The brass band struck up a lively rendition of The Saints Go Marching In, and the solemn mood shifted to one of celebration. Jack moved through the growing crowd, greeting locals and trying to catch up to his friends.
“Hey, Jack!” Leo called out, waving him over. “We’re heading up St. Peter past Jackson Square. Gonna hit some of Lynda’s favorite spots on Rampart.”
Jack shouted back. “Black Penny? Voodoo?”
“And GrandPre’s,” Leo added with a wink. “She always knew where to find the best dives.”
Jack’s ears perked up at the sound of another procession approaching the river. He turned to Leo, his eyes bright with recognition.
“That’s St. Anne’s.”
Leo grinned. “Ah, the Bywater bunch. Always a sight to see.”
Jack smiled, his gaze distant. “It’s something special, ain’t it? No floats, no beads. Just people in their handmade costumes, carrying those altars for the ones they’ve lost.”
“It’s New Orleans in a nutshell,” Leo agreed. “Life and death, all mixed up in one big, beautiful mess.”
Jack’s eyes scanned the approaching crowd, taking in the intricate costumes and heartfelt tributes. “This,” he said softly, “this is what it’s all about.”
As Jack turned and walked through the floodgate separating the Riverwalk from Decatur Street, that familiar, unnerving sensation of disorientation overtook him. Colors began to swirl, sounds distorted, the air grew humid. He blinked hard, trying to shake it off. Jack’s world shimmered and vibrated wildly. His gut churned.
What now?
St. Anne’s procession blurred into a kaleidoscope of fragmented colors. Amid it all, a sharp image formed, causing Jack’s heart to seize with a sudden jolt.
This can’t be, his eyes widening in disbelief.
Just a few feet away, he saw himself walking with Lynda. Her tears glistened, blending with the glitter on her face as she carried a small wooden box. His doppelgänger wore the top hat he’d crafted for Jeff.
Jack froze as his double glanced his way. “Oh, shit!” Surprise flashed across both their faces. Before he could react, the vision dissolved into the procession of mourners, leaving him gasping for breath.
Now completely ungrounded and on the verge of panic, Jack’s timeline unraveled around him. He needed to find safety, an escape from his current instability. As he watched Leo lead Lynda’s procession into the French Quarter, a nagging instinct tugged at him to break away. He glanced over at Jeff, supported by Reggie and Crazy Ray, and knew his friend was in capable hands. Remembering Zara’s text, urgency surged, propelling him toward the Maison.
Without a word, Jack slipped away. I need to get the hell outta here as he began making his way lakeside, navigating toward Royal, then Washington Square, and Frenchmen Street. Although he swam against the current of humanity flowing in from the Marigny, desperation fueled his determination. At this hour, the streets buzzed with locals and tourists weaving deeper into the allure of the French Quarter and Bourbon Street.
Royal’s packed, narrow street pulsed with thumping music from DJ speakers that seemed to be everywhere. Jack pushed his way through the colorful, masked crowd. His senses were assaulted by the sights and sounds of hundreds, thousands, of people in full carnival swing. Costumed revelers jostled him, their laughter and chatter swirling into a dizzying vortex of sight and sound.
“Watch it, cher!” a woman in a glittering rhinestone mask called as she stumbled past, nearly spilling her hurricane on him.
Jack ducked, narrowly avoiding a cascade of beads raining from a flower-adorned balcony above. A group of frat boys, with faces painted in garish colors, stumbled by, their drunken whoops piercing the air.
At Royal and Dumaine, a street preacher held court seated in his makeshift pulpit—a battered La-Z-Boy recliner. ‘Repent, sinners! Prepare your soul for the Lord!’ he bellowed through his bullhorn. Jack gave the street preacher wide berth. Salvation seemed a hard sell on a day devoted to blessed excess.
Jack’s eyes darted from one surreal sight to another, drinking in the ever-changing spectacle. Street performers with faces daubed in intricate designs twirled and danced, creating an otherworldly dreamscape amidst the revelry.
“Laissez les bons temps rouler!” a passing marcher cried, his feathered headdress bobbing with long insect-like antennae.
Jack pressed on, determined to navigate this beautiful madness. The heady mix of aromas assaulted his senses. The tantalizing scent of Cajun spices battled with the sharp tang of spilled beer and sweat.
“Watch it!” A stilt walker teetered above him, narrowly avoiding a collision.
Jack ducked. “Sorry ’bout that.”
He sidestepped a group of tourists, their laughter and off-key singing piercing the air.
“Excuse me, pardon me,” he said, pushing past a particularly boisterous group. His teeth clenched as he pressed forward. He had to reach Zara, no matter how bad this Mardi Gras madness became.
Jack finally reached Washington Square and turned onto Frenchmen Street. The atmosphere shifted. The energy remained high, yet a comforting intimacy saturated the surroundings as tourists mingled with locals. Jack scanned the familiar sights, heart hopeful as he caught sight of the Maison in the distance.
A long line snaked outside the Maison, filled with eager revelers clamoring to grab a geaux cup of their favorite drink. Jack navigated through the throng, relief washing over him when he spotted Zara at the door. She shone like a beacon amidst the sea of people, effortlessly commanding the frenzy around her.
“Zara!” he called out, breathless. The sight of her, a comfort he needed.
Zara turned his way, her command over the chaotic surroundings evident. The iridescent beads woven into her braids glistened in the afternoon sun. Jack smiled, grateful for her calming presence amidst his swirling realities.
“Boo! You’re a whole vibe check,” Zara shouted, her eyes gleaming with admiration as she took in Jack’s tuxedo. A genuine smile broke her no-nonsense facade, inviting him to the front of the line.
“Hey, Babygirl, I needed to get away. How’s it going here?” he asked, his voice light but touched with urgency.
“Busy as always,” she said, eyes scanning the crowd like a pro. “But you? Respectfully, bestie… what’s the sitch?
Jack hesitated, grappling with the tumult of emotions surging through him. He stood shaking his head as if trying to put his thoughts in the right order. “I don’t know. I just have this feeling something’s off. It’s everything with Lynda, and I can’t shake it.”
Zara’s expression softened, her empathy wrapping around him like the comforting embrace of a well-loved quilt. “Bestie just walk through.” She signaled the bartender to take care of Jack, a silent assurance in her gaze.
Jack obliged, stepping through the doorway. The world tilted sideways, his vision blurring like looking through a rain-streaked window. His stomach lurched, knees threatening to buckle as the cacophony of Mardi Gras—the brass bands, the whooping crowds, the rhythmic dance of feet on pavement—cut off mid-beat, as if someone had hit the mute button on the world.
Silence rang in his ears as reality shifted around him. The press of bodies in the doorway vanished, leaving him alone in a vastly different Maison. The high tin ceiling loomed overhead, its ornate pressed patterns catching the dim light like a metallic spider’s web. Exposed brick walls, weathered by decades of music and revelry, stretched into shadowy corners, where ancient ceiling fans stirred the air with hypnotic lethargy.
Amber light from vintage brass sconces cast a warm glow across the room, creating pools of honeyed illumination between deep shadows. The long mahogany bar stretched along the wall, its surface polished to a mirror sheen by countless elbows. Behind it, bottles gleamed like jewels, their labels casting colored shadows through the liquid inside while a lone bartender methodically wiped glasses in the dim light.
Through the front window, Frenchmen Street stretched dark and empty, the neon signs casting lonely pools of color on the pavement. The usual electric energy had drained away, leaving only the distant clatter of kitchen sounds and the whispered echoes of music that seemed to seep from the very walls. Each step across the wooden floor, worn smooth by generations of patron’s feet, drew a soft creak that felt thunderous in the preternatural quiet.
Jack’s head throbbed with phantom echoes of music that no longer played. Walking to the bar, he caught his reflection in the antique mirrors. He started—his flamboyant Mardi Gras tuxedo had vanished, replaced by his familiar sports jacket, fedora, and cargo pants. Damn, I look pretty good, he thought, trying to ground himself in a moment that somehow felt foreign and out of place.
The air held that distinctive New Orleans bar perfume—equal parts whiskey, long-gone tobacco, and history, with undertones of tonight’s seafood special wafting from the kitchen. Faded show posters and sepia photographs lined the walls, showcasing the legends who’d graced its stage. Each image seemed to hold stories of nights when this room pulsed with life and music. Now, they watched him with silent intensity as if they, too, sensed the strangeness of this moment.
Settling onto a barstool, Jack nodded at the bartender, who greeted him with a smile that seemed to belong to this quieter version of reality.
“Your usual, Mr. Dupré?” the bartender asked.
“Yes.”
Jack took in the subdued atmosphere, only an older couple sitting in the back. The bartender returned with his drink. “Anything else, Mr. Dupré?”
“No, I’m all set for now.”
Jack couldn’t shake the feeling that he had crossed some unseen threshold, stepping into a different reality altogether. What did I do today? Why am I here? He struggled to remember, his thoughts just out of reach. He was trying to shake the fog off, his mind as hazy as the Mississippi on a humid morning.
The scent of bourbon and stale beer mingled with the distant aroma of jambalaya drifting from the kitchen. The muffled sounds of jazz playing somewhere on Frenchmen Street filtered through the bar’s open door, a ghostly reminder of the world outside.
Jack sipped his Redemption Rye and ginger beer, soothing his nerves. The moment was interrupted by the vibration of his cell phone. He pulled it out to see a text message: Sorry running late. Be there in 15. He slipped the phone back into his jacket. The message seemed to make sense, but it didn’t. As his mind struggled, Jack took another sip of his drink, deciding to wait.
The bartender returned, setting a steaming bowl of red beans and rice in front of him. “Here you go, Mr. Dupré.”
“I didn’t order this,” Jack said, looking up in confusion.
The bartender nodded toward Zara, who sat on her stool by the door with her arms crossed. “She asked me to bring it. Said you hadn’t eaten all day.”
Jack glanced at Zara, who offered a slight smile from afar. “I couldn’t let you go hungry,” she called out, her voice casual but firm.
He shook his head, a smile creeping onto his face. “You know me too well.”
“Eat up. You’re going to need it,” Zara said, her tone light.
Jack took a spoonful of the warm, flavorful dish, savoring the cook’s unique blend of ham hocks and andouille. “Yeah, this is perfect. Thanks.”
“Just looking out for you,” Zara said, her eyes watching him from a distance, her facial piercings glinting in the dim light as she turned her head.
“Thanks, much appreciated,” he said, feeling a sense of comfort in her presence even from afar.
With a nod, Zara leaned back against the door, scanning the street, letting him enjoy the meal in peace. Jack dug in, feeling a bit more anchored in the moment.
Sitting at the bar enjoying the comfort of a warm meal and quiet atmosphere, he felt hands gently rest on his shoulders from behind. Turning slightly, he saw Lynda’s familiar face beaming at him. She slid onto the stool beside him, her smile as warm as a New Orleans summer night.
Jack signaled the bartender and ordered Lynda a vodka tonic.
She glanced at his drink and raised an eyebrow. “Still drinking the brown stuff?” she asked with the playful concern of a longtime friend.
“You know me, Lynda. Old dog or whatever…”
Lynda chuckled, shaking her head. “You know that’ll kill you,” she said, a mix of concern and playful admonishment.
Jack shrugged, taking another sip. “We all have our vices, don’t we?” he replied, his tone light but the undercurrent of their shared history unmistakable.
The bartender placed Lynda’s drink on a cocktail napkin, the glass sweating in the damp night air.
Jack takes a sip of his drink. “Remember that night we came to see Ruby Mae Beauchamp here?” he asked, his voice soft with nostalgia.
Lynda’s eyes lit up like the neon signs on Bourbon Street. “Oh my God, yes! That was… what, three years ago?”
“Four… Jeff couldn’t stop talking about her album for weeks after,” Jack replied.
“That’s right! He was like a kid at Christmas. Kept saying how she captured the essence of Trad Jazz.”
“And, the way she blended it with her own style… it was something else.”
“And remember when she invited Jeff up to play with her?” Lynda asked, her voice dancing with excitement.
“How could I forget? His hands were shaking so bad I thought he’d drop the trumpet.
Lynda’s smile softens. “But once he started playing… it was magic.”
“It really was. The whole place went quiet. Even the bartenders stopped to listen.”
“Jeff talked about that moment for months,” Lynda says, her voice catching slightly, like a skip in a beloved vinyl record. “Said it was one of the best nights of his life.”
Jack reaches out, briefly squeezing Lynda’s hand, his touch comforting.
Suddenly, like a flash of lightning over the Mississippi on a moonless summer night, it all became clear to Jack. The vivid memory hit him, fierce and overwhelming. Jeff had been found dead just inside Armstrong Park near the start of Carnival. His heart raced. Anxiety ripped through Jack as he realized the source of his recent uneasiness. Lynda and Jeff had both died but in separate timelines, his memory finally bridging the gap.
As that realization dawned on Jack, his thoughts reeled. The two timelines collided in his head, each vying for dominance, leaving him dizzy and disoriented.
Lynda said with a deep sense of loss, her voice heavy, “So, have you thought about the investigation?”
Jack’s focus snapped back. “Yeah, I’ll look into it.”
Lynda looked relieved, her shoulders relaxing slightly.
“Honestly, I don’t know if I’ll find anything more than the police. Reggie already quietly looked into it.”
Lynda smiled softly. “You’ll find something. You always do.”
She finished her drink, kissed him on the cheek, and quickly left, leaving Jack with disjointed thoughts and mixed timelines. He sat motionless, staring into the bar mirror. His mind twisting.
Zara left her perch by the entrance and approached, her braided hair moving with each step. A subtle mix of lavender and mint drifted with her. Her crisp white shirt and black vest were impeccable, while colorful tattoos peeked out from her rolled-up sleeves. The warm glow of the bar lights caught the silver studs adorning her eyebrow and the delicate ring in her septum, drawing attention to her dark complexion.
As she approached, Jack turned toward her, noticing how her nose ring complemented the curve of her smile. Her left ear, a canvas of carefully curated piercings, told a story of its own—each hoop and stud a memento of adventures past.
Zara slid onto the stool next to Jack, her knee bumping his with the casual intimacy of old friends. Her bracelets jingled softly as she reached over, straightening his slightly askew fedora with a practiced touch. The light caught on the small diamond stud in her right nostril as she moved.
“Hey boo, y’all sure know how to clear out a place,” she said, her lips curving into a knowing smile that made the labret piercing below her bottom lip dance. The familiar warmth in her eyes to the edgy elegance of her facial jewelry, a perfect encapsulation of Zara herself—tough yet tender, sharp yet soothing.
“What? No! Not one of those,” Jack groaned.
“Afraid so, boo,” Zara confirmed with a knowing look, her eyes twinkling.
Zara knew for the past several weeks Jack’s time shifts were throwing him off. She worked hard to help him remember different events but felt frustrated as his memory faded. But, as Zara looked into Jack’s eyes, she sensed he was finally remembering more. “Hey, boo. I think you’re getting it,” she smiled knowingly. This was something they had been through before.
“Thanks, Zara. I don’t know how you put up with me. Must seem like you’re taking care of someone with dementia.” Jack’s heart skipped a beat as an image of his father flashed across his memory.
Zara let out a soft, warm laugh. “No worries, boo. I’m adapting to this like a pro!” Her mind flashed to her mom, all those years dealing with her episodes, watching her memories slip away. “Anyways, bestie,” she cooed gently, “someone’s gotta keep your world straight, am I right?”
Jack pulled a twenty-dollar bill from his pocket and slapped it on the bar. He stood, grabbed Zara by the arm, and insisted, “We need to get outside.”
“I know,” Zara replied sarcastically, “I’m losing some serious tips because of this.”
As they stepped outside, Jack passed through that fog again, the savory red beans and rice he had just enjoyed now metallic copper on his tongue. In an instant, Zara and Jack were back on bustling Frenchmen Street. The Maison was packed again, and Jack was back in his tuxedo and top hat. The change was sudden, dramatic, and disturbing.
“Boo, you okay now?”
Jack exhaled, a warm feeling began pulsing through his body. He felt in more control. He took a deep breath and smiled at her, his relief palpable. “Yeah, babygirl. It is all starting to make more sense.”
“Tell me what’s going on,” Zara said, getting in close so she could hear him over the noise.
Jack took a deep breath. He sensed Zara’s question was rhetorical, but he recounted the morning’s events anyway: the eerie time shift outside the apartment, the flashback at MRB, Victor Duval, St. Anne’s, and the unsettling feeling growing inside him all day. Zara listened intently, her eyes never leaving his face.
“Sounds like it’s been a wild day,” she said after he finished. “But I trust your gut, Jack. If something feels off, there’s a reason for it.”
Just as she finished speaking, Jack’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out and saw a message from Reggie.
Jack, need you back here ASAP. Voodoo Lounge. Something went wrong with Jeff.
Jack’s heart sank. “I have to go back,” he said, showing Zara the message.
“Boo, do your thing, I’m literally your emotional support person right now.”
Jack smiled, grateful for her understanding. He turned and hurried back into the streets, his mind racing with worry for his friend.
“What the hell could have happened?”
Jack made his way through the Frenchman Street crowd, his mind drifting to Zara. A flash of silver caught his eye—a mask that reminded him of her piercing grey eyes. He stumbled, momentarily disoriented.
“Hey, watch where you’re going!” A reveler steadied him, laughing.
“Sorry,” Jack mumbled, shaking off his fog.
As he continued, the sounds of the celebration faded, replaced by the steady rhythm of Zara’s voice in his mind. Her unwavering support anchored him in the disarray of his time-shifting existence.
A pang of guilt twisted in his gut. How much of a burden had he placed on her?
He recalled a moment from last week—or was it next month? Time blurred.
“Jack, focus,” Zara had said, her voice calm but firm. “Remember where we are now.”
He’d blinked, disoriented. “Right. Sorry, I—”
He needed Zara. Her steady presence, her uncanny ability to navigate his fractured reality. But as he turned toward Royal, guilt gnawed at him. How long could he keep relying on her? How long before his temporal disruptions became too much?
