

### AMARANTH

LEE DUVAL

Copyright © 2016 Lee Duval

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

PART ONE

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

PART TWO

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

PART THREE

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

PART FOUR

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-eight

Chapter Twenty-nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-one

Legend has it that once there were two flowers that grew side by side in a garden.

The rose spoke to the amaranth. "Why are you crying?"

The amaranth answered, "Because I am ugly and you are so beautiful."

The rose shuddered in the slight breeze. A few of its petals fell to the ground.

"You should not cry, for I will soon die," the rose replied, "but you will live forever."

—Adapted from Aesop's Fables

# PART ONE
# Chapter One

_September, 1947._ A confluence of clouds hovered above western Africa and began to spin like a child's pinwheel. In the center the air pressure dropped steadily. The mass moved westward past Dakar, Senegal, and on to the Cape Verde Islands.

The storm was tentative and erratic, a tropical depression, which first turned southwest, then northwest. It expanded in size and ferocity, unnoticed by humans, until the crew aboard the ship S.S. _Arakaka_ sighted and reported it.

The tempest gathered momentum and thrust across the northern section of the Abaco Islands in the Bahamas with winds of a hundred and fifty-five miles an hour. It hesitated briefly and sped toward the southern United States. It ripped through Ft. Lauderdale, Florida as a Category Four hurricane.

The hurricane blew through the Everglades, entered the Gulf of Mexico and approached southeastern Louisiana.

***

_The Atchafalaya swamp, southern Louisiana._ Michele Devereux woke to the pain in her belly and told herself it was simply hunger. The wind outside the clapboard house rattled the branches of the oaks in the yard. They tapped against the windows as if sending an urgent message.

The pain came again and pulled her from the comforting haze of sleep. She had to be certain before she bothered her sleeping husband. She turned slightly and listened. His nose squeaked as he inhaled, lips pursed together when he let go of each deep breath. Michele loved him dearly and soon he would be the second most important person in her life.

She tried to ease out of bed. Gravity made it difficult. She hobbled to the window and strained to see anything familiar in the darkness. A bolt of lightning struck the tallest oak near her and it split in half. Michele bit her lips and a sharp pain sent her to one knee.

She heard her husband turn over and prayed that he was awake. The house shook and the little crucifix above their bed fell to the floor. She struggled to stand.

"Andre," she called softly, "the hurricane is coming."

Her husband snored in answer.

"Andre. I think it's time."

Michele heard him bolt upright. "Time? What time is it?"

"It's time to get Ophelia," Michele replied.

Andre sat up. Michele heard him fumbling. A match flared and the candle beside the bed pushed back the shadows. He blinked, swung around and shoved one of his feet into a boot. Michele giggled and felt another stab of pain.

"Andre, shouldn't you put your left foot into the left boot?"

Andre stopped, put the boot down and picked up the other one.

"Are you all right, _Cherie_? Do you feel any pain?"

Michele smiled at him. "Yes, but it's good pain."

"Good pain," Andre muttered and shook his head. He got up, kissed her gently on the forehead and helped her sit down on the bed. "Don't move," he commanded, "I'll start the truck and get Ophelia. Do you need anything?"

"Just one thing, Andre. Shouldn't you be wearing pants?"

Andre looked down at his bare legs. "Yes. Maybe some pants. Might get wet."

Michele hid her smile which faded with the next thrust of agony. Andre grabbed his pants with one hand and patted her arm with the other. He rushed out the door and down the stairs.

"Hurry," she said softly.

***

Michele lay back on the bed. She closed her eyes and tried to sleep, hopeful that time would move faster. The pain erased the idea. It was coming more often and spreading into her back and legs. She rose slightly and pushed herself up to rest against the headboard, but that too failed. There was still pain and it was increasing.

"One, two, three, four, five," she counted and could go no higher before another jolt coursed through her.

Michele waited for the start of the engine of Andre's old truck. She could hear nothing but the storm. Sweat dripped from her brow and she tasted its salt in the corners of her mouth. Something sticky trickled down her thighs.

The candle flickered and Michele gasped. The darkness of the room would find its way to her and she would suffocate. Her hands clutched the sheets, balling them into soggy mounds.

"Breathe," a voice intoned and the candle flared and brightened the room. "Breathe," she heard again and remembered that single word which Ophelia, the midwife, had chanted.

Her lungs wheezed and expanded with the effort. The pain eased a little.

"Breathe slowly, like you tryin' to stoke up a fire, not like some ol' houn' after his bitch."

***

Another tree fell in the yard and Michele heard the door downstairs burst open.

" _Cherie_ , I'm coming!"

Michele listened to Andre's heavy tread. He stopped outside the bedroom door and she could hear his breathing, as labored as her own. She raised her head. Specks of light swirled across her eyes.

"Where's Ophelia?"

"The tr-truck," Andre stammered.

"She's in the truck? Please, go get her."

"No. I mean the truck wouldn't start. The storm. I couldn't get her," he confessed.

"Please come inside the room." Michele stifled a scream as another wave of pain descended. "Andre, you'll have to help me now."

Michele watched him look back at the door as he shuffled closer. "I don't know how—"

"Andre. Listen. We can do this."

Andre stared at her.

Michele moved her back again against the headboard and spread her legs. "I'm going to push. All you have to do is get the head when it comes."

Andre shook his head. "Men don't know anything except how to _make_ babies."

Michele grimaced. "We both made the baby. Now we bring it into the world." She saw the anguish in his handsome face and feared it was greater than her own.

He moved closer and looked down at the bloody sheets.

"All right," he whispered.

Michele braced herself and looked up at her husband. "You'll have to help me. I'm going to push. When you see the baby's head, take it gently and guide it out. Do you understand?"

Andre nodded, but she wasn't certain he understood anything. The wind renewed its assault and the house trembled.

Michele took deep breaths, groaned with each and pushed. Andre hunkered over her, waiting.

She pushed again and the baby inched forward. "Take the head, Andre! Gently."

"No head," Andre muttered.

"Andre, please, just guide the head!"

"No head," Andre repeated.

Michele bit back words Andre had never heard her speak. The pain was excruciating. She pushed again.

"I see something!" Andre yelled.

"Take the head!"

"A foot," Andre replied.

"Foot? Andre, it must be breech. The baby is coming out backwards. Take the feet and—"

"One foot," Andre said.

"All right. Good. Now look for the other."

"I see another. Two feet!"

"Good, Andre. You're doing good. Now I'll push some more. Get the shoulders and head out as quickly as possible."

Michele pushed and the baby moved.

"Stop! Andre shouted. "It has a worm attached to its belly!"

"It's not a worm. It's a good thing. Is it wrapped around the head?"

There was no reply.

"Andre, is it wrapped around the head?"

"No head," Andre whispered.

Michele's fingernails dug into her palms. She pushed again with her last remaining strength and her only child was delivered to the world outside.

"It is here!" Andre yelled.

"Take it carefully. Wipe its nose and mouth. Mind the worm. Put it in the blanket. Give it to me."

Andre moved slowly. He wiped the baby's face with his dirty undershirt and it looked at him and screamed. He almost dropped it. He handed it to Michele eagerly, but carefully.

"The hollering. It's a good thing, no?"

"Yes," Michele replied. She held it low to her breasts and gently pressed the cord aside.

" _Cherie_. The baby. Is it deformed?"

"What?" Michele said weakly and gazed at the wonder in her arms.

"It, it has no poodle," Andre said.

"The baby is not deformed, you lug," she whispered.

"But it has no—"

"Andre. We have a daughter."

Andre looked uncertain. "A what?"

Michele smiled. "A daughter. A baby girl. A beautiful baby girl, Andre."

***

Michele carried the sodden basket of wash on one hip and her small child on the other.

She dropped the basket next to the clothesline Andre had secured between two trees in the backyard. She carefully placed her baby on the sparse grass nearby. She produced a rag doll from her apron pocket and handed it to the child.

"Annie, this is your new friend, Shirley T. Shirley T, meet Anastasie."

Annie took the doll in her tiny hands, chuckled and hugged it tightly.

"Swirly Tee," she said.

Michele sighed and tried to massage her back as she pulled out the damp sheets and strung them on the clothes line. She grabbed clothespins from her other pocket and struggled to hang the cloth in the stiff breeze.

"Dammit!" she said, as the sheet slid off the wire and landed in the dirt beneath her feet.

"Dimmit!" Annie said and pointed her finger reproachfully at Shirley T.

"Don't say that!" Michele warned. She blew back hair that had tangled in the corner of her mouth. "Now, you see, Annie, the sheet is ruined!"

"Rurnt," Annie echoed.

Michele stared at the mess on the ground. It wasn't that she didn't love her child. It was just that Andre had been gone for so long and now he was finally home. He worked hard all day and spent most of his spare hours with Annie. The two had been inseparable in the short time they had been together since he had returned. She was a Cajun woman, but she needed her man. Of course she felt a responsibility toward their child. Their child and others.

"Momma? Momma!" Annie said.

Michele looked down at her. "What is it, Annie?"

Anastasie held the doll above her head and then squeezed it against her tiny chest. "I wuve Shirley T. I wuve you too."

Michele smiled. "I wuve both of you."

_How could you_ _not_? She bent down to pick up the soiled sheets and felt the familiar pain in her back again. She thought back to that first time when she was but fifteen. She gazed down toward the bayou where the old pier lay. Her father had built it years ago. The boards were still good, but the nails were rusty and stuck up here and there. She and her friend, Cilly, and Cilly's little brother, Mikey, had been jumping into the water from the pier. The little boy was only ten when he got a running start, blew past the two of them and tried to do a flip into the water. He landed short. Much too short. His back hit the end of the pier. He slid off into the water and lay floating, head down, arms outstretched. At first the girls thought he was faking, trying to get their attention for his daring act. A full minute passed and he wasn't moving. Michele shook herself, dove into the water and pulled his lifeless body onto the grass and pebbles. She turned him over and she would never forget those sightless eyes, staring into the sun and that frozen expression of astonishment.

"Do something!" Cilly had yelled at her.

Michele placed her hands beneath him, her fingers gently caressing his spine. She felt an overwhelming rush of energy coming from somewhere within her body. A lifetime passed. The boy coughed. Michele felt his chest moving. He spat out a little water and coughed again. He looked at her and smiled. She helped him up and Cilly was there, wrapping her skinny arms around both of them, her large eyes filled with awe as she looked from her brother back to Michele. The three children never told anyone what had happened that day. They never spoke about it among themselves.

Michele put out the rest of the laundry to dry and crammed the soiled sheet back into her basket. She would have to wash it again. She glanced down at her child who was cooing softly to her new friend.

She hoped she was up to the job of teaching Annie what she needed to know. It was a daunting task to pass on something that required such self-sacrifice. Her back always ached when she bent over and there were other pains as well, but she knew her own needs must be forfeited. As she watched her child cuddle with the doll, she felt a mix of both sadness and elation. She prayed they would both be up to the task.

She reached down and picked up Annie and Shirley T. Annie kissed both of them, her mother first. Michele kissed the child and the doll. She stumbled slightly and Annie giggled.

She regained her balance, carefully took Shirley T and placed her in the basket. She put her child on one hip, the basket on the other. Together, they journeyed toward home.

***

Journal of Anastasie-1

I remember. I must have been four or five. I don't recall much before that age, but later I found out that Papa had been gone to another war in a place called Korea. I vaguely had the feeling that something important was missing during that time. Momma seemed sad until he returned and then she laughed often again. I don't think the two of them ever talked about exactly where he had been or what he had done in either war, but I recall a box full of medals in the attic.

Papa would take me out in his dented, metal boat with the busted motor that worked sometimes. Often he would row or pole, especially if the water was too shallow. Some people, some who even lived near us, were afraid of the swamp. They didn't go near it, failed to embrace it and remained terrified of it. I think the richness of their whole life experience was diminished by their inability to explore the world around them.

Papa would smile. He was always smiling. He would point out a heron dipping down into the water and scooping up a little fish for its supper. He would tell me to close my eyes and see with my nose. He would ask me to tell him what I saw. I saw the sweetness of magnolia and the putrid odor of hyacinth. The scent of bald cypress trees and the fungal smell of moss. He would tell me to keep my eyes tightly closed and tell him what I felt. The warmth of sunlight on my face, the tickling of sweat down my neck and the slight rocking of our little metal island.

What did I hear? The warning chirps of squirrels, the swoop of a hawk, the rustling of cattails. Papa laughed and praised me and my nose and skin.

" _Open your eyes now, Annie. Lookie. Look at that log near the shore!"_

I found the log. At first it looked like so many others. What was so special about this one, I wondered? The boat's small wake rolled over it. Its huge jaws yawned wide. I stared at the log's nobby head and its eyes opened, cat eyes, staring at us.

" _Big lizard, Papa!"_

" _No, no,_ Cherie. _Big gator. Don't be swimmin' with that fella' around," Papa said to me and laughed._

Papa checked one of his nets. He pulled it up out of the brackish water with a grunt. "Yellow cat. Supper!" he said excitedly and held up a whiskered, prehistoric creature.

I was a little afraid of it. "Papa, it's as big as me!"

" _It sure is," he said and whacked it a few times with an oar. The catfish finally lay still, taking up most of the boat between us. "Your Momma will be happy. Good eatin' for all of us."_

I only saw my Papa afraid one time. We were in the boat, the water had narrowed and we glided under a tangle of vines near the shore. As we passed underneath the spidery limbs, something fell and landed in the boat just a few inches from my bare feet.

I looked down and a writhing dark form slithered toward me and began curling around my ankles. It opened its mouth, yawning like the gator had done and I saw the color of snow surrounding the forked tongue.

" _Annie! Don't be moving. Not a twitch," Papa said in a voice so odd, it scared me. He rose up as if to come toward me, but the boat was rocking fiercely and he lost his balance and had to sit back down._

" _Papa, you sit. It's all right," I remember calling out to him. I wasn't afraid of the snake. I was afraid for him. The cottonmouth seemed content to remain attached to my skinny bones, its tongue darting in and out through flashes of white. I reached my hand down slowly and it raised its body and then remained motionless. I grasped the back of its head, held it up above my own and the snake lay limply in my small fingers._

I moved the snake over the water, lowered my hand and gently let go. It flopped into the water and swam away.

" _Mother of God," Papa whispered._

" _You see, Papa. It didn't want to hurt me. The snake was just confused."_

" _We're going home," he said._

***

Anastasie held her doll clutched tightly to her chest and danced round and round in the front yard to the fiddle music in her head. Michele hummed to herself, while she darned socks and kept an eye on her child from the front porch. Anastasie's bib overalls were too big, but Momma had rolled the legs up and tightened the straps. The sparse clumps of grass amid the dirt and pebbles felt good against the soles of Anastasie's tiny, bare feet and she slowed her dancing just long enough to jump from one green mound to another.

She stopped for a moment, held the doll up and whispered to her little playmate, whose body had been carefully pieced together from bits of stuffed cloth and mismatched buttons. Momma had topped the head with a crown of hair made of light, curled knitting yarn.

"Shirley T, I love you, but I wish..."

Shirley T stared at her unblinking, politely waiting for Anastasie to finish. Anastasie could not bring herself to hurt Shirley T's feelings.

"I love you a whole lot," Anastasie said and squeezed her.

Anastasie hugged her close again and they continued dancing as a cool breeze stirred the willows. Anastasie stopped suddenly and listened. She looked up at the porch and Momma was still rocking and sewing and humming. She looked down at Shirley T.

"Did you hear something?"

Shirley T didn't answer, but she knew.

Anastasie glanced to the side and something rustled in the thick brush.

"Just an old nutria." She smiled at Shirley T. "Now, you don't be letting those big old teeth scare you. It won't hurt you."

Anastasie stomped her foot and a small, furry animal that resembled the offspring of a beaver and a rat, scurried from beneath a tangle of vines and disappeared.

Anastasie giggled. "See?"

Then they both heard a cough. A small sound, but distinctly human.

They glanced at the porch again, but Momma hadn't noticed it.

Anastasie and Shirley T walked slowly toward a huge pecan tree. Anastasie placed her feet cautiously to avoid the shells which lay everywhere. She stopped and peered into the shadows beyond the tree.

"There's somebody there. I knew it!" she whispered to Shirley T.

A little girl stood not five feet from them. She stared at them and tensed as if to take flight.

"Wait! Wait, don't go," Anastasie called out to her. "I've got something for you. Can you wait a second?"

The intruder nodded. Anastasie carefully placed Shirley T against the pecan tree. "I need someone to watch her for me. Will you do that?"

The girl nodded again.

Anastasie backed up, then ran as fast as she could down to the bayou's bank, a few yards from the house. She stood searching, found what she wanted and pulled it carefully away from the tangle of wet leaves that surrounded it. She ran back. The little girl was still there, silently watching.

Anastasie walked toward her. She held out her hand. "It's for you."

The girl stood uncertainly for a moment. She snatched the delicate purple flower with a dark hand, held it to her nose and made a face.

"Thank you. It's beautiful," she said and smiled shyly.

Anastasie laughed. "I know it sorta stinks, but it's very pretty. Are you lost?" Anastasie asked.

The little girl shook her head. "I lives 'round here. I know all about you. You is Anastasie and you momma and papa are Michele and Andre." Her teeth sparkled.

Anastasie smiled. "Then I know you too. You're Lavonia and your momma and papa are Ophelia and Cornelius."

The girls giggled. "Guess that makes us frien's," Lavonia said.

Anastasie pointed to the pecan tree. "And this is Shirley T," she said. "She used to be my best friend. Until today."

***

Journal of Anastasie-2

I remember the last time we went out in the boat. It was a cool autumn day, early in the morning. Heavy mist enveloped us. Papa rowed for what seemed like hours so that the sun was finally trying to find its way to us when he steered the boat toward a small sandbar. He jumped out and pulled the boat onto the shore. He grabbed his knapsack and shotgun.

" _Come, Annie, but be very quiet," he whispered._

I followed him through the tall grass and we walked silently for a while until we came to the edge of a little opening in the forest. Papa gestured for me to sit down beside a tall oak. He moved closer to the opening and squatted behind a downed tree. He carefully laid his knapsack beside him, broke open his battered single shot and placed a shell in the chamber. He positioned the gun against a forked limb and hunkered behind it.

The warming sun brought out a few insects and I swatted at them. Papa turned and gave me a stern look. I closed my eyes and dozed in the languid morning. Sometime later I heard something and woke up. Papa turned again toward me and held his finger to his lips. I looked past him and not twenty feet from us was a large buck, its pointed antlers jutting out impudently from its head. The buck sniffed the air suspiciously and seemed to be looking in our direction. Then as if too regal to be bothered anymore, it bent its heavy neck to the grass and fed.

I watched the magnificent animal. I had never seen any deer this close, especially not such a kingly figure with such an incredible crown. The eyes seemed so worldly and yet so innocent at the same time. The wet nose twitched as he chewed the grass. His tail flicked at a few persistent flies and his tawny flanks quivered. I wondered how such fragile legs could hold up an animal so large. He was unbelievably beautiful.

The deer raised its head and looked toward us again. I heard an explosion. Blotches of blood appeared on his chest and he reared upward on his hind legs for an instant and I saw shock and disbelief in his eyes. He crumpled to the ground and kicked a few times trying to rise up. Then he lay still.

" _Annie, come see!" Papa called. "We got us a beautiful buck for sure, ten pointer. Venison for a long time!" Papa yelled._

I was standing now. "No!" I screamed.

" _Annie, come see. What is it? What's the matter?"_

I looked at him and sobbed. "You killed the deer," I said.

Papa looked back at the animal on the ground, then at me. He placed his shotgun against the tree and walked toward me and knelt down. He put his arms around me.

" _Oh, my little Annie. You are so beautiful. I cry for this creature too."_

" _Then why did you have to shoot it like that?" I said and he wiped my eyes gently._

" _Annie, now look at me."_

Reluctantly, I obeyed. Papa gestured all around us. "Everything has a purpose," he said. "The water feeds the grasses, the grasses feed the deer, and the deer feed us. Someday, we die and feed the earth and everything starts again. It is a good thing to feel bad about killing the deer, but it must be done sometimes. By eating the deer we honor it and it lives on inside of us and becomes part of us. You see?"

I wiped my nose. "You feel bad too?" I asked.

" _Of course." Papa got a faraway look in his eyes. "I have always felt bad about killing anything. Even those old catfish," he said._

I giggled. "Papa," I said seriously then, "do I have a purpose too?"

Papa smiled, but it was a sad smile. "You most certainly have a purpose my little love. Yes, you do."

***

Lavonia and her sister, Lucretia, who was older by one year, appeared at the door on that bright July Saturday at precisely the correct time. Anastasie ran to greet them; flung open the screen door and the three girls tumbled into the house giggling. The children were decked out in their Sunday dresses, all clean and pressed. Hair combed neatly. Shoes brightly polished.

"Momma, they're here! Let's go, we're gonna miss the cartoon," Anastasie shouted.

"I'm coming," Michele yelled back and grabbed her purse from the little table by the door. "Well, you girls look beautiful. If we weren't going to the movies, I do believe we'd be at Sunday school today."

The two little black girls smiled shyly. "Thank you, Miz Devereux."

Michele led the trio to the old truck parked in the shed and the girls climbed in. It was a tight fit, but they managed.

***

The tiny Bayou Theater was located just off the town square and Michele was able to find a place to park right in front. The two little black girls sat quietly as Michele turned off the engine.

Lavonia opened her hand and shoved a dollar bill at Michele. "No, honey, after all your momma has done for us, we're buying the tickets today."

"And I'm buying the candy for you two," Anastasie added. Lavonia and Lucretia grinned and the dollar quickly disappeared inside a tiny purse.

They walked to the ticket booth and Michele purchased the tickets from Old Man Johnson, the owner. He glanced down at the little black girls. "You two kin go on upstairs."

"We're buying candy first," Michele replied.

Johnson shrugged. "Jus' so's you all know."

"I'm perfectly aware of the rules," Michele said stiffly.

They went in. The inside of the theater was hot and humid, but the kids didn't seem to mind.

Anastasie went to the snack counter, placed some coins on the counter and ordered three boxes of Juju Beans from Mrs. Johnson. She handed two of them to her friend.

"Thank you, Annie," Lavonia said and took the boxes.

"Well, ladies, you all go on up and have a good time. We'll meet you right here when the show's over. I've heard _Snow White_ is the best movie ever made," Michele said.

The girls nodded. Anastasie watched them walk over to the two stained water fountains situated next to the stairs. The girls drank thirstily from the one labeled, "Colored Only." Both of them made a face. The water was brown. They straightened, waved and disappeared up the winding staircase that led to the balcony.

Anastasie watched them go. She looked at her mother. "Momma, it's just not—"

Michele raised a finger and glanced at Mrs. Johnson who had been watching them from behind the popcorn machine. "Hush, now. We'll talk about it later," she said.

***

Michele and Anastasie were in high spirits when the Disney classic was over, but the sisters seemed subdued. On the bumpy ride home, Michele had to stop the truck three times to allow Lavonia and Lucretia to open the door and throw up. Michele could tell they were running a high fever. She was worried. There was a terrible scourge spreading across the country. It took children as its victims.

***

Journal of Anastasie-3

Lavonia was my best friend in the whole world. She would come over to our house every day in the summer and we would play outside until supper. Sometimes we played with jacks and sometimes we would play hide and seek. I would complain that because Lavonia was so dark, she had an advantage in that game. Momma and Ophelia, her momma, sat on the porch shelling beans and would laugh so hard, I thought they would fall right off.

Lavonia was two years older than I was and a hundred years wiser. One time when we were scratching Xs and Os in the dirt with a stick, Lavonia asked me if I had seen any boys around.

" _Nope. No boys around here except our daddies," I answered._

" _You like the boys?" Lavonia asked._

I made a face. "Oh, no. Except our daddy-boys. Boys are nasty," I asserted.

Lavonia laughed. "You ain't gonna be sayin' that someday."

I assured her that boys were the very last thing I wanted to have anything to do with.

One day that summer Lavonia and her momma didn't come to visit. Not that day or the next or the next. Momma and I went over to their house. There was a sign tacked to the front door. Momma read it and shook her head. She took my hand and pulled me off the porch.

" _What is it, Momma? What does that sign say? Where is everybody?"_

" _Come on, Annie, we've got to get back home. Now!"_

I pulled back and started to cry. "I thought I heard somebody talking in there." I pointed back to the house.

Momma just kept pulling at me and walking fast. After a few minutes of traveling she stopped. "Annie, I'm going back over there tomorrow, but you will stay with Papa until I get back."

" _That's not fair!" I yelled and stamped my foot._

" _Lavonia is sick. Bad sick. If you go with me, you might catch it."_

" _Sick? Is that what the sign on the door said?"_

" _Yes,"Momma said._

" _But if you go back, what if you catch it?"_

Momma stopped and smiled down at me. "You don't worry about me, honey. I won't catch it."

" _Because you're big?"_

" _Something like that," Momma said._

***

Days without seeing Lavonia turned into weeks and I played by myself in the front yard, but it just wasn't the same without her. Momma had been to her house several times and I always begged her to take me with her the next time and she always put me off.

Papa would come home every night, dead tired and smelling like fish. But he would always ask me how I was feeling and ride me around for awhile on his big shoulders. Momma and Papa would feel my brow all the time and ask me if I had a fever or anything. I knew all this had something to do with Lavonia. One night I was outside playing and they were sitting on the porch talking quietly.

" _It's not looking good," I heard Momma say._

" _She's a tough little girl, she'll make it," Papa said._

Momma made a funny, sniffling sound. "Cornelius and Ophelia are talking about selling their truck and taking her to Tuskegee."

" _Tuskegee? Why not Baton Rouge or New Orleans?"_

" _Andre," Momma sounded sad, "they're Negroes. There's a treatment place there for people like them. Anyway, lots of people think Negro children don't get polio. After all, Lucretia didn't get it," Momma said, but her voice sounded kind of funny._

I heard Papa stomp a scorpion on the planks of the porch . His voice got louder. "Some kids get it and some don't. Lucretia was lucky, that's all. What the hell did I fight for if people can't get help when they need it?" Papa said.

" _Hush up now. You'll upset Annie."_

" _It ain't right, Michele, you know it. Annie thinks the sun rises and sets in that girl."_

" _What we know and what we think don't matter much,"Momma said._

" _Do we have any money?" Papa asked._

" _No, but maybe we've got something else that money can't buy."_

" _Michele, are you sure you want to do that, honey? I mean, you have to be careful. You have to think about Annie."_

" _I am thinking about Annie," Momma replied and it got real quiet. I think they were hugging each other tight._

***

It was a few days later when Momma got sick. Papa was off with his nets and Momma told me she was going to lie down and for me to come inside.

" _Momma, what's wrong?" I asked._

" _It's nothing, honey. I just have a stiff neck and feel a little feverish. You stay in your room and color. Don't you dare leave this house or I'll tan your hide!"_

Momma went upstairs and I went to my room and got out my crayolas. But I was kind of worried because Momma had never done anything like this before. Taking naps in the broad daylight never happened in our family.

Papa finally came home that long day. He immediately went up to see Momma and after a while came back down. His face was drawn and he looked exhausted.

" _Is Momma all right?"_

Papa gave me a funny look. "She's fine, Annie. Just got too much sun, I think."

I didn't know what lying was, but I knew Papa wasn't telling me the whole truth.

After that, Papa stopped going fishing every day for a time. He would play with me for awhile in the mornings and then he would go up and tend to Momma the rest of the day and into the evenings. He would take me up to the door of their bedroom to peek in and see how Momma was doing and he always told me to be real quiet, that she needed her rest. I wasn't allowed to get any closer than the bedroom door. Sometimes when I did get a glimpse of her, she looked skinny, and although Papa took her supper up every night, he would often bring it back downstairs cold and uneaten.

One day I thought it was the end. We came back down in the evening and Papa and I sat on the porch and watched the fireflies. Papa had gotten real quiet in those days, so I did most of the talking for both of us.

" _Papa, is Momma going to die?"_

Papa didn't speak for a long time and I thought he hadn't heard me.

" _Papa, is—"_

" _No, Annie," he said quietly. "Your Momma is a strong woman. Stronger than we are. She'll make it. Now, you and me, we're going to say a prayer so Jesus will help her."_

We got down on our knees on the rickety, old porch and prayed to God and Jesus and St. Jude, although I had no idea who that was.

" _Amen," Papa said._

" _Amen," I repeated._

The very next night Papa came running down the stairs and sprinted into the kitchen. He was slamming things around, opening the icebox and dropping pots on the floor. But he was smiling. It was the first time I had seen that in weeks.

Shirley T and me had been talking on the porch and I rushed inside to see what was the matter. Papa was singing as he worked and everybody knew he couldn't carry a tune in a banjo case.

" _Papa, are you all right?"_

Papa stopped his singing and smiled at me.

" _Papa, did you catch something too?" I was squeezing Shirley T so tightly some of her seams were tearing._

Papa ran water over a peanut butter jar, wiped it hurriedly with a dish towel and dropped in chunks of ice. He smiled at me again. He wiped his eyes with the dish towel.

" _Andre?"Momma said from above. "Andre, bring me some of that chicken soup you made the other day. And two pieces of cornbread."_

Papa and I looked at each other and grinned.

" _And I need a gallon of sweet tea," Momma said._

***

Lavonia came over to play a few days later. I had a million questions to ask her.

" _For a white girl, you done ast way too many questions," Lavonia said and I hugged her. "Ain't a thing wrong wif me. I'm fit as an ol' fiddle," she cackled._

Ophelia hugged me and cried and went up to see Momma. Momma was doing all right too, except that she held her left arm in a funny way. It seemed to me that it was smaller than it had been before. It was something she never got over, and although I knew it made life harder for her, she never mentioned it. Not then, not later, not ever.

# Chapter Two

St. Francis Catholic Church had been built at the end of the nineteenth century and still proudly displayed many of the original rough-hewn cypress timbers that had been carefully laid in place by its early parishioners. The church had been refurbished and whitewashed more than once since that time because of winds from hurricanes and flooding and insects. Its slanting roof and high steeple nevertheless displayed an aura of permanence and quiet majesty, although its alabaster pews would seat but three hundred of the faithful.

The cemetery on the small rise behind the church confirmed that there had been other Catholic worshippers on the same site at an earlier time. Gray tombstones and small mausoleums, with twin columns guarding the entrance ways, were nudged together within the protective rectangle of the wrought-iron fence. Many of them displayed chiseled dates that went back to the 1700s.

The school had yet to be built, but plans were underway in order to cope with the explosion of births that had come in the past few years. Learning took place in an ancient military hut made of tin, just behind the church. There were few windows, and the school, which resembled half an overturned oyster shell, was stifling except for winter months. The ancient wood stove in the front did little to warm small bodies in January.

In spite of the suffocating atmosphere, Anastasie and Lavonia were excited and sat next to each other on plain, one-piece oak student desks. There were a dozen other kids from surrounding homes who looked somewhat less enthusiastic than the two best friends.

Sister Bernadette stood at the head of the class, her black habit flowing outward like batwings.

"Welcome to St. Francis Elementary School, children," Sister Bernadette said in a quiet voice. "Before today's lessons begin, I want you all to understand the rules."

There was a slight shuffling from the tiny crowd, but no one dared say anything.

Sister Bernadette's hand floated up from somewhere beneath her dark garment. She held up a finger. "If you wish to speak, always raise your hand first. That means, unless I give you permission, no talking." She raised another finger. "Do not leave your seat without permission. No running inside the classroom..."

Lavonia glanced at Anastasie, her eyes wide, a childish mocking smirk on her face as the nun continued, rapidly running out of fingers.

Sister Bernadette stopped in mid-sentence and glared at her. "Lavonia? Did you have something you wanted to say?" Lavonia's mouth dropped open, astonished at the use of her name. The smirk vanished.

Lavonia hung her head. "No ma'am," she mumbled.

Sister Bernadette came close to smiling. "You may call me Sister. Sister will be fine, Lavonia."

"No ma'am, Sister," Lavonia replied and covered her forehead with her palm.

Sister Bernadette finished the rule recitation and asked for questions. There were none from the children. She nodded, and with a slight flourish, went back behind her desk and pulled out packages of white construction paper and little boxes of crayons. She handed the materials out to the children who sat waiting for instructions.

"The first thing I want you to do today is draw a picture of your family. You may color it and please name all the people you draw if you can."

A small arm attached to a little boy shot up from the back of the room.

"Jacque?"

"Sister Bernadette, ma'am. I don't know nuthin' about drawin' pitchers."

"Jacque, you and the others just do the very best that you can. I'll come around to help."

"But Sister, ma'am, what if I git a bad grade 'cause I ain't good at drawin'," he insisted.

"Class, this is not for a grade. I just want to get to know all of you better and this will help me. Any other questions? All right, let's get busy. Oh, and remember Rule Number Six. Do not get any crayon marks on your desk!"

The children bent over their desks and labored hard, little hands sketching furiously. Sister Bernadette patrolled up and down the rows, pausing here and there to offer suggestions, or rarely, words of praise. She had made the rounds twice and was preparing for a third and final circle when she stopped in front of Anastasie's desk. Anastasie had completed her coloring of Momma and Papa and Lavonia and was adding striking pictures of beautiful flowers and a large alligator.

"Very good," Sister Bernadette said, and started to move on. She stopped and looked back. She frowned and pointed to a vivid yellow mark just at the corner of Anastasie's picture of Momma.

"Anastasie," her voice rose, "Did you forget Rule Six?"

Anastasie smiled up at her. "No, Sister, ma'am. Don't mark on the desks."

Sister Bernadette placed a stubby fingernail on the mark. Anastasie's eyes followed the gesture.

"Somebody colored outside the lines," she said.

Sister Bernadette frowned down at her. "Somebody? I asked you to be careful."

Anastasie smiled again. "I was very careful," she replied.

"Not careful enough, I'm afraid," and Sister Bernadette shook her head. She went back to her big desk, rummaged through the top desk drawer, pulled something out and marched back to Anastasie.

"I'm afraid you'll have to be punished for that, Anastasie. And for telling fibs."

Anastasie's brow wrinkled . "I never tell fibs," she said quietly. "And I think some other child must have accidentally made a mark. I was very careful," she repeated.

Sister Bernadette's mouth turned down and her eyes bulged. Her face grew darker inside the cowl of her habit. "Put your hands on top of the desk," she commanded.

"I didn't do anything," Anastasie protested.

Sister Bernadette sighed. "Anastasie, for every second you delay, I will add one more blow." She pulled a foot-long ruler from behind her back and smacked it against the palm of her hand. The other children had stopped their work and were staring. The stuffy room was quiet.

Anastasie sighed and put her hands, palms down, on the rough little desk.

"You will receive one blow for each of your two transgressions," Sister Bernadette intoned.

The wooden ruler slashed through the still air, the sudden rush of wind blowing several of the nearby coloring sheets onto the floor. It smacked against the desk and the children jumped and several screamed. Anastasie did not jerk her hands away or cry out. Sister Bernadette stared at the piece of wood that had seconds before been her instrument of justice. The ruler had struck the desk and completely missed Anastasie's tiny fingers. Broken pieces lay scattered on the floor.

"Don't you move," Sister Bernadette said to Anastasie. She hadn't.

Sister Bernadette fixed all the children with a frightening glance, stalked to her desk, rummaged through it again and returned with yet another tool of punishment. Her hand was shaking slightly as she hefted the yardstick. She approached Anastasie's desk again.

Anastasie met her glare with composure. "Two strokes this time, for two offenses," Sister Bernadette said. She leaned back slightly, aimed at Anastasie's still-splayed fingers and swung the yardstick. The thin board hurled through the air, the force making it bend backwards. Once again there was the sound of crackling lightning as the long ruler hit the desk. It snapped in Sister Bernadette's hand.

Sister Bernadette dropped what remained and stepped away from Anastasie.

"Recess," she said so quietly the children didn't hear.

No one moved. "Recess! Now!" Sister Bernadette said louder. "Go outside and play."

The children got up and filed out the door. There was no yelling or shoving or boisterous laughter. Sister Bernadette went back to her desk and sank into her chair. Anastasie and Lavonia quietly joined the other children outside.

Journal of Anastasie-4

I think I was about six or seven when Momma took me to see Aunt Julia. I had just started the second grade at St. Francis Catholic School.

We went to mass on that hot, humid Sunday in September and afterwards somebody had given us a ride to the bus depot. We were all decked out in our best dresses. I kind of liked that, but also felt uncomfortable in anything but my little overalls.

The bus wasn't too crowded, but it stank of oil and gasoline, the air inside stifling. It bumped and groaned down the dirt road and I kept slipping out of the seat and Momma had to push me back to keep me from falling onto the dirty floor.

I held on for dear life and craned my neck to see outside. Everything looked pretty much the same and I was disappointed.

It was a long ride. We finally pulled up to a little intersection in the middle of nowhere and Momma told me to get off and we started walking. I was glad to be out of the bus, but soon the heat and humidity were wearing me out. My once shiny patent leather shoes were covered in a brown patina of dust.

" _Momma, can we get a co-cola if we ever get there?"_

" _We're almost there, honey. We'll see, but we have co-colas at home."_

" _You always say that," I replied._

We rounded a small bend in the road and there was a small white fence bordering a pathway. On the left side was a tiny gatehouse. A little man came out to greet us.

" _Hello!" he said cheerfully. "Ya'll here to visit somebody?"_

Momma smiled. "Hello. We're here to see Julia Boudreaux."

" _Ah, Julia! She'll be delighted to see you." He consulted a piece of paper hanging from a cracked clipboard and made a check. He wrote awkwardly with his left hand. Two of his fingers were missing._

" _Momma," I started, but Momma gave me one of those withering looks that told me to keep my mouth tightly shut._

The little man looked down at me. "And who might this pretty little girl be?"

" _Anastasie," I said quietly._

" _A pretty name for a pretty little girl. Ya'll go on up. I expect Julia will be sitting on the lawn next to that big oak up yonder," he gestured._

" _Thank you," Momma said and took my hand._

***

The lawn was perfectly laid out and bright green. There were flowers everywhere, some bordered by intricate patterns of bottles glistening in the sunlight. That made me thirsty all over again. Off to the right was a river flowing quietly as if it were standing watch over the entire place and daring anything or anyone to disturb the serenity.

An elderly couple walked by us holding hands. They smiled and nodded and were followed by a younger man in a wheelchair. His hands were huge and they pushed the wheels expertly. His face was contorted by the effort.

" _Momma! That man has bumps all over his face."_

Momma sighed and stopped. She looked at me as if trying to decide what to say.

" _Annie, most of these people have been sick," Momma said quietly._

" _Sick?"_

" _Yes." She leaned very close to me. "Now, you must remember two things while we're here." She held up a finger. "One, don't say anything about them being sick, especially where they can hear you." Another finger went up. "Most sick people are still very good people. Being sick doesn't have anything to do with that. Do you understand, Annie?"_

I nodded. "Yes, Momma."

" _Good. After we leave you can ask me any question you want. But for now, zip the lips."_

I giggled.

" _All right. Now let's go see Aunt Julia."_

We walked a little farther up the stone pathway to a big oak. Aunt Julia was sitting on an ancient wooden bench. It reminded me of the kind we had sat on while waiting for the bus. A nun was placing a huge pitcher of icy lemonade and three glasses on a small table beside her.

At first I thought the nun was my teacher. As we drew closer, I realized that the face pinched inside the white habit must have belonged to a Sister of Mercy, a nurse.

" _Michele, darling! Oh, I'm so glad you were able to come," Aunt Julia said around the winged figure. "And just look who came with you!" she added and looked at me._

The nun straightened up. Her eyes appeared huge in her small oval face.

Aunt Julia beamed at us and looked at the nun. "Sister, this is my niece, Michele, and her little daughter, Anastasie."

The nun gave us a bright smile. "I am so glad to meet you both. I've heard so much about you!" She looked at me. "And you and I have quite a bit in common, young lady. My name is Sister Marie Anthony."

" _We almost have the same name!" I said in astonishment._

" _Indeed we do. Well, I've got to check on a few other people, so I'll leave you three to catch up on things."_

" _Nice meeting you," Momma said. "And thank you all for doing such a wonderful job here."_

Sister Marie Anthony laughed. "It's God's work, Michele. We're just doing His work." And she flew off.

" _Come here, Annie, and give your old Aunt Julia a kiss."_

_I looked at Momma for help, but she just nodded. I sat down beside_ _Aunt Julia and hugged her and she kissed me on the cheek. Momma poured us all a glass of lemonade and I drank half of it in one big gulp._

I drank some more lemonade while Momma and Aunt Julia caught up on how many of our relatives had gotten married, had children and died.

I did my eight-year-old best not to stare, but I couldn't help but notice something strange about Aunt Julia. Beneath her flowered dress, Aunt Julia had no legs.

" _Tell Aunt Julia about your school," Momma said._

I looked up into her wrinkled face. "It's real fun. We're learning how to write cursive, I think you call it."

Aunt Julia clasped her hands together and laughed as if I had just said the most brilliant thing in the world. "That's wonderful, dear. I hope you will write me a long letter when you've learned that cursive."

" _Yes, ma'am, I will," I said obediently. "Aunt Julia, are the sisters nice to you here?"_

" _Oh, yes dear. They're all wonderful here. So caring." I sat back relieved. I had heard stories from the other kids that nuns sometimes had a torture chamber and they would take you there if you were bad and beat you. But nothing like that had happened at my school as far as I knew._

" _Aunt Julia, why do they have so many co-cola bottles spread around the flowers?"_

Momma and Aunt Julia looked at each other.

" _Well, child," Aunt Julia began and took another sip of her lemonade, "It's so hot here, people drink lots of co-colas."_

" _But we're drinking lemonade," I persisted._

" _Some people prefer co-colas." Aunt Julia said and put her glass on the table. "You see, the man who sends the co-colas here, why he just tells us to keep the bottles. We never have to send them back, so people use them for their flower gardens."_

" _Why?" I said._

Aunt Julia waved her arm around. "To make beautiful gardens," she repeated.

" _No, I mean why don't you have to send them back to him? Don't they fill them up again?"_

Aunt Julia looked sad for a moment and looked over at Momma who was hanging her head down. "Annie, you probably noticed I don't have legs like most people. And most people here, they've got something wrong with them too."

" _Yes, ma'am," I said in a quiet voice._

" _Well, honey, a long time ago I got some germs and they made me sick. I was brought here along with other people who had also got these germs. Some doctors said they'd have to remove the sick parts of our bodies so we could get better." Aunt Julia smoothed down her dress._

" _So that's how come you lost your legs?"_

" _Yes, dear. I had to give up my legs so I could keep right on living. See, that's not a half-bad bargain, when you think on it."_

" _But, what about the co-cola bottles?"_

I heard Momma sigh and figured I was going to be in a lot of trouble later.

Aunt Julia had a faraway look and I thought she wasn't going to answer. "Some people are still afraid of us," she said.

" _Afraid? Why? You are such a nice person," I protested._

" _Some people still believe they can catch the germs from us. The co-cola man doesn't want us to send back the bottles because he thinks other people would be afraid to use them."_

I opened my mouth, but nothing would come out. I didn't know what to say.

Aunt Julia patted my knee. "Don't you be worrying little Annie. You, your momma and nobody else in the world is going to catch those germs. People are just afraid of the things they don't understand. They fear anybody at all who is different from them. When they look at us, they see ragged people. People who have been sick in their bodies. But we have grown much stronger in our souls."

For some reason I had trouble holding back tears. "But Aunt Julia, doesn't that make you mad? That people won't try to see you for a real person?"

Aunt Julia glanced at Momma. "You've got yourself one bright little gal, Michele."

" _I know," Momma said._

Aunt Julia looked at me. "Sometimes, I get a mite irritated over things like that, but mostly I just feel sorry for people who truly think so little of themselves that they have to look down on others."

" _Well, it makes me madder than hell too," Momma said. The curse word made me jump. "I wish that I could have done more—"_

" _Hush your mouth, girl!" Aunt Julia almost shouted and it made me jump again._

They both looked at me. "You have a higher obligation. You must always choose carefully,"Aunt Julia said.

I expected Momma's famous temper to flare up but instead she looked down. "I know. You're right," she said.

I waited for them to continue. I had no idea what they were talking about.

" _Do you need anything? Anything at all?" Momma asked Aunt Julia._

Aunt Julia smiled a lovely smile. "No, darling. I've got the sun and friends and wonderful people like you two. What else could I possibly need?"

***

On the long ride back home I kept waiting anxiously for Momma to start yelling at me about asking so many questions, but she never did.

" _I love Aunt Julia," I said._

Momma turned and smiled at me. "She loves you too."

" _Momma, when I get big I'm going to be a nurse like Sister Marie Anthony and help the Alligator People."_

Momma swiveled in her seat and stared at me for a long minute. "The what kind of people?"

" _The Alligator People," I repeated._

Momma gave me a huge frown. "Annie, don't you ever call—"

" _I call them the Alligator People because some of them have big bumps and sometimes they have a leg missing. But even with all those problems they all seem calm and quiet and very strong. I love Alligators so much," I said._

Momma stopped frowning and laughed. "I think you picked a good name," she said.

" _Momma, is Lavonia one of the Alligator People too?"_

Momma looked at her left arm. Ever since I could remember it had been smaller than the right one and sometimes she had trouble holding things with that hand.

" _No, sweetheart. Lavonia had different germs."_

" _You can't tell that Lavonia was ever sick," I said._

" _No, you can't," Momma answered._

" _There sure are a lot of germs. When I'm older, I'm going to beat those germs and make people better."_

Momma laughed again. "I hope you will, Annie. Maybe you can't help everybody in the whole world, but I know you will help some," she said.

I didn't know how, but I knew we were both right.

***

The children in third grade at St. Francis Catholic School played happily after lunch amid the fly-enshrouded, huge black barrels that contained smoldering paper plates and cups. The nauseous vapors permeated the humid air, but the children never noticed. They were having too much fun kicking up clouds of dust as they sailed across the ground on rickety swings. Some climbed hand over hand on the monkey bars and spun in endless circles on the merry-go-round.

Anastasie and Lavonia liked the playtime after lunch. They liked their teacher, Mrs. Dentelles, who was not a nun anymore, but rumored to have been one long ago. The plump little teacher sat on a bench near the swings eating her cheese sandwich and drinking coffee from a chipped mug. She watched over the children as if they were her own.

"That Miz Dentelles sure do like her coffee," Lavonia observed astutely and nodded toward the teacher.

"Yuck," Anastasie replied. "I'd rather have a co-cola anytime."

"Me too," Lavonia said. "Bet I can beetcha to the carousel."

"Nope," Anastasie said smiling and the two friends took off laughing and running as hard as their little legs could pump.

The two girls stopped, panting heavily, bent over trying to breathe, hands on knees.

"I told you I could win," Anastasie laughed.

"Ain't no way. We wuz even-steven the whole time," Lavonia said. She looked back across the playground at the monkey bars. "Hey, Annie, look. That little girl too scrawny to be climbin' up that high."

Anastasie followed Lavonia's gaze. A tiny girl was trying to make her way across the top of the structure. She was halfway, her skinny arms stretched out, her small hands clinging desperately to the crossbar.

"She stuck," Lavonia said. "Can't go frontwards, can't go back."

"Come on!" Anastasie said and both girls ran toward the metal bars. They stopped a few feet away and stared up at the little girl. "What's her name?" Anastasie asked Lavonia.

Lavonia rubbed her forehead. "Somepin' like Mary Jane, I think. No, it's just Janie."

"Hey," Anastasie yelled up at her. "Janie, you all right?" The little girl looked down and shook her head. Her face was furrowed in pain.

"She real scared," Lavonia whispered.

Anastasie moved closer until she stood directly under the girl. She craned her neck and looked up. "It's all right," she said quietly, "just let go and I'll catch you."

Lavonia moved toward the ladder of the monkey bars. "Lavonia, where are you going?"

"Gonna encourage her to come down to ya,'" Lavonia said and began climbing.

"Janie, my friend is going to help you down. Just take her hand. She'll pull you up. She's very strong," Anastasie added.

"No! I can't," the little girl spoke for the first time.

Lavonia pulled herself up the ladder and stretched out at the top. She spread her hands and feet and began pulling herself toward Janie. She stopped inches from the little girl's fingers.

"Don't you be scart. Lavonia gonna pull you up." Lavonia reached a hand through the bars and gently wrapped it around Janie's.

"O.K., now, you jus' gotta trus' me. Let me take you hand, then I'm gonna git the other one. Don't be lookin' down now. You jus' look me right in the face."

Janie allowed Lavonia to grasp her right wrist. Then she closed her eyes and let her left hand slacken. Lavonia held both of her arms tightly, tucked her ankles under one of the bars behind her and leaned forward. Lavonia slowly lowered the little girl. Anastasie reached up and grabbed her around the waist. She gently placed her on the ground.

"Everything's all right now, Janie. You're on solid earth now," Anastasie said and hugged her.

"Hey, Annie, if you doan mind too much, I'm kinda stuck myself," Lavonia said from above.

Anastasie looked up at her friend who was hanging upside down through the bars.

She began laughing and put a hand quickly to her mouth.

"It ain't that funny from up here," Lavonia said and began laughing herself.

"I'll come up and get you," Anastasie said, now in tears.

"Never you mind, white girl. I'd just as soon do it myself."

Lavonia did a perfect jackknife up through the bars and grabbed them. She hung for a second then dropped down gracefully onto the dirt below.

"You ought to be in the circus," Anastasie said and clamped her arm around Lavonia's shoulders.

"This whole place like a circus, you ast me," Lavonia said and smiled. "And where that Miz Dentelles be all this time?" Lavonia asked loudly.

"I'm right here, honey," the little teacher said from behind her. "You two were doing such a wonderful job, to tell the truth, I was too afraid to try to help." She looked down at Janie who was rubbing her eyes with dirty fingers. "You all right now, darlin'?"

"Yes, ma'am," Janie answered.

Mrs. Dentelles looked back at the two girls. "You two deserve a medal for what you did. That was simply amazing!" she beamed. "Matter of fact, it was sort of a miracle."

"Miracles is what we all about," Lavonia said, her white teeth gleaming in the sunshine.

***

Journal of Anastasie-5

Ever since I can remember I have always wanted to be a doctor and relieve the suffering of others. But for a little Cajun girl from the swamps, whose family's most expensive possession was an old RCA Victor radio, being a physician was just a dream.

The next best thing was nursing. I used to pretend that Shirley T had fallen from a tree and broken her arm and I would spend hours fussing over her, splinting the broken limb and wrapping her in bandages.

The good sisters encouraged all the girls to become nurses, if not nuns. I was one of the few who took them seriously. At least the part about being a nurse.

When I was in the second or third grade the nuns took a few of us to a children's hospital in Baton Rouge. Sister Catherine took me into a room the size of a gymnasium. We were told only one of us at a time could enter. She warned me not to make a sound or touch anything.

The first thing I noticed was the awful sound. The room was filled with a throaty humming noise that made the floor tremble slightly and reverberated along the walls and ceiling.

I looked across the giant room and saw rows and rows of little machines that resembled tiny, metal caskets. Each box had a mirror affixed to one end. As we approached one of the coffins, I saw a little boy's head protruding from one end. I thought I had been brought to the nun's torture chamber and started to pull away, but Sister Catherine held my hand tightly and urged me toward the head. She gestured with her finger and pointed to the mirror. The little boy's image smiled at me. In spite of my terror, I smiled back at him.

" _The machine is helping him to breathe," Sister Catherine whispered loudly in my ear above the din._

I stood transfixed, staring up at the reflection of his face. All my fear vanished. I could hear the rhythm of his machine above all the others.

" _What's your name?" I asked and Sister Catherine frowned at me._

" _Freddy," he mouthed in the mirror._

I edged closer, heedless of Sister Catherine's attempt to hold me back. I stood on my tiptoes and reached out my hand to touch his hair.

" _No, Annie! Don't do that!" Sister Catherine said and pulled me away._

" _I need to touch him!" I yelled._

A nurse ran over and said something to Sister Catherine. She grabbed me and pulled me away from Freddy, away from all the other imprisoned children and through the double doors of the room.

" _You are in big trouble, young lady," Sister Catherine lectured once we were out in the hallway._

I was crying. "I wanted to help him," I said.

Sister Catherine knelt in front of me. Her face softened. "Annie, the doctors and nurses are doing everything they can to help Freddy and all the children."

" _It's not enough," I replied._

Sister Catherine stood up and shook her head. "The rest of it is in God's hands."

I wanted to ask Sister Catherine why God had allowed this, but I knew what she would say. She took my hand again and I could not help but feel grateful that I was able to walk down that hallway, breathe the air and go back out into the sunshine. And although Freddy and I were removed from each other physically, we would never be apart in our minds and in our hearts.

***

Anastasie was growing fast and tall and would be entering the Catholic equivalent of junior high in the fall. It was the summer just before that when she met the bear. Momma was allowing her a little more independence day by day and for Anastasie, the gradual emancipation was exciting, although the process was more emotional than physical given the limitations of the little family's monetary resources.

Natural resources, on the other hand, were free and abundant. She would take long walks, frequently alone, along the bayou and through the dense oak forests. She would often pick wildflowers for the dinner table and simply watch the life around her. Tadpoles scurried around in the muddy little creek. Crayfish were digging holes for their homes with tiny claws. Herons and egrets flew over her, while small birds fluttered in the tree tops, stalked by hawks and other predators.

Across the creek a small oak tree shuddered. There was a low huffing sound coming from its direction. Anastasie squinted across the creek. The oak shook again and a few branches fell to the ground. She tiptoed through the water and moved toward the strange arboreal antics. She heard the low huffing sound again and stopped. A huge figure with sable hair hurled itself against the bark of the tree. Anna stared as it growled, raised its massive head and bit into the wood as if trying to consume it.

The black bear dropped to all fours, made a strange groaning noise and lifted one of its massive paws. Anastasie saw blood dripping from between its curved claws.

The bear raised its head and looked in her direction, its unfocused eyes unable to see her clearly. The nose twitched and Anastasie knew that the bear was aware of her.

In the distance they both heard excited human voices, drawing closer. The bear looked in the direction and growled.

"You poor little thing," Anastasie said. "You've been hurt."

She walked toward the bear and expected it to stand up on its hind legs and pretend to charge. Instead, it gave out a small sigh and sat down.

The voices were closer now and they could clearly hear the slapping of running feet on the soft ground. The bear put its head down like a lap dog and closed its eyes.

"No!" Anastasie whispered loudly. Frantically she moved closer to the bear and waved her arms. "Get up!" She pointed at a spot behind them where the forest grew thicker. "Run! Go in there."

The footfalls were louder and coming faster now. Slowly, the bear raised its head and looked directly at Anastasie. It struggled to its feet, swung its head from side to side, turned around and dashed into the darkness of the trees.

Seconds later two men thrashed through the undergrowth and stopped abruptly, staring at the lone figure of Anastasie. They were rough-looking, clothes torn and dirty. The larger one carried a metal contraption with dark steel jaws. He held it by a chain in one hand. In the other hand he carried a rifle. The smaller man, Anastasie realized he was actually a boy about her own age, also carried a rifle.

"Well, now," the older man said, "look what we got here, Antoine." He scratched his chest with the rifle barrel and continued to stare at Anastasie in a way that made her step back.

The boy smiled uncertainly at Anastasie and held up his hand as a greeting. "We, uh, we were just out looking around for a good place to hunt catfish," he said lamely.

The older man laughed. "Catfish. Yeah we was after some biguns'." He took a step toward Anastasie. "You see any, honey? Fish, or maybe some deer or a big black bear?"

Anastasie met his gaze. "My daddy has hunted catfish all his life," she gestured at his hands, "but I don't remember him ever using guns or a big trap like that."

The boy smiled. His grizzled companion laughed. "Now, ain't we got us a smart one, Antoine? Honey, you just be kind enuff to tell us which way that bear went and we'll let you go back to pickin' berries or whatever you wuz doin' out here," he paused, "all by yourself."

"Uncle J, I think we need to be moving on. It's getting late and—"

"You let me do the talkin'. And the thinkin,'" Uncle J said harshly.

"You know, my daddy, who's supposed to meet me here any minute, only hunts bear in the fall," Anastasie said.

The boy shuffled his feet, looked down. "Who's your daddy?"

"Andre Devereux," Anastasie responded.

"Yeah, I know him. Nice fella. Give you the shirt off his back," Uncle J said and snorted.

The boy stepped forward shyly and offered his hand. "I'm Antoine. Good to meet you."

"Anastasie Devereux," she said and shook his hand awkwardly.

"Well, ain't you two lovebirds just the sweetest ole' thing?" Uncle J said. He put down his trap and rifle, stepped closer to Anastasie. "You are the sweetest thing I've seen 'round these parts," he said in a low voice. "What time you say daddy's coming?"

"Soon. Very soon," Anastasie said and stepped back again.

"Ah, we probably got a little time 'fore he shows," Uncle J said and moved again.

"Uncle J!" the boy yelled. "We need to be going. Now."

Uncle J ignored him and reached out toward Anastasie's arm.

"Uncle J. I said we're leaving."

Uncle J turned his head. Antoine held his rifle to his shoulder, its barrel pointed at Uncle J's chest.

"Put that damned gun down, boy. Who do you think you are trying to—"

Antoine jerked the lever of his rifle down, then up. The metallic snap was loud.

His finger tightened on the trigger. "I'm not telling you again," he said quietly.

"Well, I'll be damned! I believe you would do it. You would." He shrugged. "I guess this purty little thing is worth killing for," he looked at Anastasie and grinned, "but she jest ain't worth dying for." He turned around, picked up his trap and rifle and stomped off.

Antoine put down his rifle and carefully lowered the hammer. His hands shook slightly.

"I'm awfully sorry about this, Anastasie," he said, pain in his voice.

"It's all right. Except for the company you keep. And that part about killing animals out of season."

"You're right," he replied. "I promise you I won't be keeping the company or hunting animals like this anymore." He smiled shyly at her.

Anastasie smiled back. He looked at her, concern marring his features. "Will you be all right? Make it home OK?"

"I have nothing to fear from the swamp itself," she said, "it's my home."

"All right. Well, I have to go," he said reluctantly. "Got to keep him out of trouble until we get back," he nodded in the direction Uncle J had gone.

"I understand. And thank you," Anastasie said and smiled.

The boy waved, backed up, stumbled, then turned around quickly and began to run after his uncle.

The swamp was quiet again. Anastasie breathed in the smells that surrounded her. She unclenched her hands. In the distance she saw the bear. It sniffed the air, reared up slightly and disappeared into the woods.

***

For Anastasie, junior high school was a time of interesting things to learn, new friends to make and mean kids. She, Lavonia and other children from the neighboring bayous comprised the population from "feeder schools," elementary pupils who were placed together in one larger red brick building known as St. Christopher's Catholic Junior High.

St. Chris, as the school was called, was an unimaginative three-story structure, built sometime during the depression, with wide concrete steps leading to the main hallway. This first floor consisted of individual offices and a few classrooms. Steep severe staircases, also made of concrete, led to the remaining rooms. The floors were oak planks and smelled of wax and a heady cleaning mixture. The cafeteria, situated at the back of the building, competed with the floors in a constant battle against small nostrils, a battle in which the former almost always defeated the latter.

At lunchtime, Anastasie sat beside Lavonia in the cafeteria and the two friends compared their schedules and exchanged first impressions. The room was deserted except for a tiny black man placing chairs on the tables and mopping the floors.

"Lordy, this be one big schoolhouse," Lavonia observed.

Anastasie smiled, scooped up something gray and stringy onto her spoon and put it back down on the tin plate. "Yes, it is. But the food is great." Both girls laughed. Anastasie glanced at Lavonia's schedule between them. "How come you didn't get put in Algebra?"

Lavonia shrugged. "Algebra be for white folks, I guess."

"That's not fair," Anastasie said heatedly. "I mean, you're like, what almost two years older than me and we're in the same grade? You should be taking hard classes."

"Momma helt me out a year 'cause I had to hep with the garden and things. She didn't think education was anythin' I really needed." Lavonia glanced at her friend. "It was your momma and papa who done convinced her I needed some school learnin'."

The little janitor whisked his mop nearby and nodded and smiled at the girls.

"Well, good for them. They're always telling me the best way out of the swamp is to get a good education."

Lavonia looked down at her plate. "Doan know if I wants to get out of the swamp."

Anastasie laughed. "Me either," she smiled. "But if you get out, then you can always come back, but if you never get out, you're stuck."

"Girl, you got some strange things going round inside your head and then comin' out your mouf."

"Yeah, but I think that's true. Don't you?"

Lavonia considered the question carefully. She sighed. "Yeah, I think that true. I did have this dream one time." She studied her milk carton.

"Well, you can't stop now. What dream?"

Before Lavonia could reply a large eighth-grade boy stood in front of them. His red hair was too long and spilled over his collar. The corners of his mouth formed a tight grin, the lips stretched tightly over green teeth.

Anastasie smiled up at him. He didn't return the smile.

"Where'd ya git that servant girl?" he asked Anastasie and glared at Lavonia.

Anastasie frowned up at him and looked around. She had no idea what he was talking about. "I'm sorry, what did you say?"

"For such a cute girl, you're acting mighty stupid," the boy smirked. His big fists clenched slightly. "I'm talking about your nigger friend. Her," he said, and raised a dirty finger toward Lavonia.

Lavonia grew smaller in her chair, her eyes downcast. The janitor stopped his work and leaned on his mop. In all of her life, Anastasie had never heard that word, but she knew it wasn't a good one. "This is Lavonia. And she's my _best_ friend," she said.

The boy put his hands on his hips. "Is that right? Well, she don't belong in this here cafeteria, eatin' with white folks." He leaned closer. "They got a place back in the kitchen for people like her."

Anastasie leaned toward the boy. "I think you've gotten that backwards," she said. "I think you're the one who ought to be back in the kitchen eating the slop they're putting aside for the pigs."

The boy's face matched his hair. He snarled. "I'm jist gonna beat the shit out of both of you niggers!" he screamed.

He raised his fist and aimed a hammer blow at Lavonia's head. She closed her eyes and he grunted and swung downward. Anastasie's hand appeared like a lightning bolt on a cloudless day.

The boy's face changed from rage to incomprehension as he looked at the small delicate fingers curled around his bony knuckles, the blow halted in space. Anastasie squeezed and the boy's shocked expression changed again into a grimace of exquisite pain. He tried to pull away, but she held his hand tightly. Finally, he jerked it again and she released him, his gangly body tumbling backwards from the unexpected momentum. He bounced off a table, tried to regain his feet, slipped on the newly-mopped floor and sat down squarely into a bucket of filthy water.

Anastasie rose and peered down at him. He sat, staring and stunned.

His legs were spread obscenely on the dirty floor. He suddenly choked as if something large and distasteful were emerging from his throat. He bent his head down and vomited on his pants.

"Reckon that boy was overdue for a bath," the little janitor observed.

"I think lunch is over. Time to go now." Anastasie said quietly.

Lavonia nodded. "You got that right," she agreed.

The girls rose and smiled at the janitor who smiled back. He whistled a nameless tune and continued mopping around the boy in the bucket.

***

The two girls had fled from the cafeteria and were sitting on the big concrete steps in the front of the school. Neither of them felt like talking about the incident they had just been a part of.

"We've only got a few minutes left. Tell me about that dream," Anastasie finally said.

Lavonia looked shyly away. "I wuz in this little boat in the bayou, jest enjoyin' the water and everythin' and somepin' swum up from the dark water and turned my boat upside down."

"Wow, must have been a big gator!"

Lavonia shook her head. "I was startin' to drown, then I got real mad and just up and started swimmin' to the top of the water. After a long time I made it to the bank and jest laid there for a long time, breathin' hard. I look down into the water and saw them screamin' an' yellin' at me and I yells, "You ain't beatin' me! You ain't gonna beat Lavonia. Not never."

"Who were they?" Anastasie asked breathlessly.

"White folks," Lavonia said.

Neither girl spoke for a time.

"Kind of like our acquaintance in the cafeteria just now," Anastasie said quietly.

Lavonia nodded.

"All white folks aren't like that," Anastasie said.

Lavonia nodded again. "That true, sure enuff. Don't know nobody better 'an you and your mommy and daddy."

"Same is true for you and your parents," Anastasie replied. She frowned. "I didn't know there was anybody like that boy before today."

"Plenty 'uv 'em," Lavonia said.

Anastasie turned and studied her friend's face. "I just always thought people were people. You know, some good, some bad."

"That mostly true," Lavonia answered. "It's true for mos' of us bayou people, but the bigger world, that be a different crop of onions."

"It makes me sad," Anastasie said.

"Look to me like it make you sad _and_ mad."

Anastasie laughed. "What about you, Lavonia?"

"Me? It jus' mostly make me mad," she replied.

***

The two girls sat quietly, holding their cane poles and watching the little red and white floats bob gently on the surface of the water. Fishing together was one of their late summer rituals. The two years of junior high were over. Soon they would be apart.

Anastasie would be attending St. Matthew's Catholic Prep School for Girls, while Lavonia had to choose between quitting or attending a smaller, older and decidedly under-funded vocational school. Lavonia wanted to quit, but Anastasie argued vehemently against it.

"You remember that time in junior high when we talked about the importance of education?" Anastasie reminded her friend.

"Yeah, but I don't want to be spendin' my days typin' for some fat white man with a smelly cigar in his face or workin' in somebody else's kitchen," Lavonia replied.

Anastasie persisted, and promised Lavonia that things were changing and that one day she would be able to go to college and become whatever she chose.

Lavonia was still skeptical. "Thas' easy for someone like you to say."

Anastasie was genuinely puzzled. "Someone like me? I'm just a little Cajun girl from the swamps," she said.

"You white."

"For crying out loud!" Anastasie replied, exasperated. "Didn't you hear what Dr. King said a couple of months ago over in Montgomery?"

Lavonia grinned. "I heard the man. And I heard a bunch of white folks filled the church with tear gas and tried to burn it to the ground."

Anastasie shook her head. "But it's a beginning," Anastasie said. Her eyes glistened. "I mean, with all those freedom marches and that stuff in Berlin and Cuba, don't you just want to be out there, right in the middle of it?"

"An' doan forgit that Rock 'n Roll. That good. 'Course, white men done stole that from us too."

Anastasie smiled. "You are hopeless. Look, that man in the White House, he's working hard to make our country and the whole world a better place."

Lavonia looked at her friend. "He best harry. Life is short and he got a bushel-load of stuff to do."

"At least we agree on one thing," Anastasie said.

Lavonia pulled up her line, squinted at the worm dangling from the hook and plopped it back into the water. She gestured all around. "My daddy say everything's changin'. They done stopped up the mighty Mississippi thirty years ago and we is all sinking." She looked at her friend. "One big ol' storm and we all gonna drown."

"Not if we hold each other tight," Anastasie said.

Lavonia shrugged. "Got a feelin' when that storm come, we jest gonna be tryin' to save ourselves."

***

Journal of Anastasie-6

In the years after Momma got sick, time went by so fast. One day rolled by into another like water rushing through the bayou during a flood. The sisters did their best to give us a good education. High school in those days consisted of about ten of us children grouped together in a trailer near the church. Sometimes it was tedious, but it was never boring.

When I was thirteen something very strange happened. I remember going into the bathroom and sitting down on the pot. I looked down and screamed. Momma came running into the room. There was blood in the toilet, but only a little. Momma looked at me with the strangest expression.

" _My little girl is becoming a woman!" she wailed._

"Momma, am I going to die or something?"

Momma laughed. "No, honey, you're not going to die. You are growing up."

It was at that time that Momma told me so many things. She told me about boys or at least tried to and I don't know which of us was more embarrassed. Lavonia and I had discussed this particular subject many times. As Momma stammered about sex and love, something stirred within me and from that moment on I became more interested and completely confused about the whole subject.

I was impatient to discover details from her which had only been murky in my previous discussions with my friend. Momma pretty much stuck to the biology of the subject which she somehow managed to enshroud in the Catholic version of things. She giggled when she mentioned Papa.

There was something else. Momma said I had a gift. A wonderful gift. And with that gift came a terrible responsibility. It was, she said, a gift from God which had been handed down from generation to generation. It was the gift of healing, the greatest gift anyone could possess. It was something that I could never use in a frivolous manner. The gift should only be used for those who were deserving. I must understand that each time I used the gift, some part of me would become weaker and if I used the gift too quickly or too often, my own ability to bestow it would cease to exist. She warned me that if I didn't accept the gift, if I denied its power, I would also lose it. Worst of all, those who came after me would not have it. I had to believe. These things she said, would take much time for me to understand.

"How many girls have this gift?" I asked.

"As far as I know," Momma answered, "you and I are the only ones."

" _But Momma, how will I know who to help and who to let alone?"_

" _That is a question only you can answer," she replied. "When the time comes, you will know."_

# Chapter Three

Anastasie was the only teenager who had ridden a bicycle to the huge French colonial house where the party was being held. She had hidden her bike beside a willow tree at the side, a few yards from the front porch. Fords and Chevys were parked haphazardly in the drive and all over the lawn. She bent down and looked at herself in the bicycle's mirror. Her raven hair, framing her prominent cheekbones, was still neatly combed in spite of the ride. She wrinkled her nose. Anastasie hated her nose, but her mother had called it a cute pixie nose. Her momma had actually let her put on a little makeup and had helped her brush on some eyeshadow which accentuated her dark-brown eyes. She tugged at her dress. It was too small and short from repeated washings, but aside from her Sunday dress, it was the only one she owned.

She made another face at herself, stood the bike upright and walked up the steps and onto the broad porch of the three-story house. Somebody could have put her own little home in this one several times and there would still have been room for Lavonia's family. From inside there was loud music playing on a hi-fi and she had to knock several times before her young hostess appeared.

"Annie! I'm so glad you came," Jeanie gushed and looked over Anastasie's shoulder.

Did you find a place to park?"

"Oh, yeah," Anastasie gestured vaguely behind.

"Well, come on in. Welcome to my humble abode," Jeanie said and made a sweeping gesture with her hand.

Anastasie followed her into the living room. In the corner music was booming from the biggest record player Anastasie had ever seen.

"Hope you like the Beatles. Jeremy brought two albums tonight. Their latest," she smiled.

Jeanie waved her hand around the large living room. "I think you know everybody. Marcie and Jake are over there." She pointed to a couple who were holding hands on the couch near the marble fireplace and staring deeply into each other's eyes. "And Rick and Diane are, well, they're sort of here," Jeanie laughed and nodded toward another couple in a nearby corner who were so intimately engaged, they might have been alone. A tall, blonde, handsome boy strode up and put his arm around Jeanie possessively. "And this is my steady. Randy." Randy gently squeezed one of Jeanie's shoulders.

Anastasie blushed. "Hi," she said, "Do you go to school nearby?"

Randy laughed and squeezed again. "No way. I'm in college."

"Oh," Anastasie said and blushed a second time.

A small boy approached the trio and stood awkwardly, not speaking. His ears stuck out too far from his head. He sported a Beatles cut which served to accentuate the aural deformity. His watery blue eyes were too close together. He stared at Anastasie and wiped at his nose with stubby fingers.

"And this is Jeremy," Jeanie announced. Randy rolled his eyes.

Jeremy grinned at Anastasie. His teeth had yet to meet a dentist. "She's a cool squirrel, that's for sure! Just like you said." He smiled at Jeanie.

Jeanie had the grace to look embarrassed. "Uh, well, we've got to get some stuff in the kitchen. You two talk and get to know each other," Jeanie said and tugged Randy after her.

Jeremy watched them go and turned back to Anastasie. He grinned at her again and looked her up and down. "English, right?"

Anastasie looked at the boy. "Well, I'm actually Cajun, but—"

Jeremy burst into a fit of gasping which Anastasie took to be laughter. "That's cool," he shouted. "Oh, that's funny! Hey, everybody! The chick said she's Cajun, not English." He laughed again. Nobody paid him the least attention.

Anastasie stepped back slightly. His breath smelled like ramps.

"I meant, I think we were in the same English class," Jeremy said. "You remember. The one where the good sisters were integrating us savage boys with the girls."

"Oh, I'm sorry, I thought you meant..." her voice trailed off and Anastasie blushed for the third time.

Jeremy leaned closer. "Hey, let's me and you take a little walk out to the porch. I've got something I want to show you."

Anastasie glanced around the room at the coupling couples. She shrugged. "O.K., but just for a few minutes. Jeanie will be wondering where we are."

Jeremy snorted. "Don't worry about them. They're probably doing "A Hard Day's Night" on the kitchen table, if you know what I mean." He reached for her hand. "Come on. You'll like this."

Anastasie threw her hand up to her mouth and gagged.

"Hey, you all right, Babe?"

"Yes, I'm O.K. Must have been the jambalaya I had for dinner."

He snorted again. "Oh yeah. Cajun. Right," he said.

***

They sat on the porch, the Beatles providing background music, and listened to the night sounds of frogs and cicadas. Jeremy had insisted on going to the kitchen and had returned with two tall glasses of brown liquid.

He handed one of them to Anastasie, the ice tinkling slightly from his trembling hands. He sat down beside her on the swing.

"Good stuff," he encouraged. "It'll help settle your stomach." He took a sip from his own glass.

Anastasie tenuously took a sip. The drink was bitter. "What is this?"

"Drink half of it down and I'll tell you," Jeremy said and watched while she sipped a little more.

"Well?" Anastasie looked at him.

Jeremy shook his furry locks. "Not enough. You have to drink it like this." Jeremy put the glass to his lips and chugged, his skinny throat bobbing furiously. He finished the drink and looked at her.

Anastasie sighed and took a gulp. The drink tasted no better than before and the smell was strong. It reminded her of the man and the boy she had met when they had chased the bear.

The boy was very nice and kind of cute, but that Uncle J was right out of the movie, _Psycho_.

"It's just Coke," Jeremy said.

"That's the worst co-cola I've ever drunk."

"Co-cola. I like that," Jeremy smiled. He moved closer to her until their legs touched.

"Drink up," he said and Anastasie reluctantly tried another taste.

"Are you ever going to tell me what this is?"

"It's Coke. And a little rum mixed in for, you know, flavor."

Anastasie made a face. "No wonder it tastes bad."

Jeremy laughed. "Have a little more and it gets better." He put his hand on her bare knee.

Anastasie wanted to remove the hand. She wanted to scoot down the swing, but there was no space left. Instead she took another sip of her drink. She glanced over at the door, but no one else was coming to the porch tonight.

"Where are Jeanie's parents?" Anastasie said hopefully.

"Second honeymoon down in New Orleans or someplace. I mean, can you believe they would leave their daughter here in this giant house, all alone?"

"No, I can't," Anastasie said seriously.

"Finish your drink." Jeremy shook his head. "All this money. Daddy's some kind of oil tycoon or something." His face turned bitter. "Poor little rich bitch."

Anastasie was shocked by the comment. "I don't think that's a very nice thing to say," she replied.

"My mother's a pharmacist," Jeremy said as if he hadn't heard her. "She worked hard and long to get her job at Rexall."

"What about your daddy?" Anastasie's asked, determined to be polite.

Jeremy's bleary eyes stared at her. "He's a drunk. We haven't seen him since I was five."

"Oh, I'm sorry," Anastasie said gently and touched his arm.

Jeremy took that as a cue and moved his hand higher up her leg. He looked down at it as if he couldn't figure out how it had gotten there.

"He's the one that's sorry." Suddenly, he let go of her and reached into the pocket of his shirt. "Anyways, I said I was going to show you something."

Anastasie tensed. Whatever it was, she didn't want to see it.

Jeremy pulled a small tobacco bag from his pocket. He opened it, squinted and pulled out cigarette papers.

"You're really going to like this," he grinned. He deftly poured some of the brown substance onto the paper, licked the edge of it with a purple tongue and handed it to Anastasie.

She stiffened. "No thanks. I don't smoke cigarettes."

He placed it carefully in her lap. "It's not a cigarette," he said and began rolling his own.

Anastasie looked at the long thin tube. "What is it?"

Jeremy produced a large gold lighter. He placed the paper in his mouth and lit it. He snapped the lighter shut, inhaled deeply and leaned back. He blew out smoke with a contented sigh.

Anastasie felt light-headed, not from Jeremy's smoke cloud, but from something else, although the heady aroma reminded her of incense and made her eyes water.

"Go ahead, try it. Here, I'll light it for you." He started to reach into her lap.

"No! Thank you, but I don't want any of that!" Anastasie jumped up. The cigarette fell to the porch. Jeremy's face turned ugly for a moment as he bent down and picked it up.

"For crying out loud! Sit down." Jeremy took another puff. "It's Acapulco Gold. The best jay around," he said proudly.

Anastasie didn't sit down. The frogs and bugs seemed to be quieter than before. The porch was swaying slightly and she suddenly felt as if she were in a dream, her body floating off somewhere else. Her mind wouldn't focus clearly. Jeremy's voice came from inside a tunnel, far away.

He was standing beside her. "Whoa, Cajun girl, you better take it easy. You almost fell into the yard."

Anastasie felt herself being pushed back into the swing. It was much better there. Standing was bad and scary. She closed her eyes and felt pleasantly dizzy and comfortable in a strange way. Her body was relaxed like it had never been before.

"I've, I've got to go home now," she said, but her legs refused to move. "Home, now," she said quietly.

Somewhere in the distance, she heard Jeremy light up the reefer meant for her.

"I was telling you my mother is a pharmacist," Jeremy said, as if they were carrying on a perfectly normal conversation. "And, in a way, so am I." He took another toke.

Anastasie tried hard to listen to what he was saying and failed.

"I supply these rich bastards with the goodies," he said, "and in return they pretend like I'm one of them. You'd be surprised what you can score when mother works with chemicals all day long."

He snorted and Anastasie vaguely thought he might have been drowning. "Every once in a while, they throw me a tidbit."

Anastasie heard him shuffling. "Tonight, you are my tidbit."

She felt the top of her dress loosen, where momma had sewn the new buttons. Something, maybe a little frog, was pawing at her and there was more pressure jammed against her lips. She could taste and smell garlic.

"You're mine now. God, you're beautiful," the frog said. "Ain't it great? You got a double dose of Mother's Little Helper in your drink. The big V. Valium. The world's greatest invention."

Something was slobbering all over her face and Anastasie heard fumbling and grunting. She couldn't breathe. She wanted to giggle and scream at the same time. Her body was becoming numb, needles and pins all up and down it.

"Oh, yeah," Jeremy said in a husky voice. "Just relax and feel the love."

He was kissing her, squeezing her shoulders, and she was suffocating.

Anastasie tried to push away the squirming thing that was crushing her. Her head was spinning and she wanted to throw up.

"Off! Get off me!"

Jeremy's face swam in front of her. He released her and immediately she felt his hands dart at her again. She bolted upright.

"Stop!" she yelled.

But he wouldn't stop. Anastasie swatted at him and stood up. She grabbed at the chain that held up the side of the porch swing. The whole earth was swirling around her. She lurched away, stumbled down the steps and ran toward her bicycle.

"Teaser!" she heard Jeremy scream as she fell headlong into the grass.

"You little bitch!" he screamed again. She got up, swayed and hurried for her bicycle. She found it and pushed it away from the house as fast as she could. Her dress tangled in the sprocket and tore.

She could still hear Jeremy screaming and calling her filthy names as she moved as far away as fast as she could.

After a long while she stopped near a pond. Her head had cleared some, but she bore a terrible headache. She plunged her hand into the warm water time and time again. She tried to wash the handle bars of the bike. Her face was dirty, her dress torn to shreds. She would never be clean again. Momma, if she found out, would kill her. She would have to sneak in and clean and mend the dress herself. She washed her hands again and started home. She still had a long way to go.

The party had ended for Anastasie.

# Chapter Four

_September, 1965._ It was a long way from Anastasie's little house, to what seemed to her, the enormous city of Baton Rouge. The three of them were crammed together in the old pickup truck which bounced along precariously. Anastasie's two pieces of luggage in the bed of the truck were jostled and banged around almost as much as she was.

"Too many dressed up people," Andre grumbled and Michele kicked him in the shin. "But that can really be a good thing," he amended quickly and smiled over at Anastasie. It was the first time he had spoken in almost an hour.

"Has it changed much since you were here that other time?" Michele asked Anastasie brightly and glanced down at her arm.

"Momma, I was only seven years old then."

"Seven? It seems like that was last week," Andre said.

The three rode in silence for awhile as Andre peered ahead trying to find the road that turned off to the small college, their destination.

"There," Michele said, "Our Lady of Mercies. Twenty miles."

Andre swerved to the right narrowly missing a Volkswagon bug.

"Too many small cars," Anastasie said and they laughed.

"Annie, if you get to missing home and want to—"

"Andre!" Michele snapped.

He ignored her. "If you get too homesick, you get word to us and we'll be right back up here."

"Andre," Michele began again, but softer than before. "Annie, we talked and we want you to know that if you need anything or want to come back home, you let us know."

Andre grunted. "I just said that."

Anastasie tried to grin. "You two worry too much. I'm going to be fine," she answered and started to cry.

Michele tried to say something, fumbled in her purse for a handkerchief and sobbed into it.

Andre stared through the dirty cracked windshield of the old Ford.

***

Our Lady of Mercies College was located near the center of the city, at the edge of a beautiful lake. The lawns were immaculately cared for and clusters of small, neat buildings glistened in the waning sunlight. It looked both homey and daunting to Anastasie.

"Over there, I think, is the original sanitarium where the first nurses who were here cared for the leprosy patients," Anastasie pointed. Her parents craned to see the red brick building situated at the edge of the lake.

"It's a beautiful setting," Michele said and blew her nose.

"Don't you get too close to that, Annie, you might catch something," Andre intoned.

"Papa, I'm not going to catch anything here."

"I was just joshing," Andre said and winked at her.

They followed the drive around the lake, guided by several signs that directed new students to check in at the administration building. Andre slid into one of the slots and turned off the engine. It backfired loudly and three girls who walked by looked in their direction and giggled.

"City people," Andre said.

Anastasie looked at her parents, who suddenly seemed so small and out of place.

"Let me check in and get assigned a dorm room and then you can come see where I'm going to live for the next twenty-seven months."

Michele patted her arm. "Sure, honey. You go on ahead."

Anastasie glanced at her parents as if she wanted to say more. "I'll be right back."

"We'll be here," Andre said.

They watched her cross the little parking lot and climb up the stairs. She was swallowed up inside the building in an instant.

The two looked at each other.

"We promised ourselves we wouldn't do this," Michele said quietly.

Andre patted her knee. "She's our little girl."

"She's eighteen."

Andre shook his dark hair. "She'll always be our little girl." He looked at his wife. "Did you tell her, you know, about everything?"

"You know I did, Andre."

"Boys?"

"Especially about boys."

"And the other thing?"

"Andre, we've talked about that since the day she turned thirteen."

Andre looked down at the frayed mats on the floor of the truck. "I just don't want her using that without thinking."

Michele smiled. "She won't use it without a good reason."

***

Anastasie worked hard on her studies. There were classes in Basic Math and English grammar and Science and Geography, but she was impatient to learn about nursing and eager to get through it all and become a healer. The sisters and teachers had assured all the new girls that that day would come soon enough. There was, they explained, a shortage of nurses and theirs was an accelerated program.

The strictness of the nuns at her grammar and high school made studying easy for Anastasie in college and she excelled at everything, but she missed her parents and her friend Lavonia and the animals and her little house in the bayou. She had seen her parents twice since that first sad day, once briefly at Thanksgiving and for two glorious weeks at Christmas, yet she surprised herself by actually looking forward to returning to the challenges of school and seeing her new friends again.

The program had indeed accelerated and it seemed more work was added to the load weekly. Anastasie was invigorated by it all, but she was also getting tired of the daily grind. More so than she realized. And the first hint of an early spring didn't help.

"I'm getting tired of this crap!" her roommate, Bridget LeBlanc, yelled out and flung a Goode's World Atlas across the dorm room. It hit the floor and lay open to a map of the Gulf Coast. Bridget twisted her blonde hair and puffed her lips out.

"Calm yourself, my child," Anastasie said, used to the outbursts and tried to refocus on where indigo and bamboo were grown. She was sitting on her bed, notebooks and texts piled high.

"I am calm!" Bridget huffed. "That's the damned problem. I'm so calm, I'm going crazy."

She bounced off her own the bed, crossed the wooden floor and flung open the only window.

She stuck her head out and sniffed the air. "Annie, you know what?"

"Tell me," Anastasie said and continued her reading.

Bridget opened the top drawer of the little desk that hugged the wall. She rummaged around, found a pack of Luckies and lit one up.

Anastasie looked up from her book. "Brig, don't let them catch you smoking in the room."

Bridget shrugged and took a long drag, blew smoke rings, mashed the butt on the desk and tossed it out the window.

"Annie, there's a whole 'nother world out there." She gestured toward the window. "A world just waiting for girls like us to join."

Anastasie laughed. "Well, it can wait a little longer. We've a got a test tomorrow."

Bridget flopped back down on the bed and sighed. "What if we just took a very short break? You know, after the test, of course."

"You mean Easter? Right?"

"I mean this week." Bridget leaned over, her face close to Anastasie's. "I know somebody who's going to New Orleans," she whispered.

"During Easter?"

Bridget shook her blonde head. "No. This week. We could take off just for a day or two. Nobody would ever miss us. We could—"

"Nope."

"Look here, you Cajun Princess. Listen to just two of the most glorious words in the entire state of Looz-e-Anna, Marie."

Anastasie laughed in spite of herself. "And those would be?"

Bridget winked and smiled. "Mardi Gras," she said.

***

The trip from Baton Rouge to New Orleans was filled with sunlight and fresh air and trepidation for Anastasie. Leaving school without permission and going off on this adventure were the most thrilling things she had ever done. When she gave in, she had made Bridget promise they would be back in two days.

"You're gonna have the time of your life," Bridget promised, as she rode up front in the '56 Ford Fairlane V8, next to their chauffeur and guide, Sam Livingston. Anastasie had never ridden in such a powerful car, with its gleaming trim and bold red and white colors, it reminded her of a picture she had seen of sharks feeding. As the world sped by, she saw a highway sign that read U.S. Highway 61/190 Bypass.

"How did you two meet?" Anastasie asked from the back seat, the wind from the downed windows blowing her hair in her face.

Bridget smiled at her boyfriend. "We met last year. My parents and me stopped in New Orleans on the way up to the Lady."

Sam turned his head toward Anastasie. He was a tall, lanky boy, not ugly, but not quite Hollywood handsome either, with his limp brown hair and toothy grin.

"Don't let her kid you, Annie, you're the only lady she knows."

Bridget hit him on the arm. "I'm talking about the school, Dummy. Anyway, I was able to escape from mom and pop and just happened to find myself over at Tulane."

"Tulane? Wow!" Anastasie said.

"There I was, studying like a demon near the library and up walked this gorgeous blonde," Sam related.

"Yeah, right," Bridget scoffed. "You were flirting like a demon with three girls when I just happened by."

Sam put his hand on Bridget's bare thigh. "I was asking them intellectual stuff and then when you walked by I forget all about it and asked you your name."

Bridget put his hand back on the steering wheel and glanced back at Anastasie. "And the rest is history," she said.

"The history was, I asked her to go out to lunch with me and then we went to this little park and made out for the next four hours."

"Sam!" Bridget hit him again. "Stop boring Anastasie with tales about us. Tell her about your roommate."

Anastasie giggled. "Oh, it's not boring at all."

Sam drummed on the wheel as the big car roared down the highway. "My roommate," he began as if presenting a lecture, "my roommate, Roger Ellwood, Jr., is a man's man. He's a scholar and an athlete."

"And a gentleman, no doubt," Anastasie added.

Sam shook his brown hair. "I'm not so sure about that part. Roger attracts women the way flies come after road kill."

"You're supposed to be building him up," Bridget chided.

Sam glanced back at Anastasie. "Roger doesn't need building up. He's got everything perfection could want. Good looks, smooth style, you name it."

"His family is loaded," Bridget added.

"Daddy is a big shot lawyer up north and mommy is a socialite, of the monarch variety, I think." Sam frowned. "Not like us poor white trash who come from hard working mill stock."

"Speak for yourself," Bridget replied.

Sam looked at her sharply. "Well, some of us own stores."

"One store. We got by, selling sundries on the corner," Bridget said quietly.

"I've never known anybody rich," Anastasie put in quickly.

"Well, my dear little bayou beauty, you are about to get an education. Of a different sort from that given you by the good sisters."

"What do you mean?" Anastasie asked, her eyes suddenly wide.

"When we hit the Big Easy, you are going to have the one and only golden opportunity of your young life. You are going to have the honor and privilege of meeting the great Roger Dodger himself."

"He's really a nice person," Bridget said and stuck out her tongue at Sam. "And he's such a dreamboat!"

"Be careful, Annie. A dreamboat can ferry you across the River Styx," Sam said.

Both girls laughed. Sam stared ahead and drove a little faster.

***

Journal of Anastasie-7

I was fourteen when I first fell in love. The sisters had arranged a social gathering. Under their strict supervision, there was a dance of sorts held in the gym one fall evening. I remember a long train of tables covered with white paper upon which there were bowls of iced shrimp, deviled eggs, cheese squares, pretzels, and little brownies. Giant shimmering bowls of lemonade and punch served as bookends to the feast. The music reminded me of the times I'd spent on the front porch with my family and all my relatives. At this dance we girls sat against the wall in hard wicker chairs while the awkward boys approached to ask us to dance.

One boy in particular walked up and stood in front of me uncertainly. I waited, but he said nothing. Some of the kids had already gone to the dance floor, but this boy just stood there looking at me. He was much taller than me and skinny. The laces of his dirty boots were ragged and didn't reach high enough to secure them to his ankles. He wore faded jeans, one knobby knee threatening to expose itself through the thin fabric. His shirt was decorated with garish, yellow checks. His freckles were prominent even though his hawkish face was red. He reminded me of a little lost puppy. I thought he was the most handsome boy I had ever seen.

"Would you like to dance?"

I could scarcely hear him speak. I smiled back at him. "I would love to," I replied.

At that moment the little music ensemble began a jig. The song started slowly with light chords from a box accordion. I stood up and faced the boy, not knowing what to do next. His face was expressionless and I felt helpless. He stood still, watching me as the accordion was joined by a guitar and fiddle and the song became much louder and filled the room. He made a small bow. He bowed again, his bland expression never changing. He bowed a third time. I bowed once in return. He held up his palms as if pushing against an invisible wall and moved fluidly to my right, then stopped and looked my way. I mimicked his movements and moved in front of him. The other instruments were joined by a flute and the cadence increased. He raised his right hand slightly above my head and twirled his wrist in the air. I took his hand in mine and he spun me around in a circle. He released me, put his hands on his hips, and strode to my left and I followed him. I noticed the band was watching us, playing like the devil and all were smiling.

Breathlessly, I saw a blur of the other kids and the sisters watching us. The boy spun sideways and stuck out his arm, the elbow slightly bent. I placed my hand on the back of his wrist and we promenaded up to the band, bowed to them, backed away and pranced back to our original places. They smiled and laughed approvingly.

All the other kids had moved to the side and were clapping in time to the music and cheering us on. Even the sisters were smiling and clapping. The boy bowed to me and pedaled backwards. I approached him, bowed to him and repeated his movements. He came toward me again, but I retreated and he cornered me near the tables. He grasped my right hand with his left, put his right hand gently on my hip and waltzed me round and round the floor.

The sisters must have nodded to the ensemble because they began to wind the song down. It slowed and grew softer and the boy slowed us down as well. Finally, it stopped. He had returned me to the place in front of my chair. The music and the boy's expertise had flowed through my skin and into my veins and I felt high.

He bowed to me and the room burst into applause as I sat down. He bent over and at long last smiled. He whispered in my ear that his name was Joe and said, "You're the prettiest girl I ever met."

Before I could reply, he was gone.

I wish I could've danced with Joe forever on that magical night, but at 10 o' clock on the dot, the good sisters had had all the fun and excitement they thought we could stand. They swooped on us like benevolent hawks and cleared the dance floor in seconds.

I wasn't ready for it to end. I needed Joe to kiss me. To experience that one hot moment of intense pleasure I had heard so much about. But it was not to be. There was no way anyone could escape from the eagle eyes of the hooded ones, except for Joe.

It seems to me that all that was but seconds ago. A moment of sweet innocence and the tantalizing promise of things to come.

I never saw Joe again, although I could think of nothing else for days afterwards. Later, I heard that he had joined the Army and went to Vietnam and never made it back home again. Sometimes, I still think of Joe, that shy and wonderful boy, who made my heart soar for such a brief instant and then vanished into the swamp.

***

Anastasie had never seen such sights. People were everywhere, laughing and jostling each other in the narrow, serpentine streets as Sam tried to negotiate the Fairlane between the maze of bodies and the sidewalks.

"Too many dressed up people," Anastasie heard herself assert.

"I'll say," Bridget answered, taking in the outlandish costumes of some of the groups. "I don't think our nuns would approve of some of these getups."

Sam laughed. "They might not, but I dare say, I don't mind too much."

Bridget rolled her eyes and looked at Anastasie. "Just like a man!"

There were people in garish outfits of every color and description. Some of the women wore feathers, and little else. Several males had their bodies painted with iridescent colors.

"Look! There's Elvis Presley!" Anastasie yelled from the back seat as they passed a tall, dark-haired figure with sunglasses and pompadour. "I didn't think I'd ever get to see him in person!" she squealed.

Sam and Bridget looked at each other and laughed.

"Check the map, Brig, I think we're close," Sam ordered and hunkered over the wheel, his eyes squinting in the intense sunlight.

"Next right. Hotel should be just a little ways on our left."

Sam turned at the next street. "There it is!" Bridget said, and Sam swung the car expertly into the drive. He shut off the engine.

"We made it. The Grand Hotel Dubois. Slap dab in the middle of the French Quarter,"

***

"Are you ready to meet the Great One?" Sam asked Anastasie as the three rode the elevator down to the lobby. They had checked in, the girls in one room, Sam in another across the hall. The plan was to meet Roger Ellwood in the hotel's restaurant.

Anastasie felt woolie worms in her stomach as the doors of the elevator opened. All of this was as new to her as if she had just landed on Mars. It was silly to be nervous, she chided herself, but she had spent extra time in the shower and Bridget had fussed over Anastasie's makeup and hair for thirty minutes, quickly running a comb through her own blonde hair and dabbing on some bright, red lipstick. "Don't worry, kid, you'll knock him dead," Bridget had assured her.

The three walked through the lobby and were met by a tall, cadaverous man, sporting black coat and tails. He stood behind a lectern as if he were guarding the gates of heaven instead of the entrance to a restaraunt. He looked the trio over and sneered.

"Reservations?" he asked.

Sam looked into the guardian's eyes. "We always have reservations. About almost everything. It's a scary world out there."

Ichabod Crane drew himself up and snorted. "Sir?"

Anastasie stifled a giggle. Bridget punched Sam on the arm.

"Sam! Sam the man!" a booming voice came from behind the misanthropic giant.

Sam's dour look burst into a smile. "Roger, it's about time! I thought we were going to have to do another quarterback sneak."

Roger Ellwood, Jr. put a hand on the sentinel's shoulder. "Horace, these good people are with me. Bring them a menu."

Horace snapped to attention. "Of course, very good, Sir!" I'm sorry, I didn't know—"

"Not to worry. You three, come with me," Roger commanded and led them to a large table next to a bay window. The table was bedecked with elaborate settings and snow-white linen. They followed obediently.

"Sam, you sit next to the window, there. Bridget, you sit to my left and you," he glanced at Anastasie. "You sit next to Evangeline."

The trio looked at each other as they awkwardly sat down. They all wore the same expression. None of them had counted on Evangeline being at the party.

***

Anastasie studied the shiny silverware and the plates with their intricate floral patterns and golden trim. She wondered which fork and which plate to use first. She also studied her short cotton dress. The color matched her eyes. She had borrowed it from Bridget who gushed effusively when she tried it on. "You're eyes are beautiful," Bridget had remarked, "and that dress just makes them glow."

Anastasie blushed thinking of how much she had wanted to believe her friend. She stole a glance across the table at Roger who was wearing a green blazer with some kind of embroidery over the left pocket. It looked like little sand castles to Anastasie. A white turtleneck and khaki pants completed his ensemble. Anastasie thought he was the most beautiful man she had ever seen.

"I see you've come prepared in your Tulane costume," Sam joked.

Roger smiled, his perfect even white teeth dazzling within the dark, suntanned face. "One has to be true to his school," Roger retorted and laughed. "How was the trip down?"

"Great!" Sam replied. "Bridget's been here before, but this is Annie's first time."

"Yeah?" Roger said and a waiter appeared magically at his side.

"Are we ready to order?" the waiter asked.

Roger glanced at his menu. "To tell you the truth my damn French is a little rusty. How's about we all get their creole? I hear it's outstanding." He grinned at Evangeline.

"Annie speaks French," Bridget said.

"I'm not sure the translations would be, uh, exact," Evangeline spoke for the first time.

Bridget leaned toward her and pushed back her blonde hair. "Why not?"

"Well, there are distinct differences between the French language and Cajun dialect."

Bridget picked up her knife, toyed with it. She put it down carefully. "And I take it you attend Tulane and are majoring in what? Linguistics?"

Evangeline smiled like a barracuda. Her dark hair was piled high, showing the graceful lines of her elegant neck. Her black eyes were flashing. "Well, when I was a little girl I did live in France for a time, daddy is in shipping, but I'm actually Creole."

Bridget imitated her own smiling predator. "So, let's see. That means you have Spanish, French, and oh yeah, Negro blood in you?"

Roger laughed and waved the waiter away. "Well, my dear," he looked at Evangeline, "you ought to be out there right now marching with those Freedom Fighters or whatever-the-hell they call themselves."

"They're marching for civil rights," Anastasie said.

Roger grunted. "Whatever," he said. "They just want what we have, but don't want to have to work for it."

"My parents are white," Evangeline spoke heatedly. She turned to Anastasie. "Are yours?"

Everyone looked at Anastasie. "Yes," she said quietly, "but my best friend, next to Bridget, is black, I think." She looked at Roger. He didn't look back.

"You think?" Evangeline said and shook her head, her features twisted with exaggerated disbelief.

Anastasie looked down at the crumpled napkin in her lap. "Where I come from, nobody ever thought about the color of another person's skin. People were judged, good or bad, by how they treated others. And the worst thing you could ever do was to look down your nose at somebody else without a reason."

No one spoke. The salad came, the creole came, red wine flowed and Anastasie said little else as the others prattled on about school and Bob Dylan. She was afraid of saying anything else, afraid of embarrassing herself and her friends. There was another reason for her reticence. She tried hard not to look at Roger, but couldn't help herself. She was in love and worried that she had already said too much. Roger never returned her looks.

***

They stood on the sidewalk, people pressing in around them. Many of the spectators wore costumes with hideous masks, some like birds of prey, boar heads or leering alligators. From the safety of Sam's car, it had looked like great fun, but amidst the mostly drunken throng of revelers, Anastasie, who had no fear of wild animals, felt something akin to revulsion.

Bridget leaned close and spoke into Anastasie's ear. "You get the feeling these people are hiding out in the costumes of their real selves?" She pointedly glanced at Evangeline who was holding hands with Roger.

Anastasie was a little surprised at Bridget's acute perception. "It's a little unnerving to be this close," she responded. She glanced at Evangeline. "Some people don't bother to wear costumes," she added and both girls laughed.

The parade everyone was waiting for wound its way down Bourbon Street, preceded by the first float which held a group of Dixieland Jazz players. The second and third floats were peopled by costumed "krewes" whose outfits were even more outlandish than those of the spectators. Anastasie watched Roger and Evangeline as they pushed people aside and made a place for themselves in the front of the crowd.

"Throw me something, mister!" Evangeline suddenly yelled as one of the floats came within a few feet of the pair. Somebody on the float, dressed like a knight in satin, with a plume on his helmet blowing in the wind, looked at Evangeline and threw her a handful of bead necklaces.

She grabbed at them and missed. The beads fell to the pavement.

"Don't try to pick them up!" Sam yelled, but he was too late.

Evangeline, laughing, bent down and reached toward the pavement. A foot in the crowd stomped on her hand. She cried out in shock and pain.

Roger looked at her with an amused expression as she held her bleeding fingers to her breast. Her face was white and angry.

"We tried to warn you," he said.

Evangeline's black eyes were wet. " _Sam_ tried to warn me, you asshole!"

Evangeline turned around and pushed her way through the crowd and back toward the businesses that lined the street. Sam, Bridget and Anastasie broke from the mob and followed her.

"Are you all right?" Bridget said and tried to take her hand.

"I'm fine," Evangeline said, jerking her hand back.

"I'm so sorry. That shit happens every year. Most people don't bother to pick up the beads or coins for that reason," Sam said. He looked at her sharply. "Roger should have told you."

"Did someone speak my name?" Roger appeared.

"Did you get the bastard that did that?" Sam said and pointed to Evangeline.

Roger smiled at them. "Did what?"

Sam shook his head.

Roger looked at Evangeline. "My God, you hurt your hand. What happened?"

Evangeline looked at the others with pleading eyes. "It's nothing. Really, I was stupid. I should have known better."

"Well, it was a great parade, wasn't it?" Roger said.

"We need to get some ice on that," Bridget said pointedly.

"I said I'm fine!" Evangeline spoke loudly.

Roger rubbed his own manicured fingers together. "Good. I saw a place up the street aways that purports to tell fortunes. I think that would be a great way to cap off the evening."

The others stared at him. "C'mon guys, she's fine, let's not ruin a great night. It's time for mystery and celebration." He looked at his Rolex watch. "It's fast approaching midnight, the witching hour, I'd hate to miss out on what the future has in store for us all."

Sam looked at the three girls uncertainly. "Sure," Bridget finally said. "Let's go see what fates await us," she added sarcastically.

They followed Roger down the crowded street. Anastasie struggled to keep up.

***

The portrait bolted to the stucco wall beside the wrought-iron gated entrance was that of a beautiful black woman. She wore an intricately folded scarf on her head. Her nose was aquiline and her cheekbones were high and prominent. Round golden spheres dangled from each delicate ear. The most striking feature was her eyes. Anastasie felt they were watching. Watching and all-seeing. The woman held a snake between her hands, its sinuous body seemed to caress her thinly-veiled breasts. Below the painting was a single word: Readings.

"I might do some marching myself if she was going to be there," Roger quipped and pushed a buzzer near the sign. There was no response and he jabbed it again several times.

He looked at the others. "No fortune-telling tonight, folks," and turned away. "Let's grab a few quick ones. I know this great little bar—"

"Yes?"

The voice came from a speaker box near the buzzer. Sam was the closest. "Uh, I'm sorry to bother you, ma'am, but we, my friends and I, were wondering if you could maybe read our palms, or something," Sam finished lamely.

The voice was rich, contra-alto and feminine. It had the lilting quality of speech from somewhere in the Caribbean. "I don't practice psalmistry."

Roger stepped up to the speaker. "Excuse my friend, Madam, he's seen too many floats tonight. What he meant was, we'd like you to tell us our fortune."

Anastasie stepped in front of Roger and leaned closer to the grilled box. "We'd like a Reading," she said.

There was no reply. Sam shrugged. Evangeline touched her wounded fingers.

A whirring sound and a clink made them jump. The gate had opened.

"Follow me, children," Roger laughed and they walked past the small garden on precisely-laid stepping stones and stopped at the door. It was massive and made of oak, banded with wrought-iron that matched the gate outside.The door looked oddly out of place, imbedded in the white stucco of the house.

The door opened and an attractive black woman of indeterminate age stood quietly appraising them.

"Come in," she said.

The group followed her into the little foyer where a delicate Tiffany lamp glowed on a small circular table.

"You wish to have a Reading." She looked so similar to the woman in the portrait she might have been her daughter. She was wearing ordinary clothes, a simple plain black dress and sturdy leather shoes.

"How much? For the four of us?" Roger asked and pulled out a wad of bills, folded together and secured with a gold money clip.

The woman ignored him and looked at Anastasie.

"I am Tia," she said, holding Anastasie's eyes with her own.

"I am rich. How much?" Roger persisted.

The woman continued to look at Anastasie. She raised a slim hand in dismissal.

"Look, Lady. Seriously, we've come a long way and would like—"

She broke from staring at Anastasie and turned on Roger. "I don't take money for doing Readings." Her eyes flashed. "As you will discover, young man, some things are beyond the reach of all wealth."

***

The room Tia ushered them into was lit by two candles on either end of a small altar. Above the altar hung a crucifix. It reminded Anna of what had been above her parents' bed for as long as she could remember. The rest of the room was shrouded in darkness and a strange woody smell pervaded the stifling air.

"Are you a Catholic?" Bridget asked as they were motioned to sit down on hard chairs surrounding a round table. The chairs faced the likeness of Christ on the Cross.

Tia smiled. "I am, but I believe in many things beyond this world."

Roger grinned. His face looked pasty in the gloom. "Ghosties and goblins too?"

"Especially those," she answered.

No one laughed.

Tia placed her fingertips together. "We begin with the Lord's Prayer. Please repeat after me. 'Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name...'"

The group repeated the prayer. Roger remained silent and shuffled in his chair.

Tia opened her eyes and raised an elegant forefinger across the group. "Who would like to be first?"

"Sam the man!" Roger yelled and slapped his friend on the back.

"I guess so," Sam said quietly.

Tia reached under the table. There was a shuffling sound. When she straightened, a long black snake was in her hands. Slowly, its head began to sway. Tia petted the snake. It lowered its head and curled itself around her forearm. Evangeline screamed.

"Do not be afraid, my child, the snake will not hurt you."

"I hate snakes!" Evangeline gasped.

Anastasie patted her arm and Evangeline jumped. "Don't touch me," she snapped.

"You can go, or you can unlock the mysteries," Tia said to her.

"Just keep that damned thing away from me," Evangeline said. She leaned her body as far from the snake as she could.

Tia smiled and turned her attention to Sam. Her luminous eyes searched his face. "You are a good man," she said.

"That's all?"

"You need more?"

Sam squirmed. "Well, I just mean, am I going to be rich or die young or something else like that?"

"Being a good man will bring its own rewards," Tia replied.

Roger guffawed. He looked at the black woman. "Do me now."

The snake stirred slightly and raised its head toward Roger. Its tongue darted in and out of its mouth hypnotically. The beady eyes possessed a shimmering light of their own.

"You are a rich man," Tia said.

"Wow, how'd you know that?" Roger snorted.

"But all your wealth will not save you from what you consider most precious."

"And that is?"

The snake hissed.

"Yourself," Tia answered.

Roger's grin disappeared. "You are a two-bit fake!" he said.

The snake hissed again.

Tia's face remained placid, her eyes locked with Roger's. Abruptly, she turned away and looked at Evangeline. "You, my dear are beautiful and young, but you do not possess the one thing you cherish most."

"Let's go! I'm tired of this silly shit," Roger said and stood up.

"You go, Roger. I want to hear this," Evangeline said.

Roger looked at the others for support. He got none. He slammed his fist on the table and thrust his chair back. It hit the floor with a bang. "I'll be outside, waiting for you nitwits!" he yelled and stormed out.

"I'm sorry. My friend is an angry man sometimes," Sam muttered to Roger's retreating back.

"Your friend is a petulant boy," Tia said.

"Yeah, that too," Sam agreed.

"Tell me more," Evangeline said. "What do I need?"

Tia turned to her. "Yourself," she answered.

Evangeline looked disappointed. "How do I find myself?"

Tia raised both her hands, the snake tightly coiled around her forearm.

"Freedom," she said. "You must free yourself."

Evangeline watched the snake. "Free myself? From what?"

Tia lowered her arms. "Not from what. From _whom._ "

Evangeline did not reply. She stared at the snake, then at Tia. Tia added nothing except silence.

Bridget had been uncharacteristically quiet throughout. Tia shifted in her seat and turned her face toward the blonde girl. She closed her eyes.

"You embrace life with vigor. And life, in return, embraces you."

"But?" Bridget asked.

Tia pursed her lips and opened her eyes. "You will travel and have many adventures. Be vigilant. Especially, where green climbs hills and red runs into rivers."

Bridget leaned toward her. "Where? Where is that?"

Tia's face was solemn. "Faraway," she replied and closed her eyes again.

Before Bridget could repond again, the black woman turned in her chair and leaned closer to Anastasie. Several seconds passed. Tia opened her eyes.

"Your second name is that of a great New Orleans queen of long ago."

Anastasie looked down at the table. The snake uncoiled itself and moved toward her.

Evangeline gasped and pushed her chair back.

"There is a great storm," the black woman continued as if there had been no interruption.

Anastasie nodded. The snake slid across the table and coiled itself in front of her. She reached out slowly and petted it. Tongue darting, it closed its eyes.

"A beginning and an end," Tia said. She hesitated. "And then another beginning."

Anastasie's brow furrowed. She touched the snake again and it lay completely still.

"But in between, ah, yes, in between, your life will be filled with—," for the first time the black woman seemed at a loss for words. "Precious magic," she finished.

Tia's dark eyes studied Anastasie. "You are special," she whispered.

"No! Not me," Anastasie protested.

"Saying that, from your heart, is one of the things that makes it so." Tia replied.

***

They finished with a prayer that none of them had ever heard before. Sam tried to offer money, but she refused again. "Go now, I only do the work of the spirits. There is no price that can be placed on that."

They thanked her and walked silently back down the pathway. The gate was open and they went through it.

"It's about damned time," Roger said. He flipped his cigarette butt at the wall and looked at the somber group. "Well, that was a helluva trip. What a bunch of horseshit! Where's Evangeline?" The group looked back at the house. They hadn't missed her.

"Great, now the bitch has stolen my girlfriend." He pushed at the gate, but it was locked. He punched the button on the box. "Guess I'll have to go over the wall. She's probably been kidnapped and halfway to Bongo or some damned place by now." He looked up at the wall, but made no move to climb it.

"Roger, I'm right here," Evangeline said, and appeared from somewhere around the side of the house.

"Where the hell did you come from?" he demanded.

Evangeline smiled. "I came from a different way," she replied. "There's always a different way if you know where to look."

Roger frowned at her. "Bullshit. I think after all this, we need a couple of drinks," he said.

***

They didn't talk until they had settled in a booth in the small, smoky bar Roger claimed had the best jambalaya in the country. The waitress appeared and Roger was the only one who ordered it. The rest got frothy mugs of beer.

Bridget took a sip, the foam sticking to her lips. "Well, that was entertaining, if not enlightening," she proferred.

Evangeline chugged half her beer in one gulp. "The snake was a nice touch," she said.

"She was a nice lady, but the whole scene was—"

"Creepy? C'mom Sam," Roger interrupted, "you know that was just horseshit. Made up theatrics for the gullible tourists." He gulped a huge spoonful of jambalaya and chased it with a swig of beer.

"What was that thing about the snake?" Evangeline directed the question at Anastasie, her voice imitating a prosecutor cross-examining a child molester.

"What thing? What snake?" Roger said.

Anastasie shrugged. "I've always gotten along with animals," she said quietly.

"So modest," Evangeline mocked. "Our demure little friend here tamed that slimy crawling thing," she said and shuddered.

"Really?" Roger said.

"It was probably made out of rubber or something," Sam put in.

Roger shrugged, drank some more beer. "Oh, yeah. No doubt."

"It was real," Evangeline said and finished her beer. "I need some more. Fortune-telling is thirsty work," she laughed.

***

The hour was late, or early. The group left and walked out unsteadily into the humid air.

"Uh, Brig and I are going to take the long way home," Sam said.

Roger winked at him. "You two watch out for the ghouls," he joked.

"Right," Sam smiled. He took Bridget's hand and the two walked off into the night.

The remaining three stood awkwardly. "I'll just take a cab or something," Anastasie said.

"Wouldn't hear uv it," Evangeline said loudly. "I'll bet Roger just loves the idea of a threesome, don't ya', old man?"

Roger leered at Anastasie. "Not a bad idea, now that you've suggested it." He started walking. "Let's go back to the hotel, those two lovebirds won't be back for hours."

"Well, I have to go to bed soon," Anastasie said, "we need to head back tomorrow. Tests," she said lamely.

"The 'bed part' is what we're talking about," Roger said.

"I meant, as in _sleeping_ ," Anastasie said, and blushed.

Roger sighed. "Sure. Can't fault a guy for trying." He glanced at her. "It's obvious you need your beauty sleep." He went off in a huff.

"He's such a jerk," Evangeline said. She followed Roger, took two steps and fell down. Her head hit the curb with an audible crack. She lay sprawled halfway between the sidewalk and the street. She didn't move.

Anastasie rushed to her, bent down and touched her head. Blood came off on her fingers. "Roger! Evangeline, she's hurt! Something's happened to her!" she called out. But he was already a block away.

Anastasie dabbed at Evangeline's face with the hem of her dress. It was soaked in blood.

"Roger, you need to—"

He jogged up, stopped and looked at the two girls. His face turned white. "Jesus! What happened?"

"I think she's had too much to drink. Fell and hit her head," Anastasie whispered.

"Do we need to call an ambulance? Christ, we'll never get anybody at this hour."

"Nobody is calling anybody." Evangeline spoke distinctly, her eyes now wide open. "I'm fine. Just lost my balance."

She tried to sit up and swayed. Anastasie helped her rise and sit on the curb. Evangeline brushed back her hair. She gingerly felt her head and looked at her hands.

"Wow, I cracked myself good," and grimaced as she noticed the sticky blood in her palms.

"We should take you to a hospital. Have you checked out." Anastasie put a hand on her shoulder.

Evangeline jerked away. "Second time tonight. I must be cursed. Maybe by you."

Anastasie looked down, then over at Roger. He grinned. "She's fine. Right back to normal again." He stepped behind her and lifted her by her elbows. She swayed slightly. "See, you're all better now. Ole' Rog' will take care of you."

"Let's go," Evangeline said quietly and they started again.

***

Roger in the lead, as usual, Evangeline in the middle. Anastasie watched her carefully. The hotel was two blocks away. Evangeline suddenly veered away from the sidewalk and walked headlong into the locked door of a small costume shop. She bounced back from the wooden frame, her eyes cloudy and unfocused. She collapsed onto the concrete.

"Evangeline!" Anastasie screamed. She ran toward the limp body and bent down. She placed her ear against Evangeline's nose. She pressed her hand gently on the girl's chest.

Roger appeared, looking down at the two figures. "What happened this time?"

Anastasie turned toward him and shook her head, her eyes full of disbelief.

"What? No, that can't be!" he said and backed away.

"Go get some help!" Anastasie screamed.

Anastasie rose to her knees and placed the fingertips of her hands on Evangeline's head, gently tracing the wound. She moved her hands in tiny circles, down Evangeline's neck and onto her chest, just above her heart. Anastasie's lips moved silently as she continued her feather-light touch. Her hands moved in ever smaller spirals.

"It's too goddamned late," Roger said. "Stop the mumbo-jumbo shit for Christ's sake!"

Anastasie ignored him. She closed her eyes, raised her hands up slightly and moved them apart as if drawing an invisible line. She breathed slowly and deeply as her fingers moved to her own forehead. Anastasie's head suddenly snapped back and her eyes flew open.

"Shit! I said stop the—"

Evangeline's eyes fluttered, then opened. The cloudiness in them had disappeared. She looked up at Anastasie. "I bet I ruined my dress," she said.

***

No one spoke except Evangeline, who chattered incessantly as they undressed her and put her to bed in Anastasie's room. She fell asleep instantly and Anastasie watched anxiously, checked her breathing and her pulse and watched the gentle rise and fall of her breasts.

"Is she all right now?" Roger whispered.

Anastasie nodded. "I think so. Everything appears normal. I'll check on her again in a little while."

Roger nodded and looked at Anastasie's face for the first time. "I don't know about you, but I'm way too bummed to sleep. Come down to my room and we'll have a glass of wine or something. It's been a hell of a night." He flashed his irresistible smile.

Anastasie looked at the girl, sleeping peacefully. "I need to keep checking on her."

Roger touched her arm. "Just one glass, then you can come back and, you know, do your thing."

"Just one," she said.

They walked out silently, down the quiet hall. Roger pulled out his key to a room just a few doors down. He unlocked it, flipped on the lights and went to the small kitchen adjacent to the sitting room.

"Wow, this is a whole suite," Anastasie said, noting the exquisite design of the furniture, the delicate lamps and the plush carpet.

Roger waved his hand. "I like to travel in style. Red or white?" he asked and pulled out two bottles of wine.

"Red is fine," she said.

He poured the wine into two tall, crystal glasses and brought them over to the huge settee.

"Sit down," he commanded.

Anastasie sat on the far end of the couch. Roger sat down on the other end, placed the glasses carefully on the coffee table and propped his feet up. He pulled out a cigarette and lit it, his face never leaving hers.

"What the hell happened out there?" he demanded.

Anastasie shrugged and took a sip of her wine. "I don't know really. I think she just knocked herself out."

Roger gulped his wine, took a drag off his cigarette. He leaned toward her. "Try that again," he said softly.

"What do you mean?"

Roger stubbed out his cigarette in a large square ashtray. "Evangeline told me, before all of that dramatic stuff, that the witchy woman said you were special." He leaned back. "Now, I think I know what she meant."

Anastasie put down her glass and started to rise. "I'd better check on her."

"In a minute. Sit down. Please!"

Reluctantly, Anastasie sat back.

Roger moved closer to her. She could smell his expensive aftershave.

He leaned toward her. His voice was quiet and raspy. "Annie, she was dead. I saw it, you saw it. Dead. You brought her back to life."

She was flattered he had used her name. "I was just lucky, that's all."

"You _are_ special. Very special," he whispered.

She put her glass down and shook her head. Roger grabbed her shoulders, pushed her back and jammed his lips against hers. At first she was too startled to respond. Slowly her body relaxed slightly and began to betray her. She thought of the the gangly boy at the dance when she was fourteen. But this was no boy.

A thrill went through Anastasie and she was overwhelmed with sweet sensation.

He kissed her again and his tongue thrust through her lips and tickled her own.

She felt his hand on her breast, rubbing gently, searching insistently, then down her thigh and under her dress. She shuddered as the intimate caress turned heat into fire.

"I've got to have you," Roger murmured. His fingers found the elastic of her panties.

His hand slipped inside, flickered lower as he persisted. A blinding pain erupted behind her eyes like the blow of a hammer. She felt sick to her stomach. She tried to push him back.

"Roger, no, I can't."

He ignored her protestations. He held her tighter and jerked the panties off. They lay in a silky puddle beneath his feet.

The room was spinning, her head throbbing in time with the beat of her heart.

"I'm, I'm sick!" she cried out.

Roger pushed her down on the couch and shoved her dress up to her breasts. The ceiling moved like waves in a tropical storm.

She tried to get up again, but he held her and she felt him fumbling with his buckle and zipper.

"Roger, stop!" she screamed and he covered her mouth with his own.

His full weight was on her, smashing her down. She felt a piercing pain between her legs.

"Stop!" she tried to say again and his rough palm ground against her mouth.

"Beautiful," he said and grunted. He raised up and she felt another thrust which threatened to rip her in two. Then he became still, smelling of sweat and something else.

Anastasie lay unmoving, as Roger climbed off her. The pain was slowly diminishing, but she knew it would return. It would always return. From this moment, until the day she died.

# PART TWO
# Chapter Five

Journal of Anastasie-8

Love is a perfidious soldier who conquers and makes reason vanish. It is sweet at first, but waxes sanguinary. Love forces its way into your mind and heart and body. It eventually destroys them all. Love is like combat. No one outside can possibly know, unless she has been there.

_The headaches have come often since New Orleans. So too have they gone away, only to return at such inopportune times. It is the same with the memories._ _I understand my mother now._

My friend and I became sisters, siblings and soldiers of mercy. We traveled together to that land where green climbed hills and red ran into rivers.

***

The giant Boeing 747 thundered down the runway at Tan Son Nhut Airport and lurched to a halt outside the cluster of buildings that served as the terminal.

Anastasie, Bridget and fifteen other nurses walked unsteadily down the gangway and into the thick air of the Republic of Vietnam.

"God, I'm hot and sticky!" Bridget yelled as they made their way toward the building where they would be processed in.

"The mistress of the obvious," Anastasie replied and laughed.

"No. I mean just look at all these testosterone-driven males. Talk about Macho Central."

Anastasie giggled and looked around at the clusters of soldiers everywhere. "Don't forget that Sam will be one of them very soon."

"I'm just looking," Bridget said. "Besides, even if Sam makes it here, it won't be for ages. Probably, he'll get some cushy job in West Germany."

Anastasie gestured. "That's what most of them thought," she muttered.

***

Getting used to the stifling atmosphere was difficult. Harder still, was becoming accustomed to the explosions. At all times of the day and night the thunder of Phantom jets taking off and landing assaulted the ears. Occasionally, the base received fire from snipers, mortars and rockets. A few times in the two weeks it took for the nurses to get their assignments and become acclimated to the harsh climate, as if that were possible, they were yelled at to don their helmets and flakjackets and run for the trenches near their hastily-built, wooden-planked billets.

In between, the novice nurses were given crash courses in the Vietnamese language, geography and culture and Anastasie, Bridget and five others received special review classes in the latest surgical nursing procedures. During one of the infrequent breaks they went outside. Bridget shared her Luckies with a black nurse named Ruthie.

"This place is hotter than Africa," Ruthie exclaimed and took a drag.

"You're not from around here?" Bridget asked and the girls laughed.

" _God_ is not from around here," Ruthie replied.

"Or anywhere near by," Anastasie said. "Did you travel to Africa?"

Ruthie looked sheepish. "Not really, but I've always wanted to." She shrugged. "I guess this is as close as it gets." She squinted at the other girls. "Where are you two from?"

"Upstate New York," Bridget replied without hesitation.

Anastasie laughed.

"You two crackers be puttin' me on, that's fo' sure."

Bridget laughed and put her arm around Ruthie. "Well, you're basically talking to a couple of Cajun girls from the bayou country. And we can say without equivocation that you, young lady, ain't from downhome."

"Southern California," Ruthie said and laughed. "My parents were college teachers and urged me to get a good education before I was even born. They, of course, were horrified that I had chosen nursing and really flipped when I volunteered for Vietnam."

"My dad is a fisherman and Bridget's parents own a store. Actually, the place where we grew up wasn't a whole lot different from here. Except for all the bombing," Anastasie added.

"We do have a lot of hurricanes, so that's close," Bridget put in.

Ruthie nodded. "You two are the first people I've met from the Deep South." Ruthie eyed them with mock skepticism. "You all ain't too bad for white folks."

"And you have the worst Southern accent I've ever heard," Bridget replied.

Ruthie grinned. "Lots of problems back home," she mused.

"Yes, but I think things are improving slowly," Anastasie said.

"If they can put a man on the moon," Bridget said.

"Speaking of the moon, I wonder where we are going to be assigned," Ruthie said.

"Stay tuned. Tomorrow, we find out. Anyway, we've been trained and we're ready for anything," Bridget said. She was right about the first thing.

***

_Spring, 1969_. Anastasie ducked her head beneath the whirling blades of the Chinook helicopter. A burly sergeant grasped her wrist and pulled her in.

"Welcome aboard the carriage to hell!" he grinned above the roaring of the engines.

"And you must be the devil himself," Anastasie retorted.

The sergeant laughed. "Some of these guys think so. Take a seat over there." He gestured to one of the metal buckets that served as perches for the passengers.

Before she could fasten her seatbelt the helicopter lifted up with a lurch. Anastasie looked out the tiny window trying to find her stomach and Bridget and Ruthie. She spotted two figures that seemed to be feminine and waved frantically, but they couldn't see her.

As the helicopter gained altitude and made a wide turn around the airport, Anastasie had left her stomach somewhere near the ground. "It wouldn't do for a nurse to heave her breakfast on the first ride out," she said to herself.

She settled back and tried to relax unsuccessfully. "So much for the Army's buddy system." Bridget and Ruthie had been assigned to a hospital in Saigon. She was heading for the boonies. She looked out the window again and was filled with awe at the intense beauty of the landscape below her. The green jungle spread out below her like a magic carpet. This must be what home looked like from the air and thought of her parents and friends like Lavonia. The stomach churning had been replaced by a lump in her throat.

In what seemed like only seconds, the sergeant tapped her on the shoulder. "Paradise Central, coming up," he gestured below.

"Wow!" Anastasie could see nothing but dirt and hills.

"Put on your helmet and flakjacket," the sergeant was serious now. "We've been taking some sniper fire."

Anastasie struggled into the heavy gear as the chopper plunged to the earth and landed with a thump.

"Keep your head down and run to that building."

Anastasie struggled to the edge of the helicopter bay.

"Snipers? You mean people are shooting at us?"

"Don't worry. They're lousy shots." He shrugged his shoulders. "This is war," he added.

Anastasie mouthed thanks and scooted to the earth landing on her backside. She clamored up and ran as hard as she could, lugging her duffle bag, to the ramshackle wooden building that served as headquarters. Off to her right she could hear a few strange whizzing noises and thought she felt the ghost of a breeze passing near her head.

She entered the building, dirty and out of breath. A tall nurse with double silver bars on her fatigue shoulders looked at her. Anastasie dropped her bag and saluted.

A slight grin tugged at the officer's lips and threatened to crack her brown, sun-baked face. "At ease, soldier. Welcome to A Shau Valley."

"Thank you, Captain."

"How was the trip?"

Before Anastasie could answer, the captain turned to a few others seated at desks.

"Fresh meat, everyone!" she yelled. The others stared at her.

"You'll be sorry!" they all said in unison.

***

Anastasie couldn't sleep. She and the other nurses had worked for twenty straight hours. Exhaustion couldn't extinguish the experience of torn and riddled bodies that ran on fast forward through her mind. So many young men, screaming for their wives or girlfriends or sisters or mothers. Begging her to save them.

She had her orders and hated them although she knew they were right. Choose this one or that one for the surgeons if he had a chance to live. The ones who might live whether anything was done or not had to wait in agony. Then there were the expectant ones. The ones who would probably die no matter what was done. They too would wait in agony until the darkness overtook them and their screaming ceased.

Anastasie could still smell death although she had washed her skin and lathered her hair three times and changed clothes. She could feel the blood on her feet where she had waded in the tent that was a charnel house. She could see herself cutting through the viscous tissue of shattered limbs which had once been attached to a whole living being.

She envied the sound of heavy breathing among the women near her, as if they had surrendered to the horror of this day and were preparing for the next.

She fumbled under her pillow and pulled out the stack of letters from home and her flashlight. She pulled the stifling sheet over her head, shuffled the precious papers and turned on her feeble light.

***

There was a lull of sorts, between battles, when the chopper landed, spraying rocks and dirt around the compound. Anastasie, sipping a Coke in the ceaseless sunlight, squinted as several figures emerged from the helicopter.

Two of the passengers detached themselves from the others and walked directly toward her. Anastasie dropped the can, stood up and ran toward them.

"I don't believe it!" she shouted.

"I just wanted to see how easy you had it out here," Bridget shouted back.

Anastasie hugged her little friend. They were both crying and laughing.

"I thought you were still in Saigon."

Bridget smiled and dropped her duffel bag. "Naw. I decided that since I had missed Tet, I wanted to see what was really going on out in the boonies." Bridget gestured toward her companion who had stood quietly grinning.

"You remember Ruthie Johnson?"

"Of course!" Anastasie hugged Ruthie. "The Yankee from California. How did Brig con you into coming way out here?"

Ruthie laughed and shrugged. "I just figured you crackers might be needin' some professional help," she countered.

They laughed. "Come on, let me show you guys around. This place ain't the Ritz like where you two came from. As a matter of fact, it's more like the Pits."

"You white girls should feel right at home, then," Ruthie said.

***

Nursing in a field hospital was somewhat different from what Bridget and Ruthie had been used to in the relative calm of the hospital in Saigon after the defeat of the VC during the Tet Offensive the previous year. Although all three women were approaching their halfway deployment of six months which characterized them as "veterans," Anastasie's friends felt a twinge of envy.

"Out here in the boonies," Anastasie explained as she showed them around their new home, "we have two types of days: frantic activity after a major battle, and incredible boredom in between."

Ruthie shook her head. "I'll take the latter days."

Anastasie smiled sadly. "That's a wise choice. Unfortunately, the battle casualties come all too often. Right now we're between, but there are rumors of a major NVA offensive coming."

"Bring 'em on," Bridget said, lighting a Lucky. She blew smoke and grinned. "I'm ready for some action. Saigon was pretty busy, but this," she gestured around the bleak landscape, "is the real deal."

"You may modify that opinion after two nonstop days of triage," Anastasie replied soberly. "When you hear the choppers, head for the hospital and scrub up."

Anastasie's two companions settled quickly into their new routine. Soon, their crisp fatigues began to fade from repeated washings. Anastasie's had faded long ago. All three took their turns helping in the operating rooms and spent the remainder of their twelve hour days making rounds and taking care of the soldiers, most of whom were transferred to a hospital in "back to the world places" like Japan or the Philippines within several days. Casualties consisted of wounds from firefights and soldiers who had contracted diseases like malaria.

After several weeks, Ruthie greeted her two friends over lunch with trembling excitement. "Hey, you guys, we've got R and R next week! Where's it gonna be? Singapore, Sydney? I like Honolulu."

Anastasie and Bridget smiled. "Well, I was thinking I'd take a week to travel over to the French leprosarium," Anastasie said.

Ruthie stared at her. "Have you lost your mind, girl?"

Anastasie shrugged. "A long time ago. They've got a beautiful place and their cuisine is out of this world."

"You are out of this world," Ruthie said. "You want to go see a bunch of nuns and people without limbs? Shit fire, woman, we're all nuns here and we see people like that every day."

"It kind of reminds me of home," Anastasie said softly.

Something in her tone made Ruthie cease her bantering. She turned on Bridget. "OK, what about you? It's time to party and I don't like to party all by myself."

Bridget looked as serious as Anastasie. "Well, I was thinking about taking a few quick turns up North. They always need people in the field hospitals."

"Both of you white girls are crazy. I can't believe this shit. Well, I for one, am going to go. I want to get out of this hell for a while before I get as nutty as you two."

"You deserve to go," Anastasie said. "Go and have a good time for us."

Ruthie patted her on the arm. "You two are something else. You sure you don't want to go with me?"

"No. You go. We can't wait to hear how things are back in the world," Bridget said.

Ruthie stood up and stared at her friends. "All right. Just stay safe. I'd feel real bad if I was off having a great time with my other four friends and something bad happened."

"Four friends?" Anastasie and Bridget said in unison.

Ruthie leered at them. "Yeah. Sun, Sand, Surf and Sex."

***

Ruthie was gone to Sydney, but had promised to send a card every day taunting her friends.

Anastasie and Bridget sat in the officers' club nursing beers after they had seen Ruthie off to her new adventure and finished their shift for the day. They met there every night and usually spent their time talking with helicopter pilots and other officers who were eager to be near round-eyed females. But tonight things were quieter than usual. Only a handful of officers were there and for once, kept to themselves.

Bridget laughed as Anastasie took a swig and wiped foam off her lips. "If the nuns could see us now," Bridget said.

Anastasie smiled back. "Catholics have never had a problem with drinking in moderation."

"Except for Irish Catholics," Bridget said.

"Thank God we're French Catholics."

"I'll drink to that," Bridget replied and downed half her beer. She wiped her mouth.

"We haven't really had much time to talk," Anastasie said seriously.

"I know. Hey, have you found your hero yet?"

Anastasie frowned. "He's out there somewhere. He'll come riding up on a white horse and take me away from all this. What about yours?"

Bridget shrugged. "I got a letter from him the other day. He's out there somewhere."

"Has he popped the big question yet?"

Bridget dropped her eyes. "Not yet, maybe after this mess is over."

"If my hero comes calling, I want you to be my bridesmaid, Brig." She smiled. "Maybe, who knows, we could have a double wedding."

Bridget laughed. "That would really be something. I guess there's a future out there after all."

They grew quiet. "Of course there is," Anastasie replied. "When this is all over, there's a big wide world out there just waiting for girls like us."

"Where have I heard that before? You know, though, for some of these poor soldiers, I don't think the world will ever be the same again."

Anastasie took a sip of her beer. "I know. I feel guilty as hell sometimes. But thinking of the future, it makes it a little easier to make it through the next day."

Bridget patted her hand again. "Oh no, you shouldn't feel that way. You of all people are entitled to some happiness."

"So are you."

"I guess," Bridget said. "Do you ever wonder what the hell this war is about?"

"Every day. Every time I see these young guys come in all torn to pieces. But I guess our job is to try to put them back together."

"Tis not to reason why," Bridget said.

"You know, I think war has always been with us humans. It always will be. Totally senseless, but there it is."

"The only difference from one generation to the next is that the methods of killing improve."

Anastasie nodded. "We're just a bunch of chimpanzees with technology."

"Well, as long as us two monkeys have each other, we can make it through," Bridget mused.

They both laughed.

Bridget lit a Lucky. "I think I'll just earn me one of those Bronze Stars while I'm over here."

"Bridget. This place is very dangerous, just being here. Don't do anything stupid."

Bridget smiled. "I wouldn't even dream of it," she said.

***

. A slight breeze fanned Anastasie's hair. She lay back, and for the first time in over six months actually enjoyed the hot sun against her upturned face. For a moment she could forget the columns of mangled soldiers who paraded endlessly before her in both real life and in her dreams.

She was almost ashamed at being allowed to enjoy living again, however briefly. The French sisters had been wonderful as she tried her best to communicate with them in her own Louisiana version of their language. They had laughed not at her, but with her, as she self-consciously tried to remember phrases she hadn't used since childhood. And they were not only impressed by her attempt to speak their language, but at her familiarity with a disease that most Americans knew nothing about.

She almost felt as if she were back at home again visiting Aunt Julia and the good sisters, as she helped change bandages and talked with the Vietnamese patients. There was hope here and caring. These leprosy patients, like the ones she had known before, stoically accepted their disabilities and laughed often, shrugging off their limitations. They were much like the wounded soldiers, devoid of self-pity, never complaining. All of these patients, whether ravaged by disease or war were human beings who humbled Anastasie and helped her to deal with her own bouts of migraine headaches and stress which seemed so inconsequential by comparison.

The sisters seemed very interested in how the war was going for the Americans. And the food was outstanding. One evening Anastasie sat with several of the sisters eating a banquet which would have impressed the finest chef in all of France. One of them broached the subject.

"Do you think the American soldiers will remain much longer in Indochine?" a chubby little sister asked Anastasie.

Anastasie stuffed a fat bit of _escar go_ into her mouth and chewed thoughtfully. "Only until the South Vietnamese can stand on their own feet."

" _Oui_ ," the nun replied. "But that could take a while. These people have been fighting among themselves and others for a long time." She crunched her salad leaves. "There is great opposition to the war in your country, no?"

Anastasie nodded. "Yes. But I am a soldier and a nurse. I will continue to do my duty like my father and grandfather before me."

The nun patted Anastasie's arm. "You are good and brave. But please understand that many in our country felt that way until Dien Bien Phu."

"I do understand. I'm afraid we've already had our Dien Bien Phu."

The sister looked perplexed. "How? When?"

"The Tet Offensive. Before I arrived."

"Ah, yes," the nun said, "but you won that battle."

"Walter Cronkite doesn't agree," Anastasie replied. "And a lot of Americans watch him."

"God be with you and your country," the little nun said quietly.

***

Anastasie had not had time to unpack her meager belongings and report for duty at her post when the choppers began swarming in. Her week of respite with the French nuns was over and she was thrust immediately back into the ravages of war. She hurriedly changed into her fatigues and ran to the hospital amidst swirling dust and thrumming engines.

She breathlessly approached Captain Jarvis at the door. "Where do you want me?"

"Triage," Jarvis shouted. "Outside."

Anastasie hated that job, but she joined several other nurses amidst the swirling blades and shouts. The others were already separating wounded soldiers into groups and applying tourniquets and IVs. Anastasie worked on a lightly wounded soldier and grabbed a corpsman by the shoulder.

"You guys take this one in, he'll make it," she ordered. The corpsman nodded, motioned to one of his buddies and they picked up the stretcher and moved the soldier out of the dirt and into the hospital. Anastasie stood up surveying the rest of the carnage. Fifteen or twenty soldiers lay in stretchers on the ground. Two of them were dead. Some of the others were screaming in pain. The rest suffered and bled in silence. Anastasie stepped carefully around the dead men. For an instant, she thought the next soldier had died while she hesitated. But he opened his eyes and looked at her. The right side of his jaw was torn open and Anastasie could see half his bottom row of teeth through the ragged hole. Two gold fillings glinted in the bright sunlight. His flakjacket lay in shreds and someone had hastily applied bandages to several holes in his chest. They were soaked in blood.

Anastasie grabbed pads from her trauma kit and pushed them against the wounds. They immediately turned red. She fumbled for some more and applied them as well.

The soldier tried to speak, but Anastasie couldn't understand him.

"It's O.K., soldier. You're going to be all right."

Captain Jarvis tapped her on the shoulder. She looked down.

"Your buddies are all right," Jarvis said to the wounded man.

The soldier closed his eyes and quit struggling.

"Go to the next one," Jarvis said.

Anastasie didn't move.

"Go on, Lieutenant. We're too late for this one."

"I promised him," Anastasie said.

Jarvis gently pulled her up. "You did all you could," she said. "Go on, there are others."

"Just tell me his name."

"Davies," Jarvis said. "Now follow orders."

***

Fourteen hours had passed since Anastasie had returned from her R and R. She had helped sort out the wounded and served a six hour stint in the operating room. She had found herself back in the recovery ward, numbly sitting in a canvas chair, staring at the rows of soldiers who lay in their beds and wondering what else she could do to help. A distant voice was calling her name or maybe it was a dream.

Ruthie Johnson appeared in front of her. "Annie. Annie," she said quietly.

Anastasie's eyes slowly focused on the face of her friend. "Ruthie? How was your trip?" she murmured.

"Annie, we've got to talk. I need to tell you—"

"I bet you and your four friends had a great time." Anastasie lifted a heavy right hand. "Same old shit here."

"My damned flight was delayed. I got in a couple of hours ago. Helped do what I could, but I missed the worst of it," Ruthie replied.

"Have you seen Bridget? I asked around during this mess, but nobody's seen her."

"Annie, that's what we need to talk about."

The fog of fatigue vanished. Anastasie stood up, swaying slightly. "Is she all right? What happened?"

Ruthie sighed. "Sit back down, girl." She waited until Anastasie obeyed her.

"I checked on both of you, soon as I got back."

Anastasie grabbed her arm. "Where is she, Ruthie?"

"She was out in the field, then her unit got word of this latest battle. Can you believe this? She stole a jeep and headed for the thick of things. On her way, something bad happened. The jeep turned over, nobody knows exactly what happened. She got pinned underneath it. It was a long time before, in all the confusion, somebody realized what was going on and they got her out from under it."

"But she's all right, right? Ruthie tell me she's all right!"

Ruthie ignored the vise grip Anastasie held. "She's right across from us." Ruthie nodded across the room.

Anastasie released her grip, jumped up and ran across the room. The blonde hair was unmistakable, although cut boyishly. Bridget lay quietly in bed. Three IVs ran from stands into her arms. Her eyes were closed, the delicate lashes twitched slightly with each slow, labored breath.

"Oh, God," Anastasie whispered. "Brig, what have you done?"

Ruthie appeared beside her. "A few crushed ribs have penetrated her lungs. The femoral was cut, but somehow she managed to make her own tourniquet. God only knows how."

"She looks OK. She'll make it, right, Ruthie?"

Ruthie touched her arm, but Anastasie shrugged it off. "Maybe. The surgeon said he couldn't operate until she was more stable."

"Bullshit! Where is he? I want her in the O.R. now!"

"Annie. He and the others, they were at it all day, just like you. It's better to wait a little while."

Anastasie's hands were hammers. She wanted to smash something, somebody.

"This goddamned war! It kills everything good."

She fell to her knees beside Bridget's bed, her tears staining the crisp, white sheets.

"Get her out of here," Captain Jarvis had been alerted and stood beside them.

Ruthie helped her up. Anastasie allowed herself to be gently taken down the hall and outside, where the smell of rotting vegetation replaced the odor of flesh.

***

Anastasie forced herself to wait a full hour before she returned. She had showered and changed fatigues. Ruthie was reluctant to leave her, but Anastasie assured her she had calmed down.

Shifts had changed, so she had no trouble getting past the guard. The head nurse was another matter. Anastasie knew her as Captain Hightower and she was great with patients, but tended to be a drill sergeant with her charges.

Anastasie walked past her, smiled and kept going.

"Lieutenant!"

Anastasie stopped. She looked at the captain.

"You're not on the duty roster. You're supposed to be sleeping."

"Johnson said she was airsick and I volunteered to take her place for a few hours."

Hightower consulted her list. "Johnson isn't up for tonight either, Devereux."

"Captain, I couldn't sleep. Please, my friend is here. Bridget. I just came to see how she was doing," she pleaded.

"This is somewhat irregular."

Anastasie took solace that she hadn't said, "against regulations."

"I'll just be a minute."

Hightower sighed. It had been a long day for everybody. "All right, just a few minutes, but no theatrics this time," she warned.

"No drama. Thanks Captain," Anastasie said.

"Oh, by the way, Sergeant Davies has been asking for you all night."

Anastasie stopped and stared at her. "Who?"

"Davies. He's three beds down from your friend."

"I, I didn't think he'd made it. He can speak?"

The head nurse shook her head. "No, but he bugged everybody about giving him a pencil and some paper. He wrote your name over and over again and tried to hold it up."

Anastasie smiled. "So he must be doing better."

The head nurse shook her head sadly. "Not really. But he wanted to see you badly."

Anastasie nodded to her. The captain's face said it all. She had decided there was something going on between the two of them. That definitely would have been against regulations, but it happened.

Anastasie blushed and walked to where Bridget lay. She stood quietly staring at her friend. Bridget's cracked lips blew pink, frothy bubbles. Her chest rose and fell in an irregular rhythm. Her skin was alabaster. Impulsively, she touched Bridget's forehead. It was burning.

Anna Maria knelt beside the bed as if in prayer. She placed both hands on Bridget's chest and closed her eyes. Anastasie felt her fingers vibrate and she moved them up and down in small circles. To her right, she heard a commotion. She opened her eyes and looked. Sergeant Davies was sitting up in his bed, staring at her. He had tossed his bedpan onto the floor.

Anastasie glanced down at Bridget, then awkwardly got to her feet and walked over to where Davies was now lying back, still staring.

"That's a hell of way to get a girl's attention," she said smiling.

The soldier made no attempt to smile back and it was doubtful that he could have anyway. Instead, he struggled to write something with a shaking hand.

Anastasie waited for him to finish. It took a long time. He dropped the pencil on the bed and held the paper up. She took it and began reading aloud.

"Mom is going to die back home. Have two little sisters. Nobody else there to care.You promised."

Anastasie's hands were shaking. She noticed the surgeons had done a good job of stitching the jaw, but blood still seeped from his chest wounds. His eyes were wide with pleading.

She looked back at Bridget who lay still as death.

Anastasie walked to the side of the soldier's bed, knelt down and gently placed her fingers over his chest. He lay back and she closed her eyes. He twitched as her feathery touch caressed his face and moved down his chest. Then he became still. Anastasie sat beside him and held his hand.

For a long while it was silent in the recovery ward. Anastasie, in spite of everything, fell asleep. She failed to notice the hushed sounds of fevered ministrations the other nurses were giving to Bridget.

***

Anastasie had been assured by practically everyone that the 6th Convalescent Center was a good assignment in terms of Vietnam. Compared to where she had been for the first half of her tour, she had to agree. Of course, hell itself would have been an improvement over that place. Like a good soldier she had forced herself to get on with it. Work was the great anodyne. And these patients had a better chance of surviving than the ones she had known before. It was safer here. Safer for everyone.

After two weeks she was beginning to enjoy, if that was the right word, her work. The scenery surrounding the Center was more like California coastline, than that of Louisiana, until one's gaze shifted to the mountains to the north, clothed in foreboding jungle. The soldiers here had a simple assignment. Rest and recuperate from the horrors of the war. The nurses' primary job was to aid these men in their recovery.

Anastasie made her morning rounds that Wednesday in August, as usual, with a bright smile that never failed to cheer up the majority of the soldiers. She had been assigned to "C" ward, one of over ninety buildings that comprised the center. There were over fifty soldiers in her ward and she treated each one as if he were a younger brother, although many of them were her own age or only slightly older. Some of the recovering soldiers flirted with her in a shy, adolescent way and she responded by asking them about their wives or sweethearts. That was usually enough to deflect the conversation from herself and maintain her professional demeanor.

As Anastasie made small talk, changed bedpans and bandages and moved up and down the rows of beds, one soldier, who had been brought in the day before, caught her eye. His left arm was swathed in bandages and blood had begun seeping through. She sat down her tray and moved closer to examine his wound. She reached down to touch it, but he jerked his arm away.

"I'm fine, ma'am. Why don't you go help some of these guys who are hurt?"

Anastasie frowned and put on her stern face. There was something vaguely familiar about his voice. She leaned closer to him.

"Sergeant. The thing is, if I don't change that bandage, the Captain is going to be all over me."

He hesitated, his eyes studying her carefully. "It's just a flesh wound."

Anastasie allowed her own eyes to widen. "Sure, but there's always the risk of infection."

There was a slight smile creeping across his tanned face. "Well, I guess we don't want you getting into trouble with an officer." He raised his arm up and stared intently at her.

"Thank you," she said stiffly.

She took a pair of blunt shears from her tray and deftly cut the saturated bandage. Blood dripped on her uniform as she put the saturated cloth in a pan.

"Sorry about that," he said.

Anastasie laughed. "You have nothing to apologize for. Part of the service," she replied, and expertly began to redress the wound. She finished, trying to maintain her composure under his unwavering gaze.

"How, how did you get wounded?"

The sergeant dropped his arm as if trying to hide it. He seemed to shrink from her.

"It's OK. I shouldn't have asked."

"Ambush. I was leading a squad into this village. Supposed to be routine. Just check for VC and weapons." His face was pained. "We found them."

Anastasie nodded.

"I'm not supposed to be in with these guys. They brought me here because it was close."

"But you were wounded," Anastasie protested.

"I was the only one," he said.

"Your other guys were lucky," she smiled.

He looked up at her. "I was the only one who made it out of the village," he said quietly.

"Oh, God! I'm sorry."

He went on as if he hadn't heard her. "I connected with the company and wanted to go back in, but by that time the Captain had called in an air strike."

"You did everything you could."

"The sonuvabitch sent me back to an aid station." He stared at her. "Can you fucking believe that?"

"Sergeant, you did what you were ordered to do. More than that, actually. Those men died doing their duty. Maybe it was luck or maybe you have a higher purpose, I don't know. But it's not your fault."

"Yeah? And what the hell do you know?"

Anastasie's voice was quiet. She looked down at her hands. "I know exactly what it's like to feel responsible for the lives of others. Feeling responsible and yet unable to do anything about it."

They were both silent. He continued to stare, but his expression softened.

"Maybe you do know something," he said at last.

"No one is a harsher critic than ourselves." She looked at the wall above his head. "But if we don't forgive ourselves for being human, we lose the ability to continue doing whatever we were meant to do."

He laughed for the first time and she frowned at him. "Have you ever considered going into psychiatry? You'd make a great shrink."

Anastasie smiled. "No, I'm just a little Cajun nurse."

He laughed again, much louder. "I'll be damned! I knew it!"

Anastasie stared back at him for the first time. Several wounded soldiers craned their necks.

"What?"

"Anastasie Devereau! You're the girl who saved the bear."

Anastasie stood up. Her tray clattered to the floor.

One of the other nurses started toward them. Then stopped, smiled and retreated.

"And you saved me from Uncle J!" she squealed. She patted him excitedly on the arm and he winced. "Antoine," she said.

***

They had much to talk about. The awkwardness between them vanished like the blue haze that covered the mountains when bathed in sunlight. They talked about home, mostly, the bayou country that they both loved and missed. Of family and friends and familiar places.

In between the laughter and the reminiscences, Anastasie asked: "And whatever happened to Uncle J?"

Antoine looked grim. "Well, he disappeared. Some say a gator got him. Some say somebody's daddy fed him to the gators. All I know is, one day he was raising hell, the next day he was gone."

"Wow," Anastasie whispered.

Antoine laughed. "I think he ran off with somebody's wife. Heard rumors of that sort. He's probably living it up in Chicago or somewhere."

"Might have become a politician," Anastasie giggled.

"That'd be the place for it. Instead of running with gators, he's swimming with the sharks."

They both laughed.

"I've got to finish my rounds." She glanced around the room. "People are going to talk."

Antoine frowned. "Yeah. People and officers."

Anastasie stood up from the chair she had pulled closer.

"I don't want you to go," he said.

She smiled. "I don't want to go, but I have to."

Antoine raised his arm. "What if the bandage needs changing again?"

"Don't worry. I'll be back," Anastasie replied.

***

They swam in from the sea. Skinny men clad in loincloths and carrying satchels full of explosives. They flattened on the ground and waited for the rockets.

Trang Phan studied the American compound and whispered orders to the squad leaders behind him. Hunched over and running, the group immediately fanned out. Phan lifted his binoculars. The rockets streaked through the night sky and exploded inside the base. The pop of rifle fire and curses in English reached his ears followed by the staccato burst of tracers from a machine gun. Phan instinctively ducked his head for an instance, his nose bumping painfully into the left eyepiece of his binoculars.

When he looked again, flares burst open the night sky backlighting the American buildings. Phan lowered the binoculars and stuck the whistle which hung around his neck between his teeth. He raised his right hand although even he could not see it and blew. The column of men on his left ran toward the compound. Seconds later Phan heard the explosions as the satchel charges blew up amidst the screaming American soldiers. He listened to the sporadic return fire from the Americans and blew his whistle again.

The second column exploded from behind him, running and screaming and firing their AK-47 rifles following the path that had been prepared by their comrades. He raised his binoculars. More of his men were inside now and Phan could hear the occasional thud of an AK in the midst of withering machine gun fire and cracks from M-l6s.

***

Anastasie struggled to put on her boots amidst the shouting and the noise of battle.

"Get to the bunker!" someone yelled.

An explosion nearby blew out several windows of her tiny trailer. Anastasie shook shards of glass from her hair and stumbled into the chaos. Tracers were flashing everywhere and she smelled gunpowder and charred flesh. There were dim outlines of people running in every direction.

"Stay down! They'll shoot anything that moves," one of the nurses screamed and pulled Anastasie to the ground. They would never find the bunker. Anastasie lifted her head slightly as another flare touched off. She raised her hand against her eyes to ward off the blinding light. In the distance was a man crawling toward the inside of the base, toward her.

"Stay down!" the other nurse screamed.

But Anastasie was already on her feet. She stumbled toward the man and felt the wind move her hair as bullets whined all around. The man weakly raised his arm and Anastasie fell down and crawled the last few feet toward him. Small fountains of dirt flew up everywhere..

Anastasie reached him. His face was caked with dirt, his eyes pleading.

"What's your name, soldier?"

"Cartwright. Jacob," he managed.

She touched his face. "You're going to be all right, Jacob. Just hang in there."

The soldier grabbed her hand, held it with a terrible grip. "You're an angel, right?"

"I'm a lot of things, but—"

"Angels don't tell lies," he whispered.

Anastasie's eyes looked past his face, down his torn fatigue shirt and stopped her gaze at where his legs used to be.

"You look just like my wife. She's an angel too."

"Then you've been in good company," she said.

"Yeah. I'm one of the lucky ones," Jacob answered.

Anastasie felt the presence of another. She looked up and a small man stared from a few feet away. She saw his yellowed teeth as he grinned. He pulled back the bolt of his rifle and pointed it at her. She covered the wounded soldier with her body and watched the little man's dirty finger tighten on the trigger. He hesitated and his face changed. The grin vanished, replaced by an expression of confusion and awe. Their eyes locked. He lowered the rifle, looked at her again and turned away. Tracers arched through the night. His body danced. Gouts of blood and flesh burst into the air as machine gun bullets slashed through him until there was nothing left.

Anastasie tore her eyes from the apparition that had ceased to exist and looked down at her soldier. His hand still held hers, his eyes staring into hers. And seeing nothing.

***

Trang Phan blew his whistle. What was left of his men retreated orderly into the jungle. His tiny ants had done their work and the few who remained would attack another day. The battle, as most of Phan's battles, had been lost. But the war, the war was something entirely different.

***

Antoine found her. He placed his rifle carefully on the ground and put his hands on her shoulders. She struggled briefly, not wanting to move the dead soldier's head from her blood-soaked lap. Finally, she allowed Antoine to pull her away.

"Come on, now. He's gone. There are others who need your help," he whispered. He gently wiped dirt from her cheeks.

"I couldn't save him," she said.

"No one could have. But there are others you can save. They're setting up a trauma team. They're going to need your help."

He took her hand and led her away from the dead soldier. The nurses were scurrying everywhere. In the center of the compound they were setting up triage.

"Devereux," the Captain yelled, "get over here!"

"Go," Antoine said. "I've got to bring in some of the guys."

Anastasie stood uncertainly. The air smelled of fire and blood.

"Come back soon."

"I will," Antoine nodded.

Their eyes met for an instant. They went their separate ways.

***

Antoine had written several times a week. After the attack at Cam Ranh Bay they had had little time together. She was helping the wounded soldiers and he was preparing to leave. He was eager to return to the bush and to seek revenge against those who had hurt or killed his friends.

She was terrified, not for herself, but for Antoine. His eagerness to redeem himself, in his eyes, created great danger and threatened their future together. But his letters, which she clutched with sweaty palms, helped her get through the horrible days and nights. They were full of love and hope.

She read and reread the letters, laughing softly and crying often. Finally, her eyes closed and she slept. The flashlight loosened itself from her grip. In the early morning darkness, its beam grew dimmer and faded away.

***

Five and a half months later Anastasie sat alone, staring into space in the officer's club. Her beer was warm, yet she shivered. Her migraines had worsened over the past few weeks and were accompanied by sharp pains in her chest. The doctors had found nothing wrong other than "stress induced, psychosomatic origins," blah and blah. She hadn't wanted to see them anyway, but Ruthie insisted.

A deep male voice from just behind her chair spoke quietly: "May I join you?"

"No," she said. One of the nurses' unwritten duties was to keep the morale of the officers up by being "every woman" to them. That mainly included frivolous chitchat in the club. She just didn't give a damn anymore.

"Annie," the voice said softly.

She turned in surprise. "Sam! Sam. Oh, I'm sorry, I, here sit down. God, I'm glad to see you!" She stood up and they hugged awkwardly.

Sam pulled out a chair and sat beside her. He still had the boyish grin, the rather plain, but solid features. He looked much older than she remembered.

"You are still as beautiful as ever," he said.

She tugged at her hair. "Right. It's amazing what fresh air and sunshine can do for a girl. What on earth are you doing here?"

"Looking for you. I put in for some TDY, training some locals, when I found out where you were."

"Didn't Bridget tell you where we were?" Anastasie said without thinking. It was impossible to believe she was no longer here. Her body had been sent home a long time ago.

"No," he said almost in a whisper, "there for a while, well, we kind of lost contact."

"I'm so sorry, Sam." Anastasie could not withhold the tears. "I'm sorry about everything that's happened."

He patted her shoulder. "Brig and I, well, we really weren't seeing each other, at least not in the old way. I think she had other interests here."

"I swear to God, I didn't know anything about that."

"Annie, don't you be hard on yourself. None of any of that was your fault. Anyway, you know how Brig was. I mean, I loved her, in spite of that, but we just weren't meant to be together, I guess."

They were silent for a while each remembering the little blonde girl who had meant so much to them. Anastasie knew his pain was as deep as her own in spite of his acceptance.

"I have to tell you what happened," she said.

Sam listened without a word as Anastasie explained their experiences together, that terrible night of battle and the jeep wreck and a desperate soldier in the same ward. When she had exhausted all the words, Sam reached across the table and held her. She felt his tears against her cheek mingle with his own.

"You still have migraines, don't you?" he said quietly.

"Yes."

"And now, something else? Lungs, heart?"

She shrugged. "Just chest pain. It all comes at the same time, but I manage it."

His face was filled with compassion and pain. "Annie, we all have to make terrible choices. Especially during this god-awful war."

"I should have saved her, Sam."

"Annie, after that whole Evangeline thing, you told me your mother had warned you. You can only do so much. God knows, you've saved dozens since you've been here."

"Sam, it's not the same." She looked at him desperately. "Outside my family, you're the only person who knows the whole truth about me."

He nodded. "And that's the very reason I know you did everything humanly possible. God must have decided."

"I'm not sure God's influence extends to Vietnam."

Sam smiled. "I'm not sure I would entirely disagree with you. That soldier, how did he know?"

Anastasie shrugged. "I asked him later, when no one could believe he had recovered so quickly. He just smiled and said, 'I saw you in a dream.'"

"God decided," Sam repeated.

"Maybe," she replied.

They were quiet again. Sam spoke first.

"Are you seeing anyone? You know, seriously."

"Kind of," she said slowly. "He's over here somewhere, hush-hush stuff, but I haven't heard from him in over a month." She hesitated. "I was supposed to get a ring, but I haven't seen it yet."

Sam dropped his eyes. "Congratulations, Annie."

"Sam, can you come to the wedding? You're the only person who understands everything. I love you," she blurted.

Sam looked at her. "Of course. I've got DEROS in a couple of months. When's yours?"

Anastasie smiled, the first in a long time. "Two weeks", she said.

"Then it's a date. Listen, I have to get back. This is my last day here. I couldn't get away to find you before today."

"I wish you didn't have to go. God, it was good to see you. Before you just showed up, I was thinking about—"

"Don't ever think that. You are too special, too wonderful, for me, for the world, to ever lose."

They both stood up and hugged long and hard. She watched him go and thought she heard him whisper, "I love you too," before he disappeared as suddenly as he had come.

***

Journal of Anastasie-9

Everybody cheered when the plane became airborne. Everybody except me. I envied them. For the soldiers on the plane, the war was finally over. I wanted to feel the same elation. We had survived. I'm sure many of them had the same regrets I did. Most of them had left friends behind as well, but in that moment of exquisite joy, they could put those thoughts aside. I wish I could have.

When we entered the airport, the group broke up. I saw some of them rushing to their girlfriends or wives and children. There was laughter and tears, but there were no bands or crowds of wellwishers. We dissolved into the mass of other travelers, indistinguishable, except for our uniforms. And there were some there who singled us out for that reason.

" _Hey, Lady, how many people did you kill?" Two long-haired types approached me as I searched in vain for the restroom. Their eyes were unfocused from drugs, both wore fatigue jackets which they had not earned._

I stopped and looked at them. "Two hundred, more or less."

" _Wow!" the larger one said, his eyes roaming over my uniform._

The other one stuck his face in mine and leered. "How many were babies?"

His companion snickered.

" _Half of them. And if you two don't disappear, I'm going to make it a hundred and two babies."_

They started to say something else, changed their minds for some reason, and wandered off. I hefted my suitcase, found the restroom and changed into civilian clothes. I was back in the US of A. The world.

Seeing Momma and Papa and Cornelius and Ophelia was both wonderful and strained. Lavonia was away at graduate school. We all hugged and cried and cried and hugged and Momma finally escaped by retreating to the kitchen and preparing a huge, downhome meal.

It took a while for me to adjust to a world without horror, although the swamp sometimes reminded me too much of the jungle where I had spent a lifetime. Soon, I would relearn to love it again.

Papa and I would sit out on the porch at night, watching the fireflies. He had never spoken to me, or Momma or anyone as far as I knew, about his wartime experiences. I felt that I should do likewise. But after a week, he astonished me. It was peaceful and clear that night, the air crisp with autumn promise. Momma was in the kitchen cleaning up.

" _Tell me what it was like," he said quietly, the question seemingly coming out of nowhere._

" _Papa, I'm not sure you want to know," I replied._

In the twilight his face was dim, but I knew he was watching me.

" _Cherie," he said after a long while, "war changes someone forever, in a way nothing else ever will." His voice broke a little. "A soldier who survives feels wonderful to be alive, to have made it through. But at the same time, he, or she, feels guilty because of those who didn't make it back. And then there are the terrible things which haunt the memories and the dreams. I, I don't want my little girl to have to share that burden by herself."_

I could hear Papa sobbing quietly. I had never heard him do that before.

" _Papa, it's hard. For both of us."_

" _Yes. It is," he said after a long time. "So tell me, so that we can share this thing together."_

" _I love you, Papa," I said._

" _And I love you, Cherie."_

And so I told him. Everything.

***

I couldn't bring myself to visit the graves for a long time. Both were close by, no more than an hour's drive to either. I realized much later that seeing the graves would make their deaths all too real and it was not until Papa and I had talked for hours and weeks, that I was able to face that final, terrible reality.

I visited Brig's first and the little cemetery was simple and beautiful. It was on a little rise, so that flood waters would never disturb her. I stayed a long time and we talked about the great adventures we had shared. I prayed she would not be lonely. She had always loved people and I promised her she would always be near me, in my heart and mind.

Visiting Antoine's grave was harder. He was the future I would never know. I had only found out about his death two days before I left Vietnam. He had died before he had been able to send me the ring. The war even took that. I don't know the circumstances of his death and I will never know. More than likely, he was killed in Cambodia. I do know he died a hero and he died loving me. I told him goodbye and hoped that he and Brig would have a grand time talking about me and old times in Heaven.

I was twenty-three years old. You have your whole life ahead of you, they said. A new decade has begun, they said. The future is bright, they said.

They didn't say what they didn't know. That I had already lived a lifetime. That the new decade made little difference. That there was no future because it had been destroyed by the past.

They were wrong. But so was I.

# Chapter Six

Anastasie took long walks along the bayous of her childhood and reacquainted herself with home. It seemed like a lifetime since she had watched the gators and herons and those ugly little nutrias that oddly, she realized she had missed. The autumn air felt cool against her still brown skin and the low humidity was such a change from what she had never become accustomed to over there. A hawk swooped low over the river and she reminded herself that its hunting served a natural purpose.

She sat down and let her bare feet trace tiny arcs in the cool water, her face turned upward and warmed by the sun. The physical pain was less here and she could almost convince herself that the headaches and the chest pains would disappear forever. The emotional pain was something else, less chronic now, but more acute when it came.

She and her father were closer than they had ever been, if that were possible. But her relationship with her mother was somewhat strained. Anastasie wasn't sure why that was true, but she thought it might have something to do with the gift they shared. Maybe her mother believed Anastasie had failed to live up to the responsibility that burden required, or maybe, like all Southern women should, Anastasie had not been able to suffer in silence. She had found solace and kinship with her father, and her mother had not been, could not have been, a member of such an exclusive bond.

Anastasie sighed and watched the squirrels preparing for the winter. If she asked her mother what was causing the gap between them now, she would be met with an astonished expression. "I'm so proud of you, Annie, me and your father. Don't be silly! There is nothing wrong. You're my child and I love you," her mother would say. Her mother, her generation, would never discuss raw, human feelings with her own child. Not even with her husband. Intimacy was sexual, not emotional. Life was to be endured, never enjoyed.

War had taught Anastasie that life was fleeting. Responsibility to others was still paramount, but pleasure was not a bad thing. Unlike her mother, Anastasie had come to believe that pleasure needn't be commensurate with pain. There was enough pain already.

A splash in the water near her feet broke her reverie. A large catfish gulped air with its huge, ugly lips. She got up and started for the house. In spite of the weighty thoughts, she felt renewed as she did every time she came out to the bayou.

Halfway to the house, she heard her mother calling.

"Annie? Annie, your best friend is here. Come quick!"

Anastasie grinned and started to run. She hadn't seen Lavonia in a long time.

***

They stood awkwardly in the front yard, the place where they had played so often in childhood. Momma had said something about them catching up and had disappeared into the kitchen.

Anastasie approached her, smiling uncertainly, and placed a flower in her hand.

Lavonia smiled back and took the flower. "It's been a while."

"Too long," Anastasie replied and hugged her.

Lavonia's arms remained at her sides, but then dropped the flower and hugged Anastasie stiffly. They stepped back a little.

"Let me look at you. Wow, you are all grown up!"

"So are you," Lavonia answered.

"How's school? You must have a doctor's degree by now."

Lavonia laughed. "Not quite. Actually, well, I'm taking a little vacation from school."

"I can understand that. Taking a break, I mean. God, I got so excited I forgot my manners. Come, let's sit on the porch. Would you like a soda or something?"

Lavonia laughed. "Haven't heard that word in a long time." She glanced toward the woods. "Why don't we just take a little hike. I haven't seen much of the old place. Momma and Pop wouldn't leave me alone since I got here yesterday."

"Sure," Anastasie replied. "Your parents seem to be doing well. We visited with them the other day, but they didn't say anything about you coming home."

They walked across the pebble-strewn yard and down toward the bayou, past the tree where Lavonia had hidden so long ago.

"Wanted it to be a surprise," Lavonia said simply. "Now tell me about Vietnam and being a nurse and all."

Lavonia's voice seemed flat almost as if she wanted to get that out of the way as quickly as possible.

Anastasie shrugged. "Not much to tell. Graduated, let Uncle Sam pay for my last year and ended up over there."

They stopped at the river, where Anastasie had cooled her feet and felt the sun. The two women sat down on the soft ground. Everything was quiet, as if the swamp were listening intently to the conversation.

Lavonia stared at the shimmering water. "I heard it was rough over there. Especially for the black folks."

"It was rough for everybody. I lost, lost a few good friends. But made some. One was a black girl, Ruthie Johnson. Hey, she was from California. Isn't that where you went to grad school?"

Lavonia continued to stare at the water and the muddy bank. "Lot of people in California. Lot of black people, mostly in the cities. The rich people live in the suburbs."

Anastasie frowned and looked out at the water. It looked a little different from when she was out here alone. "Tell me what it was like. I've only been to California twice, once going out and once coming in. Not pleasant either time." She looked at her childhood friend and smiled. Lavonia continued looking straight ahead.

"California," she said. "A bunch of weirdos, but some good people. People who are trying to make the country a better place." She paused, choosing words carefully. "Actually, they're trying to make the country a _new_ place."

Anastasie leaned back to catch the sun again. "What's so wrong about the _old_ country?"

Lavonia turned her head and frowned. "How long are you going to be here?"

The question, seemingly out of nowhere, surprised her. "Well, I've put in some nursing applications at hospitals in New Orleans, Baton Rouge," she smiled, "even Shreveport and Lake Charles."

Lavonia nodded. "Good nurses, hell all nurses, are high in demand. You won't have to wait too long for a job. Especially, with all your war heroics and all."

"I wasn't heroic. I just did my job like everybody else."

"Not what I heard," Lavonia said.

"I'd rather not talk about that," Anastasie said quietly.

"When you were there, you saved a lot of people, didn't you?" Lavonia persisted.

"Some. A few. Never enough."

Lavonia met her eyes for the first time. "You have a gift. For saving people."

Anastasie looked down. "Lavonia, I don't know what you've heard about me, either before all that, or since, but I'm just an ordinary person. No different from anyone. No different from you."

"We're not really the same. Never have been and sure aren't now." She studied Anastasie. "But we were good friends once. We shared everything and stuck by each other."

"I agree with all of that. And we're still good friends." Anastasie smiled.

"That's why I've come back."

"What?"

"I need your help. I need your gift." Her eyes turned from cold to pleading. "I need you to save a friend of mine."

***

The dust swirled behind the old pickup truck as they went deeper into the higher land beyond the bayou. Lavonia was behind the wheel of her father's vehicle, which was even older than Andre's, but in better shape because Cornelius was a born mechanic who took pride in keeping his machine in pristine condition.

Anastasie sat beside her as the truck bounced and lurched along the corduroy highway.

Lavonia hadn't spoke for a while, her face concentrating on the skillful driving required to keep hugging the road. They slowed as the road straightened out a little.

"You've heard of Howie Blanton?"

Anastasie looked across at her companion. "Is he your boyfriend?"

Lavonia laughed. "No. He's just a friend. As a matter of fact, Howie was born right here in Louisiana." She gave a short laugh. "Some say he was related to Huey P. Long."

"Now, I have heard of him. The Kingfish."

Lavonia nodded. "Yeah. Kind of ironic being kin to an old corrupt white guy who got himself shot for his efforts. Ever heard of Tommy Wilkins?"

"Can't say I have." Anastasie wondered where the road and the conversation were going.

"Howie is in jail."

Anastasie struggled to keep from reacting. "What did he do?"

"He didn't do anything. They claim he shot a cop in San Francisco, but he didn't do it. Won't be long, they've got to let him out. His appeals are going to prove he's innocent."

Anastasie didn't respond. She didn't know how.

***

They pulled into an abandoned farmhouse at the end of the road. Lavonia made no move to leave the truck.

"Sit just a minute," she said as the dust settled around them. She rolled her window down.

Anastasie searched for some sign of life, but everything was deathly still. She was reminded of the quiet, just before the attack at Cam Rahn Bay. She jumped as a black face appeared at her window, another on Lavonia's side. Both men were tall and hard, one held a shotgun, the other an M16. Anastasie knew that weapon well. She had seen it thousands of times.

The one on Lavonia's side grinned, gold teeth shining in the late sun. "See you brought the white bitch. Good work, L."

Anastasie remained quiet, deciding that was the best course under the circumstances.

"Her name is Annie," Lavonia said and pushed open the door banging it into the man's shiny face. She jumped down and the man moved back. "She's here to help, so keep your goddamned mouth shut."

He shifted the shotgun into the crux of his elbow and grinned again.

"Annie, come on in, this ape isn't going to hurt you."

Anastasie waited for her escort to step back, opened the door and got down.

"Ain't you got a bag or somethin'?" the man with M16 said, looking her up and down.

"She doesn't need one. Come on, Annie." Lavonia gestured at the two guards. "You two savages stay out here where you belong."

They walked up the steps which were half-rotted and falling in. Lavonia pulled open the screen door and ushered her into what once had been a living room and now was a cluttered heap of splintered furniture and broken glass. An ancient fireplace, once painstakingly handmade of ill-matched rocks, sat forlornly in the corner. The room smelled of charcoal and blood.

A short black man about their age came out from a bedroom on the right side of the house. He wore spectacles, his bushy hair stood half a foot on top of his head. He was unarmed. He nodded at Anastasie.

"How is he?" Lavonia asked the little man who, in another lifetime, might have vaguely resembled a college teacher.

"Not good. Lost too much blood." He looked at Anastasie. "This our angel of mercy?"

"Yeah, she's here to help," Lavonia repeated.

The small man put out his hand. Anastasie shook it. "I'm Leroy. Fellow inside," he gestured toward the bedroom, "he's hurt pretty bad. But I guess you know that."

Anastasie glanced at Lavonia. "I haven't been told much of anything," she said.

Lavonia and Leroy exchanged glances.

"Well, maybe that's best," he said

***

The room in which the patient lay was small, smelly and dark like the rest of the house.

The man on the bed, covered by a threadbare blanket, might have been handsome if his features had not been contorted by pain. His eyes, which were almost blue, shone with fever and intensity as he gazed among his visitors, finally resting on Anastasie.

"Elijah, I've brought you some help," Lavonia said quietly.

"I thought she was a sister," he said hoarsely, his stare locked onto Anastasie.

"I'd said I was bringing help," Lavonia answered, an edge to her voice. "It doesn't matter what color she is. She can fix you."

Elijah looked down at his body under the blanket. "Matters to me."

"You are a stubborn mule!" Lavonia exploded. "We have carted your black ass a thousand miles over mountains and deserts and swamps so we could get you well. God! I love you, but if you don't listen to me, I'm going to end you myself and be rid of this."

The grimace of pain on Elijah's face turned into a tight grin. He looked at Leroy who stood shifting his feet. "You see why I love this girl, Leroy? She all thunder and lightning. That's what the Movement needs. Damn!"

"Power to the people!" Leroy said.

"Save the horseshit for the dopes outside," Lavonia said. "We've got work to do. Annie, will you take a look?"

It was the first time since their reunion that Lavonia had called her by name. Anastasie approached the bed and gently pulled the blanket down. A foul smell punctuated the room. She examined Elijah's right upper leg. He watched her suspiciously. He jerked slightly as she traced the edges of the wound gently with her fingertips. She straightened up.

Lavonia was watching her intensely. "Well?"

"This man needs a hospital. Immediately. His wound is septic. It looks like the bullet has shattered his femur. Maybe nicked the artery. I've seen enough bullet and shrapnel wounds to know bad when I encounter it. This is bad."

"No hospital," Elijay groaned. "You jus' go get your magic bag outa the truck and fix me up. And I sure as hell could use some morphine or something."

"Can't," Anastasie said.

"Can't or won't, white girl?" Elijah said.

"Leroy, you stay with him. Annie, come on out with me." She gestured and Anastasie followed her into the dingy living room. Lavonia closed the bedroom door. She studied Anastasie for a long minute. "Annie, we need your help here."

"I know. Lavonia, when I was in 'Nam, there were thousands of boys I wanted to save. The question was always, 'Which ones?' It was impossible to decide."

Lavonia's face was hard. "So. What? You didn't save any because you wanted to play God? Is that it?"

Anastasie's eyes were liquid. "It wasn't like that at all. I saved many, the usual way. I only saved one, the way you want me to save him."

Anastasie didn't tell her about the migraines which came often, splitting her skull, creating blindness. She didn't mention the one she was experiencing at that very moment. Or the sharp, stabbing chest pains which threatened to cut off her breath. Lavonia wouldn't have believed her.

"Lavonia, I can only save a few. That's part of the problem."

"How do you know that if you haven't tried?"

"I know," Anastasie said quietly.

Unexpectedly, Lavonia eyes filled with tears. Anastasie had never, ever seen her friend cry before.

"I love him. Do you know what it's like to love somebody and then lose him?"

"Yes," Anastasie replied. She touched Lavonia on the arm. "All right. Let's go back in there. I'll see what I can do."

***

The sunlight had faded, the relentless glare diminished. The twilight, that ambiguous nexus of light and dark was upon them. Leroy was outside. He had stared long and hard at the white woman who had waved her hands over his friend like some Voodoo princess. He almost laughed at her theatrics. To think this silly white bitch would put on a show like that to save herself. He almost walked out then, but Lavonia motioned for him to stay put. The white woman stopped her hand jiving and closed her eyes. The first thing Leroy noticed was that he no longer noticed that awful, rancid smell. He sniffed loudly, his nostrils flared. Nothing. No stench.

He glanced at the woman, then down at Elijah. He appeared to be sleeping, but then his eyes flew wide open. His eyes were the best thing about him. They were no longer clouded over by pain. Leroy shook his head, trying to clear his own eyes. The wound was gone. There was nothing there except dirty bandages. Elijah's mouth hung open as he looked at his own leg, torn open and bleeding seconds before, now healed tight. Nothing there, not even a scar. Leroy looked at the white woman. She was a witch, some real kind of Voodoo goddess beyond anything he had ever seen or imagined.

"He'll be a little weak for a while, but other than that, he'll be fine," the Voodoo goddess said quietly.

Leroy turned and left the room.

***

"Let me talk to Elijah for a minute, then I'll take you home," Lavonia said.

Anastasie nodded to both of them and walked out the door and onto the porch. She sat down on the first step, avoiding the nails and the splinters that were waiting to sting. She closed her eyes and wondered how long it would be. She heard movement in front of her and opened her eyes. Leroy and the guards were huddled a few feet away, staring at her. They made no sound.

She heard the screen door creak and Lavonia came out.

"Let's go. We've got to get out of here now!"

The two women started for the truck. The three men continued to stare, mouths agape.

Behind them, the screen door creaked again. Ellijay stood on the porch.

"Lavonia, move out the way!" he yelled.

"Hurry, get in the truck!" Lavonia screamed at Anastasie.

They raced to the truck and almost made it.

"What are you three fuckers waitin' for? Shoot the white bitch. Now!" Elijah yelled.

Leroy and his two companions stood still.

"Don't you two so much as raise a hand against that woman," Leroy said.

"Goddamit! Do I have to do everything myself?" Elijah leaped from the porch and went to the guard with the gold teeth. "Gimme that goddamned gun. You think we can leave this white bitch here to tell everybody?" He tried to tug the gun away, but the taller man was too quick. He stepped back.

"Elijah, maybe we ought to jest be leavin'," he said.

Elijah stuck his face close. "I just came back from the dead, you sorry sonuvabitch. Now when I give an order, you fuckin' do it."

"She brought you back," Leroy said.

"Shut the fuck up. You ain't nothin' but a Uncle Tom. Never once robbed no banks with the rest of us. I'll deal with you later." He gestured toward the man with the shotgun. "I said shoot her and bury her deep."

The gold-toothed one moved slowly and awkwardly toward the two women. He racked a shell into his shotgun. Lavonia moved in front of Anastasie.

"Lavonia, move aside," he said.

"Don't do it," Lavonia said.

"I'm sorry. Doan want to. But orders is orders." He held the shotgun in his right hand, the barrel moving up. With his left he pushed Lavonia roughly to the side. A shot shattered the still air. The shotgun fell to the ground. The gold-toothed man jerked upright and spun backward as if the hand of God had come to claim him. His body was rubber. He followed the shotgun, falling face up in the dirt. An almost neat hole had appeared in his forehead and the scrabble beneath him was turning dark like a river on the bayou.

Lavonia held the Colt .45 in both hands. She pointed it first at the second man with the rifle, then back at Elijah. Anastasie had seen hundreds just like it. Except this one was shiny, not dark blue.

"All of you. Get back into the house or die now," she said. "You too, Leroy."

"Lavonia, honey, I was just kiddin'. We weren't going to hurt your friend," Elijah said. He grinned at her. "Damn, you are some kind of woman."

Lavonia gestured with the gun. "She won't bring you back a second time."

"All right, all right, honey. We goin' back in. C'mon, boys. Damn, she some kind of woman, ain't she?"

The other two men didn't reply. They moved cautiously back to the steps and onto the porch.

"Throw that rifle out here. Do it now."

The other guard obeyed. "Now, get your asses in the house or I'll shoot you now."

All three tried to go through the door at the same time.

"Annie, get that rifle and shotgun. Don't want them suddenly getting their balls back."

Anastasie quickly scooped up the two weapons. The women got in the truck. Lavonia spun the steering wheel, found the road and they roared down it, tires spinning in the dust and gravel.

Lavonia put the safety on the Colt and handed it to Anastasie.

"Will they come after us?" Anastasie asked.

"If they do, we'll be ready for them." She shook her head. "But I don't think they will. If I know Elijah, he's probably in his van, already heading back out West. Leastways, he'll do that if he wants a second chance at living." She smiled sadly.

"What about Leroy?"

"Elijay won't do anything to him. Leroy knows too many people and too much. He snuffs out Leroy, a lot of people will be looking for his ass. Me included. I never got a chance to tell you thanks for what you did back there," Lavonia said.

"You're welcome."

They were silent for a moment.

"Guess you might be looking for a new boyfriend," Anastasie said and smiled. "How about that Howie Blanton?"

"Shit, that loser? He ain't worth waiting for. I think I've had enough of this political bullshit. Elijah had me fooled. Had a lot of people fooled. I saw him for real today." She glanced at Anastasie. "I saw you for real today too. You know, I really do understand."

Anastasie frowned. There was too much popping out of Lavonia all at once to keep up with.

"Understand what?"

Lavonia gripped the steering wheel tightly, checked the mirrors. "You and your momma. Somehow I've always known about you two."

Anastasie sighed. "Well, you were, are, my best friend. You were bound to figure out about my, well, talent."

Lavonia shook her head. "I've known that from the minute I first saw you and Shirley T, but I'm talking about the other part of it. See, I knew when your momma saved me from polio, she took it on herself."

"She's never said anything about that."

"Wouldn't have ever expected her to. But I knew. Momma and Papa knew too. I figure the same's true for you. Trouble is, I've been so blind, I didn't want to see it back there. That was wrong. Selfish. I'm sorry."

"Lavonia. It's all right."

"You saved a worthless excuse for a human being and I made you do it."

"Lavonia, nobody on this earth could make me do it. I understood how much you loved him."

Lavonia looked at her, eyes full of wetness. "You been there, huh?"

"Yeah. He died."

"Wish I could say the same," Lavonia answered and they both laughed a little. "So are we still friends? After all this?"

"You got that right, girl," Anastasie answered

***

Journal of Anastasie-10

No one ever knew about what happened that day in the abandoned farmhouse except for Lavonia and me and the others. I guess they buried the gold-toothed man. No official enquiries were ever made as far as I know. I heard one of the leaders of that group fled to Cuba or somewhere. Maybe it was Elijah, maybe not. I read some of them died in shootings. After all that, their group began to break up and was never the same again. So much for power to the people.

Lavonia and I still keep in touch, but I haven't seen her in a long time. We never discuss those events. No need. She's married to a physician up North and has two kids. I'm happy for her.

I was home again when the POWs were released and I think we all cried for hours. Then there was the whole Nixon thing and the fall of Saigon. What a waste. I don't think I was the only vet who felt the anger and bitter disappointment as those damned tanks rolled into the city.

I'm a Head Nurse now at St. Barnaby's, not far from Shreveport. It was hard to adjust after Vietnam. Over there nurses routinely made life and death decisions and were respected by the male physicians. In the states, we are just women who take care of patients and get blamed when things go wrong. Maybe this Women's Lib thing isn't such a bad idea. I've been tempted to join Gloria and her crowd. But then, some things may never change, right or wrong.

The migraines come and go as do the chest pains. I have a slight limp also, but it only acts up when rain is coming. A couple of weeks ago, I brought a baby back. It had a lot of complications including Tuberculosis. I have no symptoms yet, but sometimes I think I feel a cough coming on. The baby has a new chance. I hope she will grow up and do some good. I do wonder, sometimes, if giving a child life in this world is the right thing. It is a terrible place, but filled with mostly good-intentioned people who struggle daily to find happiness and meaning in the midst of ceaseless chaos.

I've gone out with a few men over the years, even one doctor, but it's hard to get close to anybody. The past always seems to get in the way. It would be nice if I met someone. Being alone, even with such wonderful parents as I have, is not so easy.

# Chapter Seven

Anastasie sighed, crossed the floor of her tiny living room in her tiny apartment in bare feet, and turned the record player off. It was a good Stones album, but the songs reminded her of 'Nam and the past. The present wasn't much better.

She had the whole weekend ahead of her. She plopped down on her second-hand couch and took a sip of her orange juice. Now that Mic Jagger had been stilled, she could listen to Ted Koppel discuss the continuing hostage situation in Iran. Apparently, there were few, real new developments in the crisis. The video was showing clips from the whole Desert One tragedy. Anastasie had seen it all before, as had almost everyone in the country. She shook her head sadly and wondered if she had known any of those men.

She got up, turned the volume down and returned to her seat. She had three options: stay on the couch until Monday, not an altogether bad idea as it often hurt to move; make the run southward to see her parents, good, but lacking in excitement; or, go to the new nurse's birthday dinner party on Saturday where everyone except herself would get smashed. Maybe too much excitement.

Anastasie coughed, drank a sip of juice and sat back. "I could go shopping," she said aloud. Not so great. Inflation was running rampant and even heads' salaries couldn't keep up.

"So many choices, too damned much time," she muttered and coughed again.

The phone rang on the little end table. She stared at it in wonder. Her phone never rang unless it was the hospital begging her to come in. She only had one good friend there and she was married with three kids, so social interaction was limited to an occasional quick lunch. It rang again. Shit! That means only one thing: Momma or Papa.

She grabbed the phone, her palm wet. "Hello? Hello? Momma?"

"Hello?" a tentative, distinctly male voice replied through considerable static. "I'm sorry to be calling so late, but I just got in."

"Who is this?" Anastasie demanded. Her mind raced through the possibilities. Some highway patrolman with terrible news? A medic? Maybe it was one of those obscene callers she had heard about? She prayed it was the last choice. She would make him shrivel with words she had learned in the Army, but rarely used herself.

"Annie? It's me. Sam."

"Who?"

"Sam Livingston. Is your mom all right?"

"Sam! Oh, yeah, I, I, you know we talk to each other all the time. I just thought it might be her." The truth was, her mother never called her. She, the dutiful daughter, did all the calling.

"Well, I hope I didn't wake you up or anything. I just got into Shreveport. I'm at the airport and I looked you up."

"Sam, it's wonderful to hear your voice! God, I've missed you," she said without even knowing she was saying it.

"Annie. I've missed you too. Listen, I'm so sorry I haven't kept in touch. I was sent to some god-awful places around the globe these past few years."

"Sam? I thought you were getting out of the Army."

There was a pause as a jumbo jet flew over. "I thought I was too, but they offered me a deal I couldn't refuse. Finally, as of a couple of weeks ago, I refused."

"So you didn't retire?"

"Naw, just didn't reup. I finally got my fill of it. Life out of a duffel bag gets old after a while. Anyway, I got another job. Tell me about yourself. I bet you're married now and have ten kids."

Anastasie smiled. "Eight," she said.

There was silence on the other end. Another jet thundered across the phone lines.

"Well, that's good. Anyway, I just wanted to hear your voice. Talk to you again, To let you know that I've never forgotten—"

"Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"Are you married?"

"Never had time."

"I was just kidding. I'm not married, never have been, have no kids, no boyfriend. Hell, I don't even own a dog."

Anastasie heard a rush of air on the other end. It wasn't a jet.

"That's the best news I've heard in a long time. Wait, I'm sorry, that didn't come out right. I mean—"

"Sam?"

"Yes?"

"When can I see you?"

"Tomorrow night too soon? I've booked a hotel not far from here. I'll be in town all weekend."

"Sam, thirty seconds from now wouldn't be too soon." Anastasie smiled through her moist eyes. It appeared as if she had another option after all.

***

Sam had picked a cozy little restaurant off the main drag that boasted the best Cajun fare in the state. He had apologized profusely about not having a car yet, but Anastasie had assured him not to worry. She would meet him in her Pinto, although as she wedged it into a parking space a block from the restaurant, she hoped the little car would make it back to her apartment.

She walked briskly down the street. Thank God, the night air was crisp and dry. No limp or cough. She paused in front of the glass that fronted the restaurant and glanced at herself. She hadn't applied makeup this carefully in years. She still wore her thick hair long. The whole can of spray still held it together, more or less. Her green dress was new. One she had bought on impulse several weeks ago, but never worn.

She looked O.K. for a matronly nurse. She went in, was greeted by the hostess and informed that her escort was already there. The hostess led her around a corner of oak paneling.

"Annie!"

He was on his feet, his hair the same, his face tan, with just a few more wrinkles than she remembered. Instead of fatigues or a uniform, he wore a sport coat. His eyes were sparkling. So were hers.

"Sam!"

There was no awkward pause. No fumbling for words. She was in his arms and kissing him before either of them realized there were other people giving them amused looks.

"Uh, would you care to see a menu?" the little hostess proffered after a minute turned into three.

They unclenched, stood apart a little, giggled like teenagers. "Oh, yeah, right, we did come to eat. I mean this is a place to eat," Sam said, his face a deep shade of red.

"Menus, yes," Anastasie said brightly. "We'll sit now."

Sam held a chair for her. He plopped down beside her, their eyes still locked tightly together. The hostess, smiling, put the menus down and retreated.

"Guess we should order something," Sam said.

"No hurry," Anastasie said and took his hand. "We've got plenty of time."

***

They were married in the small Catholic church of Anastasie's childhood. Her parents, a few aunts and uncles on her father's side and cousins attended. Ophelia and Cornelius and Lavonia and her husband and their two grandchildren came. Some nurses from the hospital came. And Sam's family and friends were represented by his mother. His dad was long dead, killed doing his duty in another far-off place called Korea. A few of Sam's best Army buddies showed up. There were ghosts who attended too. They stood far off, hardly noticed by anyone. Anastasie and Sam felt their presence, but the spirits radiated warmth, not chill, as is often the case. They approved of this union as much as the living.

# PART THREE
# Chapter Eight

Journal of Anastasie-11

The years after Sam and I were married and moved to Virginia, near D.C., were the happiest of my life except for those magical times of my early childhood. Sam's new job was with one of those clandestine government agencies that had three capital letters. In the beginning I had joked with him about joining the IRS. "Not that one," he would say laughing. "It's the one that preys on other countries' citizens, not on our own."

Sam and I spent much of our time together talking and laughing when we weren't in bed. And even that often ended up loud with attendant giggles. He was just like Papa in so many ways, except Sam was rarely one to use economy when it came to talking. "Why speak five words when a hundred will do just as well?" he often joked.

Unlike the previous generation there were no taboo subjects between spouses. We talked about everything: the past, the present and most of all, the future. Our youthful experiences, though mostly shared apart, and especially the war, melded us in a way few others would ever know.

I hated that he had to leave, sometimes for weeks. He worried about my symptoms and almost nagged about what he called, "Trying to save the world." But even those two sore spots were manifestations of our love for each other.

In all those years I only kept one secret from Sam. His name was Roger. I decided that Sam, being Sam, would have used his expertise to extract a terrible price from Roger for what he had done to me. Maybe I had asked for it. I still wonder about that sometimes. But Sam would have had no doubts about it and Roger would have long ago been buddying up to Jimmy Hoffa in the great concrete boneyard beyond. In view of what happened later, I often wish I had told him.

There had been a few extraordinary events which had intruded briefly upon our happiness. John Lennon had been killed by a maniac. President Reagan had freed the hostages in Iran only to have been wounded a few months later.The event which had the most effect on me, I think, because I was pregnant at the time, was the Air Florida crash. I had taken some time off from nursing. It was a cold, January day and I sat in the kitchen of our comfortable home watching television. The program was interrupted by a frantic announcer. After taking off from the Washington National Airport, the jet had slammed into the l4th Street Bridge and plunged into the Potomac. Over seventy-five people had died.

Sam finally got home that afternoon. I had been frantic, irrationally worried about him. He smiled tiredly and patted my stomach. For us, at least, everthing was calm and wonderful again.

Eight months later Abigail came into the world. Abigail was the most beautiful, perfect child ever born! Her dark hair and luminous green eyes hinted at her budding beauty. She was also brilliant. At six months we could see she was beginning to make cause and effect connections between things.

The love you feel for your child is unlike any other. Different even, and more intense, if that is possible, from the love you feel for your spouse. There is something there that is unbreakable and holy. I don't know if it's genetic or comes from God or whether the shrinks would call it projected Ideal Self Love. Whatever it is, it is unlike any other love. It is beyond profound, beyond Self, beyond anything imagined in the human experience unless you are blessed with it.

***

Anastasie was singing. Not so much singing, as screaming to Queen on the radio of her SUV as she rolled along the pristine Virginia suburbs near Langley. This state was so incredibly different from back home, with its verdant, gently rolling hills and beautiful valleys. Still, she missed the bayou, missed her parents and memories there, but she really couldn't complain. Not at all. They had lived here for ten years, and best of all, Sam, although still sent off occasionally to God Knows Where, only had an hour commute to his place of work doing God Knows What.

Elton John replaced Queen and she tried to sing that one too. As a musician, she was still a good nurse, although she had only done volunteer work occasionally since her pregnancy. She smiled at that too, thinking of Abigail, dressed like a little doll this morning when she had dropped her off at St. Vincent's Catholic School.

That made her think of Desert Storm. At first, she had wanted to volunteer her services, in Washington, of course, but she and Sam had decided Abigail had to come first. By then, the war was over anyway, thank God, and she wasn't needed. Fortunately, Sam hadn't been needed over there either. She prayed he wouldn't be sent anywhere outside the U. S, but the way things were going overseas, she knew that was too much to hope for.

She pulled up to a nice, two-story, red brick home, not unlike her own. Several vehicles were parked in the drive. She switched the radio to Country and Western. Anastasie hated it, but Sam preferred the twangies over good old rock, although he never admitted it. She turned off the engine. Went to the wide front door and rang the bell.

She was actually going to join her group of friends, most of whom were from church, in a book of the month club. She had never been much of a joiner of anything, but Imogene Kochlin, head of the church council, had spied her after the first mass they had attended, roped her in, and dragged her kicking and screaming into the group. That had been five years ago, and she had only missed one or two monthly meetings since then.

Imogene, whose husband was a retired CEO of some kind of company that dealt with those silly computers, had seduced the little family in five minutes. The older couple had two sons and a daughter, all in the military, and it hadn't taken long for them to extract information about Vietnam from Anastasie and Sam. They never asked awkward questions. They just listened with great interest and compassion. After an hour of talking at the after mass coffee, Imogene had shaken her head.

"I love this country, honest to God, I do. But the way you folks were treated makes me ashamed to be an American." She sighed. "At least the attitude has changed for the better over the past few years."

"Too little, too damned late," Ray, the CEO put in.

"We were just doing our duty, Imogene," Sam replied.

Imogene snorted. "More than that! You two, like so many, were unappreciated heroes."

"Two of our kids were in Desert Storm, but that was a neat, clean war, compared to what you went through," Ray affirmed.

"No war is ever easy," Anastasie said quietly. "They would know."

Imogene patted her hand. "I really can't imagine, dear, but it must have been hell for you. But," she smiled as Abigail bounced on Sam's knee and took a thirsty slug from her sippy cup, "God has rewarded you for your wonderful service."

"Yes, He has," Anastasie smiled and agreed.

The Kochlins had become surrogate parents for Sam and Anastasie and Abigail was like a grandchild.

The door opened, interrupting Anastasie's reverie and Imogene stood in a brand new dress and newly-tinted hair. She hugged her as she always did, but her smile was tentative.

"Annie, it's so good to see you! Come in, sit down. Some of the girls came today, but I'm afraid we've just gotten a little bit of bad news."

"What is it?" Anastasie frowned. She had never seen Imogene like this before.

"Come on in, dear, have a sit."

Imogene led Anastasie into the comfortable and surprisingly spacious living room. There were smiles, but muted greetings from the three women who were already seated.

"Francine, Jane, Regina, how are you all?" Anastasie said and took a seat next to them.

Francine smiled and looked at her coffee cup. "Would you like something to drink, Annie?"

"I'm fine, thanks. Now, please tell me what's going on. You four are reminding me of the Cajun funerals I was dragged to when I was a child." There were appreciative smiles from the others.

"Well," Imogene cleared her throat. "You probably noticed, Sally isn't with us today."

"I did," Anastasie replied and waited. Sally was the youngest of the group, several years under Anastasie. The four other ladies were all slightly beyond what would be politely called middle age.

"It's her little girl, Carey," Imogene said and her voice broke into quiet sobs.

"What happened?"

No one spoke for a minute. Jane broke the silence. "There was a terrible bus accident this morning. Some silly teenager. Just had his learner's permit. He smacked straight into the poor children's bus doing about sixty."

"Oh God!" Anastasie gasped.

"Three of the children were seriously hurt, but will probably be all right, thank God."

"And Sally's child?"

"Might not make it," Imogene had found her voice again.

"How bad?"

"Doctors said real bad. Broken ribs, that sort of thing. But the worst is, is her spine. She may never walk again." Imogene burst into tears.

"Where is she?" Anastasie asked.

"McCardy's," Francine said.

Anastasie nodded. "That's the best one around." She stood up.

"Where are you going?" Imogene said, her makeup running shamelessly.

"To the hospital," Anastasie replied without hesitation.

***

The ride, in Imogene's huge van, had been quiet for five women who were so used to gabbing and honking about everything under the sun. They had all piled in immediately, not one of them hesitating, when Anastasie had headed for the door.

Most of them knew exactly where the children's ward was, so they were parked, elevatored and entering in a matter of minutes. The hospital, Anastasie thought, was clean and bright and cool. The smell of lunch permeated the halls and she was reminded of her elementary school days. The other smells reminded her of her career and she wasn't certain if that was good or bad.

Imogene, never shy of taking charge, walked to the nurses' station. The other women held back, a few feet behind her. The young nurse smiled at her. A good sign.

"My goodness! You look like one of those Candystripers. I was one of those, fifty, I mean several years ago myself."

The nurse laughed. "I'm nurse Denton," she said. "How may I help you?"

Imogene's face turned serious. "We're here to check on our friend's little girl. Sally Callitori's child. They're Italians," Imogene said.

The nurse's smiled faltered an instant, then returned. "Oh, yes. Let me go check. Please have a seat. I'll be right back." She disappeared down one of the gleaming hallways.

The women watched her go. No one sat down. Anastasie glanced around the waiting room. Only one person was there. A rotund woman sat in the far corner. She clutched a wad of tissues and seemed to be in her own world.

"Maybe we should say a prayer and—" Jane began.

The nurse returned to the group. "Follow me. I'll take you to the family."

The women followed her down the hallway. She paused at the third door, knocked lightly and opened it. Sally and her husband Jim jumped up from their couch seat and greeted their friends.

"Oh, I'm so glad you all came, but you didn't have to. I mean, everything's been..." She couldn't finish.

Jim smiled at the women and awkwardly patted his wife's shoulder.

"Please, you all sit down," Anastasie said. "Tell us how she's doing."

Sally burst into tears. Imogene sat down in a plastic chair at the end of the couch and put an arm around her. The other women found chairs and followed suit.

"She just got out of surgery," Jim said. "The doctor came by and said we'd have to wait a while and see how it went."

"So she's in ICU?" Anastasie asked.

Jim blew out a breath. "Yes. They told us they'd get us the minute she woke, or if there was any change."

"She's going to be fine, you two," Imogene said. "Why don't we say a prayer, if that's all right?"

The group bowed their heads and closed their eyes. Anastasie got up quietly and went out the door.

***

Anastasie walked to the elevator. The ICU was on the next floor up. She rode it, got off and was met by a prune-faced drill sergeant. No chevrons, but a name tag that read, "Depshite."

"Can I help you?"

"Yes. I was told to ask for a Nurse Dipshit?"

The prune face of the old nurse grew darker. "That's Dep, Sweetheart, like Johnny Depp. And shite. Rhymes with kite."

Anastasie smiled and blushed. "Oh, I'm so sorry. Of course! They must have been playing a joke on me. I apologize, Nurse Dep Shite."

The wrinkled nurse snorted. Then smiled. "They do that all the time. Especially the male nurses. Penis envy," she said illogically. "Now, what can I do for you, honey?"

"I work for Social Services. I've just met with the Callitoris. They asked me, begged me actually, to check on their little girl."

The prune shook her head. "Sorry. No can do. Family only, when the doc allows it," she said and folded her muscular arms.

Anastasie put on her own stern face and prayed for a miracle. "Nurse Dipshit, I—"

An alarm sounded. Loud and insistent. Anastasie knew what it was. A call for a crash cart. Code Blue.

"Try back later. I have to go," the nurse said over her shoulder and hobbled down the hallway.

Anastasie pretended to return to the elevator, then bent over the desk and snatched a stethoscope. She straightened up, counted to three and followed Nurse Depshite down the hallway.

Just to her right was a huge, wheeled laundry bag. Anastasie flipped open the lid, rummaged inside and came up with a smock. It was dingy, but fit. She threw the stethoscope around her neck and kept walking as if she belonged there, which in a way, she usually did.

The commotion was at the end of the hall on the right side. Anastasie walked in that direction eyeing the name tags on each door. None was familiar. She abruptly turned and searched on the left side. One door from the end, she found it.

She peeped into the nurse's small station just in front of Cary's room. No one was there. She walked into the girl's room. The little dark-haired girl, about the same age as Abigail, was lying quietly under a light sheet and blanket, her eyes closed, the delicate lids vibrating. She was hooked to a dozen tubes and monitors. Her neck was enclosed in a thick plastic sheath which, no doubt, covered her entire torso.

Anastasie glanced back at the machines pouring out their data on pulsing screens. The readouts indicated, in sum, that the little girl was presently stable. But Anastasie's practiced eye told her this little girl would never walk again, never run and play games like the other kids. For any adult, but especially for a child, this was tantamount to a death sentence. An eternal state of suspended animation. There would be innumerable painful surgeries, more than likely, all futile.

It took only an instant for Anastasie to calculate it all and confirm the decision she had made several hours before. She knelt down beside the bed and closed her eyes. Gently, she moved her fingertips over Cary's tiny body. The little girl sighed in her drugged dreams. Anastasie moved her hands as if waving smoke, back and forth, back and forth. She raised her palms toward her own shoulders, her fingers brushing the earlobes and allowed her fingers to caress her own neck and downward toward the spot where spine met brain. As before, Anastasie felt the rush of tingling warmth as it cascaded through her skin. Slowly, the warmth receded and was replaced by cool, then ice. She took a deep breath and opened her eyes. The ice went away.

"Mommy? Mommy?" the little girl said.

Anastasie stood up. Cary was blinking furiously, trying to comprehend her surroundings, her circumstance and the shadowy figure who stood above her.

"No, honey. I'm just a nurse. But I'm going to get your mommy right away. Your daddy's here too. Rest just for a minute. They're on their way here."

"O.K.," she said and put her head back down. "Hey, could I have some ice cream?"

"All you want. Buckets," Anastasie said and backed toward the door.

"Lady?"

"Yes, honey?"

"Thank you," the little girl said above a whisper.

"You're welcome, sweetheart."

# Chapter Nine

No one ever knew how the little girl had suddenly made such a miraculous recovery. No one, except Sam. They had had their first real argument after the incident. Anastasie had never seen him so furious, especially when the symptoms began. Many of Anastasie's previous problems, which had lessened after their marriage, returned with a vengeance. The migraines, chest pains and pronounced limp were increasing now in intensity and duration. And to those was added neck and back pain. Sometimes, so severe, Anastasie was forced to lie down until the waves of sharp daggers, tingling and nausea, subsided.

"I'm taking you to a specialist," Sam had announced shortly after it began.

Anastasie had shaken her head. "They won't find anything. They'll say what they said in the Army. I've got psychosomatic complaints or I'm just a neurotic housewife. It's all in my head. Or worse, they'll say I've got PTSD. Honey, I'm a nurse. I know how it goes."

Sam had thrown something and made Abigail cry. Then he grabbed both his girls and they hugged each other for a long while. He knew she was right. They wouldn't find anything.

"You are the most stubborn woman on the planet," he said kissing her. "Please, don't do this anymore."

"Sam, Sam. I'll try to pace myself. You know I always have. But there may come a time when I have no choice."

Sam kissed her again. "Just be sure, before you make that choice, you think of our child," he whispered softly.

"I always have. You and Abigail are always first, you know that."

"Annie. You can only give so much. I'm worried you don't have much left." He began to cry. "If anything ever happened to you, I don't know what we'd do."

"I know, Sam. I know. I'll be careful. I love you so much."

"And I love you."

Abigail smiled at them. "I love you both," she said.

***

Things again returned to normal for the little family. Anastasie and Sam resettled into their comfortable routine, Bill Clinton was in the White House and terrorists had bombed the World Trade Center, killing six people and injuring hundreds.

Anastasie was more focused on her own family than outside events. She marveled at how quickly their little girl was growing. Next year, she would be in the fourth grade, although it seemed as if only last week Anastasie had been nursing her and Sam changing diapers.

Although Sam had not been off anywhere since Haiti, he came home one evening looking tired and drawn. Anastasie immediately knew something was not right. They had a simple dinner of fried chicken, dumplings and vegetables. Abigail regaled them with stories of her school day, but Sam was only half-listening. Anastasie waited impatiently while she cleaned up, and Abigail did her homework. Sam read her a new story and tucked her in. He returned to the living room, where Anastasie sat pretending to read.

He sat down heavily beside her and put his feet up. "It's getting harder to find stories to read to a little, nine year-old girl," he said and smiled.

"I'll see if I can dig up some appropriate winners at the library this week."

"Good," he said absently.

There were few rules in the house and almost none between the two adults. But one was sacred: never ask about work. It wasn't that they thought work was taboo, Anastasie had told many nursing stories and Sam listened intently. It was that the federal government did not allow it. Anastasie had to piece things together from the news. She hadn't decided whether not knowing made things better or worse.

Sam cleared his throat. "I'm being sent overseas again."

Anastasie put down her magazine. "When, Sam?"

His jaw did that funny little thing that Anastasie always knew meant worry.

"Couple of weeks."

"How long?"

He looked at her. "Don't know. Really. Maybe only a month or so, but probably longer."

She knew it would be longer than a month. He put his arm around her and she snuggled closer.

"Bosnia?" she said impulsively.

Sam didn't reply.

"God, I haven't kept up with things much, but I know that's a terrible place."

Sam nodded slowly.

"Sam, they're slaughtering innocent people there! Bombing. Snipers all over the place. All that killing in 'Nam, at least it made some kind of twisted sense. But this is—"

"Annie, it's bad. I don't have to tell you war is hell no matter where." He shrugged. "I'm still a soldier, after all. I go where they send me and do what I have to do."

"Sam, why don't you quit?" she said without thinking.

"Can't. You know that. I have a duty to do." He turned slightly. "Besides, I have limited skills. Specialized, but limited demand. I could never be a house husband and let you go back to work with a bunch of medical types who don't know anything compared to you."

"Dammit Sam, we've both done enough duty for a hundred people. You always tell me to think of Abigail."

"I know," he said quietly. "Look, when this one's over I'm putting in for a desk job. I swear. I think I've enough time in the field."

"Promise?"

"Stack of Bibles, Annie. You know how much I love the two of you. This will be the last time out. If I don't get a desk job, they really can shove it."

"Just be careful. No unnecessary risks. Those people over there are crazy. It's really just a screwed up religious war."

Sam sighed. "That's what it always is. Screwed up and religious. 'Worship God, but do it my way. Otherwise, we're going to kill you.'"

***

Sam had been gone for months when Abigail and her little friends celebrated her tenth birthday. It had been a successful party. Altogether, eighteen tiny tweens had shown up, a few kids from the neighborhood, several from the church, and the remainder from Abigail's fourth grade class. There was one shy boy, Rodney, whom Abigail had taken a liking to. "We are more than just friends, but you know, not really boyfriend-girlfriend," Abigail had assured her skeptical mother when the boy arrived at the house.

The kids had brought some nice presents, had cake and ice cream and watched Disney videos for two hours until several of the mothers had scooped up their cranky little ones and made polite excuses.

All was finally calm and quiet. Abigail was busy reading a book in the family room she had been given and Anastasie read and reread Sam's latest letter. The house was a wreck, but she didn't have the energy to tackle it at the moment. As she finished the letter and placed it carefully on the dining room table, she heard sniffling.

She walked into the family room, carefully sidestepping the splotches of cake on the carpet and the flood of wrapping paper. Abigail was staring at the blank TV screen, the book forgotten.

"Honey, what's the matter? Didn't you have a good time?"

Abigail wiped her eyes. "No. I had a wonderful party. It's just that, well, you know."

Anastasie sat beside her daughter. She leaned over and hugged her. Abigail wrapped her arms around her. They both sobbed for a while.

"I know. I know. I miss Daddy too. But I think he'll be here pretty soon."

Abigail raised her head and Anastasie wiped away the tears. "I just thought he'd call me by now."

"Honey, you know there's a time difference and everything. I'm sure he'll call soon," Anastasie added lamely.

"Promise?"

Anastasie smiled. "If I know your daddy, he's probably looking under every rock and behind each tree to find a phone."

Abigail smiled a little in return.

A short time later, Sam called. Abigail brightened up at least a thousand watts and Anastasie did the same. The call was short and full of static, but when it was over Abigail had said that this was the best birthday she had ever had. Daddy had said the present was on its way and he was pretty sure he'd be home soon.

The present came to the house the next day.

Two men, one a chaplain, the other presumably from some clandestine agency, came one month to the day later.

***

Journal of Anastasie-12

I think that as you begin to realize that you're not young anymore, that the illusions which once protected you have been shattered one by one, you don't continue living because you fear death, but rather you struggle day to day more from habit than anything else.

_Of course, raising a child is a reason to continue. It is a difficult thing to do when there are two, but when you are alone, the task is frequently overwhelming. You must accept the child's blame for her father's absence, while absorbing the waves of your own grief. In a moment of utter fury, Abigail once screamed at me: "Why are_ you _still alive?"_

It took a very long time, but somehow we reached some sort of emotional equilibrium and returned to what resembled a normal life. I had no choice but to resume nursing full-time and Abigail became a latchkey kid. Occasionally, when my symptoms were really bad, Abigail became the mother and I, the child. That was something I still regret.

_I am worried about my child. Abigail, outside of the house we live in, is so attractive physically and has such an ebullient personality, that she makes friends easily. Too easily. If I had had absolute power, I would have tweaked her personality down a few notches. She'll be entering high school soon and I remember how things were for me at that time and it was a totally different world. Not that it was less evil, I think it was that there were_ fewer _evil people. My generation, at least until the sixties, had constraints placed upon them by parents, church and community. Abigail's generation has never been taught the concept of delayed gratification fostered upon us by parents whose primary virtue was self-denial and who lived that way through the Depression and World War II._

There are, of course, notable exceptions. There was Roger and the first Baby Boomer in the White House was not taught this concept and has just admitted as much. If he's impeached and convicted perhaps he'll go to Canada. More than likely, he, like Nixon, will become a revered statesman.

Paradoxically, Abigail and Clinton are products of the time we live in. The latter will always bounce back. Abigail, lacking experience and cunning, may not. I guess that's why I must continue to age. There are more trials ahead, for her, and our country. She and this nation have a purpose and a gift. It is not quite time for me to fade away in full view of the imminent sorrow of both. I have not told her what lies ahead. I dawdle. I have been unable to share with her, although she is now almost a woman, that her mother's destiny and my mother's before me and all those before us are intertwined.

Although my mother and I have grown apart through the years, we are still bonded by the gift we have. She warned me once. My mother told me that if I never used the gift, or worse, failed to accept it, it would disappear. From me and all those who would follow. There is so much pain in the world. What a tragedy it would be if the miracle to relieve even a small amount of suffering went away forever. The choice for each of us, as always, is whether or not to love another more than we love ourselves.

# Chapter Ten

Mother and daughter moved back to a small town near New Orleans. Anastasie got a nursing job at a small private hospital. Abigail was not happy. She had made many friends in Virginia's suburb and despised the idea of giving them up for some "hick town in the middle of nowhere's ville." The Catholic junior high school in which her mother had enrolled her added insult to all her budding teenage wounds. Anastasie had tried patiently to explain to her daughter that she wanted to be close to her aging parents.

"Don't you want to see Papa and Mam more often?" Anastasie had asked.

Abigail had puffed her lips. "Of course, but these days all you have to do is get on an airplane."

The logic, if not the actual logistics, was sound.

"And we also have to think of Gram Livingston," Abigail countered again.

"True, but Gram is living in her own nice place, with people her own age and attendants for everything. Papa and Mam live alone."

Abigail tried a new tactic. "I miss my friends. Now I have to go to some stuffy old monastery where people dress in Halloween costumes and watch everything you do."

Anastasie stifled a smile which she turned into a stern look. "Those are nuns you are making fun of. They've always been very good to us. They devote their lives to God."

"We go to mass every Sunday. Isn't that enough?" Abigail's face changed from pouty to something akin to anger or sorrow or perhaps both. "Where was God when Daddy died?"

Anastasie's own temper flared. "Don't you dare say such things! God has a purpose for everything."

Abigail stood up, almost as tall now as her mother. Her tiny nostrils flared. "Yeah? What purpose does he have for you? Or me, for that matter."

Anastasie started to answer. Held her tongue. "He has a purpose for us," she said quietly.

Abigail put her small hands on her hips. "Well, I would love to know what that is. Because if I found out, I wouldn't accept it," she said.

***

In spite of Abigail's angst and protestations, she did well in her first year at St. Paul's Catholic School. Her grades were excellent and she made friends, both boys and girls, easily. The second year was different.

Anastasie was concerned over her increasing signs of withdrawal. There was a pronounced decline in sharing what had occurred that day at school. There was less and less of, 'You won't believe what Belinda Snodgrass was wearing today' and more of, 'Yeah, everything was fine today.'

At first, Anastasie took it as simply teenage years, but over time, she began to worry. And then there were the hours of talking on the phone in her room with the door shut. Again, Anastasie thought, typical teenage girl, but there was no sharing of gossip in the few minutes Abigail grudgingly devoted to family time before they went to bed.

One Friday night in the fall, Anastasie sat staring at some lame comedy on television. It had been a rough day and she was exhausted. But she had decided she needed to talk to her daughter and find out what was happening. She heard a car outside, the door slammed and Abigail came through the front door. It was the neighbor's turn to play chauffeur and take the kids to the football game. So far, Abigail had returned promptly from school activities and hadn't pushed things. Anastasie was grateful for that.

"How was the game?" Anastasie asked as brightly as she could muster.

"Fine," Abigail replied, but instead of going up to her room, she plopped down on the couch beside her mother. Tonight, she looked more pensive than pouty.

Anastasie gently stroked her hair and she didn't turn away as often was the case.

"Momma," Abigail said quietly, and Anastasie could feel her tensing.

"What is it?" She tried to keep her voice matter-of-fact.

Abigail looked down at her hands as if seeing them for the first time. "You're a nurse, right?" She looked up abruptly.

Oh, God, Anastasie thought. She's pregnant.

"It's not what you're thinking," Abigail said. She had an uncanny ability to read her thoughts sometimes.

"I wasn't thinking anything, honey," Anastasie lied.

"Right. It's just that, well, something really weird happened tonight."

Anastasie knew better than to say anything, although it was difficult.

Abigail studied her hands again. "Johnny Townsend, you know him."

Anastasie felt a twinge of panic rising. She racked her brain. Of course, Johnny Townsend, the quarterback. Everybody knew Johnny. Bright kid, great future, too much testosterone.

"Yes. Nice boy."

Abigail searched her mother's face. "Yeah. Everybody thinks we've got a thing going, but I swear, we're just friends."

Anastasie patted her shoulder. "I believe you, honey." She hoped she sounded convincing. She looked at her daughter who had an expression she had never seen before and couldn't read.

"He got hurt at the end of the half. Johnny's not that big and some huge cretin came along and smashed him into the ground." Her voice shook with the memory. She stopped.

"Is he all right?"

Abigail nodded. "I didn't know what I was doing. I just got up and ran down the bleachers and they were bringing him in on a stretcher. The doctor was there and he said it looked really bad. He said Johnny might have suffered a concussion and probably had some broken ribs. He'd be out for the rest of the season. He looked like he was dead. I couldn't see that he was breathing or anything."

Anastasie sighed as Abigail took in gulps of air. She touched her daughter's shoulder.

"Tell me what happened."

Abigail gave her mother a strange look. She stood up abruptly. "I ran over to him, knelt down and touched him. I touched his head and his chest. I felt," she shivered, "I felt something weird come over me, like a wave or something. Then all of a sudden, I heard people gasping. Johnny opened his eyes. He blinked and then smiled at me. Everyone was looking at us. Then Johnny said, 'What the heck happened? Did we win?' You won't believe what happened next."

"He got up and wanted to continue playing," Anastasie said.

"Yes! Momma, how did you know? I thought, everybody thought, he was dead. And he just got up like nothing had happened."

Anastasie stood up and looked into Abigail's huge green eyes. She reached for her daughter's hands. "It's time. Past time," she said.

"Momma. You knew. You knew what I was going to say!" Abigail ripped her hands from Anastasie's grasp and backed away.

"Abigail. Please. Sit down. We have some things to talk about."

Abigail raised her hands to her face. "No! No. I'm not like you. I'm just a normal girl!" She sobbed and ran to her room.

Anastasie cringed as the bedroom door slammed. She sat back down on the couch, fearing that her legs wouldn't support her.

"High school football highlights at eleven," a disembodied voice from the television intoned. "And folks, you won't believe what happened tonight at the St. Paul's game."

# Chapter Eleven

Abigail's headaches and difficulty breathing began shortly after that Friday night. Anastasie had tried several times to talk to her to no avail. When Anastasie asked her how she was feeling, she would simply reply that she was having her period and would leave the room.

Anastasie could do nothing but worry and wait. For the very first time, Abigail was pushing the limits of curfew. She was almost always an hour late after school and would disappear with "friends" on the weekends. When Anastasie questioned her, she got nothing but vague answers. In desperation Anastasie called around pretending to want to speak to Abigail about some matter. None of the mothers she spoke with had seen Abigail or was aware that she was with their own daughter. After two or more tries with each parent, she had to give up or would end up looking totally absurd.

The child psychiatrist at the hospital where Anastasie worked was only partly reassuring. Dr. Louise Fleisher looked more like an aging beauty queen, which she had been, than a shrink. Anastasie had poured out her concerns, with only one omission.

Dr. Fleisher had listened carefully for fifteen minutes without interruption. Anastasie, feeling shabby and unkempt in her presence, waited expectantly. The psychiatrist took off her glasses and pushed back a single errant sprig of blonde hair from her cheek. Her clear blue eyes gazed at Anastasie with compassion.

"Tell me more about these mood swings," she said in a soothing, contra alto voice.

Anastasie frowned. "I wouldn't characterize them as mood swings exactly, at least, not beyond what you'd expect from a normal teenager." Her voice conveyed a hint of defensiveness.

"I see." There was an awkward silence.

"I mean. It's more like she's just kind of quietly hostile." Anastasie slumped back in the overstuffed chair. "I think, in some way, she blames me for her father's death."

"Yes. Well, that's not uncommon. Often a child blames the remaining parent." She gave Anastasie a half smile. "You both have been through a traumatic set of circumstances. Raising a child alone is a difficult thing to do."

No shit, Anastasie thought.

"I think, in time, with some maturity, Abigail's hostility will lessen." She smiled again. "You know, of course, these feelings she has toward you are really just defenses against the loss she feels." Dr. Fleisher shrugged. "Who else would she blame except for someone as close to her as her mother?"

"That makes me feel a little better."

"Yes," Dr. Fleisher nodded. "Of course, there could be something else."

Anastasie leaned forward. "Like what?"

The psychiatrist shrugged again. "These days, kids have relatively easy access to an array of chemical substances." She paused. "Most often, they get things right out of the medicine cabinet at home."

Anastasie vigorously shook her head. "I don't take anything but aspirin."

"I see. Well, I would be reluctant to make a diagnosis of any type unless I spoke directly with Abigail."

"I doubt she'd allow that."

"From what you tell me about her, I'm inclined to agree. It might be a good idea to keep a close eye on her. Try to find out who her friends are and so forth."

Anastasie tried hard to keep defensive out of her voice again. "I know who her friends are. They're all good, solid kids. Good families."

"I see. Does she have any new friends by any chance?"

Anastasie looked down. "I don't know," she said quietly, "but I'm going to find out."

***

Anastasie waited in her SUV while a light snow began drifting down, sprinkling the windshield and the sidewalk with alabaster flecks. She felt determined, ridiculous and guilty. She turned the heater up slightly against the chill. She had been waiting for over an hour and pretty soon somebody was going to wonder what her strange vehicle was doing in this nice suburban neighborhood. So far, she had only seen two people. An elderly man walking his dog several houses down the street and a young guy going out to pick up his mail. She felt sure neither had paid her any attention. She didn't worry about the snow. It would be gone almost as soon as it hit the ground. Winter in this neck of the woods was quick and fleeting.

A tall skinny kid, with longish, shaggy hair, wearing a worn out military fatigue jacket walked purposely in her direction. She glanced down at the address she had scribbled. If he was the one, his house would be about a block away on the opposite side.

The boy glanced in her direction, jammed his hands into his pockets and crossed the street. Anastasie watched him in her side mirror. He ambled to the correct house, walked up the front steps and went inside.

"Got you, you little prick," Anastasie said and eased off the parking brake. She put the SUV into gear and drove slowly away.

***

Anastasie had done something she had never done before. She had begun spying on her own daughter. The day before she had taken off early, gone home and made a thorough search of Abigail's room. Her daughter was a neat freak, oddly enough, so Anastasie had been very careful to return everything to its exact original location.

After two hours she had found no pills, birth control or otherwise, powders or suspicious substances that looked like dark, shredded wheat in plastic bags. She had found a diary tucked into a shoebox on the top shelf of the closet under a pile of sweaters.

After fighting her conscience for fifteen minutes, she opened it. There were the usual silly, girlish entries going back to the beginning of Abigail's first year in high school. Most of it had to do with which girls she hated and which boys she was in love with at the moment.

There were no entries about Abigail's relationship with her mother, but something on the back cover caught Anastasie's eye. There was a quote of sorts, written in Abigail's neat hand: "If your day is rain, if you're going insane, there's always something better and it's called cocaine." There was the name 'Robin T' and a phone number. Anastasie carefully wrote down the name and number. She put everything back carefully and went downstairs. It took her two hours, but she finally found a match. She had studied every T entry in the book. Finally, she found it. A listing for Dallas Thompson, presumably the father of her daughter's new best friend. The number matched the one from the diary. Anastasie sighed. Her migraine was threatening to explode her head and her back pain was agonizing. This was all thin, circumstantial evidence, but it was a beginning.

***

The clapboard house looked as though a moderate gust of wind would send it tumbling to the ground and force the termites to seek another structure for feasting. Anastasie had followed Robin around for several weeks until she had finally hit pay dirt. It was well past sunset and she cut off the headlights of the Ford Taurus as she drove to the side of the rutted road and into the woods which surrounded her. She didn't have long to wait. Robin's Mustang was parked near the front steps of the ramshackle building. A car load of teenagers sped by her and screeched to a halt near the Mustang. Giggling and loud voices punctuated the gathering darkness as the kids climbed out and went in.

Anastasie had been lucky. Abigail had begged her to go see a movie with some of her friends and Anastasie had checked with the parents to verify that that was indeed what they were going to do. Abigail wouldn't be here tonight, of that she was reasonably certain.

Anastasie rolled down the window slightly and decided to wait a while until the party really got started. The Ford smelled like sweat and stale cigarettes. She had told the little rental car guy that her SUV was in the shop and she had to get to work. Then she had trailed Robin for several days. Nothing happened. The rental guy was a little surprised when she returned the Nova and asked for a bigger car. She got the Ford. She was running out of excuses when she finally followed Robin to the wooden disaster. She had been back several times. She assumed, correctly, that this was Saturday night and the little creep might be passing out his wares. The kids in the house now tended to confirm that guess.

She studied the curtain-less windows with a small pair of binoculars, but couldn't see much. She waited another thirty minutes and things got quieter inside the house. It appeared as if they weren't just making a pickup. The partying was going on inside.

Anastasie had listened many times to stories from Sam about stalking Viet Cong. She tried to recall more of it now. Her soft-soled shoes made almost no sound as she approached the house. She boosted herself onto the porch from the side and peered in a low window. She counted five kids. They were all in various stages of a drug-induced stupor. Robin was not among them. His Mustang hadn't moved so he couldn't have driven away. Silently, she climbed down from the porch and went to the back of the house. Through the thin walls, she could hear the unmistakable sounds of grunting and moaning. The back door was slightly ajar and she moved quietly inside.

She walked down the tiny hallway and stood outside a thin door where the sounds were louder. She cautiously opened the door, peeked in and went inside.

The dim glow of a kerosene lantern wavered on a wooden box beside the bed. On the filthy mattress lay two bodies. Both were naked. She recognized the top one as Robin. He was so focused on the girl beneath him that he hadn't heard her enter the room.

Anastasie started to say something, then hesitated. What she had first taken to be slobbering kisses was actually something entirely different. Anastasie bent down a little to reassure herself that the girl on the mattress wasn't Abigail. This girl was a couple of years older than her daughter and had blond hair. Her eyes were wide open and staring at the ceiling.

"Come on, come on, Tammy. Jesus, wake up!" Robin said to the body beneath him.

The girl lay motionless. Mouth open, blue eyes sightless.

Robin clamped his mouth against hers, blew air into her lungs. Grasped her shoulders and shook her. The girl didn't move.

Anastasie touched Robin's arm.

He jumped. "Shit, shit!" he screamed.

He turned around and stared at Anastasie. "Christ, what the hell? How the fuck did you get in here?"

"Be quiet," Anastasie said. "I've been watching you for a long time."

"Oh, Christ! Listen, this is all a big mistake. We were just having some fun. We were partying and then she—"

Anastasie slapped him. "I said shut the fuck up!"

Robin's head snapped back. He stared at her in horror. His hand went to his nose, wiped at a trickle of blood that ran onto his skinny chest.

"Get off the bed. I'm a nurse, let me look at her."

Robin scurried off the bed, dabbing at his nose with the back of his hand.

"Stand right there where I can see you. Do you understand? Don't move."

Robin snorted a pink bubble and his head bobbed up and down.

Anastasie bent over and examined the girl. She shook her head and turned to face him.

"You're Abby's mom," Robin whispered.

"Abigail. We call her Abigail," Anastasie said. "This girl is dead."

"No! No!" He began to back away.

"Shut up. Sit down on the floor and cross your legs. Do it now or I'll kill you."

Robin obeyed.

"Listen to me, you little prick. Listen very carefully. Are you listening?"

Robin nodded his head three times.

"Your drug-dealing days are over. You will cease and desist all of your activities from now on. If you ever come near my daughter, Abigail, again, I will find you and I will make whatever's left of your rotten life a living hell. As a matter of fact, tomorrow, you will leave this town and go somewhere else. You will tell no one what has happened here. Do you understand, you little shithead?"

Robin nodded three more times.

Anastasie turned back toward the small girl on the mattress. She leaned over her, closed her eyes and moved her hands back and forth over the body. She put her mouth over the girl's and blew. She stepped back. The girl's chest rose slightly, fell, rose again. Her eyes blinked rapidly. She coughed and jerked up.

Anastasie put her arms around her gently. The girl sobbed and began to cry.

"You're all right, honey. You're going to be fine. You need to go home now."

Robin stared, his face caked with blood.

"Take this girl home. Tell the other kids the party's over. I'll be watching you from now on until forever. There are people like me everywhere," she lied. "Do you understand?"

"Yes, yes," he said. "What, what did you just do?"

"What I did to her, I can undo to you," Anastasie said.

***

Journal of Anastasie-13

I had hoped for better things, between Abigail and myself, after my encounter with Robin. But things didn't improve much. I think she guessed I had something to do with his swift departure. We never spoke of it. Actually, we never spoke of very much at all. Some of her sullen behavior declined. I had only said to her a few weeks after the incident that if I ever found out she was using drugs of any kind, she would be out on her own unless she came to me for help. She never replied and I never knew whether I really meant it. We never talked about our gift either, although God knows I tried. Finally, I decided that she knew her destiny and it was really her decision whether to embrace it or hide from it.

Shortly after the millennium came, my parents died. Momma succumbed first. She had been suffering from post-polio syndrome for years and several other ailments from using her own gift and her increasing age. We had just returned from the funeral, when we received word that Papa had joined her. In a strange way I felt good about that. I knew he wouldn't face life without her. They were the best parents any child could have ever had and I miss them terribly.

I had never shared with them the problems I had with Abigail, but they knew. They would, in their simple way, say, "Abigail's a great kid. She just needs time to sort things out." I pray their wisdom will prove to be correct in time.

I know it is tiresome to say it, but losing your parents is a milestone in your life. For the first time, even though you've survived war, you realize that your own life is fleeting. Your time is short and you evaluate what it has meant or not meant. You realize that your only real legacy, your only chance at gaining any worth, rests in the hands of your child. In my case I am very afraid that my ultimate value may be very little. Still, you hope.

# PART FOUR
# Chapter Twelve

Abigail Livingston, known to her close friends as Al, woke up with another throbbing headbuster. Some idiot had thrown up on the bed. She jerked the sheets down hoping to cover up the sticky mess and tried to find her forehead with her right hand. It wasn't where it was supposed to be. The air conditioner was cold on her naked body and sounded like the D-Day invasion her grandfather had reluctantly told her about.

She tried to get her bearings. Ricky, or Ricardo, no it was Richard, was gone. She stumbled into the bathroom looking for Advil and a moment of panic occurred until she realized it was Saturday and she was off.

She found the pills, took three, and made two attempts before she got the bathtub running.

"Coffee," she muttered, and teetered into the tiny kitchen of her fourth floor apartment. There was something about today, but she couldn't remember what it was. She sat down on a rickety bar stool and put her head on the cool counter while the Mr. Coffee belched and farted its way toward creating the life-giving liquid.

The phone rang before the machine finished. Abigail groaned, pulled a chipped cup out of the sink and poured some coffee into it from the carafe. It tasted like horse piss and the phone wouldn't go away.

"Hello?"

"Didn't mean to wake you, honey. Are you all right?"

Abigail took another sip of the motor oil and had an epiphany. "No, I'm fine, Momma. How are you?"

"I'm O.K. Happy birthday, sweetheart."

"Thanks, Momma. I got your card yesterday."

There was an awkward silence as Abigail struggled to clear her foggy brain.

"You've got a party tonight?"

Abigail shook her head. She had almost forgotten. About the party and her cover story.

"Oh, yeah. The girls from work are taking me out. To a fancy restaurant."

"You don't sound too excited," Anastasie said quietly.

"Just haven't got awake yet. Everything all right with you?"

"I'm fine, honey. Well, I know you've got a lot to do. Oh, I'm thinking about retiring pretty soon."

"Retiring?"

"Yeah. I have played with the idea of going back to the old homestead. I'm a little tired of emptying bed pans. Besides, I've always kind of missed the old place."

"Gosh, Momma, I'm surprised. About the retiring, I mean. If you decide, let me know so I can help you get settled in."

"Thanks honey, but nothing's definite yet. Go have a good time tonight. Be careful, the Big Apple can be a dangerous place."

"Don't worry, Momma, I can take care of myself."

"Call me sometime this week?"

"Sure. Love you, Momma."

"Love you too, Abigail."

Abigail placed the phone back and took another swig of the black brew. Her conversations with her mother were always so bitter-sweet. She shrugged. Shit, you could never please your parents and she knew her mother was terribly disappointed in her. But dammit, she had her own life to live. That's why she had dropped out of college after one semester and moved up here where there was some real action. No more polite, insincere southern charm. No more looking over your shoulder. People here said what they really felt and your feelings be damned. And she liked the anonymity. So what if she had a shitty little job as a secretary? She was almost happy with her life. Mostly happy. Happy once in a while, anyway.

She got up abruptly and realized the water in the tub was still pouring. She ran in to shut it off, but it was too late. Shit, the water was all over the damned floor. That bitch below her would be complaining to the Super again. She walked back to the window in her living room, pulled the drapes and surveyed the vast, concrete landscape that stretched as far as she could see. Now, this was city life. Good friends and even better stuff. She better hurry. Richy, or whatever the hell his name was would be at the club tonight. He would have some and they could come back here and celebrate her birthday, both in their birthday suits.

She glanced out the window one more time. She was nineteen years old. It was August 25, 2001. The world was her oyster and she was aching to become a pearl.

She took a final sip of her tepid coffee. In the far distance, the Twin Towers jutted toward the sky. She smiled back at them. How magnificent and powerful those buildings were, she thought. How exciting! Her destiny was over there.

For some reason, she suddenly felt the need to cry.

***

Abigail and her friend from work, Trixie Cochran, waited impatiently in the long line that snaked almost around the corner. They could hear the pulsing beat of the music from inside the club. It seemed everyone below the age of thirty wanted to be a part of whatever was going on in the Lavender Lemon. The two huge bouncers, dressed completely in black, took their time staring at the I.D.s of the wannabe patrons. Abigail wasn't worried. Her forged driver's license had cost two hundred bucks.

Trixie, who had just turned twenty-one two weeks ago, smiled in anticipation. "This is the best place in New York City," she squealed. "I wish those gumbas would hurry up."

Abigail smiled back at her friend. Trixie had come to the Big Apple from a small town in Kansas. Abigail had no illusions about careers. Although she and Trixie worked almost side by side, well, at least in adjacent cubicles in the same advertising firm, taking dictation and transferring it into documents, or whatever it was called using computers, Trixie considered her job as simply "paying her dues." She was really going to break into acting. First soap operas, then maybe a television sitcom, then, who knows?

The long line shuffled ahead. Abigail and Trixie were jostled by two guys behind them.

Abigail shot them a warning look, but Trixie gave each of them a long, lingering grin.

"Forget it, Trixie. I think those two are with each other," Abigail whispered.

"Who cares? I bet I could change their minds."

Abigail groaned. She felt uneasy tonight. Part of it, no doubt, was her recent conversation with her mother. She hated to lie to her. Mostly, she hated knowing that her mother always knew when she was lying. But there was also something else.

"Trixie. Have you noticed that guy in the turtleneck? The one behind your two new best friends?"

Subtlety was not one of Trixie's stronger points. She jerked around and stared past the pair of men. "Red turtleneck, blond hair, about six feet?" she said loudly.

"Quietly, quietly," Abigail warned in frustration. "Yeah, that one."

"He's kind of cute. Anybody you know? Can you introduce us?"

"Come on, girlies," one of the two men behind them said. There was a gap as the line had surged forward again. They moved to fill it. Abigail gave the three guys another look. Trixie another lopsided grin.

She glanced back at the turtleneck. "There's something not quite right about him," Abigail whispered.

Trixie giggled. "You've already said that. Look, they're young and they have penises. What else do we need?"

"I don't mean them. I mean him. The guy behind those two boys."

Trixie stared at her friend. "Al, I think you've been doing too much coke. You're getting paranoid." She glanced back again. "He's just a guy. Anyway, there's only two cures for what ails you. A giant schlong and a giant snort. If we ever get inside, you can have both."

Abigail laughed loudly in spite of herself. The two guys behind them looked at her. The guy in the turtleneck studied the dirty sidewalk beneath their feet.

***

The party was a small one. Trixie and Abigail and two guys named Arnie and Warnie, or something. They had brought them back to her tiny apartment and had snorted and screwed until dawn.

Abigail awoke about noon and everyone was gone. Her only companion was the massive migraine again. She went for the Advil, made the coffee, ran the tub. This time, at least, the phone hadn't rung. She waited for the water to fill up and looked at herself in the mirror. She rubbed the mist away with her palm. Bad mistake. Her eyes looked terrible. They resembled a roadmap of Arkansas. Her hair was a tangled mass of greasy clumps. She sniffed her arm. It smelled of sweat and semen. She leaned closer to the figure in the mirror.

"What the hell are you doing?"

The face didn't answer. It didn't need to.

"Jesus. You look like you're thirty-nine instead of nineteen."

Silence.

"Look, I don't even like sex and drugs that much. It's just something you do. Like walking the dog."

"Answer me, you bitch!" She grabbed her hairbrush from the sink and banged it against the mirror, but it wouldn't break. She flung the brush down and it clattered against the cold tiles.

Someone from below her banged the floor with a broomstick.

The tub was overflowing again. Water poured over the edge and splattered against the hairbrush. It rocked gently within the grasp of the small waves, going nowhere.

Abigail slid to the floor amid the flooding and the banging. Her naked butt squished against the wetness. She put her hands to her face. Her tears mingled with the wetness all around her.

She was unaware of almost everything except the words of some lame song. It pulsed through her clouded brain. "I need an empty place, I need an empty place. I need an empty place to fill the empty space."

Abigail was there. She felt both nothing and bad. She was so there, she had never noticed the guy in the red turtleneck following her little group home. He had lingered a short while below her apartment, but had left long before the sun rose and the party ended. He had a life. And a report to file.

# Chapter Thirteen

Something woke Abigail. She tried to raise her head to look at the clock, but the LED was too dim to see. At least the migraine wasn't as bad today.

Shit. She had told herself the last time, that it was the last time. She raised up, but the room pitched this way and that and she had to put her head back down. She fumbled for her wristwatch and reached for the lamp beside the bed. The light wouldn't come on.

"Holy shit!" She squinted at the tiny hands. It was nine forty-five.

She tried to jump out of bed, failed, and managed to slowly ease herself into an upright position. "Unbelievable. I'm screwed. That's what I get for screwing."

She was supposed to be a work. At nine. That's what you get. Fuck it. No more partying on the weekends. Especially when the weekend turns into Monday. She had called in sick yesterday. She wasn't sure the same excuse would fly again today, but she had to try.

She managed to stand up and make her way into the kitchen. Hurriedly, she fumbled with Mr. Coffee and pushed the button. Nothing happened. Shit, no electricity. I thought this was a great city. You'd expect this in the land of rednecks, but not here for Christ's sake.

She picked up the phone, composing her little speech. Hell, it's flu season. What's one more day? No different from any other. The phone was quiet. No buzz, no dial tone, no nothing.

She thought she heard the wail of sirens outside her windows. She always heard sirens. Everybody in New York did all the time. But this was different. Too many sirens. It sounded like every friggin' siren in New York. All squealing at the same time. It didn't help her head.

She moved to her window. Pulled back the drapes. The bright blue sky burned her eyes and made her blink rapidly. She squinted and looked down at the street below her. Something was wrong. There should have been hundreds of cars and trucks. Thousands of little ants crawling around down there. She saw nothing and no one. It looked like the old Charlton Heston movie. What was it? _Omega Man._ Creepy.

She looked across the vast expanse of buildings that surrounded her. Huge billows of smoke rose in the distance. She searched frantically for the Twin Towers. This was impossible. Yesterday there had been two. That's why they were twins. Today, there were only two smoking pillars. Her own office building was just down the street from there. That's where she was supposed to be right now.

She had to do something. This was just totally wrong. She ran to her dresser and began throwing on a tee shirt and a pair of jeans. Surely to God, she wasn't hallucinating. She knew coke made some people totally crazy. Maybe she had overdosed. Maybe this was all just a dream. She ran back over to the window. Smoke was still pouring skyward. This was no dream.. It was some kind of nightmare. She ran to her closet, flung the door open. Her clothes tumbled to the floor. At the bottom, she found a pair of Adidas and put them on without socks. She went to the window again, terrified of seeing, terrified of not seeing.

Abigail stared, trying to convince herself that what her eyes revealed were all lies. In the moment of her transfixion, a huge volcanic eruption, like a cluster of malevolent mushrooms, shot skyward. Abigail stood, catatonic. The silence enveloped her. A dreamer trapped in a hazy nightmare, screaming and writhing, but with no means to summon sound or movement.

The mushrooms flattened, tendrils reaching in vain for the sky above, then all surrendering to the inevitability of gravity.

Only her eyes moved, blinking furiously. The building disappeared.

Two seconds later the sound slammed against her windows and she fell backward. Her head bounced off the carpet. She rubbed her eyes, blinded by the bright, blue sky, the atom bomb clouds and the impossible vision of reality.

"Get up you stupid bitch! Move, you worthless shit!"

Somebody was yelling in her head. Somebody wouldn't leave her alone. She wanted to be left alone, but she didn't want to be alone. She wanted to be with someone else. And be wasted.

Trixie. She had to find her. Whatever the hell had happened, she might have been in the middle of it. Abigail pushed herself up and for an endless second thought her own building was collapsing. She took several deep breaths. Her head and vision cleared slightly. She ran for the door.

Abigail took the six flights of stairs two steps at a time. There were people in the hall, people in the stairwells and people crammed in the steps that led from the building into the street. They were all jabbering at once and pointing toward where the Towers had been. She stopped, trying to find a sane person amidst the confused rabble. Somebody she actually knew, Mr. Jacobi, the Super, was standing off by himself, looking up. His face wore the same shocked expression as everyone else. Abigail pushed through the crowd toward him.

"Mr. Jacobi. Mr. Jacobi, what happened?"

The little fat man didn't answer at first. Abigail grabbed his shoulder. He looked at her, but his eyes were glazed.

"Somebody, somebody flew a plane into the buildings," he replied.

"What?"

He shrugged his round shoulders and looked beyond her to some other place. "An airplane, maybe two or three, flew right into the Towers."

Abigail squeezed his arm hard without realizing it. "My God! Was it terrorists?"

Mr. Jacobi was unaware of her hand. "I think so. God, all those people. It's terrible."

Abigail let go and pushed her way to the edge of the crowd.

Mr. Jacobi's voice, usually a soothing baritone, screeched from behind her. "Don't be going down there, Missy!"

But she was already gone.

***

Abigail ran. She was going the wrong way. Everyone else, thousands of people, were running past her, their faces blank with horror. The rich and the poor, it didn't matter. They were all running for their lives. She was forced to slow her pace. The closer she got, the greater the smell of paper and wood and oil and burning things she could not recognize.

She stopped within a few hundred yards of the conflagration. A cop, covered from head to foot in chalk-white dust was waving furiously at people flooding past him. "Go, get the hell out of here!" he kept yelling over and over.

She moved closer to the buildings on her left. It was hard to see clearly. Hard to see anything with so much smoke and dust. The cop paid her no attention, he was too busy directing the masses out of danger. As if they actually needed direction.

Abigail squinted through the dirty air, trying to identify the building where she had been employed. A pizza sign hung precariously from one chain and swung back and forth. She knew she was close now. She had to feel the concrete at her back to stay oriented. A continuous stream of sprinting zombies ran blindly past her. A few yards in front, she could make out a group of men lining up like calm soldiers going into battle. They looked like Michelin men with funny hats.

"They're heading the wrong way," she muttered. She wanted to yell at them to go back. It was too late to save anybody. But she moved past them. She had to save somebody.

She found the burnished sign. "Fellini and Associates." The huge glass windows that fronted the office building were gone. The door, swinging precariously on one giant hinge, was open.

Abigail climbed the short steps and walked inside. She tripped over something and fell. Immediately, she got to her feet as she realized that the obstacle was a body. She looked away. There were two more nearby. All of them had been trampled as if a herd of ghostly wild animals had materialized in the office lobby and thundered over everything on its way into the street.

"Trixie? Trixie?"

She moved more cautiously, stepping around overturned tables and chairs. Something had crashed into the portrait of Mr. Fellini which had hung in the lobby for everyone to see. His carefully poised visage was no longer recognizable.

Dust covered everything. She found her cubicle, what was left of it and found the place, across from her own, where Trixie had smiled and worked. And she found Trixie, under her desk.

Trixie had suffered the same fate as the people near the door. Abigail bent down and struggled to pull her out from beneath the rubble. Trixie's leg jutted at an odd angle.

Abigail's mind flashed to the scene. The explosion, the dust and panic. People jumping up, possums in headlights. Then running for the door, heedless of anything or anybody in their way. Trixie had been one of those, transfixed in horror, until the crowd had pummeled her to the ground, destroying her mobility. Raging on and around her until she could no longer even crawl. In her childhood Abigail had seen hundreds of pathetic animals: snakes, deer, possum, turtles, rabbits, squirrels, dogs and cats, squashed heedlessly on the dirt and asphalt roads. Roadkill. Some half-flattened and still alive, writhing in agony.

She had never seen a human in such a state. She gently wiped the dirt from Trixie's face and brushed back her hair. At least her friend was not writhing. Her head rolled to the side and Abigail moved her knee under it before it fell back to the filthy floor. Her eyes were wide as if she had just seen the most wondrous or terrible thing ever witnessed.

Abigail heard the thumping of boots and looked up. Through the shattered windows she saw the firefighters moving slowly toward what was left of the Towers. They were totally silent, faces grim, but determined. These men were brave. Brave like her father and his father before him. Brave like her mother and her grandfather and grandmother.

"Everybody's afraid in war," her grandfather had told her.

"Courage is just about controlling your fear," her mother had said.

"You just do what you have to do when you have to do it," her father's voice whispered.

None of them had wanted to talk further. The truly brave ones never did.

Abigail stared at the body of her friend. She stood up and went to the door. The firefighters had vanished into the smoke as if they had never been there. No one was left outside. Even the cop was gone. In the distance she could still hear the sirens, but all around her was the silence of the dead. She walked through the door and gingerly went down the steps. She paused to look into the hazy abyss which surrounded her. Her eyes watered, her nose ran. She couldn't breathe. She had felt alone for such a long time, but never this alone. She coughed, turned around and re-entered the building.

Trixie was still there, the chair cushion Abigail had positioned carefully, tenuously supporting her lolling head. Abigail went to her knees. Gently cradled the head, closed her eyes. She took a deep breath, coughed out yellow phlegm and spat it to the side. She leaned down, put her lips against Trixie's and exhaled. She moved her hands slowly across Trixie's broken body. Her fingers traced the girl's neck, moved down the lifeless chest. Caressed the twisted leg. The body lay as it had before amidst the ashes and detritus.

"Breathe, damn you. Live, Trixie," she whispered. "Shit, I'm new at this."

She tried the movements that were instinctive, once again.

Trixie was still as before.

"Fuck! Shit. Maybe there's a time limit or something."

Abigail screamed in frustration. The scream became sobs and the sobs released a torrent of tears. She put her face against Trixie's chest and cried for her friend, cried for her mother and all the people who had died today. Cried for the miserable, worthless thing she had become.

An explosion shook the building. Pieces of the ceiling rained down on them. The portrait flew over their heads. The air was suddenly superheated. Abigail could smell new smoke searching for them, seeking them out, trying to steal what little oxygen remained.

She pushed her head closer to Trixie's cold chest. Impossibly, she thought she felt it rise. Then fall. Then seconds later, rise again.

Abigail's own body was bathed in sudden sweat. Now, she could see nothing. Black smoke filled all existence. She began coughing, gasping for breath.

"What the hell happened?"

Abigail raised her head. She stared down, but could see nothing.

"Jesus, somebody threw a hell of a party," Trixie said.

***

Journal of Anastasie-14

I had tried a thousand times to get through to Abigail on that horrible day, like the millions of other Americans who had tried to call their loved ones. I had chided myself without mercy, wishing I had one of those damned cell phones. It wouldn't have mattered.

Two agonizing, sleepless days later Abigail called me to let me know she was all right, but that she had, she said, "Kinda been in the middle of it."

There was something different in the way we spoke to each other. As if, because of that terrible event, something profound, something good, had actually come out of it. At least for the two of us.

We, all Americans, had been changed by what happened. We were more vulnerable. War had been brought home. We almost understood what the Europeans had felt twice in the last century. What so many people around the world had experienced in their homes over time. The history of mankind is a chronicle of war.

Abigail gave few details, but I knew something had happened. Her experiences on that day, like that of so many people, had caused her to re-evaluate everything. Her conversation was measured, still, but somehow more open, more honest. I wanted to believe that she was no longer hiding. I hoped that was true. Maturity, I think, had finally happened to my child. Death and destruction have a way of doing that. Pleasure, like life itself, is momentary. Responsibility, on the other hand, lasts forever.

# Chapter Fourteen

Abigail had started over. She had seen her mother twice since that day in September. Once, last Christmas, and again the past summer. Her mother was living in the old homestead and clearly had wanted her to move back home. Their conversations tended more toward adult to adult during those times and Abigail had tried to explain that she needed more time to sort things out. To prove to herself that she could make it on her own in the big, bad world. Her mother had tried to dissuade her, but finally sighed and never mentioned it again.

Abigail, of course, knew that her mother wondered if the new Abigail was contemplating where her life would go. Where it should go. Unfortunately, as usual, her mother was right.

Abigail had been clean and sober for a year. The old firm had never reopened and she and Trixie had found new employment. Trixie had actually gotten a bit part in soap opera. Abigail was now an assistant manager at a small insurance firm. She had also enrolled in night courses last January at NYU. Things were not going well, just somehow better.

She and Trixie talked on the phone almost daily and got together once or twice a month. They had spent these times together shopping or dining. Abigail had avoided parties. Until Trixie introduced her to Tyrone Jordan. Then the trouble started.

***

Tyrone was tall, handsome, suave and smooth. He had the second lead in Trixie's soap opera and threw lavish parties in his uptown, Manhattan apartment. Abigail had reluctantly given in to Trixie's constant badgering and had allowed herself to be dragged along to one of these mini-extravaganzas. Abigail stood in the middle of the room, awkwardly holding a glass of ginger ale.

The crowd was young and fast. And hungry. Tyrone moved across the crowded living room, smiling and touching. A politician on his way to the big score.

"He's coming our way," Trixie squealed above the punk rock music blaring from tall, Bose speakers. "Doesn't he look just like Rhett Butler? God, he's a hunk."

Abigail glanced toward him. He really did look like Rhett. Without the big ears.

"Trixie? How's my girl?" he smiled. His teeth were perfect. His hair was dark and long, but not overly so. A perfect dark comma curled across his forehead. "I'm so glad you came. And who is this ravishing friend?"

He turned his attention to Abigail and his gaze was mesmerizing. His smooth baritone emitted a slight tinge of Southern. Abigail would have voted for him.

"Tyrone, this is my best friend, Al. Al, the one and only, Tyrone Jordan."

"Nice to meet you," Abigail said breathlessly.

Tyrone bent down, brought up her hand and brushed it with his lips. From anyone else, the gesture would have seemed ridiculous. From him, it seemed perfectly natural.

Reluctantly, Tyrone let go of her hand. His eyes never left hers. "Ah, I think we have in our midst, a genuine southern belle," he said.

Abigail blushed. She hadn't done that in a long time. She recovered with a huge effort.

"Louisiana, near Baton Rouge," she replied.

"Ah, a beautiful Cajun girl. We're neighbors. I was born and raised in Atlanta."

"Oh, I love Atlanta," Trixie said.

No one heard her

***

The party ended sometime after midnight. Actually, it began at that time. Most of the guests had gone. Tyrone had persuaded Trixie and Abigail to stay. The three of them sat on the couch. The faux fireplace provided the only light in the lavishly done room.

The gilded mirror that lay on the coffee table sparkled with alabaster lines of newly fallen snow.

"Wow, that fireplace is making me too warm," Trixie sighed, bent down and placed the glass straw at the end of one of the white lines. She snorted, placed the straw carefully down and pushed herself back onto the sofa. She closed her eyes. She unbuttoned her silky blouse down to her naval.

Tyrone grinned and watched her. He handed Abigail a straw. "She's getting ahead of us," he cooed.

"I don't do coke anymore," Abigail said quietly.

Tyrone shrugged, bent over the mirror and repeated Trixie's actions. He reached over and deftly unhooked Trixie's bra. Her ample breasts thrust forward as he removed the strapless garment. He leaned over and kissed them. Her nipples tightened and she moaned and ran her hands through his hair.

Tyrone gently disengaged and smiled at Abigail. He bent down and kissed her. She felt his tongue against her own. "We're all friends here," he said softly. He picked up a straw and placed it in her hand, closing her fingers around it.

"What the hell," Abigail said. "It's only once a year."

# Chapter Fifteen

Abigail felt like hell. Her head pounded, her mouth was the Mojave and her nose dripped onto her spiral notebook. The professor had been droning on for eons about corporate tax laws or some damned thing. It had only been once, she chided herself. That's what I get for doing the good deed that doesn't go unpunished. I should have left her to rot in that stinking building.

She immediately felt guilty for that thought. It had been a week since that horrible fall from grace and the craving was back again. Trixie had brought her a little from their mutual friend, but a little was never enough. The stupid bitch hadn't even remembered what had happened that night. How convenient. The three of them had done everything that was humanly possible to mimic the procreation process and invented a few more.

The professor, who no doubt, in his real life, was a lawyer, and everybody knew what Shakespeare had said about that, went on and on. Something about a proprietary whosit.

Abigail wiped her nose with the back of her hand. She needed a hit. And a bath and about twelve hours of uninterrupted quiet. She felt incredibly dirty. And then there was that absolute geek who kept sneaking glances at her from the other row. He would pretend to be hanging on every word the dumbass at the front was blathering, but Abigail knew he was looking at her every five seconds. No sane person would give her a first look right now, and only a certifiable psycho would keep twisting his neck around every chance he got. Just my luck, she thought. I not only attract classic narcissists, but now I've got the Zodiac killer to contend with.

When the little balloon man finally farted his last blast of wisdom and exited the stage, the small class evaporated. Abigail slammed her notebook shut, crammed it into her backpack and tried to escape. Too slow. The geek had waited for her and was blocking the exit.

"Hi, my name's Dwayne. Dwayne Jamison," the geek said smiling. He held out his hand.

Abigail ignored the hand. "Elizabeth Taylor," she said and tried to get around him.

He stepped aside unexpectedly. Abigail brushed past him and went out the door. She headed for the stairs. The geek caught up to her.

"My mother always said Vicks Vapo Rub could cure anything."

Great. Not only a psycho, an incestuous psycho with a fixation for slimy substances that you rub on somebody's chest.

"You know, for that cold you have," the geek explained.

Abigail stopped and sniffed in spite of herself. She looked at the guy directly for the first time. He really wasn't bad looking for a serial killer. His guileless smile was almost engaging.

"Look, Dave—"

"Dwayne," he corrected.

Abigail shrugged. "Whatever. I really don't feel very well tonight. Perhaps we could discuss the intricacies of OTC efficacy some other time."

Dwayne looked perplexed. Then he laughed, a throaty genuine chuckle. "I get it. Over the Counter. That's funny, Elizabeth."

"My name isn't Elizabeth," she said. "It's Courtney."

"I didn't think it was," he smiled. "Could we share a cup of coffee or something?"

"Dick. Listen. I appreciate the fact that we're both students, thus piss poor and could only afford one cup of coffee, but _my mother_ told me to never share food or beverages with anyone. Especially, not with strangers."

Dwayne howled with laughter. Abigail thought for a horrible moment, he was actually going to slap his knee. This wasn't working. She was going to have to get rude.

"Well, maybe some other time, Courtney." He looked really disappointed. "Perhaps next week?"

Abigail looked at him blankly. His smile never faltered as he nodded to her and walked down the stairs. Abigail heard the outside door slam.

She stood in the dark hallway another three minutes and tried to remember whether the sidewalk was brightly lit and if there were many bushes out there. Finally, she went down the stairs, squinted through the small window in the door and went outside. She made it all the way back to her apartment without getting raped or strangled.

Abigail kicked off her shoes, sat down in the over-stuffed chair that had stuffing coming out and took two Advils. She fought the craving. Fought it hard, but it was winning. Her cell phone buzzed and she reached for it knocking the thrift store lamp to the floor. It burst, sparked and went out.

"Shit!"

"That's a nice greeting for your best friend," Trixie said gaily.

"Sorry. I just knocked the damned lamp over and this has not been the greatest day."

"Well, let me cheer you up. Our company is going to be filming for two weeks in Costa Rica. Tyrone wants you to join us."

Abigail closed her eyes and sighed. This bit of news was not helping her headache or the throbbing pain in her vertebra which had begun several months ago.

"Hey, earth to Al. Did you hear what I said? Two weeks in paradise with Mr. Gorgeous. Talk about a wet dream."

"Girls don't have wet dreams," Abigail replied.

"I do. Listen, we leave in two days. Pack your bikini wax and we can—"

"Trixie. I have a job. I have school. I have a dog."

Trixie laughed. "You don't have a dog."

"I'm thinking about getting one."

"Always Miss-Hard-to-Get." There was a slight edge to Trixie's voice.

"Trixie. Mr. Gone-Full-of-Wind is going to have to make up his mind."

There was a long silence. "About what?"

"You know about what."

"Dammit, Al, I've only got a five minute walk-on. I don't think Tyrone will let me come without you."

For a brief second, Abigail felt sorry for her friend. The second passed.

"Rhett think's he owns the show, but he doesn't. He also thinks he owns us."

"No, he doesn't," Trixie said without conviction.

"You go on, have a great time. Seriously, I really appreciate the invitation, but I've got too many things going on here."

"Miss Run-from-Intimacy," Trixie answered.

The words stung Abigail. She pulled a tuft of something from the chair and threw it down. "Trixie, with men like Tyrone, intimacy is an illusion. We both know that."

"What's your point?"

"My point is, I'm trying to grow up. You should do the same."

"Fine. Right. I'm an immature little airhead."

"I didn't say that."

"Sure you did. Well, I'm going. Don't expect any more candy."

"That's O.K. I'm trying to get rid of my sweet tooth anyway. Listen, have a good—"

But the phone was dead. Abigail put it down gently. She sat for a few minutes staring at it. Then she forced herself up and went into the bathroom. She took off the toilet lid, pulled out the Ziplock bag, opened it and poured its contents into the toilet. She flushed. Twice for good measure.

# Chapter Sixteen

Anastasie was sitting out on the porch in the cool breeze of the evening. It was good to be home. She loved this time of day, although getting out here and easing herself into the old rocking chair that Papa had fixed a thousand times, was getting a little harder.

The fireflies and mosquitoes had not yet appeared. Their thousands of little eggs, spawned in the autumn months had yet to be born. But as surely as the sun rose tomorrow, they would emerge. And at the end of the summer, they would lay their own eggs to create the next generation. And so it goes.

She must have dozed. The telephone in the kitchen was ringing. Few people called her. She scrambled up with some effort, flung the screen door aside and hobbled in. She grabbed the phone.

"Abigail?"

"Anastasie Livingston, please," a rich male voice replied.

"This is she," Anastasie said between breaths.

"Ah, impeccable grammar. I like that in a beautiful woman," the voice spoke.

"Flattery is flatulence in disguise," Anastasie replied.

"And witty too. Remarkable. I can see why Roger was so entranced."

Anastasie gripped the phone tighter. Her knees felt weaker. She reached for Papa's chair and pulled it toward the phone. She sat down heavily.

"Roger's father," she said.

"You may call me Robert," the old man answered. "My friends use my middle name."

"What do you want?"

"Right to the point. I like that too. So many Southern women twirl around and around and never get there."

"What do you want?" Anastasie repeated.

She heard a loud sigh. "I need your help." Suddenly, the voice was creaky and old.

"Whatever help you need, the answer is no."

The voice morphed back again. "At least you can give an old man five minutes of your time. That's probably like a year of my own."

"So you're at death's door?"

"Don't sound so cheerful. I'll be around making mischief for a while longer."

"I'm sure," Anastasie said.

He laughed. "I'm shallow, but not so that I would be calling about myself. I'm asking that you help Roger."

"Why in God's name would I do that?"

The voice was tired again. "Please. Just hear me out. Please?"

"Sure. You've got four and a half minutes. Take your time."

There was a long pause. "Let me begin this way. You see, life is a battlefield. Whoever wins the money, wins the war."

"I'm familiar with the battlefield. In reality and metaphorically. But life is not just about money."

" _Touché_ to your first point. I'm sure you know all about combat and its terrible consequences as few do. But money is the only true power. Like combat, money can change life into death. Or, unlike combat, it can change death into life."

"Robert. All your money can't save Roger from whatever trouble he's in."

The old man cleared his throat. Anastasie heard him take a drink of something. "That's where you're wrong. _You can save Roger."_

"You don't know what you're talking about."

"Really? I seem to recall a conversation long ago, and not so long ago, between father and son. You were the subject."

"You were right the first time. That was a very long time ago."

"Please forgive an old man for his pathetic reminiscences. It's quite simple, really. I want you to save my son. I'll pay you anything you ask."

Anastasie stood up. The chair screeched against the old wooden floor. "I'm not for sale."

The old man continued as if he hadn't heard. "You're a nurse. You've heard of AIDs?"

"Roger?"

"A youthful indiscretion. Temporary in action, permanent in consequences. Before ladies of the evening were screened. Actually, before anybody was. But not to worry, dear, it was long after he met you. As a matter of fact, after you rejected him, he went through a period of feeling so worthless, he felt he had to pay for, uh, release."

Anastasie almost hurled the phone against the wall. "So his fatal disease was actually my fault."

The old man failed to gauge the depth of her sarcasm. "Certainly, it was a factor. Maybe not the only one."

"And now you and your little son want to prostitute me?"

"That's not what I meant. It isn't the same thing."

"Roger screwed me once, against my will, and now both of you want to screw me again. Only this time I get paid."

Unexpectedly, the old man chuckled. "You have a way with words, my dear."

"I'll tell you what you and Roger can do. You can go—"

"Wait! Before you say it, please think about what I've said."

"I don't need to think about it."

"Yes, you do."

The voice had changed again. Yet a third person had emerged. This one was not affable or pleading. This one came from a demon.

"Consider my proposal carefully. We will talk again soon. Think of your daughter in New York. Think of Abigail. All alone. By herself. Friendless in the big city. Your child, my child. Both vulnerable. As I said, life is a battlefield."

He hung up. Anastasie stared at the phone. She jerked it from the wall and threw it across the kitchen. It bounced off the oak cabinets Papa had built with his own two hands.

# Chapter Seventeen

Abigail was pretty certain the paranoia, if that's what it was, wasn't from coke. She hadn't used in a week. A long week. The head and neck pain were worse, but at least her nose had quit running all damned day. Actually, her senses and her ability to think clearly had improved. That's why she was convinced she was being followed. Again.

She had tried to call Trixie several times, but either her friend was having too great a time in Penile Paradise, or she simply wasn't going to talk to her. Or maybe there was no cell coverage in the great beyond. She was on her own and possibly pursued.

Abigail again sat, ruminating as before, in the same seat in the same dingy classroom where the little talking head had droned on for eternity. She had purposely been late so as to avoid her new admirer who sat in his same assigned seat and continued to steal anything but subtle glances at her. This déjà vu stuff really sucked.

Mr. Ambulance Chaser had stopped in the middle of his introductory pontification and pointedly waited for Abigail to take her seat. Then he had resumed. She didn't really care what he thought. She just needed a B. Anyway, she already had an A.

Fifteen pages of scribbled notes and doodles, mostly doodles, later, Abigail closed her notebook as the little air horn wrapped it up and assured the class that next week would be even more exciting. He pranced out, his aluminum attaché case firmly clasped under his armpit.

Abigail was right behind him, ready with a dozen ingratiating questions, but he turned abruptly and went down the hall to the men's room before she got out the first one.

"I'm glad to see your cold's better," the geek said behind her left shoulder.

Shit. This was Ground Hog Day all over again.

Abigail had no choice but to turn around. Dwayne's clear blues were sparkling, as usual.

"Yeah, thanks. Now if I could just get rid of this damned scabies, I'd be fine."

Dwayne smiled hugely and placed his right hand against her fingers. He turned her hand over and pretended to study them. "Not to worry, Courtney. It's past the contagious stage." He frowned as Abigail pulled her hand away. She didn't really like to be touched.

"And to think I almost wrecked my car trying to miss an army of mites on the way over here."

Abigail laughed. She hadn't meant to.

"I got real lucky in a five card stud poker game last night. I could spring for _two_ cups of coffee tonight. That is, if you have a little time."

"Gee, that's sweet, Dorian, but I've got a lot of studying to do tonight and—"

Dwayne's shoulders fell, but he smiled again anyway. "Sure, I understand. Well, have a nice night."

They were at the outside door again. He opened the door, held it for her and she walked through. She glanced around as Dwayne waved once and sauntered off to find his car. Across the street, in the shadow of a lamplight, stood a man. She couldn't be sure, but he looked a lot like the guy in the red turtleneck back, it seemed, a long time ago.

"Hey! Dwayne, wait a second." She walked briskly toward him as he paused to let her catch up. "You sure give up easy for a guy. Listen, I have a thing for Styrofoam. Maybe we could go get some coffee if you still want to."

Dwayne smiled. "For a girl with so many diseases, you can decide things quickly," he said.

"Yeah, well, desperate times and all that," Abigail said and immediately regretted the slip.

Dwayne appeared not to have noticed. Without warning, Abigail took his hand.

***

Abigail glanced over her shoulder. The watcher was gone. Or at least, out of sight. She dropped Dwayne's hand. He took the opportunity to fumble in his pocket for keys. Abigail expected she would be chauffeured in some kind of compact Ford or Chevy or something.

Dwayne pushed a button on the key and the lights flashed on a small, red Porshe. He went to the passenger side and opened the door for her. At first, she didn't quite know what to do. Nobody had ever held the door for her. Well, he was retro, but his wheels certainly weren't.

She got in and he closed the door gently, went around the front and climbed in the bucket seat.

"Wow, nice little car."

He smiled and started the engine. Abigail had heard that in the old days they had put the engine in the backseat or somewhere. She wasn't sure where it was on this baby.

"I know. I know. Should have bought American. But I just couldn't resist. I drove the same little Ford for ten years. This is the first new car I've ever owned."

"You have good taste."

He glanced at her. "Yes, thanks," Dwayne replied.

***

The little coffee shop was warm and cozy and it appeared that Dwayne had been there many times. Everybody in the place knew him and spoke. They also took careful mental notes on his latest capture, Abigail noted.

They got seated in a little booth that looked like something out of _Happy Days._ The walls were haphazardly decorated with photographs of Rock 'n Roll stars from the fifties and sixties. The only one Abigail recognized was Elvis. There was an honest-to-God Wurlizter juke box in the far corner. A blonde, buxom waitress came over immediately.

"Hi, Dwayne." She looked pointedly at Abigail.

"Hey, Marge. Marge, this is Courtney. We take the same class together."

Marge chewed her gum thoughtfully and nodded. "Yeah? Well, she's classy, Dwayne."

Dwayne laughed. Abigail turned red. She had to quit doing that.

Marge smiled. "What'll you have?"

"Courtney?"

"Oh, just coffee will be fine."

"Same here, Marge."

"No pie? Got some great apple."

"Maybe later." Dwayne looked at Abigail. "Best apple pie in the world."

"Thanks. Have to watch my weight."

"Right. Two cups, joe." Marge turned to go then looked back at Abigail. "Honey, with a figure like yours, you don't need to be worrying about a few more calories." She went back toward the counter.

"She likes you," Dwayne said.

"I like her," Abigail said and actually meant it.

Seconds later two very white porcelain cups were placed in front of them along with a steaming stainless steel pot of coffee.

Dwayne poured the brew into the cups and placed one in front of Abigail. She added sugar from a glass shaker with a slightly dented lid. She tasted it. The coffee was wonderful. Her Mr. Coffee was out of business.

"You must come here often," Abigail said savoring the aroma in her cup.

"It's like family here. And not far from where I live."

Abigail blew on the cup. Here it comes, she thought. These guys don't waste any time on the Proposal. 'Come see my etchings' will be next.

But Dwayne didn't follow the pattern. "Tell me about yourself," he said quietly.

Abigail shrugged. "Not much to tell. What do you want to know?"

Dwayne smiled down at his cup. "Well, for one, would you mind telling me your real name."

Abigail blushed again. "Sorry. My real name is Abigail Livingston. Friends call me Al."

Dwayne put his hand out and she shook it. "Nice to meet you, Al. Just a wild guess on my part, but I got a feeling you're not from around here."

"Louisiana mostly. I come from a long line of Cajuns."

She looked at a photograph above them of a plump, jolly black man with a wide toothy grin. The portrait was signed, "Fats."

"I did spend some time growing up in Virginia. We moved back to Louisiana after a few years." She didn't want to talk about Virginia. Somehow, Dwayne sensed that.

"Ah, Evangeline."

"Well, actually Evangeline was about Creoles. We're a lot different."

"Sorry. That's what I get for trying to be cool. But Louisiana is a fascinating place. How do the two groups differ?"

Abigail explained and Dwayne listened. Really listened. Then she told him about growing up in the bayou country and her experiences in Catholic schools. Abigail talked for thirty minutes without stopping and Dwayne's attention never wavered. His eyes never left her face. Finally, Marge brought another pot of steaming coffee and Abigail stopped talking. She had never talked this much before. Never. To anyone. Not even her mother.

Dwayne took a sip of his coffee. "What a wonderful place to grow up in. I'd like to go there sometime."

"It is beautiful," Abigail said with a slight lump in her throat. She glanced at her watch. It was almost midnight. Where had the time gone? The brief silence wasn't awkward. She took a sip herself. "But, here I've been blathering on about myself. What about you?"

Dwayne shrugged. "Not much to tell."

Abigail leaned toward him slightly. "I'm not believing that. What brought you to the Big Apple?"

Dwayne smiled. "Birth mostly. I was born here. My father was an instructor at West Point and my mother was an attorney."

"Wow. I'm impressed. Are your parents still living here?"

Dwayne looked up at the ceiling. His expression had changed a little. "My dad died in Vietnam. He was one of the last casualties of the war." He shook his head. "He volunteered to go over there even though the Army wanted him to keep teaching."

Abigail touched his hand. She hadn't meant to. "And what about your mom?"

Dwayne blew out a long breath. "Well, that's a long story. She died a few years back."

"I'm so sorry. Was it cancer?"

"Parkinson's," Dwayne said.

Abigail nodded. "I've heard of that. Robs people of their memory?"

Dwayne sighed. "Yes. And a lot more." He looked at his watch. "Gosh, it's getting late. You must be exhausted."

"I was. I'm not now. Must be the coffee, and the company," Abigail said. "What do you do? Besides take exciting corporate law courses, I mean."

Dwayne smiled again. "I'm a geek. I know you never would have guessed, right?"

Abigail laughed. "What kind of geek?"

"Computer geek. Back in the nineties, I got hooked playing with them. A friend and I started a little company. We helped people set up web sites, stuff like that."

"And you didn't crash like so many others?"

Dwayne shook his head. "Naw, we got lucky. Survived the house of cards thing. I bought my friend out and am still in business."

"That is impressive."

"Well, not really. We're doing all right. Hope to expand." His eyes glowed briefly. "I only employ thirty people, but within a year, I hope to double that number."

Abigail would have never guessed that the man who sat across from her was probably a millionaire. He was the most unassuming male she had ever known outside her father and grandfather. That comparison, she thought suddenly, was both a good thing and a bad thing.

Marge brought the check and Dwayne paid it. He also left a tip that was bigger than called for, but with no fanfare.

Marge smiled down at the couple. "Hope to see you two again," she said.

"I bet you say that to all the girls he brings in here," Abigail replied impulsively.

Marge blew a bubble. "Honey, Dwayne's been coming in here for years. You're the first girl he's ever brought. That's why we were all so nosy."

Dwayne cleared his throat. "Marge, don't you have some fish to fry or something?"

Marge laughed and sauntered off.

Dwayne went off to the men's room and Abigail called a cab. He didn't seem surprised when he returned and she told him.

"You sure you won't let me run you home?"

Abigail put away her cell phone. "Thanks, but you live close by. I don't want to put you out."

"No bother," he said, "but I understand." He put his hand out and Abigail shook it. She had expected something else, but he just stood there smiling and put his hand in his pocket.

The cab pulled up to the curb and screeched to a halt.

"I really had a good time," Abigail said.

"Me too. Maybe we can get together next week, if you want to."

Abigail smiled. "Yes, I'd like that. Good night, Dwayne."

"Good night, Courtney." They both laughed. Abigail got in the cab and turned to wave, but Dwayne was already gone. On the long ride home, she felt alone again.

# Chapter Eighteen

The plane ride from New Orleans to Shreveport had taken less than thirty minutes. The trip was smooth and fast, much like the Lear jet in which Anastasie had ridden. She was the only passenger in a rig that could have held at least a dozen people.

The plane landed smoothly. The flight attendant had brought her a Coke and told her she could have filet mignon for lunch if she so desired. Anastasie did not. The flight was smoother than any helicopter trip she had ever taken and light years easier than commercial travel, but her stomach was nevertheless tightly wound.

As the plane stopped, Anastasie got her shoulder bag and smiled at the attendant as the stairway quietly descended. She hadn't planned on staying very long. The short trip down the ramp was long and arduous.

"Have a nice trip," the blonde girl in the crisp uniform said.

"I'll do my best."

As her feet touched the tarmac, Anastasie noticed a Mercedes, new and sparkling, parked nearby. A tall, cadaverous man stood beside. He was dressed in black and wore a shiny-beaked cap. He stepped toward her.

"Mrs. Livingston. Welcome to Shreveport. May I get your luggage?"

"This is all I have," Anastasie replied stiffly.

"Of course. My name is Jared. I'm here to take you to see Roger and his father."

Jared opened the back door of the big car with a flourish and Anastasie tried not to roll her eyes as she threw her bag in and climbed in after it.

Jared closed the door and got in the driver's seat.

"Are you sure your name isn't Jeeves?"

"Ma'am?" the lanky chauffeur said.

"Just kidding, Jared. Trying to add a little humor to the situation."

Jared started the engine and swung the big car in a wide circle.

"Of course," he said.

***

The uniformed gatekeeper, or whatever he was, came out of his little house and smiled politely at them as the huge wrought-iron gate swung open. They entered a long, winding lane sheltered by massive oaks spaced at precise intervals, their branches forming a woody umbrella that blocked out the sun. Tangles of moss hung from the trees as if they had been placed there by design. It was a scene from _Gone with the Wind._

The house, actually, the mansion, was on a slightly raised parcel of land. It was ante-bellum all the way. Red brick, huge alabaster pillars, what appeared to be honest-to-God marble stairs leading to massive, dark-red doors.

Anastasie leaned toward Jared from the back seat. "O.K., I see the servants' quarters. Where's the house?"

There was a brief pause, then Jared permitted himself a polite chuckle. "Humor, right?"

"Right," Anastasie said. "Helps relieve the tension."

"Of course," Jared said.

Jared stopped in the circular drive, got out and opened the door for Anastasie. He showed no emotion as she pulled the cane from her carry-all. It was one of those folding things and she hated it. But she'd never make those steps without it.

***

Jared had fussed around, not really knowing whether to push Anastasie up the stairs or just stand by and wring his hands. She finally helped him by saying, "You could take my elbow."

They stood on an immense, marble porch, Anastasie trying to catch her breath. Jared rang the bell. Instantly, a plump little man, dressed like a butler, opened the door and smiled.

"Mrs. Livingston, so nice to see you," he said. "I'm Reginald," he said with a crisp, English accent.

"Of course you are," Anastasie answered. She looked around for Jared, just in case she needed someone to translate, but he had already disappeared down the steps.

"Please, come in. Let me take your bag." He reached for it, but she held up her cane.

"I'll keep it."

He offered her a polite, tight smile. "Very good. Would you like to freshen up?"

"Naw, I'm fine, Reggie. Thanks."

"Very good. This way please."

The fussy little man showed her into an exquisitely done drawing room or whatever the rich called it these days, just to the right of the massive door. Persian rugs lined the floor and hand-carved furniture was situated in strategic spots. The room was dominated by a fireplace that could have filled Anastasie's kitchen. There were matching Louis the Fourteenth chairs on either side. The portrait of a beautiful young woman smiled down on her.

Reginald gestured to the closer one. "Please, have a seat. Mr. Ellwood will be here momentarily. Would you like some tea or coffee? A softdrink perhaps?"

Anastasie sat down, placed her cane against the chair and it promptly fell over. Reginald deftly picked it up and placed it near the arm.

"Tea would be nice."

"Splendid! I'll be back in a jiffy." He disappeared.

Anastasie sat stiffly. She examined the immense room again and tried not to feel like a bird in a gilded cage.

Reginald returned in an instant with a steaming pot. "Sugar and cream?"

"Just a little sugar." He poured and dropped one cube into the gold-rimmed cup. He placed it in her hands. The cup rattled against the saucer as she held it.

"Thanks."

"Very good, Mrs. Livingstone. Mr.Ellwood will be here in just a moment. Is there anything you require?"

Anastasie refrained from saying she needed a ticket home. Right now. "No, I'm fine. Thank you."

The little man beamed at her. "My pleasure. Just ring that bell by the fireplace if you need anything at all." He bowed and left.

Anastasie sipped her tea and waited. In precisely one minute the door opened.

A tall, still handsome man in his seventies walked in smiling. His mane of hair was full, his blue eyes clear. He looked like a retired general.

"Anastasie!" he said in the sonorous voice she had come to recognize. "It is such an honor to meet you in person. I'm so delighted you came."

Anastasie looked up into the penetrating eyes. "You didn't give me much choice," she said.

# Chapter Nineteen

Abigail sat in her little office trying to make sense of the latest budget she had just received. She had never been that great in math, but this would take somebody like Stephen Hawking to figure out. Her cell phone buzzed and she picked it up and looked at the screen. Smiling, she put it to her ear.

"Can you still walk?"

"I can walk, fly and soar," Trixie said on the other end.

Abigail laughed. "When did you get in?"

"Just yesterday. We had a wonderful time. You should've been there, Al."

"Sorry I missed all the bugs."

"I'm serious. We had a great time. The beach was beautiful. And Tyrone, well, he's the most romantic man on earth."

"Glad to hear it."

"Listen, we're having a little get together at his place tonight. We want you to come."

Abigail frowned. "Oh. I'd love to, but I've got class tonight."

"All work and no play."

"I know. But I'd like to get with you. How about lunch tomorrow?"

"Sounds good, same place and time? Got to go, see you."

Abigail punched off. She was surprised, kind of, that Trixie hadn't pushed the party. Maybe something really was going on between the two of them. She hoped so.

Her desk phone rang and she fumbled for it.

"Al, that same guy has called again. What do you want me to tell him this time?"

"Just say I'm at lunch or something."

"At ten o'clock?"

"I lunch early sometimes."

Dwayne had called three times in the past week. Abigail had always been too busy. She hung up the phone and sighed. It wasn't that she didn't like him. Actually she did. A lot. So what was the problem? She shuffled the papers on her desk. The problem was he's just too damned perfect. There's got to be a major flaw somewhere.

What had Trixie once said to her? She was a queen of no commitment or something like that. Yeah, but there was something else too. Abigail thought of her own father and her grandfather as she often did. They were real men. Men of courage and principle. Abigail had never met a man who came even close to them. Never met a woman who came close to her own mother or grandmother either, for that matter. Dwayne was old-fashioned like all of them and she liked that. But physical courage? The worst thing he had probably ever dealt with was hemorrhoids from sitting too long at a damned computer.

Abigail laughed to herself and shrugged. She tried to put him out of her mind and picked up the budget report, but her thoughts wandered. His smiling face wouldn't go away. Finally, she picked up her phone and dialed. She had decided to tell the receptionist at the school office that she had the flu and wouldn't make it to class tonight.

# Chapter Twenty

The old man chuckled and put down his own cup of tea without tasting it. His eyes never left Anastasie's face. "Well, nevertheless, I'm very glad you came."

Anastasie put her half-finished cup on the table and stared back at him. He could appear so charming, this little tyrant. He looked like a skinny Santa Claus. His silk shirt and cardigan, not to mention his Italian loafers, would have paid for her house.

"O.K., let's skip the polite bullshit. Where's Roger?"

Ellwood's smile didn't falter. "I should think you'd like to know a little about his condition first. He—"

There was a gentle tap on the oak door. Reginald came in carrying a silver tray. "I'm terribly sorry to interrupt, Sir, but it's time for your medication."

The old man shot Reginald a withering look. "I told you not to come in here."

Reginald smiled tightly and gave a slight bow. "Very good, Sir, but your physician also specifically ordered me to—"

"All right. Give me the damned pills and get out."

Reginald deftly twisted the caps off three separate bottles. Impatiently, Ellwood took one from each bottle and swallowed them with a mouthful of ice water from the glass Reginald had produced seemingly from nowhere.

Reginald replaced the caps. "Very good, Sir." He deftly took the glass.

"Get out!" the old man shouted, his face red.

***

Reginald departed as swiftly and as quietly as he had entered. Anastasie had not been able to see the labels on the bottles, but judging from the size and color of the pills, she knew what they were for. Apparently, Robert wasn't the picture of health he tried to exude.

The old man wiped the back of his hand and took a deep breath. "Damned allergies and undisciplined servants," he said. "Now where were we?" For the first time he averted looking directly at Anastasie. "Oh, yes. I was telling you about Roger's condition."

Anastasie shifted in her chair. "Not really necessary. All you have to do is show me the way. And leave."

He shook his head. "I'll show you the way," he replied pointedly. "Roger," he said as if ignoring her previous comment, "is in the final stage of AIDs. I've had the best specialists in the country looking after him. I've given huge sums to research." He shrugged and for a brief second, Anastasie could almost see him as human. "All to no avail. You are my last hope."

"If I save him, you will never harm my daughter. Are we clear on that?"

Ellwood looked down and nodded.

"Because if I even think you or your minions have mussed a single hair on her head, I will undo what I do here today. And I will undo you."

He looked up at her, his eyes burning, gaze steady again. "You see? The love a parent has for his or her child is the same for everyone."

Anastasie's eyes flared. "Don't compare the two of us!"

He splayed his fingers. "I only meant—"

"I don't give a shit what you think you meant." She grabbed her cane and stood up. The fragile chair tilted backwards and banged onto the polished floor. Anastasie stumbled and caught herself. She looked at the portrait above the fireplace. The eyes seemed to be mocking her. The fireplace was slowly spinning. "Take me to him now or I'm leaving." The old man was watching her carefully, a smirk on his weathered face.

"Don't worry, you'll be seeing him soon," he said softly.

Anastasie moved toward the chair, but it was gone. Everything was spinning. She felt sick. She collapsed onto the expensive Persian rug. The cane hit the floor with a crack. She tried to get up, but her body refused to cooperate.

The old man's face was red again. He had never been talked to like that. Never. He got up from his chair and looked down on Anastasie. He smiled and gestured toward the portrait. "Roger's mother," he said. "Would you believe she once tried to leave me? The picture was done about twenty years before that unhappy event." He shook his head. "She was still radiant when she died."

Anastasie tried to say something. He leaned closer and put his ear next to her lips.

"Fuck you," she whispered.

***

Anastasie wondered how the little toad, Jeremy, had slithered through space and time and returned from the past to stand above her. She couldn't hear the Beatles music this time. Instead, she heard French. It was different from what she had learned as a child, but she could pick out a few things.

" _Elle e'coute,_ " a voice said.

" _Elle n'e'coute rien,_ " a second voice answered.

There was laughter from two males. The cryptic conversation was about her. They were wondering if she could hear them.

" _L'eau_ ," Anastasie heard herself say.

"Of course, my dear, your mouth must be parched." There was shuffling near her head. The sound of water being poured. A hand reached down and gently cupped her neck. A straw was placed against her lips. Anastasie sucked. The water was cold and tasted delicious.

Anastasie's eyes began to focus, but she struggled to see through a bright halo.

" _Merci_ ," someone said.

The straw was removed and Anastasie's head was gently released. Someone grunted. She heard footsteps and a door closed.

"Well, Mrs. Livingston. I see you've returned to us no worse for wear. The good doctor has told me your vision will return in a few minutes."

It had already returned. Anastasie squinted anyway. The face of Robert Ellwood beamed at her.

"Who was that? The other guy?"

"Don't concern yourself with unnecessary details. He's a physician, another employee of mine."

"I know him."

Ellwood laughed. "That's quite impossible."

"Really?" Anastasie said. "He's not from around here. His French is neither Cajun nor Creole."

Ellwood shrugged in dismissal. "You haven't asked the important question."

Anastasie stopped squinting, her mind was clearing. "I already know, but take these damned restraints off and I'll listen."

Ellwood frowned. "In a few minutes. I wouldn't want you to get up and hurt yourself."

"I wouldn't hurt myself, you son-of-a-bitch."

Ellwood smiled tightly and didn't comment. He walked to the end of the bed and unclipped a folder.

"We gave you an MRI. First, a full body scan, then the brain."

Anastasie tried to sit up, but the webbing held her. "You goddamned motherfucker!"

Ellwood glanced at her. "I keep forgetting you were in the Army."

"Fuck you!" she screamed.

"So I'll forgive you, for now. Would you like me to go on, or do you want to continue your little tantrum for a while?"

"Let me up, you bastard. You have no right to do any of this."

Ellwood sighed. "It was in the interest of science and humanity. You would have never—"

"You have no humanity. You're worse than your little bastard psycho son."

The old man's face was scarlet. "Now my patience is at an end. You will listen to what I have to say and you will save Roger, or I will call my people in New York. Right this very minute. Do you understand?"

Anastasie held her tongue, her eyes boring into him.

"Do you understand?"

"Yes," she said quietly.

***

The old man put on his glasses and pointed to the open folder as if preparing to deliver a lecture. "You are familiar with magnetic resonance imaging, of course."

Anastasie did not reply.

"The tests were harmless, but we had to sedate you, for reasons I have already enumerated." He paused, his tone patronizing. "Amazing, really. The body scan revealed the possibility of numerous injuries, yet there is no real impairment or abnormalities. You show past evidence of a number of bone fractures, what appears to have been a gunshot wound, a slightly enlarged heart and other unaccounted for peculiar cardiovascular anomalies. You have also possibly been exposed to poliomyelitis, tuberculosis and leprosy. The radiologist was just guessing at these diseases, of course." Ellwood glanced at her. "It's conceivable that any one of these things could have killed you."

Anastasie yawned.

Ellwood sighed. "The brain scan was even more intriguing. Do you suffer from migraine headaches?"

Anastasie yawned again, this time with rude noises.

"There was evidence of scar tissue, possibly from a subdural hematoma, which occurred some time ago."

Anastasie continued to glare at him.

He sighed again, took his folder and sat down in the chair beside her bed. "But all of this," he jabbed at the papers, "is so much claptrap. I asked the doctor to focus on your amygdala when he did the brain scan. It's that part of the brain that helps to activate the sympathetic nervous system and—"

"I know what the amygdala does," Anastasie said flatly.

"Of course. You were an Army _nurse._ Now that you're talking, do you have any questions?"

There was a long silence. "Yes. How the hell did you get an MRI machine?"

Ellwood looked angry for an instant. He shook his head. "I told you when we first met. I've spent millions on research. I decided to buy one for Roger. I added on a whole new wing to the house," he said proudly.

"That's great. After you're both dead, there are a lot of hospitals that could use it."

Ellwood stood up, his fists clenched. He took a few deep breaths. "I don't think I've ever met anyone who could dare punch my buttons the way you can," he said quietly. He sat back down.

"Hey, after all, I'm a superwoman who has control over the fear stemming from her amygdala."

Ellwood smiled his weasel smile. "Oh, you're afraid. Just not for yourself."

Anastasie bit her lip until she tasted blood.

"Now. I was saying before your rude interruption. Your amygdala appears to be very active, much more so than normal. Sometimes, that's bad in people. There may be a link between an enlarged amygdala and certain mental illnesses."

"So that's why they used to call me Crazy Pants Annie."

Ellwood stared at her. "In your case, the doctor theorized that this part of your brain actually enhances your ability to connect with people on a physical level."

"Sex is all in the brain. That's what they taught us in nursing school."

Ellwood ignored the comment. "Have you ever heard of Metta?"

"You're the professor. You tell me."

Ellwood actually laughed. He leaned forward in his chair. "Buddist monks practice something they call compassion meditation. It results in loving-kindness. That is, intense caring for other people."

"Let me take a long shot. Metta meditation, or whatever, affects changes in the amygdala."

"Exactly. And other parts of the brain as well. There are actual, biological changes that can be observed. Resistance to illness is increased. In your case, I think you possess not only that ability, considerably magnified, but the ability to take it a step farther: to _heal_ others."

Ellwood paused dramatically, expecting an awed response from his audience.

Anastasie yawned again.

Ellwood stood up. "Think of the implications. Not only can you heal Roger, but if we did more research, we could possibly tap this in other people."

"And make millions of more dollars," Anastasie said.

"Yes!" Ellwood replied. "Think of the money. You could have anything you wanted, give Abigail whatever she wanted."

Anastasie furrowed her brow as if in deep thought. "O.K., let me think about this."

Ellwood actually clapped his hands together. "Of course!"

"All right. I've thought about it. The answer is no."

Robert Ellwood stood speechless for the first time in his life. He unclasped his hands and sat down in the chair. He was shaking. He had never been told "no" in his entire adult life. Everybody had a price, anyone could be bought. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a bottle of pills. Trembling, he swallowed two. Several fell to the floor.

Anastasie watched him silently.

He cursed and kicked the errant pills under the bed. "I want you to think about your answer very carefully," he said in a strangled voice. "I think, in a day or two, you will reconsider."

"Robert. The gift I have is God given. It is not for sale. It is a rare and priceless thing."

"Everything has a price. If you don't cooperate, the price you pay will be your only child."

Oddly, Anastasie smiled at him. "Then it is a price you too will pay. We had a deal. The life of my child for the life of yours. _You_ need to think about that."

Ellwood got up. He did not reply. He turned abruptly and went out the door.

Anastasie stared at the ceiling. "Abigail," she said aloud, "Abigail. If I'm wrong, you have to run like hell."

The room was very quiet except for the agonized sobbing.

***

The bedroom was no less ornate than the rest of the mansion's rooms. A fireplace dominated one corner. In the opposite corner, a huge canopy bed surrounded by a dozen machines with tubes and monitoring wires leading to a withered body which lay under silken sheets. The smells were horrible, but Anastasie was accustomed to it all. She approached the bed, the old man hanging back slightly.

What was left of Roger lay surrounded by the soft gushes of sound and bluish, muted lights of the machines that were keeping him alive. His eyes were closed. Anastasie saw that he had but weeks to live at best, if you could call this living.

She bent down and smelled his breath. The odor was fetid. "Roger," she said softly.

"He can't hear you," the old man said softly from behind her shoulder. His voice was strained.

"Roger," she repeated.

The eyelids fluttered briefly, then opened. The eyes were as dull as death for an instant, then seemed to focus. His cracked lips pulled back into a smile.

"Anastasie," he said in a hushed voice that seemed to come from a tomb. "You've, you've come. You've come to save me." He tried to speak again, but she couldn't understand. She leaned closer. "I've always, always loved you," the voice whispered. Anastasie slowly nodded.

"My God!" the old man said and stepped forward where he could look down at his son. He looked at Anastasie, his flushed face inches from her own. "He hasn't spoken in days. What, what did he say to you?"

Anastasie straightened up and turned to Roger's father. "He said that now that I have forgiven him, he can die in peace."

The old man stared at her, incredulous. "What?"

Anastasie stood glaring. "You heard me," she said.

"You need to save him! Now! Do whatever you have to do."

Anastasie moved away from the bed. "Robert, you just don't get it, do you?"

"I said save him!" the old man yelled.

Anastasie sighed. "You threaten the most precious thing in my life. You kidnap me and subject me to repeated violations. When all that failed to have the desired results, you try to bribe me." She gestured toward the bed. "The reason, you claim, was to save your son. Your son is not worth saving. Do you know why, Robert?"

The old man's man face was twisted with rage. "Tell me," he said in a barely audible voice. "Tell me, before I kill you and your little worthless offspring."

"Because he is just like you."

The old man moved to the fireplace and grabbed the iron poker. He straightened up. "I'm going to kill you, you bitch!"

Anastasie watched him calmly. "Gee, Robert. Frankly, I'm surprised. I thought you had hired someone else to do that for you."

"No! I'll kill both of you little bitches myself!" he screamed and started toward her.

Anastasie stepped back and fumbled in her shoulder bag. She pulled out the tiny digital recorder. She held it up. "Please say that again, Mr. Ellwood."

The old man smiled and moved toward her. He hefted the poker and raised it. Suddenly, his face changed, the raised poker shook in his hand. His fingers splayed and it fell to the floor. The old man grasped his chest and went to his knees. He tried to get up and failed. He tried to speak, but nothing came out. He clutched his chest with both hands.

Anastasie put away her recorder and walked toward him. "Myocardial infarction, Robert," she said quietly. The old man's eyes were wide and pleading as he slumped to the floor and lay still.

Anastasie waited a few seconds, then bent down to examine him. "No more mischief, Mr. Ellwood. No more," she said. She gently closed his eyes and got up to ring for Reginald.

Instead of the faithful servant, she got the doctor. He took in the scene quickly, his eyes widening as he looked at the dead man on the floor. He dropped to his knees near the body and examined his former employer.

"You killed him," he said in a hushed tone.

Anastasie leaned on her cane, "I didn't kill him. He was dead a long time ago. If you'll kindly look a little closer, you will see it was a myocardial infarction, Dr. Picard."

The doctor rose to his feet. "Yes, of course, as you say. He wasn't a well man." He looked at her sharply. "How do you know my name?"

"A long time ago in a faraway land, Dr. Picard. You were an intern at a leprosarium. I was a mere Army nurse on leave."

"Yes. Yes, I remember you now. Your French wasn't very good as I recall," he said almost smiling.

" _Quel dommage_!"

He almost smiled again. "Yes, it is a shame. And I'm sorry, but your accent hasn't improved much since then."

Anastasie shrugged. "Now that we've walked down memory lane," she gestured toward the body, "what do we do about him?"

"His lawyers will have to decide, but I think everything goes to his son."

"Dr. Picard, Roger, won't be around a week from now."

"But I thought—"

"Thought what?" Anastasie said. "That I was going to save him after everything the two of them have done?"

Picard raised his hands in genuine astonishment. "But I saw the MRI scans. You can do—"

"Miracles? I'm not into that." She fixed her gaze on him. "I'm into healing. Healing people who deserve to be healed. That's how it works."

Picard sat down in the chair which moments ago Robert Ellwood had been using. "I had hoped, I had thought that you would heal people," he said in a small voice.

Anastasie's tone softened. "I'm sorry, Doctor. My abilities are very limited. Do you also have a sick child?"

Dr. Picard stared at the floor. "No children. No wife. No one."

"I don't understand."

Dr. Picard looked up at her, his blues moist. "I have pancreatic cancer. I thought," he gestured toward Robert's still form, "if I made enough money, or a miracle came along," he looked at her again, "I might be spared for a while longer."

Anastasie held her tongue. This was a pity as she had tried to say in French. This man was as much beyond contempt as the father and son. Instead of saying what she thought, she simply replied: "I'm sorry. I can't help you."

Dr. Picard shrugged again and stood up. "You're right about Roger. And me. Go. Go see your daughter. I'll call off the dogs for good. Mr. Ellwood died from natural causes. As I said, the lawyers can decide about the estate."

Anastasie leaned on her cane and went to the door.

"The chauffeur can take you to the airport." He smiled. "It will probably be his last official duty."

Anastasie nodded and went out the door, down the winding staircase and through the massive doors. The car pulled up seconds later and Jared jumped out and opened the door.

"Did you have a nice visit, Mrs. Livingston?"

Anastasie folded her cane, threw her bag in and sat down beside it.

"I'll tell you honestly, Jared. The first few hours were awful."

He frowned at her, closed the door and got behind the wheel.

"But it ended rather nicely," she said.

***

Journal of Anastasie-15

There is almost nothing a parent wouldn't do for her child, although as a nurse, there have been times when I've wondered about that. It seems in this day and age there are so-called parents who have become so only because of their careless copulation and lack of responsibility. Sometimes their offspring suffer despicable things at the hands of the very ones who brought them into the world. Sometimes those children become their parents.

From the moment of my child's conception, I felt the terrible weight of responsibility that came with it, not only for her, but for the legacy with which we have been destined. That is even larger than the all too human act of procreation. I pray she will, must, come to understand this. It is a different age now, far different from the one in which I was raised. An age where the individual's desires outweight those of family or anything else. I hope this will not last and I don't see how it can.

I don't feel any particular degree of satisfaction over what happened in that mansion. Maybe what transpired there would be characterized as revenge by some, but I prefer to believe it was vindication. I remember that time, long ago, when we waited for Evangeline to return from Tia's house in New Orleans. She said nothing about what had transpired. As we walked away that fateful night, she smiled at me and opened her hand. Maybe she had kept it for a long time hidden away in her purse, a sentimental thing that had been exchanged once between two lovers. I saw the lock of hair clutched within her fingers and I knew instantly that it belonged to Roger. I thought of that much later after that horrible night and I thought about it as I watched him lying in his death bed. Abigail, Evangeline, myself and countless others through the years. Vindication.

# Chapter Twenty-one

Abigail sat alone again in her tiny apartment staring at whatever idiocy was emanating from the television. The craving for the drug was diminishing, almost gone. Somehow she knew she would never use again. It had never filled the emptiness and never would.

She picked up the remote and surfed. Nothing. She threw the remote at the television set. Neither shattered.

"I can't believe this," she said to the walls. The craving for the drug was all but gone. But in its place, was a new craving. One she had never had before and did not understand. She fumbled for her cell phone and dialed.

Anastasie answered on the second ring. "Momma. I just wanted to know how you're doing."

"I'm fine, darling," her mother answered. "How are you?"

"Fine," Abigail said.

"Really?"

There was a long pause. "No," Abigail said in a small voice.

Her mother chuckled softly. "Tell me."

Abigail sighed. She really didn't know how to say what she felt. "I met this guy, in class. He keeps calling me."

"And?"

"I can't call him back."

"Ah," her mother said. Abigail smiled. Her mother knew her all too well. Most people would have said, "Gee, why not?"

"He's really nice. Too nice. And I think he's rich. Not that that really matters, but it helps."

"Why don't you just stop thinking about him, honey?"

Abigail laughed. "Very funny, Momma. The problem is I know there's something wrong with him."

"Oh, well, you know, being short and fat is becoming more acceptable these days. But, of course, if he's short, fat, ugly and stupid, then you have a real problem."

Abigail laughed again. "Momma, cut it out. I'm serious."

"O.K., I'll bite. Why is Mr. Right wrong?"

Abigail sighed. "Daddy was a hero."

"Yes, he certainly was."

"And Grandpa."

"He was too," Anastasie replied.

"But Dwayne. I mean I don't think he was even in the service. I don't think, aside from being obviously brilliant and kind and humble, like them, he's never done one heroic thing in his entire life."

There was a thoughtful pause. "How old is Dwayne?"

"He's a little older than me. Probably near thirty."

"Well, if you don't want him, send him my way. Does he like older women?"

"Momma! You are not helping."

Anastasie laughed. "Honey, listen. There are different types of courage. Your dad and grandpa were men of great character and _physical_ courage. But there are many kinds and some are not so obvious."

Abigail was unconvinced. "Like what?"

"Moral. The type that men, and women also, have that allows them to maintain their belief in something in spite of persecution or ridicule."

"What else?"

"What else. Well, commitment to another. Loyalty to that person even if it means great self-sacrifice. That's both love and courage, I think."

"Momma, that's you!" Abigail said without realizing it.

"Thank you, darling. But I was talking about Dwayne."

There was another long pause between the two.

"Momma. There are things that have to be done. Things that a person can't deny even if she wants to."

"Yes," Anastasie answered cautiously.

"You know a husband has to be special."

"That's true, honey. He needs to be special for you. Yes. Are you asking me what you should do?"

"You know I am."

"Give him a chance. Find out for yourself. You may be surprised."

"Momma. I love you."

"I love you too, Abigail. I love you too."

Abigail put the phone down. In a second she had scooped it up again. Her class was just ending without her. Everybody was going home. She punched in another number.

# Chapter Twenty-two

They sat in an Italian restaurant just off Broadway. When Abigail had called Dwayne, there was no hesitation on his part, no recriminations about why she hadn't answered her phone before. Instead, he sounded totally delighted and shrugged off her transparent excuses. His second comment was, "Do you like Italian?"

They sat in a corner booth bordered by naked statutes and a smaltzy painting of the Mediterrean. Here too, everyone in the place knew Dwayne. Abigail hid her face behind the huge menu. She couldn't read a word of it.

"If you like spaghetti and meatballs, this place has the best this side of Rome," Dwayne proffered. "And the Chianti is supremo." He put his menu aside. "At least, that's what the other ninety-nine girls I brought here have said."

Abigail put her own menu down and smiled. "Very funny." She looked around the room which was crowded and smelled like pizza. "Spaghetti and meatballs sound great, but I don't drink. Anymore. Iced tea will be fine."

"Fantastic! You won't regret it, although you know you'll have to add sugar to your tea."

Abigail laughed. "I keep forgetting."

"Ever since our side won the "War of Northern Aggression" Dwayne pretended to lecture, "we have punished visiting southerners by withholding sugar."

Abigail faked a serious tone. "That's why I've got tons of Confederate money hidden in an old apron."

Dwayne laughed and held up his water glass. "To the South," he said.

Abigail clinked her own glass against his. "To the South." They both took a sip as a few people at neighboring tables gave them curious looks.

The waitress appeared, smiling at Dwayne and Abigail. "Theresa, this is my good friend, Abigail."

"Hello, Abigail," Theresa replied and Abigail smiled back at her. Dwayne was impressive. She had always admired anyone who could remember everybody's name. Abigail could never do that.

"We'd like the special, plenty of that wonderful salad and breadsticks. And a pitcher of iced tea. Don't hold the sugar," he added.

Theresa looked puzzled as both of them burst into laughter. She dutifully wrote everything down and hurried off.

The dinner was wonderful and Abigail hadn't eaten so much since the last time she had been home. They chatted about school and Dwayne filled her in on what she had missed at class last week. "It'll take about five minutes," he had said.

The evening flew and before long they were savoring cups of steaming coffee and cannoli. Dwayne leaned slightly toward her and smiled. "It's very good to be with you again."

Abigail blushed and picked up her cup. "I've enjoyed myself too." She put her cup down carefully on the table. "You know, the last time we had dinner, I blathered on for hours about myself. I never really learned much about you." She smiled. "Other than you are some kind of computer wizard."

Dwayne folded his hands on the table. "Ah, methinks the lady wants to know more about Dwayne, the man himself," he said to an imaginary person in the empty chair.

"Actually, yes, the lady does want to know that."

"Well, not much to tell."

Abigail rolled her eyes. "Here we go again. A man who doesn't want to talk about himself." She tapped her cheek with a finger. "Let's see, that means he either is the rarest man on earth, being modest, or he has a terrible, dark secret."

Dwayne pretended to be shocked. He held up his hands. "No dark secret. My life is an open book. Really."

"Like _War and Peace?"_

"Naw. More like _"Wuthering Heights_."

Abigail shook her head. "That's the most boring book I've ever tried to read."

Dwayne laughed. "Exactly."

"Come on. Tell me about your family. You know, mom and pop, siblings, that kind of thing."

Dwayne sighed. He looked serious for the first time. "If you insist," he said. He began to talk. He talked for over an hour. Abigail was fascinated the entire time.

# Chapter Twenty-three

Trixie was worried, which was unusual for her. Tyrone hadn't called in almost a week. She wondered if he was all right. They had a thing going and it had really looked solid ever since that week in the jungle.

She tried his cell phone for at least the tenth time on the subway ride over to his apartment. She was tired, her hair was a mess from the light rain that had been coming down all day and he either couldn't or wouldn't answer her calls.

Trixie got off, went through the turnstile and up the long set of stairs leading to the street. His apartment was only a block away and she held her little umbrella up high trying in vain to salvage what was left of her frazzled appearance.

She stopped in front of the eloquent, old brownstone building and looked up. Tyrone's place was on the third floor, but even at this distance she could hear there was a party underway. A party to which she had not been invited. She pushed the intercom button harder than necessary and felt trickles of rain run down the back of her neck.

It took five rings before a girl's voice answered. "Yeah, who is it?"

Trixie stared at the speaker. "Uh, I'm a friend of Tyrone's. Is he there?"

There were loud giggles coming through the tiny mesh of the intercom. "O.K., any friend of Tyrone's and all that bullshit and the more the merrier."

The release button buzzed and Trixie pushed the door open, shook her umbrella and collapsed it and made her way up the narrow stairwell.

***

Dwayne paused, took a sip of his now cold coffee and looked at Abigail in a slightly embarrassed way. "And that's the news from Lake Woebegon."

There were the beginning of tears in Abigail's eyes. Dwayne cleared his throat.

"When did your mom die?" she asked softly.

Dwayne looked at the table cloth. "Two years ago. I had dozed off, I guess, at the damned computer. When I woke up, I went in to check on her and she was, she had just gone. If I hadn't spent so much time working, maybe I could have—"

Abigail reached across and caressed his hand. "Dwayne, you did everything you could to make things better for her. God, nobody could have done more. It was just her time. I think she knew that. And she knew you loved her so much."

"Parkinson's in such a horrible thing," Dwayne said. "It slowly robs a person of life. But you know what the strange thing was?"

"What?"

"My mom's mind never really went. I mean, she had times when she would act a little silly or confused, but she was almost always on top of things. You know?"

Abigail patted his hand. Dwayne's shoulder's twitched and tiny streams of tears dripped onto his cheek.

"God, I'm so sorry. I've really screwed up our date," he said. He reached for his handkerchief and dabbed at his eyes.

"No, no, not at all, Dwayne."

He looked at her. "You know, I've really never told anyone about how I've felt. Until now."

Abigail smiled. "I know." She leaned back in her chair. "You took care of your mom for a very long time. You sacrificed your youth, your young adulthood taking care of her."

"After my dad died, there was no one else to take care of her. I figured I could work at home, you know."

"And you did both things. That is truly amazing. I don't know of anyone else, except maybe my own mother, who would have been that devoted to someone they loved."

Dwayne dabbed his eyes again. "I never felt I did enough."

Abigail frowned at him. "You did more, much more than you realize. Most children today would have put their parent in a home for somebody else to take care of and been self-righteous because they visited them once a month."

Dwayne looked truly astonished. "I could never do that."

Abigail put her hand on his again. "And that's why you're such a special man."

# Chapter Twenty-four

Abigail and Dwayne walked together under his umbrella. The rain had turned from a drizzle to a mist, the air breezy, but not really cold. A perfect night to be with a lover. As always, he walked her to the passenger side and opened the door of his Porche. She got in and he folded the umbrella and climbed in beside her.

"Uh, well, I'll take you home," he said quietly.

Abigail smiled. "That would be nice," she said.

The silence was comfortable as he drove expertly through the familiar streets of downtown. Within minutes, it seemed, they were parked in front of her building.

"Well, I really had a good time," Dwayne said. "I'm sorry if I got kind of soggy on you."

"It was about time," Abigail said. "I was beginning to wonder."

They both laughed.

"I know it's late, but would you like to—"

Her cell phone rang. Abigail bit her lip. "Well, at least they waited for a real good time to call," she smiled.

"You better answer it," Dwayne said.

"Yeah." Abigail flip opened her phone. Of all people to call it was Tyrone. She almost closed it, but something told her not to.

"Al, Tyrone. I hate to bother you, but I'm worried about Trixie."

Abigail sat straighter. "What's wrong?"

There was a slight pause. "Well, uh, she came here, to my apartment. I was having a little get together. I'm afraid we had a bit of a spat and she left. I've tried to raise her, but she won't answer."

Abigail sighed. Trixie wasn't known for her emotional stability under the best of circumstances. "Well, you know Trixie, she probably is just having a bad period or something."

For the first time since they had met, Tyrone actually sounded worried about their mutual friend. "Can you come over here? Maybe we can figure this out together."

So that was what this was about. He was such an asshole. Abigail glanced over at Dwayne who studied the windshield of the car. "I'm afraid that won't be possible, Tyrone."

"Oh. O.K., I understand. But at least, please, call her. She'll talk to you."

Abigail couldn't believe it. How to screw up the best date she'd ever had.

"Yeah, I'll call her."

"Thank you, Al. Please do. She said something about ending it all."

"Doing what?"

"Ending her life. That nobody cared about her. Please call me back as soon as you talk to her."

"I will," Abigail said and flipped the phone shut. In spite of his machinations, there might be something really going on with Trixie. She looked at Dwayne.

"Dwayne, I'm sorry. Really sorry. I'm worried about a friend. I need to—"

Dwayne smiled. "No problem. You go on, unless you need my help."

"No, thanks. This friend has a crisis a minute. I just need to call her."

Dwayne hurried out of the car, opened her door and walked with her up the steps.

"I had a great time," Abigail said.

"Me too. Can I call you again?"

"You better. And soon."

They stood awkwardly for a moment. "Well, you better call your friend," he said and walked back down the steps. He waved as he drove off.

Abigail went inside and hurried to her apartment.

***

Abigail paced the floor and dialed Trixie's number for the third time. She was debating about grabbing a cab when the phone rang. She jabbed the button.

"Trixie! Tyrone called me. He's worried about you. So am I. What is going on?"

There was no reply for a long moment. Then Trixie's voice, softer than usual, seemed to come from some faraway place.

"Well, that would be a first, the somuvabitch."

"Trixie, have you been drinking?"

"Not enuff."

"Tell me what happened? You're not using too, are you?"

"I've been used my whole worthless life." Abigail heard the clinking of ice against glass, then the shattering of glass.

"Trixie?"

"Dropped my glass is all. You know, Al, it's you he wants. Not me, not the five million others he's been screwing. He just wants you."

"Trixie, that isn't true. I don't even see him anymore. I have no desire to see him. Ever."

"He's got the desire, got it bad for you. Told me hisself."

"Trixie, you stay put. I mean it. I'm coming over there. Now."

***

Dwayne drove recklessly back to his apartment. At least, going ten miles over the speed limit and barreling through a yellow light was reckless for him.

"How could I have been so stupid!" he said to himself and thumped the steering wheel.

"Sure, there was that girl in high school. I thought I was in love until her big brother beat me up. Then there was that one girl I met in Sunday School. O.K., I'm not exactly Cassanova, but there's something about this girl. Something special. And I blew it tonight."

A taxi roared past him, blasting his horn. The turbaned figure's face was livid.

"Up yours!" Dwayne yelled. The guy might have been a foreigner, but he knew the universal sign.

"Get a grip," Dwayne told himself. "This isn't me. But I should have never told her my sob story. Every bit of it was true, but now I've probably scared her off forever."

Dwayne slowed down. His mother once told him that he shouldn't worry. That love comes in an instant sometimes, like a lightning bolt. She was right, as always. Dwayne felt utterly shell-shocked.

***

Abigail stood outside the door and rang the bell again. She was drenched. The rain had started in earnest again. It had taken twenty long minutes for the taxi to get here. She was seriously considering dialing 911 when the door burst open.

Trixie held onto the knob to keep herself upright. Her usually neat blonde hair was stringy and dark. Her eyes were without focus and Abigail could smell the booze and drugs that clung to her tight dress like leeches.

Abigail gently pushed past her and closed the door. The apartment was lighted by one tiny lamp on an end table near the couch. The place was a mess.

"Glad you showed up," Trixie said and staggered over to the couch.

Abigail sat down beside her and took off her soaked coat. There was no place to put it, so she dropped it on the cluttered floor.

"What's happened?" Abigail said, trying to keep her voice steady.

"Wan't invited to the partee, so I had me one, myself."

"I can see that."

Trixie swayed slightly. She reached next to the lamp, grasped a highball glass and drank half of it. She sighed and set it down carefully.

"Tyrone's a prick."

Abigail smiled. "I know that."

"No you don't! I mean he's a four-cornered, giant, hairball. Prick!"

"O.K. Why is he such a prick tonight?"

"Didn't answer my calls, nothin'. Then, stupid little me, I go over there. He's got like twenty naked girls in his apartment and he's fucking some bleached blonde as I walk in."

Abigail stifled an urge to say she wasn't surprised.

"I just started throwing things at them. I wanted to kill them all. The prick jumps up and he starts yelling back at me, calling me names. Saying he didn't even like me, much less, love me."

Abigail could picture the scene. She had witnessed similar ones in that apartment before. But this, this was different.

"Then. Then he lowers the boom. He said the only girl he ever loved was you." Trixie began to wail. Abigail put her arm around her, but she pushed it away violently.

"You're the only reason he ever went around with me. So he could get to you."

"Trixie. I'm so sorry. I've never cared for Tyrone. I only went over there..." Abigail stopped. She really didn't know why she had ever gone.

Trixie balled up her fists. "Some friend you are. I was your best friend and you were sneaking around, trying to steal my boyfriend the whole time."

Abigail shrugged helplessly. "You're wrong about that, Trixie. I, uh, have a boyfriend of my own. I think I'm in love with him."

Trixie stood up, swayed dangerously. "Liar! You are something else. Even now, you make up shit. You don't have a boyfriend or you would have told me. You don't want your own, you want mine!"

Abigail could feel her own anger suddenly rising. She took a deep breath. "Trixie, that's not true."

"Yes it is, you little bitch!"

Abigail stood up, her face flushed. "Trixie, I saved your goddamned life. Why would I want to hurt you?"

Trixie's glazed eyes flashed. "You did what?" She laughed, a sound like breaking glass. "You saved my life? What a crock of horseshit. Well, you can take it back, you little bitch. Take my life back and give me my boyfriend."

Abigail struggled to bite back her anger. The drugs, alcohol and intense hurt had turned her friend into a paranoid miasma. She tried another tact.

"O.K., Trixie. Listen, I'll stay here tonight with you and then we can talk some more about this in the morning. Why don't you go on to bed and—"

"Get out of my place!" Trixie yelled. "Get out of here right now or I swear I'll call the cops and make you leave."

Trixie was beyond all reason. Her voice was shrill and Abigail could feel spittle on her face from the outburst. She had no choice but to go. She stood up.

"All right, Trixie. I'm leaving now. But if you feel, differently later, please call me."

Trixie glared at her. "Fat fuckin' chance of that, sister."

Abigail picked her coat up and went to the door. She turned. "Trixie, if you need me. Please call."

"Get out!"

Abigail left. She went out into the night air. It was still raining. She got out her cell phone. Tyrone had called three times. She couldn't see any reason to call him back. It took a long time to get home.

# Chapter Twenty-five

The Hudson River used to be one of the most polluted bodies of water on the planet. Rescue divers who went in, and few ever did, wore thick layers of protection from head to toe and could see almost nothing after the first few feet. Gradually, it had been cleaned up some, but it was still far from being called pristine and probably never would be.

They had actually done a pretty good job of searching for Trixie's body, but the team that entered the dark water never really believed they would find her. They had been on many recovery missions and had had few successes. Once the river claimed a person, it usually kept them forever.

The memorial service had been brief and pathetic. Only ten people showed up, eight of whom were from the office where Trixie had worked. The other two were Abigail and Tyrone. No family members ever materialized.

Tyrone tried his best to speak to Abigail, but she ignored him and left through a side door.

It was time she went home for a while.

***

Abigail sat on the porch with Anastasie in the fading light. The silence was comfortable. A slight breeze came in from the Gulf and Abigail felt goosebumps on her arms.

"Momma, thanks for letting me come. I just had to have a few days away from that place."

Anastasie smiled at her daughter. "Honey, you know you can come down here anytime you want. This is your home and always will be."

Abigail began to cry. Again. Her mother got up and hugged her.

Abigail cried for a while in her mother's arms. Finally, she wiped her eyes.

"Momma, I don't understand this."

"Which part, honey?"

Abigail shook her head. "None of it." She looked searchingly at Anastasie. "I saved her. I went back to the building where we worked. That terrible day. Momma, she was dead. I, I brought her back."

If Anastasie was surprised, she didn't let on. She nodded, waiting patiently.

Abigail's small body was wracked with sobs. "What good is this gift or curse or whatever it is, if you save a life, only to feel as if you took it away?"

Anastasie was quiet for a time. "You didn't take it away, Abigail. From what you've told me, there were many reasons why Trixie did what she did."

"I feel like I did!"

"No, you didn't. She was your friend and you loved her, but she made her own choices in the end. No one has the power to make people do anything. Or to keep them from doing things they shouldn't." Anastasie turned and gently cupped her hands around her daughter's face. "You did a wonderful brave thing, saving her that time. It was an act of great courage and self-sacrifice. You can't blame yourself for decisions Trixie made before that time, or later."

"Momma? Why did you keep saving people all those years? I know how much it has cost you? I mean, was it worth it?"

Anastasie dropped her hands into her lap. Her eyes looked far away.

"Abigail. I've really never thought about why. Only that I could. Sometimes, it seemed as if I really had no choice. Some were good people, some not. Maybe the real reason I did it was simple."

Abigail studied her mother's face. "Why? What was it?"

Anastasie looked out across the bayou. The breeze still stirred the trees and caused the water to ripple. "There are a few good people on this earth. Many that are selfish. People who are willing to hurt others for their own gain." Anastasie faced her daughter. "I think mostly I did it to prove something."

"To whom?"

"To myself," Anastasie said. "To prove that I was not like them. To prove that I could love and therefore was worthy of love from others."

Abigail sat for long time. "But Momma, you have been treated so badly by other people. But you sacrificed so much for some of those people."

Anastasie looked down at her cane. "Not always. Sometimes I was, just human."

"Aren't we all?"

"Yes, we are all human."

"Momma. I think sacrificing yourself for another is the greatest form of love there is."

This time it was Anastasie who gave way to a few small tears. She nodded. "I think you've said it all. I think you do understand, Baby," she said.

***

Journal of Anastasie-16

I am tired often these days. Like everyone, my life has been full of tragedy and triumph, but it has never been boring. Somebody once said it's not the destination but the journey that is the important thing. I think that's true. It's been a hell of a journey.

Abigail has grown so much in the past few years. Soon, I believe she will reach the place in her own journey where she will make the right decision. I hope her own tragedies and triumphs and the discussions we've had will help her in that process.

I made some bad mistakes and I sometimes allowed my own small feelings to get in the way of more important things, but I think over all, I did all right. My greatest triumph is my daughter. I have no doubt now that she will carry on with what we have been destined to do.

We compensate for those who should have done the right thing for others. It is a terrible burden, an awesome responsibility, but it is also perhaps the one thing that creates hope. Someday, it is possible that the tiny minority we represent may elicit a change. A change that will allow all humans to reach their greatest potential: that of caring for their fellow beings, without considering their own desires first.

I believe most humans, certainly not all, but most, already have this capacity. Many simply choose not to use it.

# Chapter Twenty-six

Abigail walked along the water and picked flowers the way her mother and grandmother had done when they were young. She loved this place as did they. It brought a kind of peace and the surrounding forest and water and insects and wildlife made her feel as she were floating once again in the amniotic fluid of her mother's womb. She was reluctant to be born again and to leave that comfort and be thrust into a chaotic and uncertain world.

She stood outside the old house for a few minutes and thought of her grandparents and her father and her mother. She had taken all that for granted for so long. Her family had been the best any child could have. They were all exceptional people. Even without the gift, or curse, they were exceptional. She thought about how she had squandered her own youth in a futile attempt to escape the responsibilities that they had embraced without question. Her family had simply accepted what was there in their lives and had always done what needed to be done. There was no hiding, no shirking, no excuses, whether in war or peace. The bad would always come and go, but you stayed together and spent as much time enjoying the simple good as was possible. Abigail sighed. She didn't believe she deserved to be a part of such wonderful people. She doubted that she could measure up. If you didn't try, you couldn't fail.

She went inside quietly and placed the bunch of flowers in a vase on the little table in the kitchen. She fussed over the arrangement for a few minutes. Her mother was napping upstairs and the house was serene and peaceful.

She went into the tiny living room and carefully pulled out the ancient handmade oak chair from under the writing desk. She sat down, opened the drawer and felt around for some paper and a pen. She had decided to write Dwayne. She had had no communication with him for almost a month. She had left her cell phone in the New York apartment.

Maybe he had forgotten all about her, but she doubted it. She had not forgotten him. She had, while dealing with her grief, thought about him often and daily. It was time to end the farce. She was no more worthy of a man like Dwayne than she was of being in her own family. Better to make a clean break of things. Say goodbye to New York and whatever crazy fantasies she had had. Say goodbye to Dwayne and remain here. This is where she belonged. Maybe by taking care of her mother, as Dwayne had done for his, Abigail could somehow redeem herself. She didn't think so, but she cared too much for him to let him down again as she had before. Her mother would never acknowledge it, but she needed her daughter. The child eventually becomes the parent to her own parent.

She wiped away a tear and started to write. "Dear Dwayne." The pen ran out of ink. She threw it down and sniffed.

"I'm damned glad it's not a suicide note," she said aloud.

She opened the drawer and rummaged for another pen.

She reached for one and saw beside it, a simple plastic notebook. The kind with three rings, like the ones school children used a long time ago. Without thinking she pulled it out and placed it on the desk. The plastic cover was cracked with age and she could see the cardboard backing peeking out in several places along the edges. There was a faded emblem on the cover with the words "St. Francis Catholic School," barely legible.

She opened it. On the first page, wrinkled with age and perhaps dried tears, were the words, "Journal of Anastasie-1."

Beneath the cryptic heading: "I remember." The handwriting belonged to her mother. The words were perfectly formed, each letter neatly and precisely created. The script was as beautiful as its author. But it was not the form that was important, it was the content.

Abigail began to read. When she finished over an hour later, she carefully replaced the notebook in the drawer. She stood up quietly and went out for another long walk in the bayou.

***

Abigail returned to the house as the sun was setting. Her mother was up, humming to herself. The familiar smells of fried fish and apple pie filled the kitchen with warm, childhood memories.

Anastasie wiped her hands on a dishtowel. "Honey, I was beginning to get a little worried. Did you have a good walk?"

"It was great. Momma, did you have a good nap?"

Anastasie smiled. "Couldn't believe it. I must have slept like a drowned catfish for two or three hours."

Abigail walked over and put her arms around Anastasie. They hugged each other tightly.

"Momma. I'm going back to New York tomorrow. Just for a little while."

"Oh?" Anastasie said with a mischievous grin.

"Unfinished business. I hope."

Anastasie laughed softly. "I have a feeling you'll finish it. When can you bring him here?"

Abigail blushed. "Momma! Stop doing that."

Anastasie laughed again. "I'm sorry, honey. I'm your mother. I can't help it."

Abigail looked at her with mock anger. Then her face softened. "Hopefully, very soon. If he'll still have me. I've treated him pretty badly."

Anastasie opened the ancient stove door and peeked inside. "He will." She closed the oven and straightened up.

"Momma. It's time I grew up. I need, I need to be like you."

"No. You don't need to be like me, Abigail. I'm just a little Cajun girl from the bayou."

"Who happens to have a wonderful gift that she has used with incredible love and compassion and forgiveness."

Anastasie moved her cane and sat down in one of the kitchen chairs. "You know, your grandpa and I were always close. Before I went to Vietnam, he said something I'll never forget. 'That old gator may know exactly how to catch fish, but unless he's motivated, he'll starve. Annie, you must remember, that knowledge and skill, without commitment, have no value.' When I came back, we were even closer because few people had shared the experiences we had in war."

Abigail blinked back tears. "I understand, Momma. I never did before, but I do now." She held her mother's hand. "You know, I've come to understand a lot in a short time. The most amazing thing of all is that even without that gift, you would still be an angel."

# Chapter Twenty-seven

Abigail waited impatiently to retrieve her bag at JFK. After thirty minutes, her modest suitcase came slowly down the gangplank. She hefted it, went outside to hail a cab and returned to her small apartment.

The place stunk. After having been home she felt like an alien who had run aground on some asteroid. She turned the air conditioner on full blast and set about washing the dishes in the sink. Several plates were so encrusted, she threw them away. She got out the vacuum cleaner and ran it over the worn carpets. She cleaned the bathroom and the tiles on the tiny kitchen floor. She contemplated arranging her modest collection of books and CDs in alphabetical order and realized how pointless that would be. Her watch showed her it was after five. Dwayne would probably be eating at the little diner pretty soon. Maybe she should wait and call tomorrow.

"Enough. Coward," she said aloud. She picked up her phone from the kitchen counter where she had left it. The battery still held a charge. She did not bother to check for messages. She dialed Dwayne's number. It rang twice. She forced herself to inhale. She couldn't leave a message. There was nothing she could say. On the third ring he answered.

"Hello?'

Her vocal chords wouldn't work.

"Hello? Abigail?"

"Dwayne," she managed.

There was silence on the other end. Abigail could hear the clinking of glasses and murmured conversation. Dwayne was at the Rock n' Roll Café.

"Abigail! It's so good to hear your voice again. Gosh, I was so worried about you after what happened. Are you all right?"

Abigail's eyes filled with tears. Typical Dwayne. No "Where the hell have you been? How could you have dumped me again?"

"Dwayne. I love you."

There was another silence. "Abigail. I'm sorry I didn't hear you. This place is crazy tonight. Are you O.K.?"

"Dwayne," she said loudly, "I said I love you!"

"You've moved? Where are you living?"

Abigail took a deep breath. Environment and electronics were not making this easy.

"Goddamit, Dwayne! I said I love you!"

This time the pause was longer than both the others. She heard Dwayne clear his throat.

"Abigail. Abigail. I love you too!" he shouted into the phone.

Abigail heard another brief silence and then what sounded like a burst of applause and cheers in the background.

"Are you having a party?" Abigail said.

Dwayne laughed. "We are now! You people," he shouted, "whatever you're having, it's on me tonight." There were more cheers. "My girl just called and she said she loves me!"

# Chapter Twenty-eight

Tyrone was drifting. Not in water, but in and out of consciousness. He was not really aware of the tubes and drains and wires that connected him to the machines that kept him alive.

He was aware of the angels who floated in and out of where he lay. He kept waiting for one to come near him. The one who would put an end to all this.

***

Dwayne had come immediately to see Abigail after their phone call. He had burst through the door, grabbed her up and kissed her for long minutes. She had returned his kisses without holding back. Reluctantly, they had sat down on the couch. She told him why she had left and how she had missed him every second.

Dwayne's face was beaming as he told her the same. Then, in the midst of their breathless joy, he had told her about Tyrone. How a few hours ago, Tyrone had called him, trying to get in touch with her. He seemed to be drunk, raving about Trixie. Dwayne tried to calm him down, but Tyrone was doing ninety as he sped down the turnpike, deciding at the last second to get off. He missed and ran into a guardrail, bounced back into the stream of traffic and been knocked end over end. By some miracle, he had been the only one injured.

***

Abigail and Dwayne sat in the small, dingy waiting room just outside of the ICU. They had been there for two hours, holding hands and waiting for somebody to fill them in.

Finally, a stern middle-aged nurse walked around the station and approached them. She pushed an errant grey sprig of hair behind her ear and took off her stethoscope. She sat down next to them.

"Your friend is in pretty bad shape." She sighed and hesitated, as if not knowing where to begin. "Had multiple internal injuries, most of which we've been able to sort out during surgery. A number of broken bones, ribs and legs." She put her stethoscope back around her neck. "But the most serious injury occurred to the spinal column. I'm sorry to tell you, but if he survives his other injuries, he'll never walk again."

Dwayne glanced at Abigail, his eyes filled with sadness.

"Can we see him?" Abigail asked.

The nurse shrugged. "Wouldn't hurt." She glanced at them. "The irony is, he was full of drugs."

Dwayne looked a little shocked. "Drugs? You mean like—"

The nurse smiled tightly. "I mean like cocaine and probably some others as well. If he hadn't been so high, he probably would have died within seconds."

The nurse glanced at Abigail who looked down. "On the other hand, if he hadn't been using drugs, this would probably have never happened." Her look was penetrating. "Wasn't he a friend of that young woman who disappeared a few weeks back. Her name was, Tricia, something like that?"

"Trixie," Abigail said. "Yes, he knew her."

"Ah," the nurse said. She stood up. "I know this isn't professional to say, but you two should remember the old adage, "What goes around comes around."

Abigail looked up at her. "I remember it," she said softly.

***

Abigail studied the white ceiling of the waiting room and noticed that the plaster was cracked in several places. It was deathly quiet. She glanced at Dwayne who stared at the floor.

She turned to him. "Well?"

He gave her a wane smile. "Well what?"

Abigail shrugged, her face pinched. "This is the part where you ask me what the hell I was doing, associating with the likes of somebody like him. Then we have a big scene and you walk away."

Dwayne continued to stare at the floor. "Do you want me to walk away?" he said quietly.

"No."

Dwayne sighed. "Abigail, look at me. Look at me, please."

Slowly, she turned to face him. "I think the past is important. It shapes us into who we are," Dwayne said carefully. She nodded and started to stand, but he put his hand on her arm.

"Sit, please. I haven't answered your question." She remained still. "But what is really important is the present. And the future. I'm not as dumb as people think I am about, well, people. I knew from the second I saw you that you were someone who was troubled."

Abigail shifted in her seat. His hand left her arm.

"I also saw someone who was beautiful, not only on the outside, you are the most beautiful girl I've ever seen, but also on the inside. Someone who is special. You have a gift."

Abigail almost jumped up again. She caught herself from saying, "How could you know that?"

If Dwayne noticed her tensing, he didn't respond to it. "You care about people, deeply." He looked away for a moment, lost in his own thoughts. "You care, but you're afraid that caring makes you too vulnerable." He turned back to her. "I know how that feels. So, sometimes feeling that way makes us withdraw or do crazy things, or both. I'm not concerned about things that happened before. I'm only concerned about what happens now and later. Between us." He smiled his usual genuine smile. "Oh, I forgot to mention. I love you."

Abigail placed her hand on his. She sobbed. "I love you. Oh, Dwayne. I don't deserve you."

He held her hand and laughed softly. "You deserve much better than me. But I'm afraid you're stuck."

He kissed her hard and they held each other. After a while they heard a polite cough. The stern nurse stood above them. "Uh, you can see him now. Only one of you, I'm afraid."

Dwayne nodded at Abigail. "You go," he said quietly.

Abigail got up and followed the nurse.

***

The nurse led her into the room where Tyrone lay. The room smelled of death and decay and Abigail felt her stomach lurch as she looked down on him. His skin was pale, his usually carefully coiffured hair, tangled. Eyes closed as if in peaceful sleep.

"Five minutes," the nurse said and left.

Abigail glanced behind back at the large window. No one was visible. She knelt down and whispered his name. "Tyrone. It's me, Abigail."

The only response was the clicking of the machines.

Slowly, she reached out and touched his forehead. It was cold.

"Trixie loved you, Tyrone. She died because of you. You know, I saved her once. And then, then she died again."

Abigail studied his handsome features, now smooth. His lips were still full and sensuous. He looked like a little boy. Abigail's hands reached toward him.

***

Dwayne sat staring at a picture of a supercomputer in _Popular Mechanics._ The cover of the magazine had been torn off long ago, but he surmised it might have been from the seventies, maybe earlier. He couldn't help but smile at how far technology had come in such a short period of time. And how far he had come. Not in his vocation, in his personal life.

Whatever secrets Abigail had didn't really matter to him. He knew her and the amazing thing was that through learning her he had learned himself. He felt whole in a way he had never felt before.

Abigail came through the swinging doors and Dwayne stood up.

"How is he?'

Abigail shook her head. ":He's in pretty bad shape. I said his name, but there was no response at all."

Dwayne nodded. "He's been through a lot. It takes time. Would you like to go grab a bite to eat and then we could come back?"

Abigail looked at the doors. "Maybe in a few minutes. I need to sit down if you don't mind."

"Sure," Dwayne replied and made room for her. He put his arm around her and she leaned toward him and winced.

"You all right?"

"Yeah, just tired. And my back is a little achy."

Dwayne's hand moved down to her lower back and massaged it gently. "It's been a helluva day."

She nodded and closed her eyes, comforted by his touch. She heard soft footfalls, shoes squeaking slightly across the dull tile floor. She opened her eyes and the nurse stood above them again.

Abigail and Dwayne both straightened up. The nurse was staring at them, an unreadable expression on her lined face.

Dwayne spoke first. "Is he, did he pass on?"

The nurse's wide eyes ignored him and looked searchingly at Abigail. "I've been doing this for thirty years. I've never seen this before."

Abigail returned her stare, her own eyes calm and steady. Dwayne looked at the nurse, then at Abigail.

"Your friend. He just now opened his eyes." She took a shaky breath. "He wanted to get out of bed. It took three of us to hold him down. He, he still has a long way to go, but somehow, somehow it looks like he'll be able to walk again." She continued to stare at Abigail, shaking her head from side to side.

"Great news, that's wonderful!" Dwayne said.

"It's beyond wonderful. It's a miracle," the nurse said. "What the hell did you do in there?" the nurse blurted.

Abigail smiled slightly. "Nothing," she said, "I just called his name."

The nurse looked at Dwayne for help. "This girl is special. Did you know that?"

"From the moment I saw her," Dwayne replied.

Abigail stood up. "Thank you for all your help. We have to go now."

The nurse shook her head. "Don't you want to see him?"

"No," Abigail said. "Just tell him that he has a chance at a new beginning."

"I think he knows that. But you can be damned sure I will emphasize it a thousand times." The nurse cocked her head. "Have you ever considered a career in nursing, young lady?"

Abigail laughed. "My mom was a nurse. I don't think I could ever begin to heal the way she could."

"You're wrong about that," the nurse said with conviction.

# Chapter Twenty-nine

The little church where Abigail's parents had gotten married looked the same as it had for decades. On this beautiful early fall day its three hundred seats were filled with people. Many of them were from areas around the bayou. Several were people Abigail vaguely recalled from her childhood in Virginia and one contingent of six ladies who sat together in the back, had come from different parts of the country. They had been friends of Anastasie, Army nurses who had kept in touch.

Ophelia and Cornelius were there, now both in wheelchairs, and although their bodies were bent and worn, their minds were as clear as the day they themselves were married.

Anastasie fussed with her daughter's train in the small anteroom off the sacristy.

"Momma, I think you got it," Abigail told her, trying to temper her nervousness with reason.

"You look beautiful," Anastasie replied, tears in her eyes. "I just wish—"

"I know. Me too."

"Your daddy would be so proud of you," Anastasie said and dabbed her eyes with a lacy handkerchief.

They had argued for weeks about who would give the bride away. Finally, Dwayne came up with the solution. He had an Uncle Sam, his mother's brother. His name made the decision easy. Dwayne's best man was his best friend, Tom, who had sold him the company and never held it against him. Tom had his own Internet business and was rumored to be worth a few million.

Once the couple completed their vows under the meticulous ministrations of Father LeClerc, the crowd burst into applause and Abigail and Dwayne, with faces flushed, hurried down the narrow aisle of the church. Abigail, barely pausing to fling the bouquet to the crowd, allowed Dwayne to open the Porsche's door for her. They spun off, everyone waving madly.

Anastasie watched the little car fade into the distance. She clutched the small bouquet in her hands. The flowers were blood red, delicate and intricately formed. The florist had explained to her that these flowers were rare in the South and that they represented continuity. Legend surrounded them. It was believed by many they had the power to heal. Some said they lived for eternity.

# Chapter Thirty

_August, 2005._ Anastasie hummed to herself and made another call. Her task wasn't an easy one. She had been working at it for weeks and she was exhausted. First, she had had to convince her daughter and son-in-law that she was lining up airplane tickets to come to see them in New York and that she was planning on visiting old friends in Virginia on the way. Anastasie chuckled to herself. She really wanted to see some of those people, but there was no way she was getting on an airplane and flying anywhere. After her harrowing experiences with choppers in Vietnam she had never flown again, except for that time to the mansion.

Dwayne had already planned to take a week off and show Anastasie the sights in New York. Hopefully, the hiatus between kiddies returning to school and the busy tourist season in October in New York, would make late August the perfect time to visit. Perfect except for the heat and humidity, two factors which would not bother Anastasie's climate acclimation in the least. The last time Anastasie had talked to them, just days ago, the couple had even hinted that they might consider moving Dwayne's corporate headquarters to Baton Rouge. That made Anastasie giddy with delight. The only thing that would make it perfect was if they announced that Abigail was expecting. On that subject, they were silent and Anastasie didn't push it.

She had one more call to make, airplane reservations. Not for herself, but for the two of them. It was bold, but she wanted them to come to New Orleans. There, she would meet them and install them in the best hotel in the French Quarter. They could celebrate their first year anniversary, just the two of them. She had her own reservation down the hall. And, who knows? Maybe something wonderful would happen

***

Abigail was happy, probably happier than she had been in a long time. Actually, the only time she remembered ever feeling anywhere near this good was before her daddy had died, when she was a little girl and every day was magical.

The time had flown. The couple had spent two glorious weeks in the Poconos, had returned and moved into a beautiful apartment in Manhattan. They had settled into a comfortable routine. Then Christmas came and they had gone back to visit Momma. Only one thing was missing. Two, if you counted the possibility of starting a family.

The first thing was bothering Abigail more than the second. She and Dwayne had discussed the idea of a family and had agreed they would wait awhile. It was not good to be so much in love, to have the "just the two of us" feeling and suddenly have a third little human in the middle of it who became the center of everything. They wanted that badly, just not quite yet.

No, the real problem was that Abigail missed her mother more than she ever thought she would. And she missed her home. New York was all right, but it was too big, too urban, too everything. There were too many memories. All but one was bad. Abigail longed for the quiet walks through the bayou, the sound of swooping kites and the tickle of moss against her forehead. It wasn't until midsummer that Abigail got her courage up to approach Dwayne.

They were eating a pizza in bed. An hour of torrid love-making had given them a huge appetite.

Abigail wiped her mouth with a paper napkin. "New York is a lovely city," she said.

Dwayne took a slug of his Coke and smiled at his wife. He gave her a knowing glance.

She tried the innocent look. "It is. I love it and I love you."

Dwayne smiled. "O.K. You love me and you love New York and I love both of you too."

Abigail giggled. He was toying with her. Like her mother, she could never fool Dwayne about anything. She didn't recall a time when she wanted to.

She took the Coke from him and gulped some down. "I'm really glad you understand," she said, not wanting to be played with so easily.

They sat in silence for a few minutes. Dwayne stretched across the bed and pecked her on the cheek. "But?"

Abigail giggled again. At last, she had won one. He had given in first. "This mysterious stuff you do with computers, and I want you to teach me about it, you could actually do it, well, almost anywhere. Right?"

Dwayne responded with a noncommittal "Um."

She hit him lightly on the arm.

He fell over on the bed, pretending to writhe in agony. She pulled him back up.

He wrinkled his brow as if deep in thought. "Well, yes," he said slowly, "but it would take some restructuring. I'd have to ask some people to come with us and have the rest move to a smaller place here. But I suppose it could be done, for the right reason."

Dwayne had never fired anyone and Abigail didn't think he ever could.

"I have considered St. Kitts," he said.

Abigail looked startled. "Saint what?"

"It's a small island in the Caribbean. Beautiful beaches, friendly people. With a little investing you can get citizenship there."

"Dwayne!"

He smiled at her. "You're right. It would be too much like a jungle. Wild animals, mosquitoes, heat and humidity. Lots of water. Say, oddly enough it sounds a lot like, wait a minute!" He slapped his forehead "It sounds like Louisiana."

"Very funny," Abigail said. She shot him a look, then studied his boyish face. He was wearing a huge grin.

"Bastard!" she yelled and hit him with her pillow.

Dwayne continued to grin at her. He threw the pillow aside and jumped on her, pinning her naked body to the sheets. He kissed her and she kissed him back.

"I have thought a little bit about it," he said hoarsely. "I asked a couple of my people to look into Baton Rouge and Shreveport. They said it looked favorable. Is that close enough to home or would you prefer living on a houseboat in the middle of the Gulf?"

"Dwayne. Dwayne," Abigail replied.

He entered her and she moaned.

# Chapter Thirty-one

Anastasie shuffled back into the kitchen, sat down and sipped her chicory coffee.

She was pleased with herself. She had never been a good fibber, but she had just gotten off the phone with Abigail and convinced her that all the preparations for her trip to Virginia and then New York City were firmly in place. She smiled to herself as she heard the mailman come to the porch and pick up the envelope she had placed in the box. Inside the envelope were tickets to News Orleans and reservations at the hotel. She had written a little note congratulating the couple on their anniversary. How could they refuse her offer?

Abigail had sounded a little worried. She and Dwayne had been watching the Weather Channel. It looked like a big hurricane was heading for southern Louisiana. Anastasie took another sip of her coffee. She wasn't alarmed. By the time it came and passed on, if it came at all, the young couple would be preparing to come down. She had assured Abigail that she would be safe in Virginia, far away from any storm.

Besides, Anastasie was no stranger to hurricanes. She had been born in the midst of one of the worst. The bayou people knew plenty about the storms. If another one came, she had plenty of time to get to higher ground. Hurricanes were a part of life down here. This would be no different from all the others.

She poured some more of the strong coffee into her chipped cup, blew on it and savored the taste. The wind gusted outside and rattled the streaked panes of glass in the kitchen window.

What did they call this one? Katy, Cathy? Something like that. No, that wasn't right. They had named it Katrina.

***

Abigail sat in front of the mirror of her vanity and brushed her long raven hair.

The wind stirred the curtains and she smiled at the thought of her mother, safe in Virginia. She knew she was planning a big bash for them for their first anniversary. Ever since the day her mother had explained things to her, how it was going to be, the door had opened and they were as close as twins and secrets were impossible between them. Still a small nag of doubt furrowed her perfect face. Somehow, Virginia just didn't seem quite right.

"You're beautiful," Dwayne whispered behind her. He put his strong hands on her shoulders, but his touch was gentle. She smiled, put the brush down and stood up. He took her in his arms and kissed her and led her to their bed. She went willingly.

***

Anastasie turned off the television. The hurricane was coming. Everybody knew and some had left. She was in the same room of the same house where she had been born on that terrible and wonderful night so many years before.

She had chosen to ride out the storm. After all, her parents, who really had had no choice, had done it many times. She was still a Cajun woman after all these years and something felt right about staying. Somebody might need her. The call of responsibility she felt was still strong. This was their home and hers and would become her daughter's. It still wasn't much, and aside from the electricity and the indoor plumbing, looked the same as it had from her earliest memories. She glanced at the crucifix that hung above the tiny bed and wondered how her parents had slept together, made love together, made _her_ together in such a finite space. Their wedding picture still stood on the dresser in the same gilded frame that had protected it for so long and through so much.

She smiled. The house had sheltered her well, as had her parents. But her mother, in this room, had known the time was right for that shelter to end and the truth to begin. It was here on her thirteenth birthday that she had been told about her gift. The world outside, in all its horror and wonder, would be revealed to her by the harshness of experience.

The wind picked up outside. Katrina was coming and it was going to be a massive storm. Anastasie lay down on the bed to wait. She had been through this before.

***

They were both naked. Beads of sweat sprouted on their bodies in the heavy air and found their way to the sheets, falling like tiny tears. Abigail was lost in the place only Dwayne could take her. She felt his mouth on hers, on her neck, on her aching breasts. His breath was sweet. She touched him and he moaned. She arched her back and he slid into her. She was almost complete.

***

Anastasie was awakened by hammering on the front door. The storm had come, but she wasn't ready for it, wasn't finished. She dozed, but the hammering came again, this time followed by loud voices scarcely heard above the wind.

She got up and barefoot went downstairs.

"Miz Annie! Miz Annie!"

She opened the door and two frantic black faces stared. One was that of a young teenager. Her eyes were wide and her white teeth shone even in the darkness. She held the hand of a small boy. They both looked terrified.

"Come inside. Quickly!" Anastasie said to the pair.

She closed the door and looked at the kids. "Tell me. Are you all right? What do you need?"

The little boy burst into tears. "Here, both of you, come into the kitchen and sit down. Do you want some tea or a—"

"No. We need your help. Now!" the girl said.

"O.K." She studied the children's faces. "You are Shaquita and Leon. Your grandma is Lucretia and you're great aunt is my good friend, Lavonia. I know your folks. You have a little brother and sister. Let's see their names are—"

"They are drowning!" the boy blurted.

"What?" Anastasie looked at the girl for help.

"We went down to the river to find them because they were late. Hadn't come home. We waited near the bank," the girl sobbed.

"Oh, God. They haven't come back yet?"

"No. No, they were coming! We watched them start across the river, but the water, it was too high." The girl raised her hands helplessly. "I tried to wave them away, make them go back, but they came anyway. The car. It started going down."

"It started sinking in the water," the boy wailed.

"All right! How long ago was this?"

"A few minutes. We didn't know what to do, so we ran here to find you."

Anastasie reached for her cane. "Take me to them."

***

Dwayne thrust into her, first gently, then harder. Abigail locked her legs around his back, her hands flung out, her fingers crumpling the sheets. Their bodies were awash in a storm of pleasure and turbulence. For a moment Abigail felt as if she were drowning and she gasped for breath. Dwayne exploded, driving them both downward. She was exploding with him

***

The two children ran. Anastasie yelled at them to slow down, but her voice was carried away by the storm. She couldn't keep up. She was breathless, heart pounding. Her cane got tangled in the vines. Its tip repeatedly stuck in the mud. She pushed branches away from her face with her free hand. A few whipped across her face, slicing her cheeks. Leaves and dirt, tossed by the wind, stung her eyes. They stopped at the top of the little hill that had once led down to the river. Now the river was almost on the hill and their feet sunk into the rising muck.

"There!" the girl yelled and pointed below.

Anastasie looked down. She pulled her flashlight from her jeans pocket and shone it where the girl had gestured. In the wavering light, she could barely make out the top of the car. It bobbed in the raging water.

"Both of you. Stay here!" She thrust the flashlight into the girl's hand. "Keep the light on the car and stay put!"

Anastasie dropped her cane and plunged into the water. The current was strong, but so was she. She kicked hard and her arms sluiced through the river. She reached the top of the car and grasped its edge. The car began moving with the flow of the water. Moving and sinking. She took three huge breaths and scrambled headfirst downward toward the driver's side, holding onto the tiny ledge above the window. Dimly, she could see two heads in the front and two smaller forms in the back. They were all still alive, their lungs clinging to the tiny compartment of air inside. She righted herself, pulled up above the water and took another breath. She dove down again.

Anastasie kicked her legs, forcing her body deeper. She reached the car and fumbled for the door handle of the driver's side of the car. She could see the man's face inside in the faint illumination of the dashboard lights, the whites of his eyes glowing like fading embers of a fire. She pulled at the chrome door handle, but it wouldn't move. She gestured to him to roll the window down, but he shook his head, too afraid to give up the last bit of refuge his family had.

Anastasie struggled against the urge to take a breath, to take in the river as she had struggled against pushing her child out into the world too soon. She moved slightly away, reversed herself and kicked the side window with all her remaining strength. The glass shattered and she grabbed at the man and began pulling him out. He struggled. His wife beside him managed to unlatch her door and it flew open and all three tumbled backward from the car. Anastasie pointed upward, then gestured at herself and thrust her finger toward the back of the car. The three rose up and broke the surface, spitting and coughing amidst the filthy water.

"Go! Your other children are waiting!" she yelled at them.

Anastasie took another deep breath and plunged back into the water. The car had moved, bumping in the mud on the bottom of the river, but she found it. She reached into the front, stretched her hand to grasp the handle and flung open the back door. The two small bodies were floating near the roof, trying instinctively to suck in the last tiny bubble of air. She grabbed at the first child and pulled him out, swam from the car and pushed him toward the surface. He floated upward, twirling in the murk and then disappeared out of the water.

She grabbed at the car again, pushed the door aside and encircled the other child within her arms. Its eyes were staring sightlessly either from fear or death as she pulled the small bundle outside into the swirling water.

Anastasie went numb. Her legs refused to move. The two bodies floated apart in the darkness. Anastasie frantically forced her arms to paddle toward the child. Its eyes were closed as if in sleep. She grabbed it with numb fingers. No bubbles came from its open mouth. She tried desperately to kick her legs, to take them both to the surface, to air and light, but there was no upward thrust. She saw the child blink. Anastasie pulled her closer, covered the baby's mouth and nose with her mouth and blew air into the tiny lungs, emptying the last from her own. She pushed the child away and upward and watched from below as it floated to the surface and frantic hands pulled it from the water.

Anastasie felt her own body sinking. She stopped struggling. The turbulence that surrounded her vanished. She spread her arms wide and felt as if she were soaring. There was no more pain. Not from others, not from her own body. No more suffering. No more need for breath or life.

A bright white light emanated from beneath her and within the glow Anastasie saw her family, Momma and Papa and Aunt Julia and countless others. Sam was there. Bridget was there. Their arms outstretched to welcome her. Abigail was not among them and in spite of her great joy, she was somehow glad of that. From some secret place, she watched her own body floating toward them. She was enveloped by their love. Now there was only an overwhelming sense of completion and peace. She went willingly toward them.

She was going home.

***

Abigail silently screamed. A rush of conflicting emotions flooded through her. A feeling of serenity descended. She lay still. Beside her, Dwayne was quiet, his gentle hand rested on her shoulder. He wouldn't know now. Not for several weeks. But she knew. A child was coming. A girl child. Dwayne caressed her face, his fingers tracing the tears that trickled down her cheeks.

She would have much to teach and her daughter would have much to learn. Life ended and life began again. There were precious few, special people in the world who must develop the courage to deal with burdens, their own and those of others, no matter the cost.

It was the way things were meant to be. Like a violent and beautiful hurricane. The conception and birth of a child. A flower that heals and lives eternally.

***

Journal of Amanda-1

April 8, 2019. Today is my birthday and we had a great party. Momma told me a lot of things today. Some were pretty scary. She said I should start a diary and write down stuff about my life so that my future child would understand about our family.

I didn't really follow a lot of what she said, but I think it was all very important. Momma has always told me stories about my grandparents and my great grandparents. They were wonderful people.

I told Daddy not to tell Momma, but that I didn't really think I could be like them when I grew up. He smiled and told me not to worry. It would just take time.

I might not ever be exactly like they were, but I think I'll try.

P.S. There's a boy in my class who is really cute. I just want to be good friends, but so far, he has just ignored me. It's crazy, but the more he does that, the more I like him. All the other girls like him too.

P.P.S. Sissie, my best friend, is in the hospital with a burst appendix. Her parents are really worried about her and so am I. Momma is going to take me to see her tomorrow. Momma got me some flowers to take to her. They are beautiful. Momma says they are very special flowers.

