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“The voice of the sea is seductive, never ceasing, whispering, clamoring, murmuring, inviting the soul to wander in abysses of solitude.”
The Awakening by Kate Chopin
“I can smell the sea air. The rest of my time I’m going to spend on the sea. And when I die, I’m going to die on the sea.”
A Streetcar Named Desire by Tennessee Williams
“She had absolutely no taste in dress, and wore a batch of rusty lace with a bunch of artificial violets pinned to the side of her hair.”
The Awakening
“Try and locate a bunch of artificial violets in that box, too, to pin with the seahorse on the lapel of the jacket.”
A Streetcar Named Desire
———
Arcadia County State Hospital, Louisiana - October 1968
“Visiting hours end soon, I’m afraid, so you can’t stay long - we don’t get many visitors here, mind you - or any place like it, for that matter - but I don’t see why anyone would want to visit her.” Dr Tandy’s* voice is matter-of-fact, nothing drawn out about it despite the drawl.
I shrug.
“Your aunt, right?”
I nod.
“Not the talkative type, I see.” He observes, the giant ring of keys jangling in his thick, paw-like hands, “Well, she is - loves to talk, I mean. Don’t perk up like that though, it’s all about the old days - jabbering on about a place called Beau Rev or something.”
I shrug again, trying to feign unaffected-ness this time. I always do that when I’m nervous, or so my Ma likes to say. It’s in vain that I try to push her out of my mind now that I’m going away.
“Here we are.” We’re towards the end of a long, porridge-white hallway, doors alternating along on either side, “Room 47. Long stay ward.” He’s not rambling, per se, just letting his words run on. “We let our inmates decorate a little bit, but she thinks there’s more than there is - so if she asks you to get something - a fan or some tea or whatever, just say you’ll get a maid to do it for her and have the nurse - don’t call her that, though: Annie or Maid or whatever she thinks it is - anyway, have the nurse come in and give her her medicine and she’ll forget all about it.”
It doesn’t sit quite right with me, but I just nod again. My Pa would’ve barked at me to say something by now, so I do: “Sure. I understand.”
Dr Tandy unlocks the door to the cell - definitely a cell - and knocks once, “Blanche, you’ve got a visitor.”
“Oh! Alright!” A breathy voice sounds, “Just let me get ready - I’ll only be a second!”
He grunts and opens the door anyway, “His name is Michael K-”
“Just Michael.” I’m quick to interrupt, but I worry my sudden noise startles her. Or, at least, I think it does, because it’s so dark in the room it might as well be lights out.
“Tandy.” Her voice has taken on the chiding stiffness of someone embarrassed to have to do this in polite company, “How many times do I have to remind you? It’s Miss DuBois.”
“Uh-huh.” Tandy puts his hands on his hips, flicking his white coat back to curve over his fists, “Well then, Miss DuBois,” He enunciates the ‘b’ in a way that reminds me of a fish bubbling for air, “I’ll let you and your guest get on.”
“It’s okay,” I turn to face him, hands politely flat on my jean-clad thighs. It’s like playing a part. I can do that, even if not the family stuff, “Doc- Tandy, you can leave us now.”
It’s his turn to shrug, then teeter off, not drunk but somewhat unsteady because his top half is fatter than his bottom one. He closes the door behind him, but doesn’t lock it. I half suppose it’s because he thinks I can handle myself if she turns violent.
“Hello.” I deliberately inject some slow confidence into my words as I set my duffle bag down in the corner, taking on a role that’ll put her at ease - someone rich and easy as chocolate, “You must be Miss DuBois.”
“Oh, yes.” I can hear her demure, but can’t quite see her because it’s so dim, “I am. Let me guess; you are here to ask about the barbeque**?”
“Actually, I’m here to ask about you.”
“Oh.” She seems to wilt, “I’m afraid there isn’t much to tell. Just a lonely girl, locked up in a tower.”
“Lonely?” I don’t mention ‘locked up.’
“Aren’t we all?” She motions with her hands to the ceiling - to the sky.
“Hey, um…” I need to see her, I decide. “Do you mind if I put the light on?”
“No!” She snaps, hands still in the air, then she lets them fall, “No. No I do not. But only for a little bit. A lady must protect her shoulders on a day like this.”
“What kind of day is it?” I stand, keeping her talking as I flick on the light.
She makes an audible shudder, but answers me anyway, “Why, it’s a gorgeous day for a barbeque! Say, what do you do for a living?”
“I’m an actor.” This time I’m honest - more honest than I ever was with my own father.
“Oh! An actor! How thrilling! Like Clarke Gable***!”
I turn around, taking in her and the room.
It’s rectangular, a narrow, fringing space. There’s a wire-frame bed topped with a sprawl of sheets, a chair covered in a floral print shawl and a chest of drawers scantily decorated by a powder compact and a crumpled photograph in the middle of a slow unfurl, as if it’s a worm wriggling in the earth. A stark overhead bulb bursts outwards with an all-consuming streak of light, stabbing downwards onto our faces. Mine is round like my Ma’s, but with a strong, almost curling chin like Pa’s. Hers - my aunt’s face - is also round, and I see the instant sisterly resemblance. The two faces have been rendered haggard and hollow by time and circumstances.
“Aunt Blanche…” I breathe without thinking, “Who are you?”
She tilts her head sharply to the side, “Who are you?”
Better to be out with it, I think. It isn’t usually - coming out with it always meant a beating from my father, seeing my mother’s face contort in anguish as she rode the line, like a tragic tightrope walker, between letting me know she cared by begging her husband to stop and not angering him further by nagging.
“My name is Michael Kowalski. I’m your sister Stella’s son: your nephew.”
She tilts her head to the side. It’s a split, fragile movement, a twitching akin to a hummingbird’s, only this one’s once brilliant, azure feathers have long since been ruffled and plucked.
“Really?” She asks in a breathy, hitching gasp. And then, with not so much clarity as distinctiveness: “I was right: your eyes do shine like birthday candles.”
I grin even though I have no idea what she’s talking about.
My thoughts snag on the photograph atop the dresser. “Can I see it?” I ask, craning my neck,
“See what, mon étoile****?” She’s considering me, curiosity clouding her crystalline eyes.
“The photo, I mean. On your dresser.”
She assents. There might be some nostalgia too - I get the impression that she thought I was someone else.
I stand, my scuffed peacoat still on, I realise, and cross to the drawers. Its corners have been sanded down and clear plastic protectors taped over them. Standard to all of these types of places.
I pick up the photo and unfold it, aiming for all the care in the world as I do so.
It’s black and white, the glossy card it’s printed on splashed with sepia. Two girls, I wager that one’s about sixteen and the other about thirteen, stand against a Mardi Gras float: piped and primped for a parade. Both girls are beaming, a gleaming glimpse of happiness and excitement. Blanche is wearing a tiara, her hair fluffed into waves. Stella is squinting in the sun. Neat, curling handwriting I don’t recognise proclaims it to be: Blanche & Stella DuBois - Mardi Gras 1927.
“This you and my Ma?” I ask, soft,
She confirms with a fervent nod, “Yes. I was Queen of the Mardi Gras parade that year. Mother was so proud - she’d been preparing me for years.” She giggles, “I drank so much I was sick the next day. Have you ever done that?”
I swallow. I haven’t, but I’ve seen two of my friends do just that. Fredy Gonzales and Joe Zimmerman, the two of them doubled over and chucking up into the sidewalk sludge of dirt and old newspapers and discarded fruit peel running down the intersection of St Peter and Royal*****. I remember the glow from a streetlight pooling on the ground, a disk of smoky yellow - a coin. I remember looking up to see Mrs Flores peering down on us from her fire escape, her cat-like eyes shining in the dim, raining judgement. I certainly remember being terrified she’d tell my parents.
“Ah, so you have?” She gleams,
“Afraid not.” I had felt a bit queasy, but I don’t have to worry about that now. My mind drifts to the duffle bag in the corner. I should leave soon. “I’m sorry, Aunt Blanche. I have to go now.” I add a tentative: “It was nice meeting you.”
But Aunt Blanche doesn’t respond.
“Aunt Blanche?”
She snaps up to look at me. The crescent under her eyes is red and raw. “No… not you…”
“Blanche?”
“Are you- are you Stella… or Stanley?”
That makes me freeze, “...A bit of both, I guess…”
She’s not herself - or maybe she never was. How can I know? I’ve only just met her, haven’t I?
“I-”
The nurse - Annie - knocks on the door, clearly but not sharply - like the ting of a bell. “Visiting hours are over, sir. I need to give Miss DuBois her tea.” There’s a frayed pause between those last two words - barely perceptible, less than a breath - but it tells me all I need to know.
“Alright.” I call, grabbing my duffle bag from the corner and peeking out the little square window crossed with chicken-wire between the two panes, “I’m coming.”
The door opens from the outside in to reveal Nurse Annie, a wispy young thing who looks like she could snap your neck despite her miniscule stature.
“Thank you for visiting, sir.” Her green eyes - so pale they’re almost cataracts - flick down to my bag, then back up to my face with cool professionalism, “Do you need to sign out at the office?”
I shake my head, “No, it’s fine.”
“You can turn the light off now, Maid.” I hear Aunt Blanche request as I emerge into the hallway, a space that is altogether sterile and sickly.