Dawn crept across the Bywater like a second-line parade in slow motion, like the morning fog rolling off the Mississippi, carrying hints of sweet olive and diesel from the port. Jackson Dupré stood at the front window of his modest shotgun home, the rim of his coffee mug pressed against his lower lip, chicory-scented steam rising past his face as the morning light seemed to pulse and shift like a living thing, his free hand unconsciously tapping a counter-rhythm against his thigh. Outside, the first drumbeats of Mardi Gras Day rippled through the cool morning air, each vibration settling like lead in his chest, each beat a reminder of rhythms Lynda would never hear again—rhythms she’d once called the heartbeat of New Orleans, her Philly accent making the words sound like poetry.
Jack watched through the smudged glass pane as revelers gathered, their costumes catching the pale light like fragments of broken dreams. A woman in a sequined green cape twirled past, her beer can catching the light like a tarnished scepter, while a man in a papier-mache gator head stumbled by, his cigarette smoke creating a ghostly halo above his head. Their shapes blurred at the edges of Jack’s vision, reality bleeding into memory until he couldn’t trust which version was true.
His time-worn features ghosted against the glass, graying temples highlighted by morning light that seemed to pulse and shift like a living thing, unable to decide which moment to illuminate. Behind him, case files sprawled across the side table next to his old leather armchair—the coroner’s report on Lynda’s death marked with yellow sticky notes, each questioning the official ruling of “accidental.” The papers seemed to whisper accusations in the quiet room.
A saxophone wailed in the distance, its notes cutting through the air like a knife through silk, calling more celebrants into the growing throng. Jack sipped his coffee, bitter and black, letting it scald his tongue, the pain anchoring him to this particular now. His fingers tightened around the mug until his knuckles whitened as if he could hold onto this moment by sheer force of will. A familiar vertigo washed over him, starting at the base of his skull and spreading like ice water down his spine.
The scene outside shimmered like heat waves rising from summer pavement, past and present bleeding together. Revelers’ costumes bled between eras—sleek LED-studded suits dissolving into rough-spun cottons and faded velvets, then snapping back like elastic. The buildings’ paint faded and refreshed like a slow-motion strobe. The sights before him rippled with temporal instability. Jack blinked hard, each heartbeat desperate to settle his vision into a single timeline. Each shift sent another wave of vertigo through Jack’s inner ear as if gravity itself couldn’t decide which century to claim.
Whole damn city’s celebrating while we’re saying goodbye. The weight of past jubilant Mardi Gras celebrations pressed against today’s solemn task of remembrance. That saxophone would’ve had Lynda on her feet, her sharp tongue cutting through Jack’s haze: Someone needs to teach that boy about reading the mood. The memory of her voice settled into a hollow ache beneath his ribs, spreading outward until his entire chest felt like an empty cathedral.
His phone buzzed from its perch on the windowsill, the vibration sending tiny tremors through the glass. A familiar hollowness spread through Jack’s chest. His hand trembled as he picked up the phone, each movement feeling like it belonged to someone else.
Reggie’s message glowed on the screen. You ready for this, brother?
Ready? The word tasted like ashes in his mouth. Ready for a Mardi Gras without Lynda’s laugh echoing off these weathered walls? Ready for a jazz funeral when they should be dancing? Deep inside him, each fragment of his soul screamed in protest while his face remained a mask of careful control.
The masqueraders flowed past like a river of color against the faded pastel buildings, their joy a discordant note in his requiem. Their costumes painted living murals against the weathered cottages—purple bleeding into gold, green dissolving into silver. The rhythm of their footsteps merged with distant drums, creating a heartbeat that pulsed through the sidewalk and Jack’s bones. Each burst of laughter—like skeletal fingers—grasped at his raw nerves, every cheer mocking his loss. A brass band warmed up on the corner, the sound reverberating in his bones, but all Jack could hear was the deafening quiet where Lynda’s voice should be.
Get it together, Dupré. He pressed his forehead against the cool window glass, the pressure grounding him in this present, even as time seemed to slip through his fingers like spilled glitter. A tear tracked down his cheek, and he wiped it away with the heel of his hand, the salt burning him like an open wound he could not see.
The case files behind him pulsed with unanswered questions, each inconsistency in the reports a thread waiting to be pulled, a timeline waiting to be unraveled. Jack squared his shoulders, drawing in a deep breath that tasted of chicory, grief, and the metallic tang of determination. Time might be fluid, but justice was absolute—and he intended to find it, no matter which timeline held the truth. This wasn’t just another Fat Tuesday—this was the day he’d say goodbye to Lynda and the beginning of his search for the reason why he had to.
Jack moved away from the window and walked into the front hall. Morning light filtered through the lace curtains on the front door, catching the gold threading of his elaborate Carnival tuxedo, throwing prisms of light down the long, narrow hallway. Outside, a trumpet player warmed up somewhere down Dauphine Street while the pre-parade commotion—shouting vendors, clattering carts, laughing children—filtered through an open window like voices in a crowded jazz club, each fighting to be heard.
He stood in front of the hallway mirror. His fingers traced the rough texture of the braid work along the edges of his crimson jacket, each golden thread and carefully placed bead, a reminder of hours spent perfecting it. The gold iridescent paisley vest beneath sparkled with green and purple rhinestones, a masterpiece of New Orleans charm that had consumed weeks of intricate handwork. “Well, well, Dupré. Lynda would’ve…” The words crystallized in his throat like honey gone hard.
Time’s approach crawled across his skin like countless invisible insects, each temporal shift leaving pinprick sensations that gathered behind his eyes in a familiar, crushing pressure. The mirror’s reflection rippled like moonlight on Lake Pontchartrain. The trumpet notes outside stretched, distorted, morphing into a strange lament. His skin tingled with static electricity, and suddenly Lynda stood beside him, her fingers cool against his neck as she adjusted his collar. Her perfume, a wisp of gardenias and vanilla, filled his lungs.
“Perfect as always, Jack,” her voice echoed through time.
Jack fell back. His shoulder blades hit the wall hard enough to rattle the picture frames. Grasping at the faded wallpaper, his fingertips sensed every imperfection in its texture. These fragile images were both a blessing and curse—precious moments reclaimed that shattered as they slipped away. Lynda’s voice faded like an old AM radio losing signal on a hot, humid night, and the moment dissolved.
The morning light, refracted by his tears, blurred and shimmered his trembling fingers as he tried to steady himself and straighten his vest. His gaze drifted across his home’s familiar walls, where local artwork, jazz posters, and Carnival memorabilia collected his life’s prominent moments. An old sign from a now-defunct jazz club hung proudly above the front door. Antique clocks graced the mantelpiece, each set to a different time zone. Their discordant ticking created a symphony of temporal chaos.
Time’s always keeping me dancing. His weak laugh echoed off the walls as the timepieces continued their asynchronous tempos.
The uneasy tension coiling in his gut tightened like a watch spring as he returned to his worn leather armchair. He sat. The chair’s familiar creak welcomed him—one of life’s few constants. The manila folder beside him on his side table vibrated to the clock’s erratic beats.
His ribs folded inward like a paper fan as he opened the police report Reggie had risked his badge to obtain. The clinical language felt wrong, reducing Lynda’s vibrant life to cold statistics:
Injury Description: Fracture of the cervical spine (C2)… significant displacement… disruption of the spinal cord…
Cause of Death: Immediate and catastrophic interruption of the spinal cord, leading to respiratory arrest…
Circumstances: Accidental fall at approximately 2:15 AM…
Note: Witness statements pending from… The names inexplicably blacked out.
Each word landed like a brass band’s drumbeat against his temples. Witness statements still missing after three months? The forty-five-minute void around the time of death gaped like a missing tooth. Lynda’s laugh echoed in his memory, drowning out the second-line band starting up a couple of blocks over.
“Accidental. My ass!” The words tasted like burnt coffee grounds. His fingers crumpled the paper’s edge. Lynda had been magnetic, drawing people into her orbit like moths to a gas lamp. The idea of her dying alone felt as wrong as snow in the French Quarter.
Another temporal displacement rippled through him, strong enough to set the crystal decanter on his sidebar singing. The brass band outside morphed into The Spotted Cat’s house quartet playing a Cab Calloway rendition of St. James Infirmary. The scene materialized before him, Lynda in her red dress swaying to the rhythm, Jeff watching her from their usual table with eyes full of raw devotion.
“Happy Mardi Gras!” A reveler’s shout from outside pierced through Jack’s temporal membrane.
The vision splintered like dropped mirror glass, each shard of memory cutting as it fell away. Jack spun back to the prior moment, his tongue tasting copper, a familiar aftereffect of the time shifts.
Jack stood, stumbling to find his physical and temporal balance. He walked to the mirror again, adjusting his collar. Lynda’s smile flickered at the edge of the mirror, there and gone like heat lightning on a moonless bayou night. Despite the morning chill, a bead of sweat traced down his spine.
He straightened his shoulders beneath the crimson jacket, knowing he had to find out what had happened. The police report’s conclusion was too convenient, leaving too many questions unanswered and too many leads unfollowed. Jack adored and respected Lynda. He owed her, and her husband, Jeff, answers.
Jack adjusted his top hat to the perfect angle and took a deep breath that seemed to catch on every rib. Carnival beckoned outside, a swirl of color and life carrying him toward Lynda’s river farewell. Gathering his composure, he stepped out to face the bittersweet symphony of New Orleans in full revelry. The truth seemed to dance just beyond his grasp like a mask disguising a friend’s darkest secrets.
* * *
A familiar hollowness spread from Jack’s solar plexus as he started down his porch steps, each movement becoming increasingly uncertain. Reality rippled like heat waves off summer asphalt, the festive morning scene fracturing into prismatic shards. His bones seemed to vibrate at a frequency just slightly off from the rest of the sounds around him. Through the kaleidoscope of distortion, he glimpsed an older version of himself—silver-streaked hair beneath a weathered top hat, melting into the crowd like a paddle wheeler disappearing into morning fog on the Mississippi.
The rusted iron porch railing bit into his palm as he steadied himself, its peeling paint rough against his fingers. A fine tremor worked its way up his arm, his erratic heartbeat reflecting the distorted timeline around him. From somewhere down the street, a brass band played Jellyroll Morton’s Oh Didn’t He Ramble, the notes twisting and bending through his disorientation like the sound of a warped vinyl record on a failing turntable.
Not again. Jack tried to focus, but a taste of copper pennies filled his mouth. Not Now. Not today. His jaw locked, and his teeth ached from the wave of temporal vertigo.
The vision flickered and faded, leaving behind a metallic taste and the familiar post-shift nausea churning in his gut. Each time shift seemed to carve away another piece of his certainty about which timeline was real. Jack drew in a deep breath, letting the cool morning air settle him—the aroma of coffee and beignets drifted from a local cafe, the sweetness cutting through the lingering metallic tang in his mouth.
A group of early partyers stumbled past, their sequins and feathers catching the early morning light like fragments of broken time. One of them, a woman with glitter-streaked cheeks, paused mid-stride, her laughter dying as she noticed his pallor.
“Where y’at, Jack!” she called out. Her smile faltered as she studied his complexion. “Chile, you peaked bad. Carnival spirit done got to you already?”
Jack forced his facial muscles into what he hoped was a convincing smile, adjusting his hat with hands that still trembled slightly. “Just getting into the spirit,” he managed, but the words felt like grains of sand in his mouth.
These time shifts had become worse—more frequent and intense—since Lynda’s death, as if her absence had weakened the barriers between moments. His body felt increasingly worn like fabric stretched too thin across multiple realities. Time had never played by the rules for him, presenting itself as a jumbled collection of disjointed segments rather than a coherent plot line. Like watching a TV series with shuffled and missing episodes, he had to piece together the narrative from the remaining scattered fragments, each with the possibility of seeing Lynda alive again.
His phone buzzed against his chest. The vibration pulled him back to the present moment.
Zara’s message glowed on the screen: Working the door at Maison. Stop by. I bet you’ll need a friend today. This time, the corners of his mouth lifted in a genuine smile. Zara always seemed to sense when he needed a lifeline.
The walk from the Bywater to the Marigny became a gauntlet of memories, each striking like a physical blow. Every corner held an echo of Lynda—her laugh floating out from that café, her voice calling from a neighbor’s porch, her hand waving from that doorway. The city felt like a photo album come to life, with every page a reminder of what was lost, each memory threatening to trigger another time shift.
He observed a group of tourists, their faces painted in gaudy purples and greens, stumbling across the street. Their laughter grated against his raw nerves.
They don’t understand, a muscle twitching in his jaw. To them, it’s just a wild party.
But Jack knew better. His mind drifted to past celebrations, memories of Lynda, and how locals embraced this time of year. From Twelfth Night’s first slice of king cake to the final bead tossed on Fat Tuesday, it’s more than parades and excess. It’s New Orleans’ soul laid bare—a frenzy of cultures and traditions colliding before the quiet contemplation of Lent.
“Happy Mardi Gras!” A tourist in a plastic mask raised a colorful cup in passing, a gesture so casual but now so painful.
“Laissez les bons temps rouler!” Jack replied, tipping his hat, the familiar phrase at odds with his current reality.
The crowds of colorful people swirling around him became an irresistible river of humanity flowing into the heart of New Orleans, threatening to pull him along to unknown destinations. He savored these moments of serendipity, of not knowing or not being tied to a plan. But today, as much as he desired to let go, he needed to focus.
He adjusted his top hat, fingers tracing the familiar worn velvet, a more habitual than necessary gesture that now emphasized Lynda’s absence.
How could the world keep spinning like this? Jack’s fingers curled into fists at his sides, his fingernails biting into his palms, the pain keeping him in the moment. Lynda’s gone, and it’s like the city doesn’t even notice.
Jack understood and loved New Orleans—a city that danced in its graveyards and celebrated in the face of destruction—where joy and sorrow walked hand in hand.
