A Musical Intuition

A Musical Intuition

Cory Gavin stood up and people gawked. He ignored the other patrons of the Cafe du Monde, as usual. He knew his legs were too short below the knees and were unsuited for his normal-sized torso, and that his overly-high forehead shocked the hardiest of individuals. A somber, middle-aged woman paying her bill alerted what Cory called his Inner Mojo. Besides her full-length coat—questionable summer wear in the French Quarter—he sensed that rich coffee and beignets weren’t the only reason for her visit.

Cory followed the woman from a distance and observed her go in several homeopathic shops, before finally arriving at Wanda’s Bookstore on Dauphine Street. This is no coincidence, thought Cory. She hasn't seen me. Why doesn't she go in?

The woman nervously peered in the window and jotted something on a tablet. Before he could react, she promptly hailed a taxi and disappeared into the fog tumbling off the wrought-iron balconies. Captivated by the mystery of the woman, Cory lumbered his misshapen body toward the bookstore. “I won't give up," he whispered. "Have a safe journey—bonni route.”

Several minutes later, Cory Gavin was making his daily selections from the shelves. Wanda assumed his compulsive reading disorder played a significant role in his success as a private eye. Even though many of her highbrow clientele considered him an oddball, Wanda relished owning the only bookstore in New Orleans with a built-in celebrity. But it was no secret what propelled him to help those in whom society had afforded no justice. Although never substantiated, Cory believed an experimental drug given to his mother during childbirth was responsible for her death and his deformities.

“What subjects are you going to devour today?” asked Wanda. “The history of chemistry, Egypt, or perhaps organic gardening is on the menu.”

“Steinbeck,” answered Cory. “I’m beginning with Of Mice and Men.”

Wanda’s plain, slender face formed a formal expression. “If I recall correctly responsibility and loneliness are the major themes.”

“You have the makings of a good teacher—il ferait un bon prof. People would be kinder if they better understood one another. There are so many lonely people.”

“Like Eleanor Rigby!” Wanda exclaimed.

Cory pushed the over-sized eyeglasses up on his nose; his surprised expression and bright red hair highlighted the irregular appearance of his forehead. “You’re exactly right, my musical friend. Only this morning a lady about my age and height crossed my path, but I was unable to ascertain the particulars.”

Wanda straightened her shoulders. "I know that superstition motivates your uncanny powers of intuition. I’m sure you will determine a course of action. A sign may come."


That evening Cory Gavin sat in Jackson Square listening to his favorite street musician. The fiddler offered his own twist on a British rock tune that had become a bluegrass standard, Fox on the Run. Cory considered how the broken- hearted lover in the song felt like a hunted animal and needed a place to hide. Of course! Cory almost said aloud, realizing he should retrace his steps from that morning. My Eleanor Rigby is seeking refuge. He remembered the urgency in the woman’s demeanor and imagined her desperation.

Dozens of conversations later, without a clue, persuaded Cory to expand his search and persevere through the swelling crowd. Up ahead, he heard a teenager whistling Fox on the Run and followed him into a curio shop. The disheveled boy lurked in the aisles.

“Excuse me,” called Cory.”

The shocked boy glanced over his shoulder and darted out the backdoor, up North Rampart. Cory kept the youngster in sight almost to Canal Street, near the edge of the Quarter, but he proved too fast for Cory’s tiny legs. He flopped down against a fence to wipe the perspiration from his eyeglasses and collect his thoughts: Wearing huge frames to compensate for my huge forehead is as ridiculous as my tiny legs carrying my torso at a gallop. He took a disappointed breath and hastily brushed dirt off his tailored trousers.

At that moment the soulful, compelling voice of Ray Charles cascaded from a second story apartment: “Eleanor Rigby died in the church and was buried along with her name. Nobody came.” The haunting words penetrated Cory’s consciousness; he suddenly thought of Saint Jude’s shrine, only three blocks away at the chapel of Our Lady of Guadalupe. Cory forced himself up and lumbered onward, the refrain lingering in his wake: “All the lonely people, where do they all come from? All the lonely people, where do they all be-l-o-n-n-g?”

Cory entered the chapel and was mesmerized by the improbability of what he saw. The mysterious woman had removed her long coat and was kneeling before the statue of Saint Jude, the patron of lost causes. As she rose, her elongated legs amounted to practically all of her height, about five eight, and supported a child-sized torso.

“You’re Cory Gavin, aren’t you?” she barely got out, touching her forehead.

“And you?”

“Isabella Gonzales. I . . . I’ve traveled a long way.”

“You were spared the Frankenstein head. Did your mother survive the birth?”

“No, no, she didn’t . . . I’ve read all about you,” said Isabella. “I know about your mission. I know people say you’re a quack and rely on omens and random luck. But I had this strange idea that if I came here, something good might come from my tormented existence. Maybe my life would have a purpose, other than misery and loneliness. I had all but given up, but now I'm certain I've made the right decision. If I can assist you in any capacity, I will. It's my responsibility, too. Seeing you turns everything right-side up."

Taking a deep, emotional breath, Cory moved closer and looked into her moistened eyes. “What makes you so certain you have correctly assessed the situation, and me?”

Isabella smiled through her tears and gently touched Cory's forehead, and then handed him the tablet. “Life is a glorious mystery. I wrote this note at the bookstore this morning.”

If Cory Gavin is authentic and sincere, he will find me this very day praying in the chapel on Rampart Street.

(1000 words)



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