Hardy French, a doctor by trade, lived in the same house his entire life.  It was a domicile of grandeur and elegance on Audubon Park, directly off of Prytania Street. Devereaux French, his grandfather, had built the home prior to the Civil War.  It sat nestled behind the ancient oaks crested in moss, standing as a symbol of the French Family’s power in New Orleans. All of the blueblood families had similar homes.  Dr. French was fond of many of the maids and valets in his employment, but above all he cherished a young cook by the name of Adelaide.  She was not the prettiest girl Hardy employed, Jeanette had larger breast, and Marceline had a firmer derriere, but it was the way that the young woman, light enough to pass as mulatto, carried herself that caught the doctor’s eye.  She would enter the dining room, a puerile grin on her face and spunk in her walk, carrying a savory dinner each evening.  On Mondays she would announce, in the peculiar accent of the black work force of New Orleans, “I got dose red beans and rice you love so much Docta French.”  Methodically, Adelaide would lower the tray that held the steaming cast iron pot. Flexing her waist, she would create a flattering arch in her back, and then turn toward the doctor, in plain sight of the entire French family, and send a sensual wink toward her employer.
Hardy would stalk her with his gaze, as Adelaide exited the dining room.  He knew his wife was watching, he could feel her eyes on him.  But Martha would never leave him, he had been appointed the King of Comus for this carnival season. 
This Monday was the same as usual.  “How was your day, honey?” as he smiled at Viviane. 
“It was good, Daddy, I got all of my spelling words right.”
“And have you been practicin your piano? I know you gawt that recidal comin up.”
“Yes.”
“Dats my baby girl.”  Hardy continued, “Boys, school awright?  I’m expectin to see some good marks.”
“Yes, Daddy,” his teenage sons said simultaneously.
“Y’all got your work done for the night?”
“Yes, Daddy,” said his oldest son, Jacob.
“And you Spencer?”
“Yes, I finished it.”
Hardy turned his head, looking in all directions as he observed the dining room and its occupants, proud of his beautiful family.  “Martha, how was the Women’s Symphony Board meetin?  I hope y’all have everythin prepared for the gala.”
“Yes Dear, we’re almost all ready. Just the flower arrangements. I hope you don’t mind that I promised to underwrite them?”
“Dats not a problem at all.”
“Will you be coming to Galatoire's with the children and me on Friday?” Martha inquired.
“You know I’d never pass up a meal from Galatoire’s.”
At dinner there was small talk about school and friends.  One of Viviane’s teeth was loose.  Jacob had an interesting conversation with his English teachers.  Spencer joined the boys choir.  After the meal, Dr. French reached for the sterling silver bell that resided in front of his place setting; with the flick of his wrist, he summoned the help. A brigade of two maids and one cook exploded through the swinging doors that connected the dining room to the kitchen. While cleaning his plate, Adelaide  bent at the waist bearing her tender cleavage.  As she corralled the silverware onto the plate, she sent the doctor his second wink of the evening.  From the corner of his eyes, he could see Martha watching. 
After washing himself, Hardy climbed into bed.  Martha was already asleep, most likely dreaming of the dress that was commissioned for the gala. “Martha, you awake?  Come here,” he reached around his wife’s side, tugging at her waist while pushing his lips into her neck as he breathed in the aroma of fresh linens that filled the room.
“Please, not tonight.  You know how busy this women’s board has kept me.”
This scene had grown familiar to the doctor during the past few years.  Of course there were those special dates- their anniversary, birthdays, when their life was like it used to be, back when he was completing his fellowship and their love was new and spontaneous, but those days were rare.  Hardy had grown accustomed to a bland and monotonous marriage, and it was now, after nights of neglect from his wife, that he grew tired of it. 
He rolled on his side, turning away from the woman he still loved.  His eyes frisked the room, searching for a memory; pleasant or not, it would help him remove himself from his current situation.  After his tedious search, his eyes fell upon the oak table in the corner of the bedroom.  He rolled out of bed, careful not to wake Martha and slowly approached the table, wincing at the creaks and moans the floorboards maid under his weight.   He had knocked it over when he was a child, and his father beat the living tar out of him for it.  He had threatened him in a way Hardy never forgot. As Dr. French ran his finger around the curves of the table, his father’s words came flooding back. 
“HARDY, I don’t know who you dink you are, but this ain't your house yet.  I will not stand for some hooligan runnin around destroyin what your grand-father and I have created.”
With great care, Hardy retreated toward his bed; pausing for a second to look at his wife.  Martha lied, engulfed in a cocoon of linen sheets.   An arm, a foot, a strand or two of her blond locks peeked out calling like a siren to him. He readjusted his husky frame, now on his back.  His mouth flew open, his eyes shut, and the song of his sleep, a deep growling and hollering that jolted the residents of the house each evening began as Dr. French fell into a deep sleep.   

“Awwww,” Hardy moaned as he sat up, the sun piercing through the windows of his bedroom temporarily blinding him.  He turned to his right, still lying on his back; Martha had already left.  Rolling on his side, Hardy swung his burly legs out of the bed so that they dangled above the slippers. The chestnut clock read a quarter ‘til seven. 
“Solomon,” he screeched, listening for an instant reply.  “Solomon, it’s almost seven, we are gonna need to hustle this mornin.” 
“I’se is a comin,” boomed the rusty trumpet voice of Solomon, Hardy’s valet. He burst through the door, tie too loose, shirt un-tucked.  Hardy whould have cared had it been anyone other than Solomon.  “Sorry about that Mr….I mean Dr. French.”
“You quite excused, Mr. Sololmon” chuckled Hardy.  He had a difficult time keeping a straight face around Solomon.  Solomon had been Hardy’s valet his entire life.  He had played as much an influential role in his upbringing as Hardy’s own father.  “It look like you just woke up yourself,” laughed Hardy.
“Dadt’s true, Mr. Doctor.  But how you know that?”
In amusement, Hardy grimaced like a child, “It’s your shirt Solomon, it’s still un-tucked.”
“Oh, my oh my, what a mistake, you know I startn forget stuff at dis age.”
Solomon was right.  His mind had begun to fade, but he was still as much of a companion and confident to Hardy as he had ever been. 
“Oh no, don’t say dat.  You are of fine mental capacity,” Hardy announced, humoring the elderly black man. 
“Now you wantin a shave dis mornin?”
“I don’t know, what do you think?  Think I can get by another day?”
“If you wantin to be lookin like some coon-ass who just cawled out the bayou.  I’ll get the shavin cream ready.”  Solomon grabbed the porcelain bowl that sat on Hardy’s dressing table.  He beat the contents inside vigorously with a badger-hair brush the white foam formed and enveloped the edges of the bowl, some making it onto Solomon’s dark hands.  Hardy sat down in the chair and the ceremony commenced.  Hardy generally attempted to make conversation, sometimes seeking council from his elder companion.
“You and the Missus ever hit a dry spell?” he said, “Martha and I are in a bit of a rut right now.”
“No, I can’t say so myself.  She always liken what I’m packin.”
After laughing, Hardy cleared his throat. “But seriously,” Hardy pleaded, “I need some sort of advice.  I don’t think I can go on like this.  Everything has turned into a chore with her.  Nothing is fun or spontaneous, just a never ending list of errands to run.”
“I know what you talkin ‘bout.  It ain’t uncommon.  Get yourself a young girl.”
“Well, I don’t know about that,” the doctor said hesitantly as he leaned his head backwards for Solomon’s straight razor.  
“Just think ‘bout it,” coughed Solomon as he cleared his throat.  “Ok, we all done here.  What you want to wear?”
“The tweed three piece should do.” 
With Solomon’s aid, Dr. French got dressed in silence.
Hardy skipped down the winding stairwells.  His talk with Solomon hadn’t cleared all his questions but for a while he was feeling more relaxed.  Turning around the corner, Hardy dashed through the living room.  Seated with the family was Martha. 
“No breakfast?” she asked.
“No, I don’t have time this mornin.  Boy’s I think I’m gonna ride Arthur (the appaloosa the doctor had purchased at the auction the week before) into the office today.”
Viviane interrupted, surprised by her father’s words, “Daddy, that’s crazy.  Do it,” she giggled. 
“Hardy, you can’t be riding a horse around any more.  Take the automobile we just purchased, or have Solomon get the carriage ready,” protested Martha, refusing to make eye contact with her husband. 
“I will do no such thing.  I’m not that old.  I will saddle the horse myself and have the boys over at Ocshner un-saddle him and put him in the stables there.”
Proud of himself, Hardy climbed down the marble steps from the back door of the house and took off in a brisk walk toward the family stable.  Inside, the three horses were housed in separate stalls.  He searched the walls of the stable, looking for a lead rope.  “Ah, there it is.”  Quickly he grabbed the rope and fixed it to the halter of the young horse.  Being careful to rub its neck periodically, Hardy began saddled the horse: first the blanket, followed by some intense, soothing rubbing on the neck, then the saddle.  Cautiously, Hardy reached underneath the belly of the young gelding, fishing for the cinch with his hand.  Once located, he fed the strap through the buckle and Hardy tightened the strap.  Once all of the slack was out, Hardy rubbed the horse’s neck one last time; he was being overly cautious.  His wife was right, Hardy probably was a few too many years old to be riding a horse, but he was not going to let her win this fight. Riding that horse made Hardy feel young again.   Pulling the cinch as tight as he could, he slapped the horses gut with his free hand as he pulled with his left, encouraging the horse to suck his stomach in.  Once saddled, he quickly put the bridle on.  After several attempts, he slid he left foot through the stirrup and mounted the horse. Dr. French finally headed for the hospital.   

Hardy cantered through the streets atop the appaloosa, passing the oaks crested in Spanish moss and the ornate homes of his fellow Comus members.  Arriving at the hospital, he tightened his reigns, slowing the horse as he approached the brick building that worked as the hospital’s stable.
“Dr. French, why you ridin that horse? Ain’t you got yourself a carriage,” hollered the stable boy as Dr. French entered the hospital premises in a steady gallop. 
“Ho there, Arthur.  There you go.”  The doctor stopped the horse in front of the young boy. Hardy estimated the child to be the same age as Viviane.  He was young, strong, and dark skinned.  He’d probably never seen the inside of a classroom, most likely never would, but he could tell the boy was smart.  “James, I’ll give you a full nickel if you wata and hay him and make sure you put him in a good stall.”
“That’s a deal Dr. French.”
Reaching into his breast pocket, Hardy searched for the coin.  With a flick of his thumb, he hurled the nickel towards the young boy.  “Dere you go, James.  Remember, that horse need coolin down before you water him, unless-”
James finished the doctor’s sentence, “-unless I want to founder him,” James said.  “I know, Dr. Hardy.  I’ll take good care of your new horse.”
“I know you will.”  Hardy left the stables, eager to make his rounds and begin the morning surgery.  He practically ran through the halls of the hospital.  This was where he was both most at home and most excited.  “Good mornin, Darlin,” he said to the pretty nurses. 
“Morning, Dr. French.”
Finally, he arrived at his ward.  After making his usual morning rounds, he found everything to be in proper order.  Burn victims were healing, and the dock manager’s leg was looking just fine.
“Are you ready for our first operation?’ asked a familiar voice from behind the doctor.
Hardy turned to see one of his oldest friends.  The man was cloaked in a white lab coat, but underneath was elegant blue dress shirt that was framed by an orange bow tie that sat below the doctor’s chin.  “Jacque, how you doin?”
“Just fine, Hardy.  And yourself?”
“Never better.  Dr. Roy, what’s the first surgery lookin like?”
“Some Italian from the loading dock has an inguinal hernia.”
“Ok.  Perfect.  I suggest we try the tension repair technique that Jew created in New York, I’ve heard that its had great success.”
“Yes, I’ve heard positive things about the technique, I believe the doctor practiced at that Hebrew hospital; Mount Sinai Health,” announced Jacque Roy.  It was his habit to attempt to constantly display his knowledge of every subject medicine related. 
“I’m sure they stole it from some other doctor from one of the protestant hospitals.  I don’t trust any of them,” Hardy said as he thought about the Eugenics lecture he had heard the year before. 
“Dr. French, you can keep those views to yourself.”
While Hardy and Jacque were dear friends, they disagreed on a number of subjects.  It had been that way ever since they were both young boys at Jesuit.  They would argue with one another, yet their friendship was never phased by the disagreements.  “OK, Dr. Roy.  Let’s just ignore modern science and medicine.  That’s how doctors should conduct themselves.”
“I will ignore any science based on myth and personal opinion,” chuckled Jacque as the two laughed at themselves.  This was how the majority of their arguments ended, in loud sudden burst of laughter and camaraderie, like the two schoolboys they were at heart.
The two doctors walked along side one another as they traveled to the prep room.  Hardy followed his colleague into the Spartan-white tiled room.  He approached one of the porcelain sinks that sat in the room and contorted his burly body as he began to sanitize himself for surgery.  The water scalded his hands as he violently scrubbed, giving significant attention to the territory between each of his fingers.  With a gruesome squeal, the doctor turned handle of the sink towards the off position and the steam that clouded the sanitary room slightly diminished.  He looked to his right where the water was still hissing.  Jacque Roy continued scrubbing his nimble hands, the hands of a master surgeon, with sweltering water and a course brush.  He wanted to ask him.  He needed some type of advice about what to do with Adelaide; but he knew this was neither the place, nor person with whom to discuss such matters.
Hardy had heard the stories about Jacque Roy’s father.  All of the students at Jesuit knew what his father had done to Jacque and his mother, and how he had abandoned them for the nanny.  But he was not like Jacque’s father.  Hardy loved his children, he still loved Martha; he just needed to feel love.  Looking down at his feet, Hardy examined the tile floor. 
With a sudden thud, the swinging door flew open and a large Irish nurse burst into the prep-room.  “The patient is ready.  We can begin whenever you’re ready doctors.”
“Thank you, Geraldine.  Dr. Roy and I will be out in a minute.”
The doctors worked as a team, flawlessly performing the new operation.  Hardy was the voice of the duo, announcing their actions and techniques to the crowd that sat in the seats of the gallery eagerly watching as the doctors moved their hands like master artisans.  While finishing the sutures, Hardy decided he would return home early. 
The remainder of Hardy’s workday was comprised of hours spent checking on recovering patients and working in the clinic.  Workers came in with gashes; Hardy fixed them with needle and silk.  Women came in with kitchen burns; Hardy treated the wounds with gauze and aloe vera.  The work was monotonous, but at least it kept his mind buzzy.  Lunch was the same, as was the afternoon.  When the clock reached 3:00, Hardy snatched the tweed jacket and exited the hospital.  Walking on the uneven cobblestones, Hardy rushed to the stable.  As expected, James was in his usual location, watching over the horses in their stalls.  “James, I’ll give you a penny if you saddle that appaloosa for me.”
“Yes sir, Dr. French.”  Frantically, the young boy reached for the fleece saddle blanket, then the Italian leather saddle Hardy had received as a childhood birthday present.  Once saddled, Hardy bridled the horse himself. 
“James, bring me a bucket.”
Anxious for his penny, James answered, dashing for the wooden pale that sat in the corner of one of the open stalls.  Handing it to Hardy, he asked, “What you need a bucket for?
“I’m not as young as I used to be.”  Dr. French placed the wooden pale to the left of the horse, in front of the stirrup.  He fished around the pocket of his jacket then flicked the copper coin in the air to the boy.  Smiling, James watched as Dr. French used the upside down bucket as a step into his stirrup. Mounted, Hardy smiled at the boy, then a stern kick sent the appaloosa on the way to the place where Prytania St. and Audubon met. 

Pulling the rains over the horse’s neck and using them as a lead, Hardy walked the winded animal into the stable.  It was odd for no one to aid him in this effort, but perhaps everyone was doing his/her own work.  And after all, Hardy was not accustomed to returning this early.  He usually stayed after work for an hour or two for labs, but not today.  After unsaddling the horse and putting him in his stall, Hardy walked through the emerald grass toward that back door.  Climbing the limestone steps, Hardy approached the door.  Its brass handle was tarnished after years of use and the crown glass window offered a distorted view of the kitchen.  Peering inside, he could see the contorted outline of an individual.  Opening the door, Hardy was surprised when he realized that it was Adelaide.  They stood in silence, staring at one another.  Hardy heard the footprints of someone walking upstairs over the kitchen. “Probably one of the maids,” he thought.  Not breaking her stair with Hardy, Adelaide stretched her hand in his direction. Her hand, the same color as his saddle, was still extended as Hardy stood, unable to comprehend the situation.  Confused and hopeful, Hardy reached out his own pale, ivory hand and placed it in Adelaide's.  Her face exposed her bewilderment. 
“Dr. Hardy, I just tryin to take your jacket.”
Still holding her hand, “Oh, dear.  I didn’t mean nothin by it.”  He snatched his hand away. Terrified and embarrassed, Dr. French pushed Adelaide aside, knocking her into the granite counter, and trotted toward the stairs that lead to his bedroom.  He walked through the second floor hallway and entered his room.  Inside, Martha was holding a dress up to her body as she examined the color and fit in the mirror. 
“Good afternoon dear.  Something happened at the hospital, you’re home earlier than usual?”
In a whisper, “No, nothing at all.”  A sudden wave of pressure began pushing down on the doctor, and his face grew red as he blushed.  “Have you seen Solomon?  I need to talk to him.”
“He’s downstairs, honey.”
Without another word, Hardy vacated his bedroom.  Slowly walking through the hall and down the stairs, Hardy grabbed at his head with his hand, wiping away moisture.  “Solomon,” he screamed.
“Where you at Dr. Hardy?” shouted the trumpet voice.  “I’se a comin.”
At the bottom of the stair, Hardy found Solomon.  He was waiting for him.  “Solomon, I need to talk.”
“I already heard.  Let’s come and sit down in da dinin room.  You awright.”