Angel Through the Storms

By Clement Binnings, Jr.

Riveting, multi-layered - Angel Through The Storms delves into the loveless realities of child abuse and molestation; it illustrates the mass abandonment experienced by refugees suffering and dying on the sweltering streets of New Orleans in the wake of Hurricane Katrina; it depicts the psychological and spiritual travesties that result; it offers up hope and healing through a love too rare for any ordinary human to share; it births angels through the storms.

SYNOPSIS

"Gotcha this time, lil' girl! Ain't no gettin' away!"
Fisherman Sinker Parrish finishes off the seventeen year rape of his innocent daughter, Lola.
Lola is a pure being, an intuitive, a crystal child some might say. Introverted, she suffers from PTSD and when threatened, psychological dissociation. Dissociation is her way of escape from the storms of her life. Diving deep into the internal realm of her soul, she is soothed by angels. When she flees the desolate marshlands of Louisiana to New Orleans, she learns that she is pregnant with her father's child. Despite the horrific manner of its conception, the growing presence within her body makes her glow with uncommon radiance. Lola's landlords, their priest, her obstetrician and a psychic are drawn to her mystical quality. Dr. Luc Fontainebleau delivers her angel in the flesh, Grover, a "keeper of the flame," to the world.
When Lola falls in love with Luc, her father re-enters her psyche and her life. She goes missing, dramatically separated from her lover, and their budding romance drowns under tumultuous waves that culminate in Hurricane Katrina. Those who endure, with the aid of Grover's mysterious influence, witness a greater truth about their "angel in the storm."

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Mar 1, 2011
• ISBN: 9781483555829

Book preview

Angel

Preface

The storms of time ravage our reality,

then leave us in our experience,

dislodging us just long enough

for us to survey where we are inside and out

and in that time discern where our hearts would have us be.

Whether chaos or peace follows

depends on whether we hold onto or let go of

our constructs of the past.

Our response lays the foundation for

reconstruction and new construction,

both vulnerable to the inevitable storms to come,

or for destruction

of all our self-created obstacles to peace.

Those who choose peace become its beacons.

This story with all its characters is entirely fictitious.

As in the world of humans,

there is not one character who does not harbor our humanity;

Neither is there one who does not share our absolute divinity.

1

Evacuations: The Early Storms

Nuclear, seething, blazing with purpose, the sun flattens, melting into the silhouette of cypress along Toledo Bend’s Texas shore. Its yellow-orange reflection glistens off the surface ripples, pointing like a compass needle toward the eyes that perceive it, the eyes of Claude Parrish looking back.

Hey Claude, come on.

He turns his head forward and trudges up the slope. Halfway to the road he looks back one more time. The sun is gone, its afterglow darkening from tangerine to silver-gray like a part of him is being extinguished. He stumbles onward with his four cackling high school buddies toting rods, tackle, strings of bass and an ice chest full of beer toward the cabin. Their nonsense disturbs the serenity of the forest air, frightening birds out of the trees and squirrels into them.

Jerry, a 285-pound galoot, playfully jabs Claude in the ass with the tip of his fishing rod, unwittingly snagging his pants and thigh with a treble hook.

What the fuck you doin’, asshole? rips Claude. The hook yanks at his flesh. His eyes blacken, his forearm muscles harden, his grip clenches the handle of the tackle box, and like a discus thrower he slings it at Jerry’s head. Jerry ducks and the box smacks a tree—hooks, leaders, lures and an assortment of tools scatter into the oak leaves.

Hey man—I was just messin’ wit ya! Jerry’s arms are up, surrendering.

The hook’s barb, tugged by tension on the line, stabs and tears at his tissue, and Claude trips over the rod it’s tied to. He falls flat onto his face, sliding downward on the leaves, his hand sweeping the ground where it collides with a plastic bag filled with lead sinkers. Palming the load, he suddenly jumps back up and smashes it into the center of the big boy’s forehead. Like Goliath, Jerry falls hard onto the tree roots where he lies motionless with his eyes rolled back.

Wild-eyed, the others guffaw loudly, bending over, gawking. Rusty blurts out, Shit man—is he breathin’? He squats and inspects. His chest is movin’. He peers up at Claude who stands tall, looking down at them with a pitiless scowl, his hand still clutching the bag of lead.

Rusty points to it, laughing. Sinker! Yeah, that’s what we’re gonna call you—Sinker!

Lester says, Shit man, he’ll sleep it off. Let’s eat. I’m starvin’.

They stagger to the cabin, leaving Jerry in his coma while they drink beer and play bourré throughout the night. Jerry awakens in the hospital three weeks later, never to be the same.

But Claude’s new nickname sticks. Those who revere and fear the beast in him call him Sinker, a name he embraces as a title of respect. Those who hate him call him Sinker, hoping to see him flushed down with the rest of humanity’s wastes.

∞

Fifteen years later Lola halfway sleeps in her bed, a ray of her consciousness ever vigilant to the sounds of the night. During her eleven years of life, she has been conditioned by fear and want for love. It’s 2 a.m. Her mother, Cecelia, has fallen asleep on the living room couch while waiting for Sinker to come home. On payday, she never knows when or if he will, but if he does, she knows she must be awake and ready to serve his desire, whatever it may be and respond immediately or have hell to pay. But tonight she is exhausted and her sleep is sound.

The slam of the truck door reverberates through Lola’s awareness. She opens her eyes and glares into the dark. There is no nightlight. She has learned that it makes her too visible. She listens. Sinker’s stomp onto the porch is unmistakable. The latch retracts, the doorknob squeaks, and she waits. Lola measures her breaths, ready to dive into the deep if required, to follow the whisperings of an inner voice beckoning her into a subterranean refuge where the blasts of surface storms are perceptible only as muted percussions from an alien and scary world.

Cecelia does not rouse. Livid, Sinker reaches across the coffee table, snatches the front of her robe and jerks her up out of her sleep. What’s your problem, bitch? Get your lazy ass in the kitchen and fix me something to eat!

The brown drool oozing from the corner of his mouth spreads solid bits of alcohol-laden tobacco down his chin and neck, the smell and sight of it all too familiar. Yet Cecelia sits frozen, paralyzed for an instant, unable to predict the consequences of any word or action she might initiate. Unpredictability is his power.

Sinker’s stance is wide, braced for action, his six-foot-four frame pulled forward by the mass of beer gut curling over the waistline of his jeans. The whites of his beady brown eyes are red with anger; his dark curls are matted on the side of his head with dried blood. A thick tan hide, weathered like a well-worn work boot, is laced tightly around his soul.

Cecelia knows it’s coming but doesn’t scream—that would only infuriate him more and attract the attention of neighbors and the Shreveport police, a scene played out too many times before. Suddenly he lifts her, drags her across the coffee table and casts her onto the floor where she slides into a pole lamp that falls. The bulb bursts.

Lola hears the pop and shatter; the floor and walls rattle into her bones. She slips out of her bed into the darkest corner of her room and rolls her petite body into a ball, shivering.

Sinker rams his boot so hard into Cecelia’s tailbone that the shape and pattern of his Vibram sole swells maroon on her buttock as her head collides with the baseboard. She covers her face with her hands, pleading, Please. Please don’t!

He stands poised with his leg cocked. She cries out some more, Don’t! You’ll wake Lola!

I don’t give a shit about Lola!

Your little girl?

I never wanted that scrawny mute! He thrusts his boot into her stomach leaving her curled up and grunting on the floor.

Spitting a wad of tobacco onto the wall, he thunders into Lola’s room. There she is, right where he expects to find her, balled up in the corner between her bed and the wall, hugging herself. His monstrous frame pounds the floor joists as he attacks, scooping her up with hands the size of baseball mitts and hurling her like a medicine ball at the opposite wall. Her body smashes a circular crater into the sheetrock before it thumps to the floor. He stomps back out.

Lola remains on the floor, her arms locked around her flexed legs. She’s fully conscious, but not to the external world. The crash of her head against the wall switched on internal floodlights, filling her inner world with blinding light, illuminating her ascent to a non-place where the physical simply does not exist. It is here that the voices of angels soothe her—not in words, but in sounds, symphonic sounds flowing, celestial sounds no ear could ever hear, sounds vibrating within and beyond her being, sounds harmonizing all that she is with the Supreme Being she perceives in this blessed moment, sounds that move angels in their perpetual dance of joy around her.

Sinker kicks and shoves Cecelia with his feet over the shards of glass into the kitchen while she sobs her questions. What did you do to her?

Just making sure she stays put.

You hurt her, didn’t you?

She ain’t hurt. He grabs a dishtowel and wipes flakes of dried blood off his scalp.

Cecelia senses that his rage might be spent. You okay, baby? What happened to your head?

Whadda you care?

I care. I swear, baby. I care. She reaches up to him, her teardrops coalescing and rolling down her cheeks. Let me fix it.

You can’t fix this. That son of a bitch fired me!

Again? He’ll come beggin’. You’re the best foreman he’s got. She’s relieved it’s the boss and not her he’s mad at.

Ain’t gonna happen—I beat the shit outta him! We’re movin’ on.

Cecelia gets onto her knees and pushes herself up, her eyes on Sinker, watching for any sign of further attack. Let me fix you a plate and clean up that nasty cut.

He sits down on the dinette chair, brooding. I’m my own boss from here on out. Ain’t nobody gonna tell Claude Parrish what to do—ever again!

Cecelia relaxes and puts some leftovers on the stovetop to heat up, then starts to leave the kitchen.

Where’re you goin’?

To check on Lola.

Sinker grabs her arm and pulls her back into the room. I said she ain’t hurt!

Cecelia returns to the stove where she stirs sauce into the spaghetti and stares at the mass of tangled noodles like it’s her brain, sauced with blood, hers and her daughter’s. She knows it’s time to shut up, to submit without question, as questions only stir his mind to think and thinking only stirs the chemical soup of his emotions. She’s been victim of his abuse as long as she’s known him, and though she keeps her physical scars well hidden, her internal scars are indelibly branded. She’ll go with him. In some inexplicable way, she needs him; she wants him.

Lola gently rocks herself until the light of dawn illuminates the space in her bedroom, and she discerns that all is quiet on the surface.

∞

The tiny fishing village of Venice, Louisiana sits on the West Bank of the Mississippi River at the tip of the delta, a peninsula of silt that juts out into waters that supply thirty percent of the seafood for the United States. The Parrishes’ rental home is a small, two-bedroom cottage in need of paint and repair resting on cinder blocks four feet above soggy mud just off Highway 23 not far from where it ends. From here, every place is either up the river or up the road. Any farther down is the Gulf of Mexico.

Sinker is living his dream in fisherman’s paradise. He’s bought an old thirty-six-foot trawler and, with the help of two hired Cajuns, has launched his new life as a commercial fisherman. Despite being a newcomer and a Yankee by south Louisiana standards, Sinker is tolerated by the other fishermen and roughnecks in Plaquemines Parish. He’s not the social type, but he’s tough and determined, qualities that command a certain alpha dog respect. He works from predawn until after dark every day, gearing up at Buras Marina, fishing the marshes and Gulf waters, processing and selling the catch and cleaning the rig for the next day’s run. Before sunrise, the docks are busy with Cajuns, Blacks, Whites, Creoles, Vietnamese, Ukrainians and illegal aliens from many corners tending to their business around their fishing, shrimp and oyster boats. Others board crew boats that transport them out to the oilrigs. Some nights they hang out, get drunk, gamble and occasionally get into fights at Deuces Wild, a remote bar off the main highway. Up the road a bit, off Highway 11, is the Red Devil Lounge, in the back of which a crude set of wooden bleachers surrounds a central dirt pit where cocks fight and slice to the frenzied screams of drunken gamblers. They come from as far away as New Iberia with their week’s wages to win or lose on these bloody contests.

No one intentionally messes with Sinker. They know he’s short-tempered, especially when drunk; he’s already maimed a few alcohol-crazed challengers. Left alone, he hangs out with two or three of his drinking buddies or crew members and enjoys the carousing, storytelling, raucous laughter and chaotic lounge noise that somehow harmonize well with the rhythms of zydeco and the guzzle of Budweiser.

Cecelia is much happier in Venice than she was in Shreveport. Sinker is immersed in his work and, with no boss to yank his chain, his rampages are fewer and less severe. Nevertheless, he continues his brutish rule of the household, telling her everything she is to do and not to do, demanding to know her every move, where she’s been, where she’s going and who with. Basically she follows the day-to-day plan as he lays it out, awakening early to prepare his breakfast and make his lunch. She makes sure the linoleum floors are spotless for him to muddy, the refrigerator filled with beer for him to spray, the couch vacuumed for him to litter and the throw pillows perfectly fluffed for him to smash and stain with clothes oiled with fish and diesel. At night, supper had better be ready for him to stuff into his ravenous mouth and gulp down without smile or compliment, as one misstep can trigger a swift backhand across her face or a hard fist to her belly.

Sinker sits on the couch with a beer in his hand, watching TV. Lola, now almost thirteen, walks in her pajamas through the room and into the kitchen. Sinker notices her for perhaps the first time in his life, observing her blossoming beauty, the way her childlike body reveals its womanly potential. The innocent sweetness of this shy undersized girl he has never appreciated, the sweetness he sees in her being the edible kind, the kind that entices his eyes, wets his lips and tingles his groin. As she re-enters the living room, he invites her.

Come here lil’ darling—come sit on your daddy’s lap.

Lola can’t believe it. For all the years of her young life, the part of her that yearned for his love and attention had hidden from him out of fear. She has always felt like a mosquito he just wanted to swat. But the gentle tone seems authentic. Emotionally guarded, she cozies her bottom onto his lap, and they watch TV. Sinker combs his fingers through her blonde hair.

Cecelia hides her astonishment. Perhaps he is changing. Perhaps the move to Venice is making him new. Perhaps he can be a real father.

As the months pass and the scene in front of the TV screen plays out on many a night, Lola believes that the rubbing of her scalp and thighs means he truly cares about her, that, despite his meanness, he loves her. But she becomes increasingly aware that the subtle rocking of his pelvis under her is related to the hardness in his pants—that it stops when the hardness turns to mush.

Cecelia knows. She has watched. She washes his underwear. But she doesn’t let on, never daring to confront Sinker on any matter. He’s just too formidable, and she’s grateful that the physical abuse he lays on her has waned. What Lola doesn’t know won’t hurt her.

∞

A year later, the honeymoon is over, and Lola and her mother are social isolates in their highway community. Cecelia has chosen her world, a world she views through subservient blue-green eyes that never gleam a ray of happiness. The Cajun women of Venice sense her barriers and do not venture too close, her fear and gloom, an effective repellant.

Lola, on the other hand, did not choose this tiny, dead-end world she’s imprisoned in, this narrow strip of road bordered by vast marshlands that extend to the open Gulf, this desolate place where her father thrives, living his dream while destroying hers. Gentle and sweet and an introvert by nature, Lola retreats from the heartlessness of her home by retracing the path that she followed into this world, a path that leads her into the silent recesses of her being, a path that, when successfully negotiated, rewards her with a sense of her soul’s freedom. But it’s an obscure path at best and one she gets lost on frequently.

It’s Sunday and Cecelia is driving Lola to mass at St. Vincent’s Catholic Church in Buras per their usual Sunday ritual, one surprisingly sanctioned by Sinker. For as long as Cecelia has known him, Sinker has never gone to church. The only time he mentions God is when he damns, and the church with its robed priests and habited nuns are not spared his curses. But the vast majority of people along the river in Plaquemines Parish are devout in their worship, and Sinker sees merit in having his family fit in while giving him more time to work on his boat.

Inside the throbbing chamber of Lola’s heart, there’s a little girl, trapped and pounding on its wall with clinched fists, but she can’t be heard by her mother driving the car. She needs to talk, even scream, and her mother knows it, but neither does. This is something they just don’t talk about—ever. But if she doesn’t, Lola is sure something will burst. She stares out of the window seeing nothing but haunting reels of her father’s most recent seduction. These replay over and over in her mind like a horrific movie she’s being forced to watch—but it’s real, and she can feel it happening—his grease-stained hands, calloused and grating like a carpenter’s file over her tummy, his fingernails black under the edges, ragged and scraping across the nipples of her budding breasts, and there’s the odor of stomach acid, beer fumes and tobacco juice panting foul out of his opened mouth down into her face. Nauseating are the oil-smeared, black curly hairs wiggling like pinworms on a belly that overhangs a fat-headed viper poised to strike. She cannot bear to look at. Like a sword, his fat finger plunges into her, piercing her from the base of her spine up through the center of her heart. She feels a part of her dying with each stab. But like her mom, she’s too afraid to resist and allows him to guide her hand in stroking his lust until he’s satisfied and she’s left alone, stuck in grossness, shame and self-blame. Her heart fibrillates in the dreadful silence. She knows her mother knows. She must confess, but to whom? Surely not to her. The gravity of her sin requires confessing to their priest.

Before mass, Lola waits her turn in line at the confessional, rubbing her clammy palms together, her head tilted toward the floor, her eyes sheepishly looking sideways at her neighbors sitting in the pews. Surely, they see her dirtiness. When it’s her turn to confess, she hurries into the small dark cubicle and closes the door behind her. As she kneels down on the cushioned platform, the air feels hot and stale in her lungs, smelling of mildewed velvet, and suddenly she cannot breathe. The walls of the box close in upon her—and in the darkness, she loses all vision, all sense of location leaving her. She’s trapped—in a vertical coffin, the walls compressing inward from the weight of her sin. Gasping, she bursts out of the door before the priest ever opens his window, and, glaring, the parishioners watch her run wildly out of the church.

She slams the door to Cecelia’s car and locks the doors, feeling the virus of guilt infecting her. It’s stronger than any of her struggling defenses. There’s no medicine for this. She reclines her seat all the way back, confident that she’ll be alone, that Cecelia won’t leave mass until the concluding rites are recited. As her breathing gradually slows, she desperately searches herself for some sense of worth and dignity, love and beauty, but finds nothing but worthlessness and shame, repulsion and ugliness. From the deepest reaches of her being, she implores, Why does he hate me? What is it about me?

∞

They stop to catch a breather. A river tug guiding a tanker up the river’s channel sounds its foghorn as egrets take flight from a log rolling over the muddy wake. Lola and Corinne run for miles atop the Mississippi River levee, enjoying one another’s silent companionship. Somewhere in the silence, they’ve bonded. Tuned into the cadence of the dull thumping of their feet on the dirt path, Lola’s inner discord has dissolved into the rhythm. They stop to rest, drenched in sweat, and swig from their water bottles.

You think the others train this hard? Corinne asks, her hazel eyes reaching out through the thick marsh air into the mind of her quiet friend. Corinne’s slim figure makes her look taller than the five-foot-seven she measures up to. The wetness of her brunette hair reflects an auburn sheen in the sunlight, its warmth communicating.

The others? On our team or the other teams? Lola responds.

Our team? You can’t be serious! There’s only four of us, and you know how the other two spend their time.

Not really.

Girl—we gotta get you a life.

I’m doing fine, thank you.

Doing fine? I’m the only friend you’ve got, and all we do is run and run. If it weren’t for the cross country team, you’d have no friends.

I’m not into the stuff that everyone’s doing.

What do you think we’re doing?

All ya’ll talk about is how everybody parties—who’s made out with who, who got drunk, who’s cool and who’s not—like the guys who fight and race and wreck their cars and the girls who cheer them on and lay down for them are cool, and people like me—we’re nothing.

Yeah, there’s that, but then there’s some of us who know what being friends is all about. Do you?

Lola stands silent, considering, feeling the swell of her heart into the base of her neck choking off her voice. Tears roll with the sweat down her cheeks, and if it were not for the puddling of clear fluid in her eyes, Corinne wouldn’t have been able to detect the depth of her true response.

Lola, really. You’re such a sweet person. I know the girls down here seem rough, but they’ve got feelings too. They just let them out. You live all inside yourself. Besides running, all I ever see you do is work and study. How about hanging out with us sometimes?

I’ve got to save money if I’m ever going to get out of here and make a life for myself. I have to go to college. My father’s not gonna help. I have to do it myself.

Who are you going to be friends with when I go away to college next year? A year’s a long time to live on this dead-end road with no one to run with. Come on—let me help you get social, girl. You need it.

Really, I’m okay. I’ll let you know. Can I tell her? I’m disgusting—no one can ever know—no one. Sinker would kill me.

Lola. What is it?

What is what?

Okay, have it your way. The offer stands. Let’s go back. They turn around and break into a jog. As the pace quickens, Lola re-enters her inner sanctum.

∞

It’s been four years since Lola’s failed attempt at confession. Sinker hasn’t touched her since—not because he lost his lust for her, but because his fishing business remains number one in his life. And fortunately for Lola, fishing is as unpredictable as the weather—unlike the mortgage payments due on his boat every month. He spends almost every waking hour keeping his vessel seaworthy and maximizing fishing time. As a result, he’s making it work.

What’s working for Lola, now that Corinne’s away at college, is that she’s made her presence scarce around the house. She still spends her weekend days working at the drug store in Buras. Weekend nights, she stays out late baby sitting an elderly woman with Alzheimer’s whose divorced son likes to hit the bars. She doesn’t get paid much, but it doesn’t matter; it minimizes her contact with Sinker. There are those times, however, when she can’t avoid being in the same room with him. In his presence, she never makes eye contact with him, wearing her shame over her face like a black veil.

Sinker’s never stopped watching her, tasting and feeling her in his fantasies, but the timing is never right for him to pounce. What he lusts for frustrates him more every day until he bursts, fully loosed and intoxicated, and beats Cecelia one more time into pitiful submission. He times these rampages when Cecelia is alone, but Lola sees the divots in the walls, the broken furniture thrown out on the side of the driveway and the bruises in her mother’s expression. If she’d just find the courage to leave him, Lola would go with her without hesitation. But she never will.

Lola sits on stage for her Class of 1999 graduation. She’s astounded to see Sinker show up and bulldoze his bulk through folks’ knees between the rows of chairs to take a seat beside Cecelia. Incredulous, she looks on. Why now?

Sinker’s head sticks up above the others. Lola shifts her eyes toward him as the principal reads her academic honors. There is no smile from him, no blink of acknowledgement, no expression of pride—only the blank look of incomprehension. After the ceremony, he tears out in his truck to Deuces Wild—no congratulations, no nothing. They don’t hear from him until 2 a.m. when he staggers in sloppy drunk and passes out on top of the bedspread next to Cecelia.

The next morning, Cecelia gets up early to make a run to Piggly Wiggly in Buras to stock up on groceries and beer for the weekend. Sinker rolls over in the bed, still half drunk, sweating and exhaling the night’s toxins. He notices Cecelia is gone and hears the shower running in the home’s single bathroom. Listening to the spray, he envisions Lola’s sudsy nakedness. He sits up on the side of the bed, staring, feeling the hardness compel him. Clad only in frayed boxers, he bursts through the door, ripping the small hook lock from the casing and finds Lola staring at him, clutching the plastic shower curtain around her body. Her singular scream pierces the morning quiet like a lone seagull in distress out over the bayou. She stretches the curtain toward the back wall, her face gray-white and lips pale like death, her eyes wide open, unblinking.

He snarls, Gotcha this time, lil’ girl! Ain’t no gettin’ away!

She’s cornered, her muscles trembling, her voice iced. Sinker reaches through the spray and yanks her out while her grasp on the curtain rips its islets from the rings one by one, bending the rod. He muscles her into the bedroom, pries her fingers off the plastic wrap, squeezes her skinny ribs between his hands so hard they bend like fishing rods, and then lifts her a full two feet off the floor before flinging her onto the bed. In less than two minutes, Sinker rips into his daughter, finishing off the rape he started eighteen years before, punctuating the sentence he started the day she was born, the sentence that communicates everything he ever thought about her, the sentence that spells out in no uncertain terms what she means to him.

She lies there wet and cold, shivering under the circulating air of the ceiling fan, its rhythmic clicking the only sound she recognizes, her mind otherwise shut off to all sensory stimuli, her soul so stunned, she’s fled the physical realm into a vacant bubble impenetrable to even the voices of her angels. Bright red streamlets of her precious blood layer her father’s semen as it oozes out of her torn body onto the white bedspread. She feels as slimy, used, deflated and worthless as a discarded condom.

Sinker is up, pulling on his dirty jeans. He stares down at her one last time and commands, Get dressed! I’m warnin’ you—I better not hear a word of this from you or anyone else—our little secret! You get what I’m sayin’, lil’ girl?

Too numb to whimper, she just stares blankly past him, tears blurring all sight through her yellow-green eyes.

When Cecelia arrives back with the groceries, Sinker is gone. She finds Lola only partially dressed, hair wet and uncombed, sitting in her room, statue-like. She’s oblivious to her presence.

What’s the matter? Where’s your father? Damn it—he told me he wasn’t going out on the boat today!

No response.

Cecelia smells vileness permeating the air like fumes of rot around an autopsy table. She returns after a quick look around the house. What happened to the bathroom door and shower curtain?

Lola stares at her out of the darkness, her face flat, her mind detached, her heart empty. Lola simply is not present.

Cecelia knows better than to ask any more questions. She knows, but doesn’t want to. It’s better to pretend she doesn’t—as always. So she leaves her ailing daughter to herself and tidies up the place.

The next morning, Lola is gone. So are her clothes and Cecelia’s old Toyota Corolla. Cecelia turns toward Sinker, You have me. Why? Why her?

You shoulda given me a goddamned son like I wanted! Maybe this woulda never happened!

∞

Just after 7:30 in the morning, a loud knocking at the door comes and goes, the sound of it fading into her dreams, then rudely intruding again and again into Corinne’s awareness until she can no longer ignore it. Getting up this early is hard on any day, but on a Sunday morning after a late night out, it is especially difficult. Once conscious enough to realize that the knocking is real and that it is at her door, she rolls over to look at the clock.

Who in the hell? She drags herself up, slips on a robe and answers.

Corinne, I’m so sorry to wake you.

Lola? Wow! It’s you. I can’t believe it. She detected the quiver in Lola’s voice. What’s going on? Reaching out, she pulls her in and hugs her. Come in, girl.

Gently tugging Lola’s hand, she leads her to the living room couch where they sit facing one another. Lola’s face is ashen. What happened? You look awful.

Lola stares through the coffee table, then glances over at Corinne whose image is smeared as if she’s seeing her through a windshield in a downpour.

Corinne breaks the silence. I’ve got to have some coffee. How ‘bout you?

Lola’s nod is automatic.

She stands. Come into the kitchen.

Lola follows. She just needs someone to direct her next move. She leans against the counter while Corinne calmly goes through all the motions of making coffee. She feels her friend’s heart massaging its invisible salve into her hidden wounds. I need someplace to stay. Just ‘til I find…. Her voice chokes. I can’t go back there.

You mean you just ran away?

I can never go back!

Why not? What happened? Corinne scans Lola for bruises or any signs of physical trauma, but sees only a little girl hugging herself tightly in her own arms. While she waits for an answer, she studies Lola’s face for clues. Lola looks through her, staring blankly at the wall behind. The coffee percolates, but Corinne doesn’t hear it; she’s enwrapped in Lola’s cocoon of silence, silence that conveys feeling without answers.

After a long moment, Corinne utters, Sure. Sure, you can stay here. In fact, you can live here if you want. The timing is perfect! My roommate just moved out two weeks ago. She pours the coffee and leads Lola back into the living room. It’s clear she’s not ready to talk, but Corrine is determined and waits until they are comfortably seated.

Lola.

Lola remains somewhere else in her mind.

Corinne snaps her fingers in front of Lola’s face. Hey girl, listen to me. I’m proud of you. What you did took guts, no matter what made you do it.

The comment stirs Lola out of her daze. Thank you.

What happened to your plans for college?

I can’t do it right now.

You can do it. I’m doing it. Didn’t you apply?

No.

Come on! You’re smart enough to get a scholarship.

I need to know I can support myself first. I’ve got to do this alone.

How much money do you have?

About eight hundred.

"That’s plenty—at least to get started. How’d you get here?’

My mom’s car.

You stole it?

I don’t think she or Sinker will be coming after it.

Okay, Lola, what’s going on?

The question vacuums all thought out of Lola’s head, and Corinne senses the sudden emptiness. Lola, you’re going to have to tell me sometime.

Lola looks her in the eyes and nods, but it’s clear that she won’t be able to speak now even if she tries to.

Look, I’ll help with your expenses until you can pay me back. Don’t worry about it. Today’s Sunday. Let’s go have fun.

Lola surprisingly regains focus as she pleads, Don’t tell your parents I’m here!

Corinne reacts to the vibration of Lola’s fear and embraces her with her heart’s arm. Sure. I understand, but you know they’ll probably figure it out.

I can’t think about that right now. I should look for a job today.

Don’t be crazy. Today’s Sunday! Relax! It’s gonna be okay.

Do you get the paper? I can check the classifieds.

Look, I know Buffy’s Seafood is hiring servers. It’s not far from here. We’ll swing by and pick up an app before we head into town or to the park or wherever, but we’re not staying here. You and I have to get out. Maybe we can even go for a run later.

Lola doesn’t know what she wants. She just shrugs.

You definitely need distraction. I’m taking you to the Quarter. The crowds will do you good, and we can have some lunch, and if you want, maybe even go to the aquarium.

They go, and after a time, Lola turns to Corinne. You were right.

About what?

This is doing me some good. She lifts her nose to the sky, sniffing it, savoring the day. This is freedom—for the first time in her life. As they mosey under the archways of the Cabildo, she absorbs the mood of vacation from casual tourists strolling along the sidewalk. She appreciates the creative spirit of artists and their works in Pirate’s Alley and around the perimeter of Jackson Square. She experiences the authenticity of soul from jazz blown by street musicians through tarnished trumpets, trombones and saxophones. She’s empty, and the easy spirit of New Orleans is flowing in with little hindrance.

∞

Lola lands the job at Buffy’s on Tuesday and starts training the next day. The apartment she shares with Corinne is in a two-bedroom shotgun duplex owned by a retired couple, the Cooghans, who live in the adjacent unit. The tidy whitewashed duplex, located in West End near Lake Pontchartrain, sits a block from the 17th Street Canal close to Fleur-de-lis Park, a single block of green surrounded by live oaks draped with gray moss.

Their landlords, Jack and Helen Cooghan, first meet Lola not at the apartment, but at Buffy’s the very next Sunday. The Cooghans’ Sunday ritual is to enjoy lunch there after church, and Lola happens to be their server this day, being shadowed by her trainer. Something about her opens their hearts, this shy, somewhat awkward young girl who seems determined to please them and do a good job in front of her supervisor. They respond with patience and leave a nice tip. Later in the week, Helen is surprised to see Lola getting out of her car in front of their house.

You’re the waitress at Buffy’s. Do you know Corinne?

"Yes, ma’am. I’m her new roommate. We went to high school together.

I served you and your husband Sunday, right?"

That’s right.

Thanks for being so nice. I was so nervous.

Well, isn’t this something! We’re your landlords. How about that! Helen extends her hand and they shake. I’ll have to get you to sign on the lease, but that can wait. So you’re from Buras?

Close enough. I lived near the end of the road in a fishing village called Venice. Not really much of a village—just fishing camps, cottages and trailers down both sides of the highway.

Oh yeah, we’ve heard of Venice. Fisherman’s paradise, right? So, what brings you to New Orleans? Are you going to start at U.N.O. in the fall?

"Well, some day. That’s what I’d like to