Wading Home_ A Novel Of New Orleans Part 26

As the sky drew darker, Kevin and his clan piled into the Caravan to return to their new house in Local. The van kicked up dust and Kevin waved, pointed and yelled to Simon-"Don't forget. Six a.m!"-and made the turn toward the road.

"You going fishing tomorrow?" Sylvia asked Simon.

"Yep. Can't wait." He rubbed his hands together.

Sylvia looked up at the sky, the gathering of stars in the twilight.

"How does it feel, finally having grandkids?" Sylvia asked.

"Makes me think about gettin' old."

She laughed. "Simon, you been been old." old."

"Not as old as I used to be," he said.

"What's that supposed to mean? "

"Means I think I got more years left in me than I thought before."

"Yeah? How many?"

"No tellin'. Twenty. Twenty-five." He smiled, looking across the road. "Be a while before I join the rest of'em over there. Being back home, I feel a little younger. Shoot. I am am younger." younger."

Sylvia leaned back in her chair, folded her hands across her lap. "Remember that question you asked me a couple years ago?"

"What question was that?"

"You know the one."

"Oh, you mean the one where you shot me down after?"

"That one. Why don't you ask it again?"

"Why should I do that?"

"The answer might be different this time."

"How do I know that?"

"Ask and see."

"Ask so I can get shot down again?"

"Maybe you won't this time."

"How do I know?"

"Ask and see."

"Well, I ain't asking if I don't know the answer." This went on for a while, until Sylvia, realizing she was being teased insufferably by a master, slapped Simon's shoulder and said simply, "Marry me, you silly man." And he laughed and put his arm around her, and said, "When?"

When the bread pudding was all gone, and Genevieve and Pastor Jackson had turned in for the night, and Simon and Sylvia had gone to check in at the bed and breakfast in Local, and Velmyra had laid her son on the sofa to sing him to sleep, waiting for her husband to come to the roll-away bed Genevieve had set up for them in the living room, Julian rocked his daughter against his chest, wondering when she would fall asleep.

Between the two, this child was the liveliest-like her mother, forever alert, looking up and around her, fascinated with everything in view. He'd never be able to get up in time for fishing if this little one kept him up all night. He decided to play the word game with her. It was the best way he knew to bring sleep to those bright, busy eyes.

"Tree? Tree?" he said, taking her tiny finger and pointing to the live oak next to the house.

She said nothing, fascinated with his shirt b.u.t.ton.

"Dirt?" he said, pointing to the yard.

Again, nothing.

"Car?" He pointed again, knowing she knew this one, but was being stubborn tonight.

He rocked her again, and finally she opened her mouth wide, her eyes dancing.

"Mine!" she said, gleefully, both arms flung out wide toward the treetops, as if encompa.s.sing the whole world around her.

Julian smiled, looked out at the land, the tall pines, the live oaks, the yard toward the road as it disappeared before making its way to the creek.

"That's right, baby girl," he said. "All yours."

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Night falls on Silver Creek. Fireflies light the dark, riding the backs of breezes as stars gather, diamond studs on velvet black. The air is heavy, but moves along a creek as eternal as earth, and whispers of timeless evenings when the oldest trees were young.

He looked at his living child and thought of the one who was not. His first child, now safe among family, brought from the shadow of history to sleep in the shade of ancestors. And Julian wished, for the son he had never held, peace. Christina fidgeted on his lap and now, like her sleepy brother, began to cry. Funny, he thought, how they all do that. Out of fear, probably, of surrendering to the closing dark, not yet understanding that another day is coming. Not understanding that light follows dark, day follows night, and endings become beginnings-always.

He kissed his daughter's tiny head and, believing her days would be many, hoped that when the time came for him to tell her the story of the ones who came before, he would be able to remember all of it. He got up from the rocker as his girl-child lay her sleepy head on his shoulder, patted her back as her eyes closed. Let's see. There was a Frenchman, and a beautiful African woman, with skin like midnight sky.... There was a Frenchman, and a beautiful African woman, with skin like midnight sky....

Acknowledgements For their help, encouragement and support, without which this book would not have been possible, I thank: My publisher and editor, Doug Seibold, for his wise editorial eye, for his integrity, and for his unflagging belief in my writing, and also Diana Slickman, Eileen Johnson, and the entire Agate staff for their hard work.

My writing buddies David Haynes and Sanderia Faye Smith for their encouragement throughout this project.

Maxine Clair, Jane Owen, Elisa Durrette, and Jamal Story for reading and providing intelligent insight and guidance with the ma.n.u.script in its various stages.

Kalamu Ya Salaam for editorial advice and for his vast knowledge of New Orleans history, geography and culture.

My favorite artist and good friend Jean Lacy and her son, Nathaniel Lacy, once again, for the cover drawing "High Water Blues."

Lolis Eric Elie and Dawn Logsdon for the inspiration of their masterful film: Faubourg Treme: The Untold Story of Black New Orleans Faubourg Treme: The Untold Story of Black New Orleans.

Friends and helpful residents of New Orleans for their support: historian, author and WWOZ DJ Tom Morgan and his wife Hild Creed (for helpful comments on the text), and Ricky Sebastian and Cheryl and Cameron Woods for hosting me on various trips to the city, as well as to the attentive and efficient staff of the Hotel Provincial.

Corky Bruce of the Natural Springs Garden Center in Nachitoches and Beth Perkins of the Banting Nursery in Jefferson Parish for information on the wildflowers of Louisiana.

Alvena Brock-McNeil, for sharing her Katrina photos and stories with me.

My friend and colleague Sterling Procter, for his superb musical graphics (a belated thank you for my first novel!) Writers Tod Lewan, Delores Barclay and the a.s.sociated Press writing team for their superior investigative reporting on the troubled and sometimes violent history of black landownership in the rural South, detailed in their 2001 series "Torn From the Land." This team deserves far more credit that it ever received for exposing the calculated removal of valuable American land from the hands of its African American owners in the past 150 years.

The wonderful staff and fellow workers at Habitat for Humanity, New Orleans for inspiration, and for their commitment to rebuilding the city.

The great trumpet players of New Orleans who uphold the tradition of Bolden and Armstrong: Marsalis, Blanchard, Mayfield, Payton, Jordan, Scott, Ruffins, Allen and a seemingly endless list of others for their contributions to the history of a great American art form, and for keeping the music alive.

Praise for Rosalyn Story's More Than You Know More Than You Know "Rosalyn Story's debut novel is a mystery at heart-a page-turner enhanced by lyrical language and clever plot turns. Story, a violinist with the Fort Worth Symphony, knows how to play to a crowd, and she drives the narrative like a good straight-ahead quartet-taking a pop standard and playing it with panache while adding fresh changes and tempos that give the well-worn tune a whole new sound.... An engaging addition to the jazz-novel canon."

-Washington Post

"Romantic, deeply sentimental redemption story of smoky jazz clubs, beauty salons crackling with gossip, and the intricate, wide-ranging community that holds it all together."

-Kirkus Reviews

"Story weaves this tale of family ties and secrets back and forth between past and present, using finely drawn characters, jazz settings, and taut emotions to build tension toward reconciliation. The book's powerful evocation of love and family should appeal to a wide cross section of readers."

-Booklist

"More Than You Know is a moving grown-up read featuring well-drawn and familiar characters. This is the perfect choice for your next book club pick." is a moving grown-up read featuring well-drawn and familiar characters. This is the perfect choice for your next book club pick."

-Essence

"Story writes with the plot-twisting precision of a veteran and a lyricism reminiscent of James Baldwin's novel-turned-serenade Sonny's Blues Sonny's Blues.... Well done."

-BIBR