Excerpt:
New Orleans, Spring
1935....
The
sidewalk was blistering to her bare feet as she hurried along. She
stumbled now and then, whether from sheer exhaustion or the weakening
hunger that had plagued her for days, she no longer knew. She barely
even cared anymore, although, despite her condition, she was still
feverishly driven toward the Garden District. A tiny fragment of her
soul still cried out for life, a tiny fragment that still dared to
believe there was hope.
An
unquenchable thirst had settled at the back of her throat, making it
almost impossible to keep her mind on anything else but water. In
truth, she was nearly delirious from it. That, coupled with the heat,
made putting one foot in front of the other almost unbearable, though
every painful step was taken with a singular purpose. If she were
going to survive at all, she must continue onward.
Lord,
did she even want to survive after everything that had transpired in
the last few months? Could she go on as if none of it had ever
happened? She was certain of nothing. That surety, the unswerving
blind confidence of youth, of innocence, had been stripped from her,
quite ruthlessly. It was sad, truly sad, for she knew she might never
regain it. She was tainted now, changed forever. In her eyes, there
was no longer an innocent blush to the world. Nothing was the same.
Nothing.
Still,
she pushed onward, her eyes downcast, half in shame, half in fear
that she would be noticed, and also to shade her eyes from the
merciless glare of the Louisiana sun. Her eyes were no longer
accustomed to the harshness of daylight. They'd grown delicate from
hiding in darkened back alleys. She'd spent her nights searching the
darkness for danger, and her days sleeping. Too many evils lurked
about in the night, ceaselessly looking for young, innocent victims,
and she had quickly learned that it was much safer to rest during the
day.
Rest?
She had almost forgotten what that was like. It seemed now that she
had never really known. Or the memory was so vague, so elusive, that
her mind simply couldn't grasp it any longer.
Her
body had certainly forgotten. In the beginning, the exhaustion was
unbearable. She felt it in every cell, intensifying every day until
she was certain she would either die or go insane from it. There was
no rest for her, only short moments of nothingness when her brain
succumbed to the fatigue and she drifted off to sleep only to jolt
awake a few minutes later.
And
then one day, in a rather startling discovery, she realized that she
had become numb to the exhaustion. She'd briefly wondered if this new
numbness was the beginning of death creeping in on her. But when it
lasted for days without changing, she realized that she'd simply gone
so far past fatigue that her body didn't register the sensation any
longer. There was very little that did register anymore, save for the
occasional pang of fear. And the thirst. That abominable thirst.
Despite
the hopelessness that dogged her, instinct kept her going. Her body
seemed to be operating on sheer will alone.
Keep going. Don't
stop. Don't stop. The words rang through her head like a mantra,
continuous, maddening.
A
shuffling noise nearby brought her head up. She warily surveyed the
people moving past her, only to quickly return her gaze to the
sidewalk at her feet. She'd learned early on never to establish eye
contact with the strangers that crowded New Orleans for the Spring
carnivals. It was especially essential to a young woman alone. The
knowledge had been poorly won, a lesson she would never forget.
She'd
been so naive, thinking the world was filled with compassionate
people, souls bound together with integrity, caring, sympathy. The
sentiment was almost laughable to her now. It was unbelievable to
think she'd been so stupid after what she'd left behind. How could
she expect kindness from total strangers when she'd received none
from the people she had once thought loved her?
Now
she wanted no contact with anyone, except for that one familiar face,
the only person in the world that she was certain could help her. She
had placed all her hope on that one thought. All else had been
banished from her mind. If she could just make it. Dear God, she had
to make it.
Another
glance gauged her progress. Bourbon Street was busy today, too busy.
She slowed a little as she approached a street corner. Intersections
made her nervous. She didn't like having to slow down, didn't like
the idea of having to stand in a crowd of people. She wanted to keep
moving, didn't want any questions, any knowing stares.
She
hugged the side of a building as she approached the corner, her hand
automatically going out to support herself when another wave of
dizziness and nausea threatened to overwhelm her. The heat was too
much for her. And the hunger, the thirst. She was weak from it all.
She barely had the strength to continue, but somehow she must.
Signaling
that it was clear to do so, the people around her began to cross the
little road that intersected Bourbon. She took a deep, bolstering
breath and willed her feet to move again. Obstinate as they seemed,
she managed to make it across the street.
Keep
going. If she could just gain some momentum, she could keep
herself walking. She'd done it before. She knew it was possible to
walk for miles if one could simply keep their mind off the actual
process, off the agony of it.
Farther
on down the street, her steps faltered again, though this time it was
not from the heat. She had noticed a group of young black men
lounging in the doorway of a nearby speak-easy. Jazz, the music that
permeated New Orleans, filtered out into the street. The sound of the
men's laughter followed the music as they bantered amongst
themselves, and her heart began to beat a little faster in
anticipation of their taunts.
Just
as she had feared, it wasn't long before she was noticed. She felt
rather than saw their curious stares. Their laughter stopped, and she
knew they had all turned to watch her approach.
The
sudden silence frightened her even more so than the laughter had.
Painful as it was, she quickened her steps. She was suddenly reminded
of the bad experience she'd recently had with a tourist, and all the
fear came rushing back. She knew how she looked to these young men,
knew what they thought. The same thing the tourist had thought when
he'd pushed her into that alley only days ago. The mere remembrance
of it made her shudder with revulsion and self-loathing. She couldn't
bear that again, couldn't survive it. Even the thought made her
shrink in shame. The memories were horrible. She would never be able
to purge her mind of that moment.
She
almost stumbled and fell but then righted herself, forcing her feet
to keep moving as she quickly made her way past the men. They watched
her. She knew because she watched them through her lashes--ever
wary--though she was careful to hide the fact, keeping her head
down.
One
of the young men stepped away from the door, his hand outstretched,
his shining dark eyes beckoning. She instinctively shied away,
hastening her steps and averting her eyes, signaling that she wanted
nothing to do with him.
"Leave
it alone, Henry," his friend warned, putting a hand on his
shoulder.
"She
looks so afraid," Henry protested.
"She'll
be all right," his friend said, following the girl with his
eyes.
Henry
shook his head. He wasn't so certain. "I just wanted to help
her."
"Let's
go back inside," came the suggestion.
"Forget
about her, Henry," another advised.
Henry
gave her one last look and reluctantly followed his friends back into
the cool, dim interior of the taproom. "Did you see the way she
looked at me?"
But
no one heard him. They had already been surrounded by the brassy
music, enveloped in it, re-absorbed into their society, where the
troubles of a certain young woman couldn't touch them.
