: Present Day New Orleans.
Petunia Dufour steps down into the living room, followed by Bitsie DuPlessis, Stavros Phistemopheles, and Amanda Napolitano. Seated at the dining room table on the opposite side of the house, Schramm examines the screen on a laptop, surrounded by stacks of papers and books. Philomena Phistemopheles sits outside in the solarium, her back to the dining room door and a thick, steady stream of yellow smoke coming from her cigar. They all sit at the table, with Petunia taking the head, as always. Once seated, Manoir appears, dotting their places with their preferred libations, then disappears again into the house.
“All right,” announces Petunia, as if she is addressing a board meeting. “What is this nonsense about Mardi Gras?”
Schramm and Stavros exchange glances. Stav’s face falls a bit, then he launches in.
“In our…what? Timeline? In our timeline, Mardi Gras in New Orleans was cemented with the introduction of the Mystick Krewe of Comus. Comus is the parading krewe that--”
“Excuse me, Mr. Schramm,” says Petunia. “What do you mean by crew?”
Schramm intejects,
“In our timeline Mrs. Dufour, the word ‘krewe’ refers to the parading organizations of Carnival. It is spelled in the Old English style, k-r-e-w-e.”
“They’re called clubbs in Mobile,” she replies. “Spelled c-l-u-b-b-s.”
“Tradition?” Bitsie asks.
“lliteracy,” Petunia chirps.
Outside, Philomena puffs, the smoke now collecting on the glass ceiling like an infant cloud nursing on a wildfire.
Stavros continues, Amanda’s hand gently squeezing his muscular thigh beneath the table, reassuring him.
“Uhm, Comus was the krewe that began modern Carnival. But, in this timeline Comus never existed. Mardi Gras was banned in New Orleans in 1857 after the celebrations turned very violent resulting in the death of--” he scans the screen. “Mayor Watterman. That changed the entire history of New Orleans to…well, this.”
Petunia’s brow crinkles, her eyes narrowing as she searches her mind. “If I recall my grade school history correctly, Watterman had lime not just thrown in his face, but shoved down his throat. He suffocated to death.”
“Yes,” replies Stavros. “His death was editorialized in a Creole paper, the Bee. It led to the ban. Without competition from New Orleans, Mobile took over Mardi Gras. Joe Cain started the first clubb parades in 1860, which Schramm informs me is eight years earlier than in our timeline.”
“And what does that mean, exactly?” Petunia asks, pointedly.
Schramm speaks in a voice soaked with such authority, it even takes Petunia aback.
“It means that the history of the City has changed substantially.” He slides a manilla folder across the table to Bitsie. “Here is a list of the major changes I’ve managed to find so far.”
Bitsie opens the folder and begins to read.
“Let’s see…St. Louis?!?”
“Yes,” replies Schramm. “Without New Orleans' Carnival, St. Louis’ celebrated Mardi Gras in 1897 and it took hold. In this timeline, St. Louis is the Mardi Gras capital of the US.”
“Well, that’s disturbing,” she says, as she continues to peruse the list. “The Original Missouri Clubb?”
Stavros jumps in. “Yeah. In our timeline, it’s the Original Illinois Club. New Orleans didn’t have Mardi Gras, so they formed in St. Louis. The only way I can describe them is, it’s their Zulu.”
“An interesting note,” Schramm interjects. “The movie “Easy Rider” was filmed in New Orleans. There was no Carnival scene, so the film was a flop. It is listed on several top ten lists of the
worst movies ever made. It may also be the reason that neither St. Louis or Mobile have the ‘tradition’ of bearing their breasts for beads.”
“Good God!” exclaims Petunia, appalled by the thought.
“I can’t say I’m mad at that!” Bitsie snorts, continuing to flip through the list of changes Schramm and Stav have uncovered. She stops, her eyes widening. Absently, her hand goes to her throat as she struggles to say the worst.
“T-there’s no more…French Quarter?” She looks to Schramm, her eyes visibly pained.
“That’s correct,” Schramm replies, gently. “In this timeline, a fire in 1916 burned out most of the Vieux Carre. The only remnants of the old Quarter--”
“--is the campus of the Dufour National Opera Theatre,” Petunia says plainly, with a small bit of pride. “The original opera house and the blocks surrounding it were spared any damage. The family owned most of the area, so they did what any sensible person would do. They tore everything down and re-developed.”
She leans into Bitsie and asks,
“Is the old city still standing in your world?”
Bitsie sniffs back a little sob and says,
“Yes, it is. And I love going there.”
Petunia sits back again. “I wish I could share the sentiment. It was little more than a slum. The only respectable part of it was the opera house. I should take you all to see it. I’m proud to say, through my constant ministrations, that the DNOT is now the center of a thriving theater district. Can your opera house say the same?”
Bitsie looks to Schramm. He barely twitches an eyebrow, but it is all she needs. “No.”
Petunia allows a small, yet deeply smug grin to make a brief appearance. “I’m becoming more interested, Mr. Schramm. Please continue.”
“Very well. Another major difference we’ve found--”
“--and, we think these are all side effects of what Hammar’s done--” Stavros bleats.
“--Interstate 10 now runs along the river. And, the Rivergate is still standing. It’s the busiest traffic hub in the South.”
Amanda, who has been silent since they left Petunia’s office, groans sadly, “Oh, God,” and buries her head in Stavros’ arm.
“Anything else?” Petunia asks, almost cheerfully.
Bitsie continues to flip through the pages. “Oh, here’s something. The ‘84 World’s Fair was in Biloxi?”
“Yes,” Petunia says wryly, sitting up. “My late husband saw early on it was going to be a failure. He got the City Council to turn it down. They went to Biloxi instead.” The wry smile returns, more boldly than before. “It bankrupted the city. He never liked Biloxi. A lot of them moved here. There’s a place on the Westbank, Biloxiville. Used to be called Nine Mile Point. I believe I own two of the golf courses over there.” She is now openly smiling. She pauses for a moment and says,
“My late husband was many things. A philanthropist, a philanderer…a thug. But what he wasn’t was foolish.” She glances briefly at Amanda. “Or cheap.” She regards them all, and sighs,
“I have to say Bitsie, I’m unconvinced.”
Bitsie drops the papers on the desk as she turns to Petunia.
“Damn it Tunie! Everything we’ve told you is the truth. You even admitted it upstairs--”
Petunia stands instantly and blares back,
“Don’t call me Tunie, Bitchy!”
Bitsie’s face goes numb as if she’s been slapped. Hard. Petunia stares her down before slowly seating herself again. With forced gentility, she continues. “I believe that you live in another world
from mine. What I am not convinced of yet is changing things ‘back’ to where you were.” Suddenly, Petunia’s nostrils twitch, her lips pursing into a sneer.
“Brimstone.”
Philomena has appeared at the sun room door. Outside, the entire solarium is filled with thick smoke, casting a swirling, grasping amber glow into the room. Wordlessly, she walks to the other head of the table directly across from Petunia, pulls out the high backed chair, and sits.
Manoir has manifested himself behind Petunia. There is silence, then,
“Now that we are all assembled, I only have one question.” Petunia stands, and clicks her tongue. The sound unnerves Bitsie and Amanda. “Have any of you bothered to look up yourselves?” Bitsie looks to Amanda and Stavros. “I’d be interested to know just who all of you are in my world. Anyone?” Bitsie, Amanda and Stavros look to Schramm, who sits at the laptop, not moving. The smile returns to Petunia’s face. She reaches out her hand, which Manoir fills with a champagne & muscadine cocktail, and sits again.
“Mr. Schramm. You are most efficient. Do continue”...This is My New Orleans.
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