August in Paris Read Free Page B

people in kitchens, the fat white people on porches, the characters out of Tennessee Williams and Ellen Gilchrist and Anne Rice, I somehow fit right in. 
    Of course, that was in the years before the accursed fleur-de-lis took hold.

    Ever since Hayes’s swan song at Georgetown, I have been strategizing the final Big Easy commencement. I had to accept, finally, that my usual approach to Grandma Grace—saccharine toadying punctuated by flashes of rage—would be as successful as it had ever had been, which is to say, not very. I would do better if I knew how (at least I think I would), and I have no doubt that our difficulties are as much my fault as hers. In fact, I’ve noticed that whenever I’ve written about our troubles, readers are just as likely to take her side as mine, which I love to hear. She herself has no interest in reading anything I write, which is probably for the best.
    The good news about Vince’s graduation was that some of her other family members would attend with her, making arrangements, sharing flights and hotels. This was excellent. I could rent my own car and stay with my friends, swooping in only for key events. To further increase my chances of emotional survival, I decided to take not only my children, Hayes and Jane, but our dog Beau. (Ever since Southwest started letting small pets travel in the cabin for $75, I have become that nutty old lady who won’t go anywhere without her dachshund.)
    Vince’s graduation was held in the Superdome, now the pimped-out Mercedes-Benz Superdome, having put its 2005 nightmare of semi-televised raping and thirst in the past. When I arrived with children and cousins in tow, I learned both the Shahins and the Grandma group had saved us seats.
    What to do? Well, my 11-year-old daughter Jane and I had joined Grace at the baccalaureate mass the day before, the only ones who had. I could tell by the faint smile that hovered briefly on her lips that she was glad to see us. And what if she was annoyed now? How much more annoyed could she be? I sat with my old friends, who had been through so many of the joys and trials of the last 20 years with me, and we launched into the nostalgia and boohooing. 
    Little Loyola New Orleans put on quite an extravaganza, complete with a medieval-castle stage set, jumbotrons, confetti explosions, and a jazz band. I couldn’t help teasing Hayes about the contrast between this and the commencement at Georgetown, which had been of the high-school gymnasium variety. The only diversion from the name-droning was provided by the school’s mascot, a bulldog, who lounged onstage during the proceedings. 
    After the ceremony, I met Grace in the aisle.
    â€œThat was amazing,” I effused, “wasn’t it?”
    â€œNo,” she told me. “Hayes’s was way better!”
    I don’t think the cake and champagne on the plaza convinced her either. But if things had ended at that point, I would have had the moral victory of keeping a smile on my face no matter what.
    Alas.
    Since it happened to be Mother’s Day, the kids suggested we celebrate with brunch at Café du Monde. As the hour approached, I was still driving around town trying to scoop up all the sleeping partiers, and I put in a call to Grace. “Yeah, Mar,” she said grimly by way of hello. Her use of this nickname never seems affectionate, but perhaps it is—I can hardly claim to understand her.
    Finally, we were assembled: the nine of us clustered around pushed-together tables at the crowded café, waiting. It occurred to me to try to organize our order in advance. Since the beignets come three to a plate, I could figure out how many orders and simplify the process. Like an idiot, I asked Grace and her group what they wanted.
    â€œWe each want one,” she said. 
    â€œOne beignet or one order of beignets?” I said. “They come three to an order.”
    â€œWe know that,” Grace