The Property of Water

It always amazes me how our waiter Reynard never spills a drop from the water pitcher when he refills our glasses. Reynard has this palsy he doesn't talk about, and it's nerve-wracking to watch him reach for the pen in his apron to take our order or move his trembling hand between lighted candles and full flower vase to pluck out an empty glass. I'm sure he's going to knock over everything within his reach or dump a bowlful of French onion soup in my lap, but in all the times Kelly and I have come to Café Degas and ended up with Reynard, he's never dropped so much as a salad fork.

All I can figure is he only gets the shakes when his hands aren't full. Tonight he managed not only the water pitcher, but also two rounds of martinis filled to the brim and two glasses of Beaujolais, one of which I spilled on the table myself on account of being sloshed. Reynard discovers the huge red stain when he removes my dinner plate, but ever the consummate server he says nothing, and I cover the embarrassing spot with my napkin after he's turned to go.

Reynard's odd grace fascinates me, and he has joined my list of favorite characters in New Orleans. I have lived here six months and have few friends - actually Kelly is my only friend here - but I have a running list of people to keep track of, if only to make myself feel less alone.

There is the old woman on the park bench I see every Tuesday on my way to work, feeding bread crumbs to the squirrels, and shy Sara at the Winn-Dixie whose line I always try to go through so I can hear her whisper thank you and blush if I tell her to have a nice day, and Malachi, whose band plays Thursdays at Bootless and Unhorsed, a bar on Decatur in the French Quarter. Malachi's fingers fused together when his car flipped and caught fire on I-10, and he plays furious drums with the sticks strapped to his stumps with gauze and adhesive tape. I know these people don't see me in the crowd of others passing their way, but watching them keeps my mind off other, less pleasant subjects.

When Reynard returns with the bottle of Beaujolais offering to refill my glass, I shake my head no, and Kelly snickers after he walks off.

"You should have let him fill it up, Meg," Kelly says. "There are still parts of the tablecloth that aren't red yet."

"Ha, ha," I say, kicking him under the table. "I think we need to get out of here instead. If I'm going to make it all night, I'd better get some fresh air."

"All night and all day tomorrow," he says. "If anything, we need more wine, not more fresh air. You go outside and wake yourself up. I'll pay the bill and be out in a minute." Kelly gets up and makes his way to the bar, and I stand up and hold onto the back of my chair, hoping I present the illusion of being steady on my feet before heading for the door.

It will be a long couple of days. Kelly's treating me to dinner at Degas and dancing at Muddy's because I agreed to go as his date to his kid sister's wedding tomorrow in Mandeville. Going out tonight seemed like a good idea, but all I can think about now is how early we'll have to get up in the morning and how together we're going to have to look. The wedding is a big affair at an old plantation with a dozen attendants, five course meal, open bar, and swing quartet, and Kelly says the women here really do it up with makeup and hats and everything. I bought what...