L. Marie Adeline- S.E.C.R.E.T

A
few weeks after my spill into the Gulf and that incredible session on the tugboat, a
newfound fearlessness manifested in me. I began to stand up to Tracina’s subtle
bullying at work. I wasn’t mean about it, but when she was late, I left my shift on time
rather than helpfully waiting until she got there. I decided it was Will’s problem to ll
the gap, and to scold her, not mine. I also started to wear my hair in a low ponytail,
which showed o my new blond highlights. I dipped into the insurance money I had
received when Scott died and bought some new clothes, a luxury I’d never allow myself
before. I bought a couple pairs of tight black pants, and bright v-neck T-shirts. I nally
got up the nerve to duck into Trashy Diva, a retro clothing and lingerie store in the
French Quarter that Tracina frequented. I bought some pretty bras and matching thongs
and a sexier nightie to sleep in. Nothing too risqué, but it was a step up from my usual
cotton fare. I wasn’t irresponsible with money. I just wanted my outside to reect the
vividness that I was beginning to feel on the inside. My runs became more regular, too,
after work, taking in the three-mile loop around the French Quarter. I saw parts of the
city I had always ignored, so stuck had I been in my own routine. I even volunteered the
Café to sta the booth for the New Orleans Revitalization Society’s fund-raiser costume
ball, though Will balked at rst. “Don’t we have enough to do with the Café
renovations?”
It was true that the Café was going through a very slow renaissance, one that was
consuming much of Will’s free time, to Tracina’s chagrin. He had started with painting
the interior and buying new stainless steel appliances. His big plan was to open up the
second oor for ne dining and music, but after installing a small washroom near the
landing, city hall stalled the permits. He threw a mattress on the oor and if he wasn’t
sleeping at Tracina’s, that’s where I’d sometimes nd him, planning, ruminating or just
pouting. For now, he had to content himself with hauling old junk from upstairs, stu
that had been up there since the place was a PJ’s Coffee franchise, to the dump.
“Altruism is good advertising, Will,” I said. “Giving is good for the soul.” I ashed back
to the scene in the Mansion’s kitchen months ago, when I’d learned the inherent benefits
of giving. So much change in so little time.
In volunteering for the booth, for the rst time in my life I actually threw myself into
one of New Orleans’s unique popular pastimes: joining things. I had never before been a
joiner of clubs, or groups, or charities, or anything for that matter. And while reading
the society pages never made me long for money or prestige, it did give me the sense
that there was a whole other world out there, one where community mattered and
where camaraderie could be fun. I had lived in the city for almost six years. One of the
Café regulars once told me that New Orleans “claims you at seven.” I was starting to
understand what he meant. This place was nally feeling like home. I told Matilda as
much when I saw her for one of our post-Step discussions at Tracey’s.
“It takes seven years to make a home,” she said. She was a transplant herself decades