story, but it seems an escaped lion or something got into a building up the street and got hold of some woman. Chewed her leg right off, is what I hear."
"A lion?" Irena felt a quickening of her interest. The fine hairs quivered at the base of her neck.
"It was some kind of a big cat. Tiger, maybe, I don't know. Whatever it was really kicked up a fuss. Had a big crowd in here after it was over, but no two people seemed to have the same story about what happened."
Irena finished her Coke and set the glass down on the bar with a thump.
"Another one?"
"No, thank you. I have to go." She gathered up her sketchbook and her tote bag and headed out the door.
"Have a nice day," the bartender said, but she was already gone.
Irena walked down Bourbon Street aimlessly for a block. She was troubled by fragments of memory and unformed thoughts that she was afraid to examine too closely. On an impulse she stopped at a pay telephone and looked up the address of the Tabernacle Mission in the book.
The mission turned out to be a barny wooden frame building on North Rampart Street. It was badly in need of painting. Irena climbed the worn wooden steps and pushed open the door. About a dozen men and two or three women were scattered throughout the rows of benches. The odor of their unwashed bodies mingled with the smell of varnish. They were shabby and defeated-looking. Up in front, standing behind a peeling altar, an earnest man with plump cheeks and a rosy complexion was telling the people how to find riches within themselves by declaring for Jesus. The listeners seemed unconvinced.
A young woman with a clean-scrubbed face came up beside Irena.
"Hello, I'm Marianne. Is there something I can help you with?"
"I wonder if Paul Gallier is here. I'm Irena Gallier, his sister."
"No, Paul hasn't been in today. We don't usually see him more than twice a week." Hastily she added, "Not that we aren't grateful for the time he does give us."
"I see." Irena cleared her throat. "Might someone have called him down here last night?"
"Called him down?"
"I mean, might there have been an emergency or something?"
The young woman smiled. "We really don't have that kind of emergency here." She glanced around at the people slouching on the varnished benches. "Mostly all we get is people who are spiritually tired. They're willing to listen to the Word in exchange for a bit of food afterward. As you can see, we don't get much of a crowd. They could do much better by applying for welfare or food stamps, but our people are the kind who don't like the government's getting involved in their lives."
"Then you haven't seen my brother, today or last night?" Irena said.
"Sorry."
Irena thanked the girl and left the mission, slipping a bill into the offering box on her way out. Suddenly she felt very tired. Rather than walk all the way to Carondelet Street to catch the St. Charles trolley home, she hailed a taxi out in front of the mission.
When she got back to the Gallier house, Paul still had not returned. Femolly had prepared a dinner of baked chicken with a flaky crust flavored with herbs. Irena ate without enthusiasm.
"Did my brother call, or anything?" she asked.
"Nope," Femolly said. "Like I told you, sometimes he's gone two, three days. You mustn't worry, he'll come back when he can."
The dark woman disappeared into the kitchen then, and did not return until Irena had finished eating. She started to clear away the dishes, but Irena stopped her with a hand on her arm.
"Femolly, did you know my mother and father?"
"I knew them, child. Worked for them right here in this house, same as I do for your brother and you. They weren't here a whole lot, but I always kept the place ready for when they came."
"What kind of people were they?" Irena asked. "I've tried and tried, but I can't really remember anything about them."
Femolly's eyes looked into the distance. "They were fine people. Special people. Your father was the handsomest man you'd ever see. He
"A lion?" Irena felt a quickening of her interest. The fine hairs quivered at the base of her neck.
"It was some kind of a big cat. Tiger, maybe, I don't know. Whatever it was really kicked up a fuss. Had a big crowd in here after it was over, but no two people seemed to have the same story about what happened."
Irena finished her Coke and set the glass down on the bar with a thump.
"Another one?"
"No, thank you. I have to go." She gathered up her sketchbook and her tote bag and headed out the door.
"Have a nice day," the bartender said, but she was already gone.
Irena walked down Bourbon Street aimlessly for a block. She was troubled by fragments of memory and unformed thoughts that she was afraid to examine too closely. On an impulse she stopped at a pay telephone and looked up the address of the Tabernacle Mission in the book.
The mission turned out to be a barny wooden frame building on North Rampart Street. It was badly in need of painting. Irena climbed the worn wooden steps and pushed open the door. About a dozen men and two or three women were scattered throughout the rows of benches. The odor of their unwashed bodies mingled with the smell of varnish. They were shabby and defeated-looking. Up in front, standing behind a peeling altar, an earnest man with plump cheeks and a rosy complexion was telling the people how to find riches within themselves by declaring for Jesus. The listeners seemed unconvinced.
A young woman with a clean-scrubbed face came up beside Irena.
"Hello, I'm Marianne. Is there something I can help you with?"
"I wonder if Paul Gallier is here. I'm Irena Gallier, his sister."
"No, Paul hasn't been in today. We don't usually see him more than twice a week." Hastily she added, "Not that we aren't grateful for the time he does give us."
"I see." Irena cleared her throat. "Might someone have called him down here last night?"
"Called him down?"
"I mean, might there have been an emergency or something?"
The young woman smiled. "We really don't have that kind of emergency here." She glanced around at the people slouching on the varnished benches. "Mostly all we get is people who are spiritually tired. They're willing to listen to the Word in exchange for a bit of food afterward. As you can see, we don't get much of a crowd. They could do much better by applying for welfare or food stamps, but our people are the kind who don't like the government's getting involved in their lives."
"Then you haven't seen my brother, today or last night?" Irena said.
"Sorry."
Irena thanked the girl and left the mission, slipping a bill into the offering box on her way out. Suddenly she felt very tired. Rather than walk all the way to Carondelet Street to catch the St. Charles trolley home, she hailed a taxi out in front of the mission.
When she got back to the Gallier house, Paul still had not returned. Femolly had prepared a dinner of baked chicken with a flaky crust flavored with herbs. Irena ate without enthusiasm.
"Did my brother call, or anything?" she asked.
"Nope," Femolly said. "Like I told you, sometimes he's gone two, three days. You mustn't worry, he'll come back when he can."
The dark woman disappeared into the kitchen then, and did not return until Irena had finished eating. She started to clear away the dishes, but Irena stopped her with a hand on her arm.
"Femolly, did you know my mother and father?"
"I knew them, child. Worked for them right here in this house, same as I do for your brother and you. They weren't here a whole lot, but I always kept the place ready for when they came."
"What kind of people were they?" Irena asked. "I've tried and tried, but I can't really remember anything about them."
Femolly's eyes looked into the distance. "They were fine people. Special people. Your father was the handsomest man you'd ever see. He
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