Creative Nonfiction

“Mardi Gras… Isn’t that the most euphonious appellation?” I closed my eyes and pronounced each syllable slowly, showing off my English and French skill to my brother, Kevin. 

My initiation into the amalgam of cultures of America. 

“Mm,” from the other end of the line. That’s it? Just an “Mm”? But I’m not done yet…

I continued, “It’s an ancient holiday, preceded by Lundi Gras the Monday before. Fattened ox, boeuf gras, to indulge in before fasting. You know, a religious holiday. Celebrated in Rome and Venice in medieval Europe…”

Quiet.

His vague grin when he categorized my comments as rubbish flickered.

I was about to tell him that my apartment is a short distance from Elysian Fields, the site of Blanche DuBois’s tragic end in A Streetcar Named Desire, but then I remembered he had forbidden me to watch A Streetcar Named Desire at the Art Theater in Taipei. 

I stopped talking and jotted down the arrival time of his flight from Los Angeles. After hanging up the phone, I drove down to Woolworths on Canal Street to get new sheets, pillows, and a blanket for the Murphy bed in my one-bedroom efficiency for his stay.  

I couldn’t believe Kevin was taking off from work to visit me. 

Growing up in Taiwan, I had been invisible to Kevin, the golden boy, the favorite son. I carried our lunch pails to and from school. He walked in strides ahead of me, his tall figure and handsome long face leading us into each school day. On the days we had sports, he had the first bowl of noodle soup. While I waited for the maid to fix a second one, he slurped next to my rumbling stomach. When he went off to college in America, we were uncommunicative till it was my turn for college at Tulane. Three weeks after my arrival in New Orleans, he announced he was coming to visit me. 

 I was elated. Eighteen long years waiting for his attention. 

My studio apartment sat on top of a three-car garage at the back of a mansion on Magazine Street. My wealthy landlady, Adelaide, lived alone in the mansion with her maid. 

Weeks before the holiday, pounding drumbeats and the winding Jazzy pitch of trumpets filled the air. Adelaide had party after party in her mansion. Universities closed on Mardi Gras as nobody bothered to attend class.

New Orleans’s antiquated cobblestone streets and wrought-iron-fenced balconies stuffed with crowds from all over the world. The hordes wandering up and down the lanes, some with open drinks, some already inebriated. The French Quarter jam packed; the early spring air stunk of urine, alcohol, and Cajun spices. Bodies covered in flashy costumes, faces behind mysterious masks. Heads adorned with jeweled crown pieces, turbans with feathers. Massive flamboyant floats, ensembles of dancers, color guards, and drum bands sashayed on main avenues. City crippled for days.  

On the sidewalk of Canal Street, Kevin and I caught purple and gold strands of beads, chased after pink plastic cups with prints of Zulu King. 

I should at least be grateful for Kevin buying us fancy dinners: Cajun Barbecue shrimps, crab etouffee, Andouille sausages with red beans and rice. On Mardi Gras day, Kevin slept till noon, went out by himself after lunch. I didn’t see him till the wee hours of the next morning, reeking of spirits and cigarette smoke. He was not in the state to receive ashes on Ash Wednesday, so I drove myself to church. 

He had left my car with an empty gas tank. I wanted to say something to him, but he was asleep from his liquor induced stupor. 

“A wild horse” my mother calls him, while I am “a gentle bunny rabbit.”

 After I dropped him off at the airport, I didn’t hear from him. No thank you note. No inquiries about my school. Not even a Christmas card. A silent year. Until the next Mardi Gras. Yet I believed, or chose to believe, that Kevin wanted to see me at least once a year, and what better days than Mardi Gras to get us out of gloomy winters?

Years of life flew by in between many Mardi Gras. I graduated, worked, and married. My husband, Emilio, and I bought a large old house in the Garden District of New Orleans. In my starry-eyed view, a neighborhood close to the famed universities of Tulane and Loyola was a superb area to raise a family.

 Big house, New Orleans, Mardi Gras. Kevin and his wife, Carrie, and his son, Joshua, came every Mardi Gras. Emilio and I became a popular couple. One year, Carrie invited her families to our house for the occasion. Suddenly, twenty some guests crammed our house, some we barely knew. They didn’t mind sleeping, or passing out, on the carpet, on the hallway, on the kitchen floor. At the end of the visit, they expressed gratitude exuberantly for a wonderful Mardi Gras holiday. Congratulated us on our good fortune living in a lovely historical home. 

“Love you. Thank you for such a great time.”

“Oh, yes, love you. You are such a kind and gracious hostess. And you have a beautiful house.”

“Bye, love you, see you next Mardi Gras.” Joshua covered my face with smacking kisses.

They always said “love you” when they left. Love you, love you, love you, until the words sounded hollow. 

For nearly fifteen years I had let myself believe that Mardi Gras was a sign of the real relationship between Kevin and me. A new milestone, a new tradition for our fledging families in America.

We enjoyed our new home. Our popularity fed our vanity.

Then we moved to the slow-paced, friendly, green foothills.

Greenville, South Carolina. 

Our new house clutches the Enoree riverbank like a mollusk. The back yard slopes down to the winding waterway, tall trees overlooking the murmuring rock-strewn stream. I was planning to walk along the river path with Kevin’s family and share the view from my second-floor veranda with them. Kevin loves to eat. We could enjoy South Carolina Barbecue, Frogmore stew, corn bread, and collard greens. 

The week before Mardi Gras, I stuffed the guest bathroom with toilet papers and towels, blew up air mattresses in the bonus room and packed the fridge, cleaned the house. Joshua adores chocolate milk, so I bought a large jug of Hershey’s chocolate syrup and a bag of marshmallows.  

No phone call came to announce the arrival time. 

Mardi Gras arrived, but Kevin never did. 

Our neighbor, Brenda, invited us to watch a Mardi Gras parade in Greenville downtown Main Street. 

On that Mardi Gras, the sky was cloudy and grim, a biting drizzle. Gray. 

We stood on the sidewalk with an umbrella gifted by Greenville News. The parade was a relatively short entourage started with a big red fire truck, a high-flying American flag. Two white-haired gentlemen wearing Clemson baseball caps maneuvered two green and yellow John Deere tractors after the siren blaring fire truck.  Behind the three vehicles, a band of children scrambled with American flags in their hands. It was a different parade from the ones in New Orleans and a different Mardi Gras celebration. Patriotic. Sober.  

“No wonder Joshua didn’t come.” Zoe, my eleven-year-old, pouting. I was daunted by her brutal honesty. 

Joshua. Rotund arms and legs, always with a good-natured smile.  

I bite my lower lip, uncertain what to say. 

“Let’s clear up the bonus room. Help me fold the air mattresses.” I held Zoe’s hand and lead her upstairs. 

…better divert her attention… The move from New Orleans was tough on her.

“Uncle Kevin is bad.” Zoe said. 

…Had I made it worse? Why clearing an unused bonus room now?...

“He is not bad. He is just inconsiderate. You don’t want to be like him.” 

Yeah, Kevin could have called, saved me all the preparations. I was also wounded by missing a visit from his family. Worst, I had naively planned to take everyone to get ashes, hoping that we be reminded of our mortality and come to treasure what we have. But this inkling, like a premonition, was always at the back of my mind: Kevin and his family only wanted to be in the crescent city during carnivals. I was the convenience.

“That parade downtown was fun, wasn’t it?” 

“Yea, it was ok. That boy gave me an American flag.” 

“Oh, yeah, where is it?”

“Here, I’m going to put it in my room.” 

I vacuumed the bonus room alone, sucked up all the dust. A family relationship is not like a business contract that you can terminate with a hasty signature. It’s not like Kevin had died, but it felt like it. Or I wished he had died. It would have been easier. 

“Zoe, do you want some chocolate milk? The new chocolate syrup is in the pantry.” 

“Yeah!!” Zoe skipped downstairs. Forgot about Joshua. Left me holding the old grudge. 

“Let’s take a walk on the river path when you are done with your milk.” 

We went out from the back porch. The earth was damp and the grass tender. Late afternoon sun peeked out, orange hue reflected on the soothing ripples around the glossy pebbles.    

“I’m going to run. Do you want to run too? Mom?” Zoe had put on her tennis shoes. 

“No, I can’t. I am just going to amble behind you, slowly.” I wiped her chocolate milk mustache, slightly relieved. 

“We should go out for pizza; I don’t have energy left to prepare dinner.” I shouted to Zoe.  

“That’s great, Mom.” As she ran, her voice became distant, wavering.

I meandered down the river path.

As I strolled, the illumination of the auburn sun, and the darkness of shade, alternated under the canopy of tree branches. I felt myself seeping gradually back into my own identity. Formed a new awareness. Finally, lost in the lulling whispers of the water, couldn’t even conjure up the image of Kevin, Carrie, or Joshua.