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Alex ran to his room, his mother not far behind. She was ranting and raving about something religious and accusatory, he was sure, he couldn’t hear her over the drumming of his heart in his ears.
He slammed the door and locked it before she could intervene and his eyes slid over his room, analyzing what could be important. His backpack, band tees, his Nokia & charger, his MP3, his ATL, FOB, and MCR CDs, a pair of earbuds, uh—he struggled to stay focused with the chaos erupting outside his door. A booming voice was yelling at him. Great, his father was home.
He packed it all up in his green Jansport bag along with some extra clothes and the teddy he’d had all his life. He threw on a hoodie and stormed out the door, taking the moment to screw up his courage. He would make it out of this house.
His parents were still screaming at him. Words like “our beautiful baby girl” and “don’t you make the same mistake Benny did” landed just as hard as a switch from the tree outside. Benny’s mistake…Benny’s mistake…
He’d learned a lot about “Benny” from their whispers. The second thing Alex learned about “Benny” was death followed. The next thing he learned was he was gone, now (don’t mention the name in front of Mrs. Blanc).
The first thing he’d learned about “Benny” was to hate him. He was a traitor and agent of Satan and would snatch you up. Turn you into…something. Alex had been too young to know but not too young to fear. But, as he grew he felt bad for him, and eventually admired him for doing what he was nearly too cowardly to do. Maybe he was just a normal boy who’d turned and run away from this town. To live in the “big city” and not care about what people thought of him.
He grabbed a bag of twisted Cheeto puffs on his way out, and booked it for the door. His parents’ screams echoed around in his mind until the door slammed shut.
This wasn’t the first time he had left the house in a dramatic fashion. He’d threatened to run away countless times and attempted to do so at least a handful. The fact that his parents didn’t follow him to the gas station wasn’t a surprise—what was surprising was how sure Alex was that this time he wasn’t going to back down. This time, he wasn’t going to be a coward and give up. He could face the world…if he could only figure out how.
He ran down the first two blocks, just to be safe before he stopped to take a breath, opening his bag of Cheetos. Now that he had the time, and no one was following him, he took the time to stroll towards his destination.
Alex shoved the Cheetos he was munching on in his bag and entered the gas station. He bought a slushie and some cliff bars for dinner. He used the men’s restroom, a single stall luckily, and left for the library. He needed to look something up.
Alex entered the library and waved at Carol at the front desk. She waved back while talking on the phone and writing something down.
Alex walked to the back where a few new computers sat. He logged in and pulled up google. He typed "ben blanc" in the search bar. There weren’t many results. But there was a suggestion for "benoit blanc". Mrs. Blanc was Cajun French—it was possible she gave him a french name.
He searched “benoit blanc,” scrolled past the news articles about a train murder mystery, and found a business page. “Detective Benoit Blanc for hire” a photo of a man—assumed to be Benoit—dressed in an orange and tan 1970s suit, bell bottoms and a dramatic collar. He looked flamboyant and eccentric, exactly what he was looking for. If this wasn’t “Benny” Blanc, this man was at least gay, and could still help him.
A phone number, fax number, and hotmail address was listed in the contact section. Alex added the phone number to his contacts. He didn’t know what the hell he was going to say to him or what his plan even was, but it was an out if Blanc choose to help him.
Fuck, what was he doing? Calling a stranger he knew only through rumors with a number he found on the internet? This might not even be Benny. But he didn’t have many options right now. The library would close at 5 and he couldn’t crash at anyone’s house for longer then a few days. He had to get a job or something and even then it wouldn’t be enough for the Motel 6 down the road.
This was his only option. Alex walked out to the parking lot and hit dial, cringing at the anxiety that immediately filled him.
riiing riiing “Helloo?” A southern drawl cracked to life. Alex felt that could be a good sign this was Benny.
“Hi, is this…Benoit Blanc?”
“Yes,” Blanc hesitated, “and who do I have the pleasure of speaking to?”
“uh…this is…Emma,” he said, like a question.
“Hello Emma, how can I help you?”
“Uhm, well I—er…” Alex muttered, trying to find the words that fit this situation. Maybe he should just lay it all out. “Uhm, I’m from Calvary Baptist Church and I heard about you, uh, and was wondering if you could…help me?”
Blanc sighed, “Help you with, what exactly?”
A mix of emotions flew through Alex, making him queasy. “Well they’re—” Alex's voice broke “—they’re trying to send me away and I don’t—I can’t—they sent Isabelle away and she wasn’t the same and I—”
Blanc cut him off. “Where are you now?”
“In Belle Rose, outside the library…why?”
“I’m coming to get you,” he paused considering, “Uh, assuming that’s what you want.”
Alex nodded, getting out of Belle Rose by any means necessary sounded good. “Yeah. uh, how long will it take for you to get here?”
There was shuffling on the other side of the line. “Its about 20 hour drive from New York, but I’ll be on the first flight out. Are you safe?”
Alex looked around, as if someone was gonna jump out at him, “Uh, yeah I guess? I left my parents house with my things a bit ago. The library is open until 5, after that…” Alex trailed off, trying to think of anywhere he could stay without spending money or tipping off that he was leaving for real this time.
“Shit—uh…is there still a Waffle House or 24/7 diner in Belle Rose?”
“Yeah, off the LA-70.”
“I’ll meet you there. it’ll be…” Blanc did some math in his head “…about 5 hours. Take your time getting there and eating. Order whatever you want, I’ll pay for it once I get there.”
Alex nodded dumbly. He could waste some time and walk to the diner. This sounded doable. “Okay.”
“Okay. See you soon Emma. Be safe.”
Alex smiled. “I will.”
“Oh and, how old are you again?”
“Uh, I’m 14.”
Blanc cursed.
“I’ll be 15 next month!” Alex added desperately.
Blanc huffed in amusement. “I’ll text you when I’ve landed. I’ll be there about an hour after that.”
“okay.”
⁂
Alex wandered around the library until they closed up. He made small talk with Carol, ignoring the fact this would be the last time he saw her. He didn’t let her know that. He walked with her to her car, gave her one last hug, and he waved as she pulled out of the parking lot.
He sat on the bench outside the library for a moment, catching his breath, before making the dangerous trek to Waffle House. There weren’t any sidewalks, and the speed limit was 55mph, with most people going 65. Drivers weren’t used to pedestrians around here, so not getting creamed by a Ford F150 was a skill.
After a long walk, Alex saw the golden letters of Waffle House and stepped inside. He sat himself in a booth away from the front windows, in an attempt to not get recognized.
His phone vibrated, and he flipped it open. A text from Blanc:
ill be there in an hour and a half. traffic. see you soon
Alex relaxed and ordered a waffle with sunny side up eggs. And a black coffee—he might need to stay awake around this mysterious detective.
Alex ate slowly. The servers gave him a sideways look, but didn’t mention it. A line cook was screaming at a server in the back. Ah, feels like home.
Alex finished his eggs and most of his waffle when he ordered a side of bacon and a root beer. The server gave him another strange look but didn’t question it.
A car pulled up and the door ringed. Alex looked up for what felt like the hundredth time that hour. His hands froze as he saw a well tailored vintage suit, with a goddamn yellow ascot tucked into the button down. This was unmistakably Benoit Blanc.
Blanc scanned the diner, and Alex poked his head up a bit trying to wordlessly get his attention. They locked eyes and Blanc smiled softly. He looked tired.
Blanc sat down and held out his hand. “Benoit Blanc, and you are…?”
Alex hesitated before shaking his hand. “uh, Emma.”
Blanc’s eyebrow quirked up as he took in the hastily cut short hair and baggy black clothes, “What's your real name, son?”
Alex smiled, a comforting warmth spread around his chest. “Alex, I’m Alex.” He’d never told an adult that before. It was exciting and nerve wracking.
Blanc ordered a sweet tea and hashbrowns as he chatted with Alex. They covered all the boring things adults talk to kids about, school, friends, whatever hobby they think teenagers actually do. Then Blanc hit him with, “So what are your folks like?” and Alex’s world paused. How much should he let this stranger in?
“Uhh…they’re…” he trails off. Abusive feels wrong, they didn’t exactly hit him all the time. They’re a bit dense, they never understood what he was feeling. A bit holier-than-thou in the way they would shame and belittle anything partially outside of “normal” as not “good.” Alex doesn’t tell Blanc any if this but lands on, “They’re the worst. I guess they don’t understand me. Which, yeah, every teenager says that but I think its true here. They don’t get me on the most basic of levels.” Alex’s hands fidgeted together.
Something unsaid was hovering over them. A truth that made Blanc want to press and dig deeper into. Pressing the issue would only make the kid clam up. He’d let gravity’s rainbow lead him to the truth. Blanc nodded, casual like he wasn’t already puzzling the case laid out in front of him. “So, what was that about Calvary and sending you away? You and uh…what’s your friend’s name?”
“Isabelle.”
“Isabelle, that’s right. Sorry. What’s goin’ on there? Where are they tryin’ to send you?”
Alex blew out all the air in his lungs like it was forced out of him. “It’s some program for ‘at risk’ youth. But everyone knows it’s where they send the queer kids to ‘fix’ them. Apparently they don’t use shock therapy there, and don’t make kids watch straight porn but,” Alex leaned in conspiratorially, “The kids that come back argue otherwise.” Alex leaned back into the booth. “But. Who’s gonna believe a bunch of weird kids?”
“The kids that come back?” Blanc questioned. The mystery deepened—as did his thinly veiled anger.
Alex nodded, a dark look crossing his face. “Not everyone comes back. We don’t know where they go. Rumor is they send them somewhere in Alabama. Maybe they send them to juvie. It’s usually the fighters that don’t make it back.” A flicker of grief lit behind Alex’s eyes, but it was gone just as Blanc saw it. Alex’s jaw worked in anger. “It doesn’t matter anymore. I’m not going there now.” Alex met Blanc’s eyes, a bit of hope and a bit of fear wrapped around him, “right?”
Blanc shifted his shoulders as if he was gearing up for a fight. “Not if I have anything to do about it.”
⁂
Alex and Blanc ate together, and Alex caught him up on the town gossip. Ms. Bennett got another divorce, the church had new leadership, the dollar general was new, as was the shell station. Nothing really changed other then that. Blanc didn’t ask about his brother or parents, and Alex didn’t mention them.
“So, where do we go from here?” Alex asked nervously.
Blanc pushed his empty plate away from him and took a long sip of his sweet tea. “You might not like it, but I have to be honest here.” Alex tensed, flinching away from Blanc.
Blanc’s brow furrowed. Probably thinking, Jesus, what were they doing to this kid?
“I would love to get you a hotel room and some money and a reference to get you a job so you can live far away from here, but I can’t. Not yet.”
“Why?” Alex looked betrayed.
Blanc steeled himself. “You aren’t old enough, yet. You have to be 16 to be emancipated, live on your own, and anything I do to help you can land me in jail.”
“That’s bullshit!”
Blanc nodded. “Yes, I know, I know. I don’t like it either. But I have to call you in.”
“Call me in? The police?” Blanc motioned to lower his voice, and Alex looked around panicked. He whispered, “The police?? seriously Blanc?”
“It’s not what it sounds like.”
“It’s the police!”
“Yes, yes, I know. But you aren’t going to jail. They just need to know the situation so we can,” he made a circular motion with his hands, “get you somewhere safe. Foster care hopefully. Temporarily.”
“But my parents aren’t dead they’re just…” he trailed off, wincing.
“Yes, but if they’re trying to send you to a conversion camp that abuses kids then they aren’t competent to raise you. We’ll find you a foster family, a good one, the day you turn 16 you can leave if you want,” Blanc said, a determination in his voice that sounds final, certain.
“Who’s we? Who else did you tell?” Alex glanced at the door. Like Blanc had called the cops already. And had what? Come personally from…wherever he lived just to see it? Alex tried to tell himself that didn’t make sense.
“Just my partner, Phillip. He’s a lawyer and much better at all this legal talk and web searchin’.”
Alex nodded, relaxing a bit. “What else did he say?”
“He let me know the next steps for your case. Here’s what’s gonna happen: Phillip’s gonna text me the address for social services. I’m gonna get yah over there, then you’re gonna do your part. You're gonna tell ‘em what yuh told me—spare no detail!—it’s gonna be a long interview and a late night for you. Be prepared to go over things five or more times as they keep sendin’ people. It don’t look like you have a history of drugs, but if I missed somethin’, don’t mention it to them. Don’t mention any alcohol, neither. You’re tryin’ t’ help them build a case for you. Give ‘em what they need for it. Yah understand me, son?” Blanc’s eyes were cold and unblinking across the table.
Alex nodded.
“Your parents sendin’ you to whatever camp they want to ain’t strictly illegal—but plenty of other stuff is. Give them enough to bite on—to make your case.” Blanc paused, gaze darting over Alex’s face, skirting around his eyes, searching for understanding. “They’ll find you a place t’ stay for the next couple o’ years, while your case makes its way through. Your parents’ll likely put up a stink about it. But the system’s slow, an’ while they’re protesting, you’ll get to live. And Phillip’ll be working with your case workers t’ make sure no one tries anything funny. We can get you emancipated at 16. Memorize my number. Find a way t’ text me once you get there. If they’re not treatin’ ya right, let me know immediately. Then Phillip’ll write a nice looong letter explainin’ why that ain’t right. You’d be surprised how scared adults are of the right letter.”
Alex nodded. He looked down at his phone and tried to imagine the phone number digits dancing. 212—that was like 221 B Baker Street switched around, kinda, and Blanc was a detective…
A hand came between him and his phone screen. “Rehearsal.” Blanc said. “Tell me the number.”
Alex stammered, but tried to remember. Blanc only moved his hand to let him look at it again when he messed up.
They did it four or five times while Blanc finished up his iced tea, until Alex wasn’t even trying to glance down anymore.
“What happens if this doesn’t work?”
“Your parents are gonna need t’find another place to ship you off to, at least,” Blanc growled. “I don’t expect that camp to be open for very long.”
Small mercies, that. He wondered what was gonna happen to it. Al Capone, he realized, got caught on tax evasion. If he didn’t know what he did from Isabelle, maybe he’d feel scared about what a bigshot New York lawyer like Phillip could dig up. He just felt satisfied.
“C’mon.” Blanc thumped him on the shoulder. It was a soft thump, almost a pat, but Blanc wasn’t treating him as something fragile, just being careful. “I’ll drive yah.”
Alex nodded, following Blanc out. He couldn’t tell if he was being driven to his own execution or if he was finally looking at his terrible house in the rearview mirror. If it was the first one, “Macavity: The Mystery Cat” made a really weird funeral dirge.
They pulled up outside the police station. Blanc gave him a bottle of water and a pat on the shoulder. “Ready, son?”
He didn’t know the bravest option: ‘yes’ and power through or ‘no’ and admit to being scared shitless.
Blanc made him recite his number one more time instead. “Don’t focus on whether what yer parents did to you was right or wrong. Focus on tellin’ the officers what they do. Force the truth to prevail.”
⁂
The midmorning light streams through the broad storefront windows, creating a perfect shooting canvas—he’s almost tempted to pull in people from the street to not waste it. He could even prop open the door if the “Grand Opening!” sign doesn’t tempt in curious tourists: It’s cool enough in the morning that New Orleans is merely boiling, instead of the sweltering it will get in the late afternoon every day from now until mid-September. But he has his first appointment scheduled in 30—some basic anniversary photos—nothing that he wasn’t doing in his living room and staging around Audubon Park before he could invest in this fancy place.
He hasn’t been open for 15 minutes when the bell tinkles. He sees a downward-brim of a Cuban straw hat and the dappled texture of a creme seersucker suit. The potential customer’s shoes glint from the polish and morning light as he steps inside, holding the door open behind him with the arm not draped with a garment bag. A second man in striking jewel-toned blue enters through the open door. Clearly dressed in their Sunday best this Monday morning. He hopes they aren’t walk-ins—he doesn’t think he could do them justice in 15 minutes, so they’ll have to reschedule—even if they already look ready to be photographed (with outfits to spare).
He has a steamer in the back, if it comes to that.
“Welcome to Alex Nouveau Photography!” Alex calls. “How can I help y’all today?”
The first man tips up his head, removing his hat now that he’s under a shaded roof.
Alex’s heart jumps. “Blanc!” He scrambles to get around the counter to hug him.
It takes him enough time that the man beside him relieves Blanc of the garment bag and a smaller toiletries bag under that.
“Alex, son. Look at this shiny new place. How’s Angie?”
“Angie’s great! She just got a couple of younger kids settled—a brother and sister—their case worker didn’t want to split them up—and she helped me get some of the lights set up last week. Blanc, Phillip.” He looks between them, to the garment bag his partner was handling. He remembers something about a movie…“I’m happy to see y’all, but…unless you happen to know a Mr. Gideon Fell or an Arthur Hastings…”
“Presently speaking. And,” Blanc smiles, eyes twinkling. He tilts up his left wrist to check a shining watch face, “nearly 20 minutes early.”
“Blanc. You didn’t have to surprise me!”
“You know his penchant for the dramatic,” Phillip grumbles, fondly.
Alex blinks at Phillip. His just-starting-to-silver curls haven’t yet crumpled to the heat. “Phillip? I hope you like hugs—” he warns before tackling him. The garment bag arm’s crushed between them, but Phillip manages to get his other one wrapped around Alex’s shoulder. “Thank you. Again. Thank you.”
“Careful, now…” Blanc mutters in token protest, half-reaching for the garment bag.
“Yeah, of course,” Phillip says. “Happy to help. That so-called ‘therapy center’ was a real riot during discovery.”
“I’ve got a steamer. —Thank you.” Alex steps back. He coughs, once.
Phillip steps back, re-straightening his suit and pale green tie.
Blanc re-claims the garment bag, straightening his blue and green striped tie before brushing down the linen canvas. “Now, show us around this new fancy studio you got set up here…”
⁂
He guides them into the depths of his studio, around the newly-installed lights, the specialty filters. The studio setup by the broad store window to showcase his work and his clients in what couldn’t be better light. The curtained changing room and makeup table with adjustable lighting and…“Anniversary, right? Unless that was just for ‘Mr. Gideon Fell’ and ‘Arthur Hastings…’”
“It is certainly for us,” Blanc confirms, raising their intertwined hands to kiss Phillip’s knuckles. Phillip’s thumb finds Blanc’s jaw, tilting his chin to meet their eyes. “…Five years ago today.”
“Congratulations!” He nods to their intertwined hands. “You’re going to have to do that again when I get my lighting set up. But, I thought we could start here,” Alex says, guiding them to the back of the hallway and holding open the door. Blanc and Phillip manage to break eye contact to follow him into the garden across the flagstones.
“It was an old cistern in the 1800s,” Alex explains. The air hangs heavy and sweet with star jasmine, verdant along the trellises and one wall. He guides Blanc and Phillip around the center walkway and the old cistern’s tan hip-high stones. “I share it with the other tenants, but I have a dedicated corner and Bernette two doors down is a florist, so she lets me set up down there, too.”
“Sweet Julie Newmar…” Blanc sounds impressed, maybe a bit in awe, or even in pride. “Yer pride an’ joy…”
He’d built it with a couple of theater friends—it’d taken them ages to get it pastoral enough while still keeping out the intermittent (but inevitable) rain. One of his friends had even spent a couple of months specially growing the moss on the roof. They’d only dropped by to slot the last resurrection ferns into the trellis’ joints last week. He pulls Blanc under the roof and hops up onto one of its two removable benches to point out the specially-waterproofed, solar-powered wiring. They don’t need much extra lighting this time of day, but there’s still a bit of a shadow in the courtyard he can compensate for to get things a bit more even.
Blanc hums appreciatively and asks plenty of ‘what about’ questions while he calibrates.
The best for his first customer—both when he was still setting up in public parks and now that he’s got—what he hopes—is a place that can stick around for a couple of decades.
“I’ve already got a couple of krewes reaching out looking for ball pictures, and probably some pictures before the parades, too. Rhinestones and sequins are always fun! And they pre-book. There’s always Santa pictures. Tourists…back-to-school…Still. Gives me a couple of months to settle in and get the word out.” He looks to Phillip and Blanc. “Okay, I’ve got us set up. We’ll start under the trellis canopy, then maybe do a few at the cistern, then head back inside?”
“Sounds perfect,” Phillip answers, guiding Blanc’s hand.
“We’ll get a few basic ones, just to warm up, then what do you think of getting that knuckle kiss?”
Blanc draws Phillip’s hand to his lips. “Like this?”
With that twinkle in that eye, he knows Blanc only means to tease, but Alex is quick about it. His lighting even catches that spark. “Exactly.” Alex grins.
“Now, Blanc…” Phillip reaches forward.
Alex positions the camera again.
‘Benny’s mistake…’ ‘Benny’s “mistake”’…If the laughter between kisses he captures was a mistake, then man, does he aspire to stumble like that. He hopes he’s at least halfway to kissing dirt. He remembers the ghost story from long ago. He wonders what kinds of stories they tell of him. If that he got away was a signal to the next kids that you could get away…He wonders if anyone else has looked Mr. Blanc up in the phone book. Or if he’s uniquely lucky that he did.