Table of Contents Views and Mechanics Publisher's Note Review of Down to a Sunless Sea Review of Words of a Feather Creative Nonfiction Burning Men By Gerard Sarnat Integration By David Caplan Hands Across the Sea By Jennifer Mazik Poetry I Can't Wait Until the Resurrection By David Halliday Dashing With You By Mick Joyce Island of Hong By Mick Joyce Fiction The Price of Shoes By Sandra M. McDow Jeux d'Esprit By Julio Peralta-Paulino Feed Me, Pet Me By Stephen Dorneman The Lovely Peasant By G. David Schwartz About the Contributors © 2008, River Walk Journal and respective authors and artists. All rights reserved. Do not use or reproduce without permission. River Walk Journal, Inc. Board of Directors Chairman - Elizabeth Ross Vice Chairman - Joseph Koch Secretary/Treasurer - Geri Stock-Ross Editorial Director - Patti Kurtz, DA Literacy Director - Kenneth Weiss, Ed.D Policy Director - PA State Rep. Jess Stairs Advisory Board Chairman - Patti Kurtz, DA Asst. Chairman - Dan Lachenman, PhD Samuel Hazo Christopher Leland Edwin Yoder Joseph Bathanti Journal Staff Publisher - Elizabeth Ross Editor-In-Chief - Joseph Koch Senior Editor - Patti Kurtz Editor - Elizabeth Murray Copyeditor - Kathy Skaggs Publicity Director (PA) - Geri Stock-Ross For information about submissions, visit http://www.riverwalkjournal.org/subs.html. Questions about promotions, subscribers' services, and advertising should be sent to publisher@riverwalkjournal.org. River Walk Journal, Inc. is a non-profit corporation run entirely by volunteers. For information about volunteer opportunities and internships, visit VolunteerMatch.

The Price of Shoes By Sandra M. McDow Jesse started, looking toward the front of the bus when Swede belched loudly and muttered, “Damn, shoulda’ known better than to eat at the Cozy Corner—shoulda’ gone home and boarded-up the windows instead.” The driver reached into his shirt pocket with one hand, the other holding the dusty yellow bus on a steady path down the narrow county road, and extracted a stick of Beeman’s. He unwrapped it with the one hand as he glanced in the mirror at his last passenger, before popping it into his mouth. “Stick of gum, Jess?” he inquired as he began chewing. The faint fragrance of pepsin wafted toward the back of the bus where it mingled with the acrid smell of diesel and the lingering musk of tired, grubby kids. “Yessir. Thanks.” Jesse moved up from the back of the bus and took the seat just behind Swede. “Don’t look bad out there right now,” he commented, taking the gum and unwrapping it as he glanced out at the overcast sky and fields of young cane and early cotton that bordered the road. They seemed to move in concert with the thicket of live oaks and pines that marked the end of the county road, undulating gently, as if to an unheard melody. “They said at school that it was gonna real bad.” “Naw, probably ain’t going to be too bad. And you don’t need to worry none. I’ve known your Pa for years. Ol’ Ed Baxley ain’t gonna let nothing bad happen. He knows what to do.” Jesse caught his eye in the mirror and frowned. “I don’t think Pa could stop a bad storm. How would he keep something like that from happening? What would he do …? What are you gonna’ do—I heard you say you should have boarded up your house.” “Well,” Swede’s drawl slowed some, “We’ve had lots of storms hereabouts and never had one we couldn’t ride out. I don’t know what could be so different about this one.” Swede stopped the bus at the end of the road, pulling close to the edge where the t trees began, opened the door and let Jesse off, “You just hustle on home now and don’t be worrying none, hear?” Jesse stumbled over the flap-sole on one of his sneakers as he jumped instead of stepping off the bus. He grinned, snapped to attention and gave Swede a quasi-salute as Swede made a U-turn and headed back toward town. Jesse gave a quick glance up at the cloudy sky before he trotted toward the thick brambles that opened into an almost invisible deer trail under the trees. Swarms of small unrelenting black gnats assailed him as he followed the narrow, well-worn path that provided a fast track to the creek. Moving purposefully through the warm, oppressively still air, brushing away the gnats and occasional mosquitoes, sweating inside his clothes and wishing this was his week in town, he rehearsed what to say to Pa. Pa, six-two, lean and hard as a rail, was never an easy man to deal with, even at his best. Like the time Pa went ahead and ripped out the chicken fence after Ma had told him it was a bad idea. The chickens scattered into the brush where they laid their eggs that day—but them that survived the day did come in the coop to roost—and there weren’t but a half dozen eggs to be found anywhere.. Ma just shook her head and said, “Sometimes your Pa just won’t listen. But, not to worry, Jess, he always seems to finally figure things out—just a little slow sometimes—but he always seems to land right-side up. Pa put the fence back up the next day. Then there were Ma’s last words before she left. Jesse could still hear her spitting them out like bitterroot sap. “If you’re too damned poor to pay for a line from the county road to the house,” she slashed with her steely city voice, “You sure as hell can’t afford to feed a family.” They had argued before about a telephone line. This time it was electricity, and this time they both lost. She really did it. She left. Two days later she intercepted Jesse just as school let out and took him to her three-room and a bath walk-up over the hardware store on Main Street. There was hell to pay over that; but they worked it out. Now, every other week he stayed in town, got a real shower using all the water he wanted and he and Ma feasted on delicacies like the sardines, cheese, and crackers she brought home from the store. Jesse, sweating harder and attracting more gnats, moved faster, quickly reaching the fork that took him to the fence-line bordering Pa’s cotton field and ending at the edge of the driveway. ## The house smelled of burned beans. It almost always smelled of something burned when he came for his week with Pa. Pa wasn’t much of a cook, but his speciality was beans and they were usually o.k. But not today. Jesse tugged at one strap of his patched overalls, pulling it back up over his thin shoulder. He paused, scratching his arm where the gnats had got at it. “Darn!” He almost tripped again over his flap-soled tennis shoe as he hurried down the narrow hall into the kitchen, grabbed a cold, boiled sweet potato from the pie safe and headed toward the back porch. “Pa, hey Pa!” He paused on the covered, open-sided porch, cramming the last of the soft potato into his mouth as his eyes darted from the garden to the weathered corncrib and finally the barn lot. There, his back turned to the house as if not having heard, Pa was rubbing Babe down with a tow sack. Bobby, still wearing harness collar and rigging, was standing quietly, huge head hanging low, ears forward, waiting his turn. Pa took really good care of the mules. Jesse had heard him say that without them mules this farm wouldn’t be much--Ma always smirked, “It wasn’t that much to begin with.” She was always complaining, “Hasn’t improved a darn bit since you took it over from your dad when you got back from the war—you could at least get rid of those mules and buy a tractor.” Pa just shrugged her off—said he saw enough machines building roads in the Philippines—said he didn’t care if he never sat on another tractor seat--and he didn’t want to talk about it. “Pa, did you hear about the storm? There’s a really big storm coming—they said so at school!” Pa finished with Babe, opened the gate and led the tired, sweaty animal into the small, unsheltered corral. He turned his attention to Bobby while answering Jesse, “You’re yelling like a banshee, boy. You’ll scare them chickens so they won’t lay! Quiet down! Ain’t in no mood for yelling!” Jesse blinked, turned his head away for a minute and rubbed at his eye. Then looking straight at Pa, important and serious, he urgently resumed, “But Pa, I heard there’s going to be a big storm--it’s coming sometime real soon—we’re supposed to go inland right away. The principal said!” Silently, Pa rubbed Bobby’s sweaty body with the tow sack. That finished, he picked up the mule’s feet, checking each hoof. He used his knife to dig a stone out from around the frog on one foot, and then put Bobby in the corral. Still silent, Pa walked to the corn crib, opened the door, filled a bushel basket with ears of field corn, carried it back to the corral and emptied it into the feed trough. “Pa, we are going inland, aren’t we? And what about the stock--what should we do with the chickens?” Pa stiffened slightly, frowned as he adjusted his sweat-ringed hat on his head, and, voice sharp, retorted, “Get to your chores, boy. Get those eggs gathered up while it’s still light out—don’t want some varmint raiding the coop—and don’t be bothering me again with your nonsense. There’s been storms before—ain’t no big thing. We’re not going nowhere.” He turned away from Jesse, walked toward the house where the well abutted the end of the porch and began turning the crank handle, lowering the water-bucket down into the tepid water. Drawing the filled bucket up, he scooped a dipper of water and drank deeply, grimacing as a bead of sweat rolled down into his eye. In a gentler voice he said, “After chores, we might go down past the creek and gig us some frogs—they’s some pretty big ones around.” In the corral, Babe and Bobby snuffled the corn indifferently. Periodically they raised their heads, and stood at attention. Then Babe began to toss her head, flopping her ears and sending drops of slobber flying. They both began to pace restlessly around the fence, stopping occasionally to paw dust clouds. “Babe! Bobby! Settle down you durn fools!” Pa strode quickly to the corral fence looking for something spooking the tired animals. Seeing nothing amiss he sputtered at them, “Dang fool animals, settle down and eat.” He glanced upward at the dark clouds rolling in from the south and then headed toward the house. ## Later, sitting over their supper of beans, turnip greens and cold leftover cornbread, Pa asked the blessing. “Lord bless this food we are about to eat. And Lord, if they’s really going to be a storm, give us lots of rain. Things is getting mighty dry.” Pa chuckled, glanced across the table at Jesse, looking at his bowed head, and added, “ And Lord, tell those teachers not to be filling up Jess’s head with nonsensical ideas like his Ma gets--tell them to just stick to teaching him his reading, writing and arithmetic.” Jesse flinched a little and sqwinched his eyes more tightly shut. “Amen,” they chorused. After the blessing, Pa hurriedly made out his supper in the fading light from the kitchen window so they could reach the marsh in time to gig bullfrogs. Jesse wiped his nose with the back of his hand and took a tentative forkful of beans. “Where’s you appetite, boy? Ain’t your Ma been feeding you right? You feeling alright?” “Yessir. Just not very hungry tonight.” The stink and dried-out taste of burned beans wasn’t much disguised by the heavy dose of salt and the fatty scum from chunked salt-pork with which they’d been seasoned. Through the window, Jesse watched high lightning strikes in the south, beyond town, out over the Gulf. He scooped another forkful of beans into his mouth and swallowed hard, washing the beans down with a big swig of buttermilk. ## They took the path through the woods at a fast clip, slowing only to note the promising Chinquapin crop and the hard, green Scuppernongs. “Your Ma used to make great Scuppernong jelly,” Pa mused. Reaching the point where the path split, they took the fork that led to the creek. It drained into a spongy marsh, home to a profusion of swamp creatures, even alligators deeper in. This time of evening you could always hear a cacophony of buzzing, booming, croaking and night bird song. “Pa, how come the ‘gators ain’t booming? And I don’t hear no frogs.” “Danged if I know for sure. It is real quiet tonight, though. Listen . . . no birdsong either. That’s a sign they know there’s some weather brewing. Critters always know—but we have weather every year. Like I said before, ain’t no big thing.” Pa picked up his stride and headed on down the path. When they reached the junction of the creek and marsh they stopped short, amazed--there encroaching on the dry bank were hundreds of crawfish moving like a blanket toward them away from the marsh. “Damn, I never seen anything like this,” Pa exclaimed. “Jesse! Boy! Quick, run back to the barn and grab a couple buckets--never seen nothing like this before—let’s gather up a bunch of these mud-bugs before they disappear. I’ll drive you in to school tomorrow and then take them down to the docks and sell them.” Ignoring the crawfish, Jesse pleaded for his attention, “But Pa, I tried to tell you. There ain’t no school tomorrow. Mr. Black said. They’re closing school because of the storm. ” He looked up intently at his father, an older, weathered edition of himself, as if he could communicate the importance of his message through his eyes. “Hell, yes, you’re going to school tomorrow. Don’t give me that nonsense! Now, go. Go! Get the buckets!” Jesse dropped his gig and ran back to the barn where he gathered up the three cleanest buckets he could find. Still running, he returned to the marsh. They were still on the march, a crawfish exodus. Pa was pacing, anxiously watching some of the crawfish escape into the grass and brush. “Hurry up! Think it might rain soon,” exclaimed Pa, “We’d best hurry and gather up these devils.” Jesse wiped his sweaty face with one hand while juggling a large crawfish, grabbing it behind its claws. Tossing it into the bucket, he agreed, “Yessir, it’s supposed to.” He looked to the south and saw more high distant lightning strikes. “Yessir,” he repeated, turning his attention to the crawfish, gathering them with both hands, grabbing carefully, avoiding their claws, and dropping them into the bucket. They were gold! They’d be worth a fortune at the restaurant in town. Maybe the storm’s not going to be such a bad thing. ## “Jesse, boy! You’re burning daylight. Breakfast is ready—get yourself washed up and let’s get going.” Pa’s voice rang with good humor. Jesse open one sleep-crusted eye and peered out the small window. Morning had dawned late. The sprinkles of rain had become a steady, warm downpour. The lightning had abated, and the air was still. He tumbled out of bed, bare feet hitting the rough wood floor cautiously to avoid splinters, and slipped into his wilted underwear and overalls. He shook out his shoes one at a time, looked at them in disgust, and left them lying by the end of the bed. Barefooted, Jesse went through the kitchen where the wood-burning range overheated the room, drying the air and spreading the smell of eggs and mush with cracklin’s sizzling in the crusted cast-iron skillet throughout the house, and out the back door to the porch. He used the enclosed toilet, a hopeful concession made to Ma in the months before she left, and washed up in an enamel basin filled with well water that felt cold in the warm air. After completing his ablution, he returned to the kitchen where Pa had laid out breakfast, eggs and fried mush with cane syrup for topping, and had begun eating. “Hurry up and eat, boy. You’ll be late for school,” Pa mumbled through a mouthful of mush and eggs, and then, “What’s wrong?” Jesse looked down at his eggs. One had a blood spot—he poked at it as he spoke. “Pa, do you think you’ll have enough left over to get me a new pair of sneakers?” Then he looked up at his father. Pa looked tired. Kinda’ old-like. “Mayhap, Jess. But I’m thinking you’re old enough for some good stout brogans. They last longer. Protect your feet good, too, when you’re workin’ the fields.” Pa looked at him serious-like, “And you’re getting big enough to handle the team.” Jesse looked down again at his plate. He stabbed the blood spot. Thick, yellow yolk oozed, hiding it. “All the kids at school wear sneakers.” “Sneakers? What the hell good’s a sneaker? Doesn’t ‘t sound like something you’d want to be wearing.” Pa looked genuinely puzzled. “That’s what all the kids wear--and they call brogans Lil Abners. They say only hicks wear Lil Abners.” He gave Pa a quick glance again, then dropped his eyes jumped up and abruptly left the kitchen, saying, “I gotta get my shoes—And, Pa, what did you do about the chickens?” “I told you, boy, not to worry. The chickens are all right—the mules are all right—I milked the cow already, and she’s all right. Everything’s all right! Just get your shoes, eat your vittles and let’s get on with it!” Jessie examined the loose sole on his left sneaker, then slipped into the worn shoes and tied the frayed laces. He shook his head and rubbed his eyes, leaving wet, smudgy streaks on his cheeks before he returned to face Pa and his cooking. ## The wind was beginning to pick up, buffeting the battered, dented Ford pick-up with small sharp jabs and punches as they drove down the dirt road that intersected with the paved county road a mile away. The pick-up strained a little against the wind and rain, jolting along its thin, worn tires. When they reached the paved surface of the county road it picked up speed, sometimes rocking along smoothly as the wind shifted directions. Jesse was quiet, rigid with concern when sheeting rain obscured the visibility through the windshield. Pa frowned slightly when the wipers momentarily lifted off the glass and bent backward. He responded by slowing just a little. They sped by the Chevron station where he bought his gas and ice; its windows and door were boarded over. He drove more intently, looking a little tight around the mouth. “Pa, I don’t see any other cars anywhere. The streetlights are still on. Pa …I’m scared—let’s go inland—please!” Pa turned toward the school and pulled up in front. “Son, this is just another storm—just like I told you. You don’t have to be scared—we’ve had storms before,” Pa reached over and tousled his hair. “I’m going on down to the seafood store and sell these mud-bugs. I’ll see you when you get home from school—trust me, son, we gonna’ be O.K—and maybe tonight we can the Monkey Ward catalog for some shoes.” Pa’s voice gentled with his words. But it sounded like it was coming through a tunnel from a long ways away. “Yessir,” Jesse eased out of the pickup, turned and waved at his father and headed toward the school. The wind was at his back. He trotted to keep from falling. Rain was soaking his head and shoulders and water was leaking through the sole of his shoe. As he entered the building, Mr. Jezzle, the old, colored janitor, intercepted him at the door. “No school today, son. Most everybody’s gone inland or staying home to ride her out. I’m supposed to tell anybody comes to school to get on over go to the Courthouse. That’s the designated place for folks who stayed. You get yourself on up there now—the wind’s picking up.” Jess turned back toward the street, but Pa was already out of sight. He stood a minute, as if deciding what to do. “You go on, now, boy. You hurry,” admonished Mr. Jezzle. Jesse could see the County Courthouse that stood in mute testimony to the determination of Commissioner Beau Fuller who had pushed for a two-story building when the new Courthouse was proposed, to be built further inland, across town from the school. It was the only two-story building in town. Fuller’s Folly, some had jeered when it was built. Jesse headed that way, the wind again at his back, hurrying him along in spite of the sloshing in his shoes and weight of his sodden clothes. Before he got there, he lost the baling twine and the sole of his shoe flipped dollops of water upward when he walked. There were no cars on the streets and only a few people on foot heading toward the Courthouse. He could see where some folks had boarded their windows and tied garbage cans and bikes to clothesline poles to secure them. When he looked toward the interstate in the distance to the west, he saw a few cars heavily loaded with families, pets and some furniture, headed inland. Not many, though. When Jesse got to the Courthouse there weren’t many people inside. Mostly, folks had either headed inland or were riding it out at home. Everybody knew there’d been storms before—not to worry. First, he looked around for Ma. When he didn’t see her, he positioned himself on a bench by the courtroom door that provided a view of the front door, so he wouldn’t miss her when she arrived. She wouldn’t go inland without him, of that he was certain. People around him were talking softly, being calm and sensible. He heard ol’ Fat Smith telling his wife and child, “Don’t you worry none, just stay here. I’m going to the house and get the savings jar—I’ll be back directly.” Old Mrs. Abrams was there, her Chihuahua in her arms, soothing it, “Don’t you cry, baby. Mamma won’t let nothing get you!” The dog’s eyes bulged wildly as it shook and shivered in her arms; The Gillette’s, from the farm just west of Pa’s, were huddled together on the other end of his bench, Mrs. Gillette making a low moaning sound as old man Gillette led her and the kids in a pleading impromptu prayer. Periodically, the would all stop and listen as the wind picked up and began to scream, howly-like, around the corners of the building. By noon, the winds had the sound of a freight train roaring in off the water. The Commissioners and their office staff were handing out cold sandwiches and coffee when the lights went out making it difficult to see inside the building. Jesse took his bologna sandwich and walked over to the door. He saw Mr. Jezzle being pushed up the walk, wind-driven rain pounding him from behind. “Hey, Mr. Jezzle, are you ok?” Jesse searched his face as he entered. “Did my Pa come back for me—did you see him—did you see my Ma?” “Ain’t nobody out there on them streets, boy. Ain’t seen your Pa or your Ma,” Mr. Jezzle shook his head solemnly. “Reckon maybe they headed home to ride her out.” He turned away from Jesse and moved toward the long table pushed up against the courtroom wall where someone had moved the bust of Jefferson Davis to one side and replaced it with a coffee urn. Jesse returned to the bench and watched to door. Throughout the afternoon, the wind and rain raged creating an almost hypnotic ambiance. Folks became still, stuperous, while the water rose in the street outside until it reached the Courthouse doors and then began to cover the floors. “Come on, everybody, up to the second floor,” Beau Fuller had taken charge and was directing traffic up the wide stairs in the center of the building. “Hurry up, folks, the water’s rising.” Jesse reached the Appraiser’s office on the second floor in time to witness the surge. It came without warning, a massive wall of water, exploding houses, carrying boats inland from the marina, moving roofs and power poles around like Tinker Toys. There was debris-filled water as far as he could see. The surge pushed a huge ocean-going barge, bobbing on the water like a dry leaf, north among floating roofs and uprooted trees, east toward where Piggly Wiggly had stood. Disbelief generated a stunned silence. Folks stood huddled in small groups, stupefied, in shock. Some time later it turned calm and quiet outside. The wind had died down along with the rain and Jesse, still standing watch at the window, could see some sky and a few seagulls. He went to the landing at the top of the stairs to check the water. It had stopped rising, but was still rushing through the Courthouse through the front door and out the back like the north branch of Fern Creek in the spring. He looked outside at what had been the town. There were no houses standing. Trees, power poles, roofs, pieces of furniture and other debris floated aimlessly, catching here and there and creating sodden dams of rubble. He guessed he wouldn’t be riding the bus home today. Beau Fuller was consulting with the other commissioners when the winds began again. “We’re not finished yet. Can’t let these folks go. Besides, where would they go? Nothing out there now, not even boats.” As suddenly as it had quieted, the wind shifted and rose, pushing the waves and floating debris in the opposite direction. Overhead Jesse saw lightning strikes, low now and near, and what looked like a funnel-cloud forming off to the north. He was beginning to shake when someone put an arm around his shoulders. Looking up, he saw old Mr. Jezzle. “I figure your Ma and Pa are probably alright,” Mr. Jezzle assured him. Your Pa, he knows how to take care of things, they’re likely riding her out together somewhere safe. They’re probably just fine.” Mr. Jezzle patted him on the back and gave Jesse kindly smile exposing a mouthful of stained and crooked teeth. “Yessir, I reckon so.” Jesse looked back out the window at the devastation. “But I don’t know how.” ## Jesse sidled in close when Mo Thompson came to let folks know what they had found when they were finally able to go out in the boats looking. The deputy’s voice was serious, but edged with relief, as he told Mrs. Smith they had found Fat, naked, clinging to a telephone pole. “He’s getting checked out at the police station in Biloxi. That storm blew his clothes and shoes away.” The corners of his mouth twitched a little as he went on, “Quite a sight. . .ol’ Fat, bare-assed, waiting to meet his Maker—he was durn mad because he lost the savings jar when he grabbed onto the telephone pole—but at least he’s still alive..” Mo continued in a sadder tone, “ Swede Svenson, you know, the school-bus driver, lived out on Spring Branch road? They found him on his barn roof, floating around east of the Spring Branch Bridge—he’s alive, but Berta didn’t make it.” Mo lowered his voice, “She drowned during the surge—Swede’s blaming himself—says he’s leaving this damned hellhole.” Jesse edged closer to the deputy awaiting his chance, “Mr. Thompson. Did you see my Pa? Have you seen my Ma?” His stomach was quivering. He struggled to keep his voice from breaking, but still his question ended on a soprano note. “No, son, didn’t get out that far yet. There’s still real high water and debris loaded with Moccasins. It’ll be a while before we get that far out in the county. But I’m sure your folks are ok. They probably went inland, don’t you think? They’re probably safe and sound and worrying about you.” Mo smiled at Jesse, but the smile didn’t reach his cop eyes and he turned away quickly before Jesse could ask another question. Jesse half-listened as Mo gravely described the ante-bellum homes that had lined the shore--how they were blown off their foundations, some shattered and roofless, some blown completely away along with the coast highway. “Things are real bad out there,” he concluded. The group dispersed, withdrawing into their own thoughts, some praying, others holding one another or just sitting and staring. ## Ma didn’t find him till later—much later. Jesse stayed in the Courthouse for six days, along with the Miss Maebelle, ole lady Abrams and the Gillette family, listening to them pray, curse and cajole, trying to bargain with God. Pa always had no truck for such goings-on. He always said God helps them that helps themselves. The Red Cross and the National Guard brought in provisions for them—food, clothing, cots, drinking water and the like—at first, by boat. Jesse was deemed an orphan probably, but not to his face. He didn’t cry, didn’t talk much, just watched out the windows each day as the water receded revealing a Hiroshima landscape unlike any ever seen thereabouts. In the clear, sunny days following, he could see survivors seeking remnants of their former lives. Families, homes and possessions now existed mostly in an almost foreign, parallel dimension existing only in memory. Nothing much was the same, except for the snakes and birds that thrived in the humid sub-tropical heat. Jesse still waited at the Courthouse with others left homeless and immobilized by stunned disbelief. He had no place to go and no one to go to. On the seventh day, he heard his Ma shrilling down on the first floor, “My boy, name’s Jesse Baxley, anyone seen him? His Pa…,” her voice broke and sounded weepy, left him at the school—came and found me—we couldn’t get back. We had to backtrack and head north…fast. Ed wouldn’t go—sent me along with folks from the Methodist Home—said he had to look to the stock. Said he was going to ride it out. Are they here? Either of them? My God, is my family here?” Her babbling turned into a sob when she saw him. “Oh, Jess. Thank God.” He slowly headed down the stairs. “I’m here, Ma,” flat voiced, flat eyed, shoulders slumped, Jesse walked to where she stood. “You went inland, huh? Pa didn’t, right? He was going to take care of the farm, right? Check on the stock and stuff, right?” “Oh, Jess,” she hugged him real hard. “I just got back. I don’t know where your Pa got to for sure. Last time I saw him he was heading out to the farm Damn fool wouldn’t listen. But we gonna' look for him, find him, Don’t worry baby, things’ll be alright. They will. Everything going to be alright.” It sounded more like a prayer. ## They stayed at the Courthouse for three more days, waiting for the roads to clear. Reports were coming in more often as rescuers made their way further out into the county dump trucks and utility vehicles. The reports weren’t good. Hundreds of people had decided to ride out the storm and hundreds of people perished. Drowned, mostly. Some people had retrieved bodies and taken them in wheelbarrows to the police station over in Pass Christian where the storm had spared some of the buildings. From there, they were transferred to the cold storage plant just north of town for safekeeping until they were identified or claimed and could have proper burials. Jesse’s sleep was populated with dreams of crawfish climbing onto the bank and heading his way, too many to scoop into buckets. They just kept coming, ignoring him, moving past him toward dry land—safety. During the days, he watched and waited. He was sitting on the bench by the courtroom door where the Commissioners had set up headquarters when Mo Thompson reported in, two weeks after the storm. Mo didn’t see him. No one did. He’d been there so long and so often that he had become invisible, just a part of the woodwork. Mo was mobbed by the folks gathered in the lobby before he made it into the headquarters. They hung on Mo’s every word seeking some glimmer of hope or consolation. “We made it out to the end of Deer Creek road. There’s still lots of debris and snakes everywhere—they washed out of the rivers into the gulf during the storm, then washed ashore and made themselves at home. God, it’s awful out there.” Mo glanced around, saw only the faces nearest him, and dropped his voice into that quiet tone adults use when they don’t want kids to hear or understand. “We found Ed Baxley. He didn’t make it. Looked like he stayed to ride out the storm. He musta’ climbed a tree when the water came up high. When we found him, he was snake-bit and drowned. The snakes took to the trees, too. Now there’s a fella’ who really had some bad luck! Who’s gonna’ tell his kid? Jesse, right? Him and his ma are still here, right? Poor little kid’s been waiting so damned long.” No one moved to volunteer. No one moved when Jesse walked by them straight out the door. He didn’t get too far, though. There was no place to go—no way to erase those words. “Damnation, he was right there!” Mo looked at around at the stricken faces and then went after him. Mo caught up with him, but had no comfort to give. ## Jesse stood beside his mother watching as Pa’s coffin was lowered into the raw, muddy hole. Blinking back tears, Ma put a shaking arm around his shoulder and tried to comfort him. For a moment she forgot her city voice. “He just wouldn’t listen. Never did listen good too good—I always hated that about him--and he just could not let go of that old farm. He couldn’t move on. He was just too darned stubborn.” Dry-eyed, Jesse looked up at his mother. “He was gonna’ sell them mud-bugs down at the docks, get me some new shoes—that’s what he told me. Then he found you. Changed his mind and headed home instead.” Jesse looked down at his right foot where thick mud caked between the shoe sole and the sole of his foot. “He didn’t think I needed new sneakers, anyway.” “God, Jess. I knew he was tight, but that’s awful. No to speak ill of the dead, but that’s just awful!” Mom seemed to forget where they were, forgot she wasn’t still angry. “Don’t you worry none, Tomorrow I’ll get you some new sneakers—any kind you want.” “No ma’am,” Jesse replied, his voice sounding gentle and practical, “I’m thinking I won’t be needing sneakers anymore. Reckon I’ll be needing some good, stout boots.”