Pistol Fanny's Hank & Delilah (53 page)

She wouldn’t miss Saturdays, either, when you knew their bedroom was off limits because Daddy was the criminal and Mama was his judge and jury. The things you hear as kids, she thought. How she wished she could forget.

She also wouldn’t miss all the advice from her aunts and uncles. With Uncle Hennessey’s worldly words of wisdom, most of the time Rosie had no clue what he even meant. He would say,
baby girl, even trade ain’t no swindle.
Or her favorite one,
you cain’t go plantin’ cantaloupes if you want watermelons!

Where did she come from? She was the only normal one out of the bunch. She definitely wouldn’t miss Swift, her younger brother by ten years. His name was Paul, but he was so swift, they called him that. Nobody could catch him. Nobody but Mama. But he never ran from her anyway. He had good sense. She had to give him that. They respected their parents and never crossed the line.

Rosie and Huck had heard rumors over the years. Their parents were legends. The play they wrote together was true. Mama was a famous bank robber, and Daddy was the man who fell in love with her. Somehow, she stole his heart, and together they lived an outlaw’s fairytale.

Plenty of their friends were in awe of them, always wanting to come over and ask questions. Rosie and Huck laughed it off, sometimes embarrassed by their parent’s faux fame. They were Mama and Daddy, not Pistollette and Honey Hole.

Even if the name was tattooed on his arm. It was because of the skit they wrote together. That’s all.

How could a woman who enjoyed planting a garden and sitting underneath a shady tree with a novel rob banks? A woman who loved to go night fishin’, who made pancakes and made up her own little songs as she did, hold a gun to anyone? And their Daddy, the man who walked the line and stood up for the innocent and weak, how could he chase after a lawbreaker?

No, Rosie shook her head and laughed. They were just Mama and Daddy.

Rosie wiped a tear from her eye, not expecting to be so emotional. She was about to taste freedom, about to embark on the miracle of a lifetime. She was leaving home to discover herself, and then coming back when she knew what her favorite color was, her favorite flavor of ice cream. When she was an adult and had responsibilities. When she could get a tattoo and not regret what she had permanently inked on her body.

Ah, but freedom is never free. Even the most free of souls know that. Mama had taught her that.

The hood slammed shut. Huck was standing there, hugging his Daddy for the tenth time that day. Huck had an eye just like his Daddy’s. That eye was a big hit with the girls. Huck was always the popular one. Rosie was shy, more careful with her words, but tougher than most. She always knew there was more to her family, but she didn’t know what it was yet. That’s why she was leaving. She was going to find out.

It was harder for Huck to leave than it was for Rosie. Her Daddy, barely gray and still good lookin’ for his age, chewed his gum quicker. He was nervous and Rosie knew it. He came to her window and motioned for her to roll it down. Mama was right behind him. Huck finally made it to the passenger seat and buckled up.

Mama and Daddy reminded them of everything they had taught them over the years. Reminded them not to forget to fill up and eat along the way, every so often.

Then it was time to go. Daddy took Mama’s hand and pulled her away from the car. They held each other close as their babies drove away. Rosie honked the horn and Huck sniffed as Mama and Daddy disappeared into the distance.

“Huck,” Rosie said. “Do you think they ever did anything crazy in their life?”

Huck shrugged. He was all choked up. He missed his parents already, she could tell. “I doubt it. Mama is so sweet and Daddy walks the line for her. They probably just did normal things. They met in a bank. How crazy do you think they got? They go to church every Sunday. The ideal parents. Except for Saturdays, anyhow. We had the ideal childhood growing up. We got to play in mud puddles and chose our own clothes.”

“That’s not me,” Rosie said, pressing the throttle down. “I’m going to live.” She looked at Huck with a mischievous smile. “Grab those root beers from the floor, will you?”

Huck bent over and took two bottles out of the package. He opened Rosie’s and handed it to her.

“Here’s to going crazy in California!” she screamed.

“Here’s to it!” Huck agreed, finally starting to perk up a bit.

The twins clanked and took a big gulp. Huck leaned forward and turned up some ole Ray Charles song,
Hallelujah, I Love Her So!

“
Thank God
!” they yelled, coming together, wiggling their fingers and sighing.

They drove off into the sunset, hitting a muddy pothole on the way, laughing all the way to California.

Woo hoo!

BY ANNIE ROSE WELCH

(IN CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER)

Marigny Street

Red Dirt Road

Lotus Blossom Lane

The Crossroads

Sparrow Way

Marigny Street

Étoile of the Past

T
here is something to be said for the unimportance of time when you’re a child. I am lying on the old porch steps of the house on Marigny Street, lost in the high Louisiana heat, while the muggy wind carries me away to cooler lands undiscovered. It’s the fourth of July. I feel fearless, reckless, as only an eleven-year-old can be—there is a life of un- bounded possibilities in my future. The air smells of fiery, boiling crawfish and simmering filé gumbo. Somewhere in the distance a steam horn blows, and Pete Fountain’s “Way Down Yonder in New Orleans” wails through a clarinet. Mère is in the kitchen, humming the tune, while my feet tap along to the jazzy rhythm. It’s sweet and tart at the same time, satisfying both needs.

“Evangeline,” she yells from inside, “remember what your Mère has told you. The eyes are the windows to the soul, but your dreams are the doors. Let them open, you hear, na’?”

“I hear, na’,” is my only reply. I am lulled by the callous fever of the day, the bright blue skies, white wisps of clouds taking it easy in this city that care forgot, and the slow cry of the music, fading in and out of the distance.

The screen door creaks open. I look up and Mère is standing in the doorway. She has walked into the glare of the sun, most of her body washed by its brightness. I see the edge of her apron, the hem of her pretty flowered dress, and her bare feet on the concrete.

“Always dreaming, ma
chérie beb
. You are your grandmother’s granddaughter. You were born with the talent.” She laughs and it’s lyrical. “We have the ability to break down the barriers of this reality and be embraced by another. It is real, ma Evangeline. The ability to be awake within our dreams. To be awake in such places where there are no such things as space and time. Dreams are more than just what happen when you’re asleep—they are your connection to the transcending in spirit.”

“I had a good one four nights ago, Mère.” I sigh. “A really good one.”

“Oh, yeah? Tell me all about it, ma
chérie beb.”

“I was a sparrow flying through the sky. A piece of ice hit me, and I fell into dark water. It was a storm I fell into, and I started to drown, until a boy saved me. He was bright, like the moon. He brought me home.”

“You must always believe in your dreams, child. If you always believe and never give up hope, your dreams will lead you to magic.
Étoile!
And if you believe hard enough, you have the power to change your reality,
mon amour
. Never waste your talent. Never allow yourself to lose the ability to believe in what the world will tell you is impossible. This moon boy, he is possible.”

“In the one I had last night, Ella and Rose were fighting. I believe in that one.” I snicker.

There is a loud commotion coming from inside the house. Her feet disappear and the screen door slams shut.

“Ella! Rose! What did I say about fighting? There’s no reason for it. You both will get the chance to dance with me in the kitchen.
Tete Dur! Tete Dur!
What have I taught you? If you fight while the food is cooking, it will taste
beaucoup
spicy. But if you dance, na’ we cooking. It will be just right!
C’est bon!
Yes
,
do that old Mamou two – step
. Laissez les bon temps rouler!
”

I snort and giggle, because for once I’m not part of the commotion. Yessiree, I do have the talent. I think for the briefest of moments of that bright boy with wild black hair, as black as the moonless night or spilled ink, and dark brown eyes. I think of his smile and his funny way of talking. The feel of his hand in mine is seared in my memories like a feverish sunburn. I think of him and I feel the fluttering of lightening bugs in my stomach. I close my eyes, secure in my craft, hoping to meet him once again, and in minutes the heat has drugged me into sleep.

Étoile of the Present

I am no longer that wistful child dreaming on the steps. In this moment, I am the woman who, when she wakes, will be met with a world full of hurt. That’s the funny thing about life. One minute you are a child, carefree and flying, and in the course of what seems like a dream, you have developed into a grown body, filled with baggage and claims, filled with hurts and sorrows. Dreaming as a child will bring childish things, but dreaming with a broken heart will bring you the most unexpected.

Perhaps it’s a promotion at work. That new car you’ve been eyeing but couldn’t afford. Or a swanky vacation, all expenses paid, courtesy of the aunt you never knew you had, who happened to keel over while playing poker.

Or perhaps it’s more than any of those things. What if it’s
someone
waiting for you? The someone who was created for you. You could smell him, taste his kiss, and feel his warmth, even though you never knew he existed until he appeared in your dreams.

Like taking a magic pill before bed and waking up to another reality.

Étoile
, star in the endless dark sky, twinkling in the blackest of circumstances. Another word for what my family calls magic. And in a world where love and
étoile
rarely find their place anymore, believing in the impossible can be the only light when you find yourself surrounded by darkness. Believing had become my only reason for surviving.

And so it began, with a dream on Marigny Street.

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Born and raised in New Orleans, Annie has a habit of shortening her words and telling long stories. She speaks with a southern flair and cooks with it too. At the tender age of twenty- one, she hitched up her wagons (took her first plane ride) and moved out west to the big shake (California). 

Her writing career began one sleepless night when she imagined a gorgeous woman and a man with maniacal hair floating above her like lightening bugs falling from the sky. Curious about them, their story, and why they were floating around in her head, she sat down and penned (typed) her first novel, Marigny Street. A dream come true for her, she hasn't stopped writing since. She loves a damn good love story, always has, no matter what the genre. She is particularly moved by imperfect love that in its own unique way is perfect, the notion of love at first sight, soul mates, and things that are generally out of the norm.