I spent my undergrad years at Tulane, a history major. No, I didn't end up flipping burgers, but I did end up with an obsession about the French Quarter. As a well-traveled Air Force brat, I had lived in the U.S., Europe, South America, and Japan. I had a sense of regional peculiarities. Despite her origins, New Orleans felt like no other place on earth, and that's what captivated me. She had a life of her own, a melting pot of cultures seasoned to please just about everyone's palate.
Almost every weekend of my first two college years I spent wandering the Quarter, a quick streetcar ride from campus along St. Charles Avenue. I spent my share of nights face down in the gutters along Bourbon, but I also spent hours on end simply wandering. I got to know every Creole townhome and shotgun shack. Name any address and I can still visualize the street façade.
It was on one of these meanderings in the late spring of my sophomore year that I discovered the home of Miss Amelia Theriot. A classic brick townhouse on Dauphine with a wrought-iron balcony over arched windows and entry; it immediately became a favorite of mine. After a few weekends passing it, sketching details, and taking notes for later research, I knew the front intimately. But not as intimately as I would eventually know the interior.
That Sunday afternoon, with the weight of pre-summer air soaked through my shirt, I stopped under the balcony for a moment of shade. I noticed a small note taped to the door. "Room for rent. Students preferred."
I stared a full minute. My jaw dropped when I saw the price. It was cheaper than the dorms. If I didn't disdain clichés, I would have pinched myself to see if I was dreaming. I had just talked on the phone to my parents the week before about how I desperately needed to get out of the dorms. The relentless pounding music, late night ruckus, and ungodly stink of barely post-adolescent men without a clue about their future had worn paper thin. Fraternities promised more of the same, only on a higher budget. This note appeared as if I had rubbed an old lamp and received my one and only wish.
I looked down at my state of dress. My shirt clung to my skin, my shorts had grass-stains from a nap in Jackson Square, and my favorite old gym shoes sported paint splatters from recoating my parent's kitchen over Christmas break. In this state, knocking was out of the question. I wrote down the number and walked a block to a café where I borrowed their phone.
"Hello?" The woman's voice was curt, but pleasant. "How may I help you?"
I introduced myself and asked to make an appointment to see her room. She fired off a series of short questions and seemed to perk up when I said I was a history major. When I said her house was one of my favorites in the Quarter, she asked if I could come by in a couple hours. I would have to hop the streetcar back to my dorm, shower if I had time, change, and then ride back. It would be close, but I had a feeling about this place. I didn't care what shape the inside was in. I had to get out of the dorms and I desperately wanted to live in the Quarter. This was my chance.
At three o'clock sharp, I again stood at the door on Dauphine. After a short pause following the doorbells' faraway chime, I heard measured footsteps approach from the other side, quicker than the usual New Orleans lope. I figured they came from thin heels, tall from the cadence. I felt my breathing match up to the clicks as the last steps slowed on what I surmised to be a well-worn brick passageway to the courtyard.
The door opened and I faced a crisp woman in her thirties I guessed, dressed in a flattering white blouse, fitted with simple details, and unbuttoned to the point where I wanted to lean forward a bit. Between her blouse and as predicted high stilettos, a deep scarlet skirt molded over her graceful hips. This I noticed, without my eyes leaving hers. I didn't dare.
Dark, like chocolate candies, her eyes betrayed a spectrum of emotions that I sensed, with prescient accuracy, could swing from proper sun and smiles to anything but candy-sweet. Her smile though, held me aloft, ready to float after her.
"You must be Grady," she said. "Come in. I'm Amelia Theriot." We shook hands. "You may call me Miss Amelia. Please close the door while I fix you a lemonade."
The heavy wood door thundered shut and I turned to follow her. Before she turned the corner, I couldn't help but notice how well her skirt fit. Like a dog on a leash, I padded after her, nearly panting in the rising heat.
My inner voice suddenly made me stop. "Grow up," it said. "This isn't some sorority sister to chase. This is the real world. An opportunity." Which I could easily blow if I acted like a horned-up cat.
"Did I lose you?" I heard her say from the sunny courtyard ahead.
"No, sorry. I was just admiring the ... wow!" The courtyard garden spread before me, a masterpiece. Brilliant flowers, bushes tall and squat, everything perfectly framing an aged stone fountain in the center. To the side, under the shade of a precisely trimmed understory tree, sat Miss Amelia, her tan legs crossed. She sipped from a tall, sweating glass. I felt a trickle down my back as well. No question. I had to live there.
Miss Amelia offered up a few minutes of polite small talk, further drawing out my personal history. Then she slid a two-page lease in front of me. I read it quickly. There were a number of rules itemized. Nothing unusual: no loud music after ten, no more than two friends over at a time, respect for the property, pitching in with cleaning, and providing two meals a week. She would cook the remainder. It sounded perfect.
The last line required a second reading. "Infractions will be handled expeditiously without appeal." I looked up at her. "Does this mean if I screw up I'm kicked out?"
Miss Amelia smiled. "Of course not, Grady. I'm a firm believer in second chances. We learn from our mistakes. You'll find whatever consequences I bring to bear are appropriate and fair."
I nodded, mesmerized by the way her lips moved. Yes, everything sounded perfect. "Great! Where do I sign?"
* * *
Three weeks later, finals were an ancient memory and I had settled into Miss Amelia's house. It felt like home. And man was it great to not have a roommate. While both our bedrooms were upstairs along with a small but well appointed bathroom and a small sitting area overlooking the garden, I had all the privacy I needed.
I took a full time summer internship at the Historical Society, but still tried to help around the house as much as possible. If nothing else, so I could catch a glimpse or two of Miss Amelia. She was a remarkable distraction, impeccably pulled together. I found more and more of my thoughts revolved around her. I read more than ever that summer; camping out near whatever space she happened to hover in so I could admire the sensual artistry of her dress.
Miss Amelia turned out to be easy to live with too. Cordial and proper sure, but underneath, a loving softness peeked out. I sometimes felt like something kept her distant, but she never ventured too far into the past in our dinner conversations. Speaking of which, her cooking amazed me too. I learned more that summer about preparing food than before or since.
One evening during my second week there, I repotted several plants in the garden while she whipped up a soulful spread of marinated chicken, collard greens, and corn bread. The aroma teased me all the way out in the courtyard. I was ravenous.
She finally appeared in the doorway and I started toward her. "Time to eat?" I asked. "Smells wonderful."
"What happened to the rug in the dining room?"
"The rug? I don't ... oh, yeah. I accidently tracked some dirt when I went to the bathroom. I cleaned it up though."
"Rewind," she said, putting her hands on her hips. "You tracked dirt into the house?"
"Yeah, sorry. I thought I cleaned it all up. Did I miss a spot?"
"What did you clean it with?"
"A little soap and water."
"Oh, my God," she shrieked and ran back inside.
I thought something was burning so I ran after her. Instead, I saw her crouched over the spot I had cleaned, rubbing her hands across the rug. "This rug is over a hundred years old. You can't just wipe up a spill. It has to go to the cleaners. Otherwise, the dirt gets pressed into the fibers and accelerates the deterioration. This is going to cost a small fortune."
It was like she had slapped me. I felt horrible. "Wow, Miss Amelia, I'm really sorry. I had no idea."
She turned to me and was about to speak when her face drained of color. "Get out!"
