Willis howled with laughter. “That Angie is something else.”
He reached over and squeezed my hand quickly before the light changed. “You too, you know that, honey? I’m proud of what a good mother you were for Angela, and for the way you helped Kathy, too.”
“Now they’re both on their own,” I said, a little sadly. The empty feeling flitted through me—not the heavy thing it was when Angela went away, almost transparent this time, almost just a memory.
“I can hardly wait to see what you’ll do next,” said Willis. “Don’t waste any more time on Giannini. Make the ad for two secretaries, okay?”
I put on the blinker, checked Pacific Avenue in the rearview mirror, and made the last turn for home.
~ 33 ~
September 1975
Over New Orleans
Kathy
The plane circled above Lake Pontchartrain. From my window seat, I looked out over the lights along the river and across the bridge, marking my path home. I’d never flown into New Orleans before, and I would have taken a Greyhound this time, but Lacey had insisted on buying me this ticket. I loved coming back like a princess on a flying carpet. It made me feel how much had changed.
When I’d called and told Richard what I’d decided, he said he didn’t think it would be long before he was released. But he wouldn’t go right back to Gretna. He was going to Texas first, to spend some time with his parents.
“Your parents?” I’d nearly dropped the phone. “How did you make up with them?”
“I let Sam tell them the whole story. It was my dad who got the lawyer.”
“Are they going to be weird about us, the way my parents were?”
There was a pause at the other end of the line. “Does that mean you’re coming back to me?”
I thought it did, but I wasn’t sure. I was coming into New Orleans as I’d come into San Pedro, not knowing the future—but I wasn’t afraid of it anymore. And I wasn’t in a hurry about it either—not to marry, certainly not to have another child. Maybe someday. Maybe with Richard. I didn’t know, and didn’t need to know.
Maybe one day I’d even be friends with Mom again. Maybe she’d change her mind about things. Remembering Dad, she might learn from who he’d been. I wanted to be ready if she did.
The dark lake below us was crossed by the Causeway’s twin lines of light. Over in Gretna, the Motley family would all be asleep. But I imagined them the way I knew them best. Eddie at his stand, with the smell of fall tomatoes filling a hot afternoon. Francine in the kitchen, cooking some wonderful Creole dish, shallots and shrimp on the cutting board beside her. Dom and Joss admiring their phoenix kite, longing to be old enough to fly it by themselves. Sam and Sharon walking hand in hand in the Quarter.
I even saw Dad and Jamie as I’d imagined them the day Richard and I walked in our glitter-spangled clothes. Dad, younger than when I saw him last, Jamie older, maybe about nine. Dad, holding Jamie’s hand, bends down to listen to what she’s saying.
The Dylan Thomas poem I thought of that day: “They shall have stars at elbow and foot . . . and death shall have no dominion.” Jamie’s face is turned up toward Dad as they walk away. But they stop and look back when they reach the corner, smile and wave, a little girl and her grandfather going on an adventure.
I almost waved too, sitting there on the plane. Xin chào, Dad. Xin chào, Jamie. And tam biêt.
Xin chào, Martin and Thu, working on the new puppet play. Maeterlinck’s The Blue Bird, about two children who go on a magical quest one Christmas Eve, seeking the joy that has always eluded them. They only find it when they return home, where it was waiting for them all along.
Dark blue for the backdrop, with little stars like sweet-olive blossoms. The bird can be a lighter blue, greener, almost turquoise. I’ll need designs for the other puppets, too—the children and the fairy, the dog and the cat, all the odd characters they meet on their journey.
I wish I had my pencils, and time to make one quick sketch. But it doesn’t matter—I won’t forget.
Anne L. Watson, a retired historic preservation architecture consultant, is the author of several novels, plus books on such diverse subjects as soapmaking and baking with cookie molds. Anne has lived at various times in New Orleans, Baton Rouge, and San Pedro, California, the settings of Pacific Avenue. She currently lives in Friday Harbor, Washington, in the San Juan Islands, with her husband and fellow author, Aaron Shepard. Please visit her at
www.annelwatson.com
Pacific Avenue Page 26