike her usual quiet self, Cynthia even gave a little sway in front of the mirror as she answered happily.
“Oh. The video game.”
Lydia did not play games, but she had heard the title.
“The football team came first, you know.”
She shook her head.
“And isn’t that a gangster game? You played that, Cindy?”
“With my brother. I was better than him, too.”
Cynthia squared her shoulders proudly and grinned.
“Speaking of which, the Super Bowl is in New Orleans next month, isn’t it?”
“That’s right. February ninth.”
“Go, Saints, go!”
Cynthia laughed and threw both arms up in a cheer. Lydia burst out laughing and shook her head.
“That’s not how we cheer for the New Orleans Saints.”
Drawing her shoulders back, she delivered the chant with an extravagant swagger.
“Who dat? Who dat? Who dat say dey gonna beat dem Saints?”
“Oh…! That’s the one!”
Cynthia’s eyes sparkled, but Lydia suddenly shook her head, looking deflated.
“Except our team isn’t in the Super Bowl this year. Sit down. Let’s eat.”
Shrimp and sausage gumbo, freshly cooked rice, boiled eggs and salad, crisp pickles.
Cynthia ate enthusiastically and raised a thumb.
“It’s delicious!”
“If you factor in my hourly rate, this costs more than the pho downstairs.”
Cynthia stopped with her spoon in midair, her mouth falling open.
“Does that mean I shouldn’t be eating it?”
“It means you shouldn’t leave any.”
Lydia chuckled.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Cynthia went back to eating.
〈0037 The Stepson’s Call〉
After dinner, they carried the empty dishes to the sink.
Cynthia immediately pulled on a pair of rubber gloves and looked for the dish soap.
Lydia glanced at her and protested.
“No. You’re a guest. Leave those alone!”
“At least let me wash the dishes.”
But Lydia tried to take the sponge and soap from her hands.
“I said leave them! Honestly, child!”
“You’re letting me stay and feeding me. I can’t just do nothing.”
As they went back and forth at the sink, Lydia’s phone rang on the kitchen island.
Lydia turned.
The moment she saw the name on the screen, her expression stiffened.
〈CALL — MICHELAN MALONE〉
“Cindy, hold on. Don’t touch the dishes.”
She picked up the phone and went to sit on the living room sofa.
“Hi, Mickey. How are you? Yes, I’m in New Orleans. I’m doing well. Oh…”
Her voice trailed off.
Lydia sat with her back straight, listening quietly to the voice on the other end.
At last, she let out a long sigh and asked,
“…Did your father tell you himself?”
A silence followed.
“…So he didn’t.”
Meanwhile, Cynthia began washing the dishes, keeping the sound of the water as low as possible.
She washed the gumbo pot, the plates, the salad bowl, and two cups, placing them one by one in the drying rack.
By the time she had taken off her gloves and was squeezing out the sponge, Lydia was finishing the call.
“Mickey. Tell your dorm supervisor you’re going out with me tomorrow. I’ll contact the school myself.”
Even after hanging up, Lydia sat motionless for a while, still holding her phone.
Then she sighed deeply again and made another call.
“I’d like to speak to Anthony Malone. This is his ex-wife, Lydia Coleman. Could you put me through? …Thank you.”
Cynthia turned from the finished dishes toward the sofa, her eyes widening.
‘Anthony Malone… Ms. Coleman’s ex-husband. The talk-show host.’
She remembered that much.
There was nothing she could do in an atmosphere like this.
Cynthia quietly sat on a backless stool at the island.
“Malone. Mickey called me.”
Apparently the assistant had put her through. Lydia was finally speaking to Malone.
“He heard from a friend at school that you’re getting divorced. Again. Not from you.”
A man’s voice came faintly through the phone, sounding tired as he offered some sort of explanation.
Lydia shook her head.
“Someone else’s child knew you’d signed the divorce papers before your own son did. And your son hadn’t heard a word from you.”
Her voice dropped.
“You really are… irresponsible with that boy, aren’t you?”
The man said something else.
Lydia answered at once.
“Did I say I don’t respect your life? Who you date, who you marry, who you leave—that’s your life.”
She paused, then asked more distinctly,
“But why don’t you respect your son’s life?”
Only a long, heavy sigh came from the other end.
Lydia’s lips moved as though she had more to say, but she stopped pressing him.
“Malone. I’m going to see Mickey tomorrow. Just so you know.”
The voice on the phone suddenly rose. This time, Cynthia could hear the words clearly from her seat at the island.
“Liddy, you didn’t even give birth to him. You have no parental rights. What are you going to see him for?”
Lydia’s face hardened.
“He called me Mama when he rang. That’s enough.”
She continued coldly.
“I’m not calling to ask permission to see him. I’m calling to tell you. I’ll send it by text and email, too.”
“Ha… Do whatever you want. I’m staying out of it.”
Lydia was silent for a moment, then ended the call and sank back into the sofa.
She immediately opened a flight-search app.
“Sorry, Cindy. That was my stepson. My ex-husband’s only child.”
“Oh… You still keep in touch?”
“If he calls, I answer. He still calls me Mama.”
Lydia spoke as she scrolled through the flights.
“Flights started running again yesterday, but… with everyone who was stranded trying to leave at once, I wonder if there’s anything left.”
Her eyes moved quickly down the list.
“Oh, there’s one seat on a flight arriving at LaGuardia at one twenty tomorrow afternoon. Thank goodness.”
Without so much as a glance at the price, she went ahead with the booking.
Then she opened a rental car company’s app and spoke to Cynthia.
“Cindy. I’ll be away tomorrow. Kat and Lou will handle the rest of rehearsal with you. You’ll be missing a vocalist, but the three of you still need to practice.”
“Oh… yes!”
“I’ll be back on a Sunday morning flight. Your first club show is that afternoon, so I’ll be there before soundcheck.”
With the flight and rental car booked, Lydia immediately messaged Katty and Louise to tell them she would be away the next day.
Fisher, Katty〉Sure. Have a safe trip. I’ll pick Cindy up tomorrow and take her to the rehearsal space.
St.Claire, Louise〉Safe travels. Please don’t worry about things here.
At last, Lydia put down her phone and let out a long sigh.
Then she rose from the sofa and came over to Cynthia.
“Didn’t I tell you to leave the dishes?”
Cynthia gave a small smile at Lydia’s reproachful look.
“They hardly took any time.”
“No… That’s not what I meant. You didn’t need to go to the trouble.”
Lydia lightly pressed a handleless panel beneath the counter beside the sink. It popped forward, and she caught the edge and pulled it open.
A drawer dishwasher appeared, one Cynthia had failed to recognize.
“Oh.”
Cynthia’s mouth formed a small circle.
Only then did a faint smile return to Lydia’s face.
Lydia walked to a small refrigerator on one side of the kitchen.
Cynthia thought she was getting dessert. But when the little door opened, it revealed rows of bottles lying on their sides.
Every one of them was wine.
“Um… is that a refrigerator just for wine?”
“Yes. A wine cellar.”
“I’ve never seen one in someone’s home before…”
Lydia took out a bottle and checked its label.
“It’s nothing special. Just a little cabinet that keeps the temperature steady.”
Cynthia stared at the wine cellar with an expression that said, ‘Nothing special…?’
Closing the door, Lydia said,
“Come to think of it, I don’t have any nonalcoholic wine. You’re still too young to drink, aren’t you?”
“Yes. I’m only nineteen.”
“Then I’ll make you some honey-lemon tea. Help you recover a little. Or there’s honey ginger. Honey cinnamon, too.”
“Any of those sounds lovely.”
Cynthia nodded. Lydia thought for a moment, then chuckled.
“My mother used to make me drink raw onion juice at the first sign of a cold. Shall I make you that?”
“Ugh, that’s… I’m sorry, but I don’t think…”
At Cynthia’s look of horror, Lydia laughed and set a kettle on the induction cooktop.
“Thought so.”