Seeking Refuge At The Palm Court

An Evening in New Orleans, June 24, 2006

I parked my rental car a block off Decatur Street, feeling proud of myself for finding free street parking on a Saturday night in the French Quarter. I was in town for the American Library Association annual meeting and, being a native of the area, decided to see for myself how things were going in the city. It was my third visit to New Orleans since the hurricane: I was here last October, again in April, and now June. I felt a need to do my own personal assessment of the city's recovery.

It was still early, and hot, even though heavy gray clouds had gathered over the city. Rain was coming. A strong wind blew off the river and whipped up dust from the streets. Tourists with cigarettes and tattoos swarmed the sidewalks and crowded the entrances of bad restaurants with lots of neon and numerous television sets and good air conditioning. I was reminded of a question my son had once asked me when he was about six years old. It was right after nine-eleven and he was discovering the word terrorist, but he was confusing it with tourist, and he said "What's the difference, Dad?" I sighed and said "I don't know."

I walked up Decatur to St. Louis Street and turned left. My destination was the Napoleon House, a personal favorite of mine and one of the world's great watering holes by any standard of measure. For most of the afternoon at the library convention I had been dreaming of their signature tomato-and-vodka drink, spicy, with a string bean in it, perhaps accompanied by a muffaletta, an Italian sandwich prized by the locals. But it was not to be: the Napoleon House was closed for the evening. Not a good sign. I didn't remember it keeping such early hours. I had already noticed, during this visit to New Orleans, that the St. Charles streetcar was still not running; and now this. The city is definitely on life support.

I continued down Chartres to Jackson Square. A wedding party was trying to have pictures taken in front of the cathedral while buskers set up battered equipment for a night of performing. Very dirty people lounging on benches bummed cigarettes off each other. Sparkling well-scrubbed people stood in little clutches deciding where to eat and saying things like "So which one is the Pontalba House?"

I passed through the square and returned to Decatur Street, since it contained many of my own reference points for judging how the city had changed since my youth. The Central Grocery was closed, as expected, since it was a daytime food store, noteworthy for being the place where the muffaletta was invented. My mouth watered. I was not going to be denied my dinner of choice. Tujague's was open and seemed to have a good crowd. I was pleased, but didn't want to spend a lot of money dining alone; there was something depressing about that.

When I reached Decatur and St. Philip I found the Market Cafe. This establishment sits on the odd wedge-shaped property where Decatur splits into N. Peters. I believe it was the site of the Morning Call, a coffee stand that competed for years with the now-more-famous Cafe du Monde.

I entered the patio of the Market Cafe, thinking I would at least investigate the menu. A four-piece jazz band entertained diners beneath a broad awning that stretched from one side of the wedge to the other. I selected a table with a good view of both the band and the river, which was visible through an open space between buildings on the other side of the street. That same stiff breeze that I had felt earlier blew through the patio and sent napkins and bits of trash rolling past the guitar player's constantly-tapping foot. I again smelled rain.

I had only one question for the waitress after browsing the menu. "How are your muffalettas?"

"Excellent," she said. Of course.

"Okay I'll take one."

"Half or whole?"

"Half."

"And to drink?"

"How are your Bloody Marys?" I cringed when I said it; I had never liked that name. An old friend named Mary used to call them Jolly Marys, but I didn't think the waitress would know what I was talking about.

"It's our best selling drink," she said. Of course. She knew just what to say to me.

"I'll take one."

"House or market?" she asked.

When I didn't answer right away she said, "Market is the good stuff."

I took it as a challenge: am I the sort who takes mere house liquor in his drink? "Market," I stated. I could not interpret the amused expression that crossed her face as she wrote the order in her little pad.

The other patrons seemed to be visitors, like myself. There were two women, each dining alone, each with tote bags from the library convention. I wondered why they didn't introduce themselves and enjoy some shop talk about libraries. Maybe they had been doing that all day and were sick of it. A family of six wore gaudy Bourbon Street t-shirts. A white-haired couple chain-smoked cigarettes at the edge of the patio, downwind from my table.

The band seemed kind of bored. They mostly played the well-worn New Orleans standards that all the bands played. A beat-up wooden sign announced that they worked for tips only. The drummer stared over the crowd toward the river as he played, lost in thought but never losing his place in the tune. The bass player checked his cell phone for messages after each song, perhaps hoping to be summoned for a paying gig. The guitar player wore dark glasses and a dark hat and sat hunched over his instrument with a lit cigarette sticking out of the side of his mouth. The sax player sat next to him, the only black member of the group, providing the big sound that echoed throughout the patio and drew people off the sidewalk.

The manager of the restaurant came out to the patio every few minutes to visit patrons. He wore a big smile and a small mustache, and his graying hair had been dyed some kind of brownish-reddish color. When he passed the band he would hum whatever tune they were playing and snap his fingers in rhythm. Every once in a while he carried menus out to the sidewalk and called out his specials to passers-by. I heard him shout something across the street to the dishwasher who had stepped outside in his damp apron to smoke a cigarette.

Beyond the patio of the Market Cafe, in the very tip of the wedge between Decatur and N. Peters, stood a cluster of crepe myrtle trees in bloom. Suddenly a gust of wind caught the trees just right and, Pop!, pink blossoms burst like confetti and swirled through the patio and landed in drinks and came to rest on crawfish bisque and some fell to the floor and mingled with cigarette butts and discarded napkins. By this time my drink had been served to me--strong and very spicy--and I sat back to enjoy the show. Even the musicians reacted to Nature's accompaniment by tightening up their loose, laid back, heat-induced, rhythmic style. I saw the drummer now looking beyond the edges of the patio with something like excitement, or merely interest, in his eyes.

My muffaletta came and it was perfect: layers of imported ham and salami, topped with a salad of crushed olives and roasted peppers, and encased in warm bread. I was content and happy that I had found something a local might enjoy: a bite of tasty food and a strong drink and some jazz tunes, all at a modest price and without waiting. This was how the locals liked their city: cheap and good and fast.

The band played a short, Dixieland version of C Jam Blues and then took a break. I was pleasantly surprised to note that no juke box music came on to fill the dreaded dead air that existed while a band was on break. It was pleasantly quiet on the patio. The drummer ate an ice cream sandwich while the bass player talked on his cell phone. The guitarist stepped into the bar across the street and I didn't see where the sax player went. I ate my meal and felt my mind and body slow down. No one was in a hurry here. It was too hot to be in a hurry.

Soon the librarians left and the family left and the chain-smoking couple left, all to be replaced by other diners. New faces. More of them. Most tables were filled now. I was the lone holdover from the previous wave. I became the old timer on the patio, the tenured diner who knew a good muffaletta when he saw one. It was a darker, too. I could see the famous Tujague's sign lighting up against a heavy gray cloud. I was aware that time had passed without checking the time. The band returned for the next set and launched into more standards.

I didn't actually see the first few drops of rain; instead I saw pedestrians holding out their palms and looking skyward. Then I saw a few others duck beneath the awnings that covered most of the sidewalks. Then the drops were plainly visible, just a few at first, then more, then the skies opened up. Fat raindrops crashed to the pavement and awnings and parked cars. Each drop caused a sharp splat and millions of drops created a roar. The gutters filled with rushing water. The air became a swirling bath of rainwater and steam. A powerful and familiar smell hit me. It was the rain and the river, and the streets of the neighborhood where I grew up and the pecan trees and St Augustine grass in my front yard. Every rainstorm, I remembered, carried all of those smells in a little memory capsule. It was then I noticed, with almost a laugh, the grains of uncooked rice in the salt shakers. How could that old trick possibly work in such humid weather?

The band, positioned on the downwind side of the patio, didn't miss a beat as the rain fell. On my side of the patio, the wind-driven rain slanted onto the tables near the edge. I picked up my meal and darted to an empty table near the band. The waitress pulled tables in while patrons picked up their food and drinks and purses and shopping bags and hurried across the patio.

My new seat provided me with a side view of the band, and, beyond, a view down Decatur Street to the old Jax Brewery. My drink by this time was nothing but a cup of mostly melted ice cubes. The waitress sensed my dilemma and appeared at my side as if by magic. I shrugged. "I guess I'm having another," I said.

"Well, it is raining," she said.

What a treat, I thought, to wait out a New Orleans rainstorm in a patio bar with good booze and a live band. This was living!

The rain continued for fifteen or twenty minutes and then slowed to a drizzle and then stopped altogether. I could hear water gurgling in the gutters, and could see a sheen of flowing water on the streets reflecting the Tujague's sign and the traffic lights.

People once again filled the sidewalks. The manager went out with his menus as the band started playing When The Saints Go Marching In. As the sound of the big sax filtered out of the patio, a group of college kids started dancing on the sidewalk. I suspected they might be cheerleaders when I saw their routine become very acrobatic. Two women leapt into the air in rhythm with the music and were caught and twirled by tall men with muscled bodies and short hair. Then the sax player handed the solo to the guitarist, who created a danceable yet soulful jig out of that tired tune. Even the bass player reached deep and possibly for the first time that evening pleased himself by finding a riff that satisfied. I gave the band a good tip.

A thought occurred to me about New Orleans at that moment. It was my own little riff. It was the idea that the best way to visit the city was to let it visit you. To sit in one spot and let weather and humanity and music and trash flow around you like a lazy river. I think that was what I had always done here without realizing it. I had to go away in order to see it.

My second drink was now empty and I decided it was time to move on. Out of curiosity, I asked the waitress where she was from. Pittsburg was the answer. I wondered if there were any locals still left in the French Quarter.

I continued up Decatur Street, noticing a striking increase in light and noise coming from some of the bars compared to what I could recall from my last visit to the Quarter, perhaps four or five years ago. Some establishments had become caverns of light: floors, ceilings and walls bathed in painful hues of fluorescent color. Television screens, mirrors, and shiny bar stools completed the visual spectacle while my ears were assaulted by booming electronic bass notes coming from enormous loudspeakers. I was certain the sounds could be heard by tugboat operators clear out in the middle of the Mississippi River.

But I walked for a few more blocks instead of turning back because there was a place I had in mind, a reliable oasis of civilized good cheer, a local hangout, a barometer to measure either the decline or rebirth of New Orleans, depending on your point of view. It was the Palm Court.

The Palm Court is an anomaly in the French Quarter. It's only open a few days each week, and only until about eleven o'clock. And every year it closes for the summer. The owner and founder, an Englishwoman named Nina Buck, is a great lover of New Orleans music and wanted to create an establishment for showcasing the best in local jazz talent, especially the older musicians who play a rapidly disappearing style. In that respect the Palm Court is somewhat like Preservation Hall, except that it has a full menu and a bar, and doesn't get the crush of tourists.

The Palm Court is charming and understated: a simple tiled floor, exposed brick walls, ceiling fans, a few plants, soft lighting. Paintings and photographs of jazz musicians hang from the walls, along with a collection of record album covers, many of them produced and released by Nina's husband. The building itself had been a food warehouse for decades before the Bucks bought and renovated the place and opened the Palm Court in 1989. By New Orleans standards, that's young. But it quickly became an institution.

Within moments after walking in and finding an empty stool at the mahogany bar, I knew I had happened into the Palm Court on a special night: it was the last night of the season before Miss Nina, as she is called by everyone, closes the bar for the summer. I learned this from a gentleman sitting on my right who, with his wife, had come into town from the West Bank (of the Mississippi River, that is). I didn't catch their names, but I'll call him Ed. Ed was a true local, and a regular at the Palm Court. He told me right off that he and his wife were "Katrina survivors." Ed knew the names of all the band members, and he knew many of the patrons sitting around the bar.

Miss Nina was all over the place. She wore a blue-and-white print dress and flitted among the tables, greeting people and occasionally doing a dance step or two in front of the band. She served drinks from behind the bar, answered the phone, delivered things from the kitchen to the dining room, all with a natural elegance and charm. She was an Englishwoman who had become a classic New Orleans hostess.

Between songs, Nina mounted the stage to introduce the musicians: four old men and one young clarinet player. She gave an especially warm introduction for Lionel Ferbos, one of the living legends of the New Orleans music scene. Lionel was born in 1911 and today, at age 95, is still a working musician, playing trumpet in bands on a weekly basis. Nina explained that Lionel had lost his house and was displaced by Katrina but was back in town thanks to a lot of support from friends and fans and family. The crowd applauded warmly, and the band started their next tune. Lionel sat with his thin legs crossed one over the other, dressed in a white shirt and blue tie. The white fringes of hair on his temples contrasted with his black-rimmed spectacles. He blew big, warm tones in a calm, unhurried way. This was Dixieland playing in that relaxed, lazy style that, paradoxically, was both loose and precise.

Later in the evening, new people started pouring into the bar. Ed named several of them for me: they were all musicians just getting off work at Preservation Hall, and were stopping in for closing night at the Palm Court. It felt suddenly like a place of refuge. These people, who had only recently sought shelter from Katrina, now, I fancied, sought shelter from a different kind of threat: the disappearance of a distinct New Orleans subculture. I imagined these musicians to be the last holdouts against a tide of noise and bad taste, the last Dixieland players in the last bastion of Dixieland playing. Ed introduced me to a large man with a white hat and sunglasses who had been playing bass for sixty-eight years. This was his life.

Nina greeted all of them by name and made sure they had seats and drinks and food. The conversations surrounding me were all about local things: music, jobs, houses, recovery, FEMA, the mayor and his bad jokes. One woman who worked for a local medical school explained that the city had lost half its doctors. Another talked about how long she had to look before she found an affordable apartment. One man told me he had just interviewed for a job at the University of Washington and wanted to know about the jazz scene in Seattle. I told him about my favorite clubs and the diversity of jazz styles you can hear and the Earshot Jazz Festival. I asked him why he was moving, and he said "It's time."

Finally, the band played their last song of the evening and took a bow that was more like a farewell, and then packed up the instruments and emptied the tip jar. It was closing time, for the summer, at the Palm Court. Miss Nina hugged old friends and kissed them on their cheeks. I said goodbye to Ed and his wife and, with some reluctance, left the bar. For a moment, I wanted to be a local again. I wanted to be in that bar, with the regulars, hashing over old times and ruminating about the future. But, alas, it wasn't my station in life at the moment.

I retraced my steps back down Decatur. I couldn't resist stopping in the Cafe du Monde for coffee and doughnuts. That's what they were called in my youth, as opposed to the cafe au lait and beignets you hear today. The patio crowd was of the tired, rumpled, sweaty, late-night variety. To them this was a foreign country: exotic, hot, humid, noisy, dirty, rainy, layered with grime and powdered sugar and cooking fat. The glasses of ice water sweated and slid around the table top. The coffee-and-chicory with scalded milk was perfectly prepared, the doughnuts were very fresh and warm. With each bite, I tasted home. Home was still here, in spite of everything.

Trip To N.O., La

I am preparing an essay to post here about my recent trip to New Orleans for the American Library Association annual meeting. Since New Orleans is my hometown, I figured, Hey, my take on things is as good as anybody's, right? After all, you are entitled to my opinion. (yes, I stole that line from a famous newsman)

Please check back in a day or two for the essay about my evening in the French Quarter, visiting my personal reference points. Okay, you might call them watering holes. Night Watch will resume a day or two after that.

Cheers. (uh, pun intended)

Bill

Night Watch, Part 7

Angela wanted water and a walk and a trip to the bathroom, not in that order. David helped her up, and tried to escort her around the bed.

"I can still walk," she said.

David stepped aside to let her pass, but in doing so bumped his arm into Victoria's breasts. She gave him a look with knives in it. He was losing friends fast in this household.

"Is it still raining?" Angela asked after coming out of the bathroom.

"It stopped a couple of hours ago," he said.

"I'm not exactly keeping track of the weather."

Right. He held the front door open. She marched past him with hair slightly tousled and a line on her cheek from the pillow. Angela was not a night person: one o'clock in the morning was never her sweetest hour, and one o'clock in the morning while in labor without medication was downright frightening. In his mind, his number one duty at the moment was to be as agreeable as possible.

"What did my parents say?" asked Angela.

"They wanted to know why you weren't at the hospital."

"And what did you say?"

"I said it wasn't time yet."

"They're not coming over, are they?"

"Your father offered to drive us to the hospital."

"He wants to help, poor thing. Think of something for him to do."

"Like what?"

"What do I look like, David, an event planner? Send him out for ice cream."

The streets were as still as he'd ever seen them. Not a leaf moved on trees dripping with moisture. The air was warm. In the distance he heard the faint whine of a truck on the highway, shifting through endless gears. Angela's sandals slapped against her heels.

"So are we agreed on Peter if the baby is a boy?" asked David.

Her face brightened, as though he had flipped a switch. Her crossness evaporated into the balmy night air and she rubbed against him playfully as they walked. "You read my mind," she said. "I was just thinking that Peter would be an okay name."

"We're always reading each other's minds," he said.

"And finishing each other's sentences. Maybe we should get married and have babies."

"I think we're doing that. Last time I checked you were seriously pregnant."

Her face darkened again; the switch was flipped the other way. "This baby is not cooperating. I haven't had a contraction in fifteen minutes."

"That's why we're walking," he said.

"I don't know if I can take this, David. I mean, what's the point of going without medication?"

"You're asking me? You're the expert. Let's see, recovery time is faster, it's potentially healthier for the baby, especially if they were to give you medication that gets into the baby's blood. And then there's the period afterward where you and the baby can start, you know, bonding because you're not on drugs."

Switch. Her face lit up. "Thank you, David. I needed a pep talk."

He knew he had told her nothing she didn't already know. But, it seemed, she needed to hear it from him.

"Whoa," she stopped suddenly and reached out to him. "Oh my God. That was major."

He saw the pain in her face, in the vibration of her lips and the look of surprise in her eyes. He stopped and held her and waited. She resumed breathing after a few seconds. "Whew. Now she's making up for lost time."

"She? Now you think it's a she?"

"Did I say she? I didn't say she."

"You said she."

Angela rolled her eyes. "Whatever. Maybe so. She's taking her sweet time about it. It must be a she."

Night Watch, Part 6

Just as David was rounding Angela's chin and approaching her neck with the cool compress, he felt a vibration coming from his pocket. It was his cell phone, on which he normally received only work-related calls, or calls from his wife when he was at the grocery store. At quarter to one in the morning it could only be bad news.

He looked at Angela. She had heard it; his phone didn't vibrate noiselessly, it was more like a yoga hum. She made a why-are-you-getting-calls-from-work-when-I'm-having-a-baby kind of face, which he took to mean that he should answer the call.

"Excuse me," he said, and tiptoed from the room.

"David," he said into his cell phone.

"Hey boss, it's Graphite. We got ten sites down."

Graphite was Grayland Wright, whose friends had long ago shortened his name to Graphite. He wore orange hair and black clothes and was the all-night help desk engineer at the small computer services firm that David and Angela owned.

"Have you talked to the hosting company?" asked David.

"They had a spam attack that brought down three servers. They're blaming it on one of our sites."

"We don't have any clients that spam."

Then David heard a loud groan of pain from the bedroom. Graphite had heard it, too. "What the heck was that? Are you at the zoo?"

David made a mental note to tell that to Angela. Later, when she wasn't delivering a baby.

"My wife's in labor. Listen, Graphite, you gotta handle this one. It's one o'clock in the morning. Chances are no one will notice."

"Our online dating client already called."

"Well, that figures."

Victoria rushed from the bedroom. "David, I need your help. The baby's turning a little."

"Man, what are you guys doing?" asked Graphite.

"I'm coming," David said to Angela.

"Graphite, talk to the hosters. Find out why their backups aren't working. This is their problem."

He hung up and tossed the phone on the sofa; he wasn't planning to take any more calls.

Victoria was kneeling on the floor when he entered the bedroom. "Hold her from that side," she said.

David knelt on the bed, next to Angela. He placed his palms flat against the side of Angela's stomach. Victoria then applied stronger pressure on the other side. Angela lay with her head back. David couldn't tell what she was feeling.

"What is it?" David asked Victoria.

"See this bulge? That's the head. I don't think it's lined up with the top of the cervix. I want it going straight down. So I'm just going to massage this side to coax it back into position."

Victoria's eyes glowed with excitement. "Wow, the uterus is really contracting now."

David silently reprimanded himself for not reading more about labor. He still could not comprehend the logistics of the whole enterprise. Imagine the very first woman, giving birth for the very first time. She must have thought she was turning inside out. Angela was looking at her stomach now. Her face had the most intense expression he had ever seen, all focus, all energy, on this one event. True, it was a biggie, as events go.

"I wish I knew more about this," said David.

Victoria talked while she massaged. "The muscles of the uterus are contracting to pull the cervix over the baby's head. Once the baby gets through the cervix, the vagina has amazing ability to stretch to allow the baby to pass."

David gulped. He was learning that in the birthing business, you have to be careful about asking questions: they might be answered in more detail than you needed. The phone rang. Thank you!

"That's my parents," said Angela. "Don't let them come over. They can come to the hospital tomorrow."

David nearly sprinted from the room to the kitchen, where the air was free of scented candles and sweat and another odor that he vaguely associated with Angela after sex.

"Hello," he said into the phone.

"It's Natalie. How's Angela?" Natalie was Angela's mother.

"She's in labor."

"What? Is she at the hospital?" David could picture Natalie's large brown eyes and the loose skin around her mouth and chin. Everything dangled from her: skin, jewelry, clothes, hair. She was an ornate lampshade in a rainbow of colors.

"She's here. It's not time to go," said David.

"Not time! She's in labor, for Heaven's sake." Then David heard her say, probably to Angela's father, "David says she's in labor already, but they're still at home."

He heard Buddy say, "He probably needs me to drive. Tell him we'll be right over."

"That's okay," said David. You had to be firm with Buddy and Natalie Tortorich. They never heard anything the first time, or the second time. He spoke a little louder into the receiver, "We're fine right now. It's not time yet."

"He says it's not time," Natalie said with her mouth turned away from the phone. David imagined Buddy, sitting in a chair in the hotel room, tired from the long drive on the Turnpike, wondering when Natalie will let him go to bed.

"Tell him to call the minute they're ready to go." Buddy said from across the room.

"He wants you to call when you're ready to go," Natalie repeated.

David quickly agreed, knowing that he would not do so. The last thing Angela wanted was her mother at the birthing center. Natalie would freak out, being from the general anaesthesia and cesarean generation. However, that was a problem for later. David hung up the phone and drank a glass of water. He thought about making another cup of coffee. It was going to be an all-nighter. That reminded him of the help desk, and he retrieved his cell phone from the sofa and checked it.

There was a message from Graphite. Instead of listening, he called.

"The dating service is pissed," said Graphite. "They want their server back up A.S.A.P."

"What did the hosting company say?"

"A power outage took down their backup servers at the same time as the spam attack," said Graphite with no urgency in his voice. He was incapable of getting excited about anything. The world could end and Graphite would quietly look for a bug fix.

"Perfect. What a night. What else could go wrong?"

"A bunch of big domains are blocking all emails from our server."

"Why?"

"They say we're spamming."

"Like hell. We don't do spam."

"Actually, they could be right. It seems the dating service sent out two hundred thousand emails a couple of hours ago."

"What?"

"They're running a special."

"That's not a special. That's fucking spam."

"Tell me about it."

David heard Victoria's voice from the bedroom. "David?"

"I gotta go. Stay on top of it, will you?"

"Sure, boss."

David hung up and returned to the bedroom. What else could go wrong?

Night Watch, Part 5

David paced the living room floor. It was a half-hour past midnight. He couldn't read, or sleep. Ten minutes ago, a painful shriek from the bedroom made him cringe. He imagined important body parts being enlarged inside of Angela, moving, shifting, widening, making way.

He heard his name called from the bedroom. He rushed in; craving a duty to perform, anything.

Victoria handed him a bowl with a damp washcloth in it. "Could you freshen that up with cool water? And I need another with warm water."

"Two washcloths, one cool, one hot," David replied, using the tone of voice he learned as a short-order cook near the Auburn campus.

"And could I get a glass of water with that?" asked Victoria, picking up the routine with ease.

"Yes, ma'am," said David. She was quick. He looked at Angela, who smiled weakly from her perch against the pillows. "Can I get you anything?" he asked.

"A baby," she said.

"Sorry, we don't sell those anymore. The health department shut us down."

Angela groaned and shifted her position. David rushed out of the room. He brought back two clean washcloths, side by side in the bowl, one hot, one cold. He had noticed that the old washcloth smelled of perspiration, Angela's. She was having an all-night workout. It made his occasional morning jog around the neighborhood seem like napping by comparison. He handed the bowl and the glass of water to Victoria.

"You can help," said Victoria. She handed him a cloth. "The cool one is for her cheeks and forehead."

David knelt on the bed and gently pressed the cool cloth against Angela's forehead. He saw immediate relief in her face. Meanwhile, Victoria applied the warm cloth to Angela's legs and stomach and abdomen for the purpose, she explained, of relaxing the muscles and tissue around the birth canal. "We have to let them stretch, you see." No, he didn't see how it was mechanically possible, but there was no turning back from this voyage.

The room was no longer their bedroom, David observed. If someone looked at a picture of the scene they would see servants attending a large, lazy queen in a royal chamber of candlelight, pillows and tea. Except that the male servant would have more muscles, and a smaller waist, and bronze skin. The queen's boy toy. On her command he would do whatever she desired. And he'd better do a heck of a good job or else he would be back in the stables, where the duties weren't nearly as much fun.

Angela lurched and cried out, and David was jolted back to the present moment.

"Wow," said Angela. "This baby is awesome."

"Awesome?" said David. "That's not the word I expected you to use."

She gripped his hand. "Just relax, David. Everything'll be fine."

It took a moment for her words to sink in: she's the one having her insides rearranged to a new shape, and she's telling me to relax.

Night Watch, Part 4

David felt something that made him sit forward quickly. He had been slumped back on the sofa, a book in his lap, the reading lamp next to him still burning brightly. Angela was standing over him. She had touched his shoulder.

"I need to walk," she said.

David looked at his watch: eleven o'clock. After washing the dinner dishes he had decided to start a book, and chose Deception Point by Dan Brown, thinking it would carry him through the evening. "I must have fallen asleep," he said to Angela.

"I hated to disturb you," she said.

He could see that Angela was not in high spirits. A little bit of the fire and enthusiasm for the venture had left her face. "Is everything okay?"

"It's going slowly. Contractions are intense, but not very close together."

"Sorry. Let's go for a stroll."

Victoria came out of the bathroom and announced that she was making more tea. David noticed she was barefoot and now wore a thin, sleeveless blouse. She was at work; this was her job.

The rain had come and gone, leaving fat droplets of water on the grass. It was the kind of southern summer night David liked. Technically, to him, Virginia was not the south, at least not the deep south, not like Georgia, where he spent most of his youth, or Alabama, where he went to Auburn and met Angela. Sometimes, Virginia felt like it wanted to be a member of the club: it had fierce thunderstorms, and sweltering heat, and humidity that smothered you. On this night, looking down the street, he saw steam rising from wet pavement and wafting up into the glow of the street lamps. The illumination was softened by the moist air, as though a filter had been applied. It was not a real street scene they were witnessing, but a painting of one.

"Ouch," exclaimed Angela, holding her stomach.

He stopped in the middle of the street while she rested a hand on his shoulder and took several deep, controlled breaths of air. It occurred to David that his thoughts and Angela's had been worlds apart. She was not looking at the summer scene before them and dreaming past evenings from her days in Alabama, or evenings they had spent together, like the time they drove at midnight to Panama City, Florida, and went skinny-dipping in the Gulf of Mexico. No, every inch of her being was focused on the task at hand.

"Victoria says they'll get worse. I can't imagine it," she said, almost crying.

"Angela, you're doing great so far. I'm really proud of you."

"By this time, with Tony, I was already on pain relievers," she said.

"Really? I don't remember," he said.

"I remember every detail. Only now do I appreciate what the pain relievers were doing."

"You mean, how much pain was being relieved?"

She chuckled. "Don't make me laugh. Trust me, I would love to laugh right now, but it hurts." She looked at him. Now she was all love and affection. "But I can hear that humor in your voice. I love you."

"I love you, too. We're doing this together, okay? I'm right here, sharing the pain with you."

"That's a nice thought. Imagine if you could share pain, if you could feel a portion of someone's pain so they would feel less of it, like maybe half."

"Or maybe fifty-five percent. You would need a pain meter. In fact you could hire yourself out."

"Ooh, ooh." She cradled her stomach. "I told you not to make me laugh. You just gave me a contraction."

"Good, I'm helping."

"Let's go back. I'm ready for a cup of tea and a massage."

"When do I get to massage you?"

"I don't know. Soon. They say recovery time is much faster when you go natural. Maybe a couple of weeks."

"It's a date."

Victoria was waiting for them with tea. She was like a nurse: attentive, impersonal. She didn't want to know the details of their lives; her job was to get the baby out.

Night Watch, Part 3

Victoria LeFrance swept past David into the house, leaving in her wake a whiff of incense and perfume mixed with moist summer air. David felt the swish of her long, flowing skirt and heard the creak of sturdy sandals. The doula had arrived. With hardly a handshake and a how-do-you-do, she asked David to put a kettle of water on for tea and then disappeared into the bedroom, where Angela waited.

David heard them conversing in low tones as he went to the kitchen. He read the business section of the day's Washington Post while the electric kettle slowly warmed and then rattled and then began to emit steam as the water neared boiling.

He poked his head into the bedroom. Several candles had been lit; they glowed from the nightstand, the dresser, and a small footstool by the window. A peculiar scent filled the air. Angela rarely lit candles. David wondered if the doula was going to tell Angela's fortune. "Water's almost hot. What kind of tea would you like?"

"Oh thank you, David," said Angela, sitting up in bed, leaning against a wedge of pillows. Even in the dim light he could see that her face was brighter and more relaxed. She was now in the doula's hands.

"I brought some herbal tea for stress reduction," said Victoria, handing David two tea bags. "We both need it. Would you like a cup, too?"

"No, thanks. I'm going to have coffee."

Upon returning to the kitchen, David dropped the tea bags into mugs and poured boiling water over them. While the tea steeped he made a small pot of coffee and finished reading the Post article about Alan Greenspan hiring someone to help write his eight-million-dollar memoir. When the tea was ready he placed the mugs on a tray. He was not sure if he would be allowed to stay in the room, but he decided to bring his coffee along just in case.

Angela now had her shirt pulled up to reveal her belly, and Victoria was pressing gently on the sides and bottom of the bulge. They studied it with a look of wonder. Backlit by candlelight, Angela's stomach reminded David of a basketball. Her face, in profile, was a series of curves from forehead to chin. The light emphasized the new puffiness that had come into her face in the last few weeks. She was looking more like a baby even as she was about to have one.

He set the tray on the bed. Neither of the women looked up; his presence was nothing compared to the kicking and squirming going on inside of Angela. David could not take his eyes off the enormous size and shape of her stomach. How could this possibly work?

"The head's right here," said Victoria. She guided Angela's fingers to a place low on the abdomen.

Angela looked at David as she patted the spot like she was comforting a child already born. "I feel him," she said, then winced as another contraction seized her. David wondered if Victoria was timing the contractions.

"I brought tea," said David. He lifted his mug of coffee and stood there, waiting for someone to shoo him away.

"Perfect," said Victoria.

Victoria took both mugs and handed one to Angela, who raised it to her mouth and drew in the hot beverage with extended lips. He could see the steam rising and mingling with the curls of her hair.

"How do you feel?" David asked.

"Much better. The baby is in a wonderful position."

"Great. When do we go to the hospital?"

"It will be a while," said Victoria. "We want to do as much of the labor at home as we can. We have to keep her relaxed."

"Why don't you take a little nap on the sofa, David?" said Angela.

"Maybe later. I need to call Paula. I promised we would give her an update."

"Good idea. Give her my love." Angela brought her lips together to make a small kiss, an air kiss from five feet away. David returned the gesture, then left the room.

Paula lived across the country from them, three time zones away. She had gone to high school in Virginia while their father finished up his last tour in the Army. Then she went to Stanford as a computer science major. When she graduated she moved up to the Seattle area. David and Angela were going to take Tony to visit her last year, but then Angela got pregnant and they never got around to it.

"Hi Paula," David said when she answered.

There was a gasp on the other end of the line. "Did Angela have the baby?"

"No. Not yet. But I'm calling to let you know she's in labor."

"That's wonderful. How is she feeling?"

"Well, she has this doula person to help her out," said David.

"That sounds exciting. What's she like?"

David lowered his voice. "Kind of a flower child. You know, Birkenstocks, incense, earth tone skirt."

"Now, David. She probably knows what she's doing. You're just like Dad, scared to death of anything new."

"That is not true. I'm as open-minded as they come."

Paula laughed. "I've heard that before. So, is Angela really going through with it? I mean, no epidural?"

"The strongest drug she plans to take is herbal tea. She's going all natural from start to finish."

"Wow, that takes guts," said Paula.

"Yeah, it sure does."

"You don't sound too enthusiastic about it."

"I'm a nervous wreck, to tell you the truth. What if something goes wrong? What if she's in unbearable pain?"

"David, you have to trust her judgment. At least let her try. Besides, you're not more than two minutes from the hospital."

"I suppose." David could not reconcile the apparent mismatch between the size of her stomach and the relatively tiny opening that the baby had to pass through. It seemed unnatural on the surface, yet he knew that millions and millions of women had given birth to babies before the invention of drugs and modern birthing methods. He also knew that many women died during childbirth.

"Have you called Mom and Dad?" asked Paula.

"Not yet. I'd rather wait until there is an actual baby to announce. I don't think Mom completely understands what Angela is doing."

"Of course not. Mom was knocked out and had a scheduled c-section for both of us. She had to wake up from surgery to find out what kind of baby she gave birth to."

"I guess predictability has its attractions."

"You don't want that, David. You need to support Angela. She's doing what's best for the baby. That's the way to look at it. I've read that passing through the birth canal is the healthiest way for a baby to enter the world."

David sighed. He was not going to get any sympathy from this direction either. He was resigned to a night of hand-wringing and imagining the worst possible outcomes. "You and Angela are obviously reading the same literature."

"Actually, she told me her references and I've been reading up."

"Wait a minute, are you getting serious again with what's-his-name?"

"Luke? Not really. That's an off-and-on thing. I'm holding out for Mister Right. Besides, Luke and I work in the same company so I don't really want to be involved with him."

"How's life on the island? What the heck is that place called again?"

"Bainbridge. Bainbridge Island. Not much of a singles lifestyle. I find myself staying in Seattle sometimes just to go out and socialize. But it's pleasant in every other respect. I'm definitely going to raise a family here."

"I knew you had something up your sleeve."

"Don't go spreading rumors. Should I make plans to come to Virginia? Do you need help?"

"Angela's cousin is coming down from New York. Of course her parents will be here. I'm going to be outnumbered. I need some reinforcements from my side of the family."

"It sounds like I'd better come. I can't wait to show Angela the baby clothes I've made."

"Great, Paula. She'll be glad to hear that."

They said good-bye. David sat at the dining room table and resumed his reading of the Post. It was going to be a long night.

Night Watch, Part 2

David closed the front door after they had stepped out, conscious of the air conditioning humming inside the house. As he debated whether to lock the door, he instinctively touched his pockets to feel for the keys. The screen door slipped from his fingers and closed with a whack.

Angela froze. "David, you know I can't stand the sound of that door slamming."

"It slipped. I was checking for my keys."

"You don't need to lock it. We're only going around the block."

For several weeks, perky yellow and blue irises bordered the red brick walkway that led from the front door to the street. Now the green plants looked tired from the day's heat. The whole neighborhood had been a pageant of color, unfolding during their spring after-dinner walks, which Angela found helped her digestion. But as spring melted into summer they tended to walk later and later to escape the Virginia sun and the baked pavement. Gradually, the landscape changed to one color, green, as the flowering trees and shrubs shed their blossoms for the season.

"It's going to rain," said David.

Angela raised her face to the light and sniffed the air. The sun had set, but traces of color lingered before twilight took hold. They could see clouds forming in the south, and a pair of tall swaying birch trees with upturned, young leaves catching the last of the sun's rays.

"Rain would feel good," said Angela. "The plants need it. My asparagus and tomatoes are drying up."

"But didn't you say the baby kicked whenever you ate asparagus?" asked David.

"But one day, God willing, he'll be out, and I can eat asparagus again."

They walked in the roadway, following their usual route. David noticed, as he always did, that Angela leaned slightly back as she walked. He once conducted an experiment wherein he placed an eight-pound frozen chicken in a plastic grocery bag and hung it around his neck and tried to walk with the weight against his stomach. He found, as he suspected from his years of training as an engineer, that he could maintain his balance better if he tilted back slightly at the waist. It was a great scientific revelation. He had mentioned it to Angela and she had said, "Only men need a college degree to figure out what women are born knowing."

They walked in silence. David wondered if the baby would come tonight. "You're pretty sure it's a he, aren't you?" he asked. He didn't know why he brought it up; neither of them really knew. But Angela had a strong hunch it was a boy, and he didn't understand if her hunch was a near-certainty or simply a guess. David liked knowing whether or not he was dealing with a random event.

"David, you need to get over your preoccupation with the sex of the baby. It's going to detect your hostility and feel unwanted."

David had his doubts about that theory, but didn't press the issue. They could talk about rain. Rain was a safe topic. "I didn't bring an umbrella," he said.

"Ouch." She looked like she was going to collapse. David held her shoulders; they were warm. Her whole body was a warm bath with a baby in it. She was a steam engine, idling, waiting to be called to service. He had read that a pregnant woman lying on a sofa burns more calories than a thirty-year-old man walking up a hill. He could feel concentrated energy radiating from her body, mingling with the subdued evening heat of the day.

"That was a doozy," she said.

"Maybe we should go back."

"No. This is good. The contractions are getting more intense."

They walked. She kept one hand on his arm. He let her set the pace. As they passed the Hogue's house, Elaine waved to them from the porch.

"Is it coming tonight, Angela?" said Elaine, the mother of two young children.

Angela smiled. "I'm pretty sure." David saw a look pass between them. They had both done this. Elaine knew exactly what Angela was going through, and Angela knew that Elaine knew, and it gave her comfort. David imagined them having shared the anxiety of the hours before labor, while this enormous person waited in the womb for the right moment to come out. Only no one knew exactly how or when. It seemed to David that the physical birth canal was incredibly tiny compared to the thing that had to pass through it. Their first baby, Tony, had been delivered by cesarean after four agonizing days of labor. The doctors ordered x-rays and scans and probes and consultations, and then concluded that the baby's head was too big for Angela's birth canal. To this day, Angela could feel the doctors sewing her up afterwards. She was determined to do the next one differently. Elaine recommended a midwife who specialized in difficult deliveries. The midwife recommended the doula to help Angela develop the muscles and flexibility necessary to ease the baby through the birth canal. David accompanied Angela to pre-natal yoga classes to learn proper massage techniques for relaxing the muscles and joints. David liked that part, until Angela pointed out that it was more than foreplay. There was actual work involved.

"You just keep walking and don't worry about anything," said Elaine. "Call me anytime of day or night. George'll wake up but who cares, you've got a baby to deliver. I'll bring dinner over tomorrow."

"Thanks, Elaine," said David. "Tell George to go to bed early and get some sleep."

She dismissed that notion with a wave. "Phooey." When one considered the man's contribution to the birthing process it was downright laughable.

They continued down the middle of the road. Twilight was in full swing, the street lamps just starting to glow against the darkening sky. It reminded David of the beach. He quickened his step as Angela moved with surprising speed. She shook off the evening meal, what little of it she ate, and got into the rhythm of walking. David saw the determination at work. If she could will the baby to come out she would do so.

"I'm having second thoughts about the name," said Angela.

"Which one, the girl's name or the boy's name?"

"I don't like Richard."

"But I thought it was my turn to choose?"

"I know, dear. I didn't tell you this, but, the fact is, I used to date a Richard and I couldn't stand him. He was the most egotistical creep in the world. So I can't name the baby Richard."

"Why did you wait until now to tell me?"

Angela looked at him. "I'm sorry. I thought I would get over it, but it's no use. I will not be able to look at our baby without thinking of this other Richard."

"When was this, anyway?" During their seven years of marriage, David could not recall a Richard from any of their conversations about past relationships. That was not surprising; they had agreed that there was not much point in discussing past loves.

"Oh, way back. In the old neighborhood. He was at the wedding, hanging out with my brothers. You probably didn't meet him."

To David, who was an Army brat from a Southern family, their wedding in New Jersey had been a sea of either dark hair or dyed hair, and dark eyes, dark skin, and many old folks speaking Italian, and plenty of booze and oily food, and for some reason, lots of cleavage. There seemed to be a contest going on among Angela's female friends and cousins to see who could show the most cleavage without falling out of their gowns. Meanwhile, his family looked like cardboard cutouts with pasty white skin and blue eyes. David's father, however, lightened up a bit once the bar was open and he began knocking back shots of Sambuca with Angela's father. Pretty soon they were backslapping and telling war stories about Vietnam.

"I guess I don't remember a Richard. It doesn't matter. If you don't like the name I'll think of another."

"Well if you can't think of one I have one picked out."

Of course, thought David. She probably had one picked out the moment she remembered her dislike for poor old Richard. He sighed. "I still think it's going to be a girl anyway, and we both like the girl's name I've picked out so what's to worry?"

"Because we need one of each, just in case. How about Nick?"

David shook his head. "We already have a Tony. We can't have two Italian names."

"You got something against Italians?"

"Not at all. But since it's my turn to pick, I would like an ordinary American name, like...um, Harry."

"Harry! Nobody names their kid Harry anymore."

"Okay. Peter."

"Hmm. We talked about that one, didn't we? Maybe. I'll think about it."

David knew, in the end, she would get her way. That was how it went. His father's name was Leonard Wilson Smith. Angela had rejected almost all the names from his side of the family as being too boring or old fashioned. She had liked Peter, however, because it was the name of a saint. Saint names were all the rage in the Tortorich family.

"Oh my God." Angela stopped and leaned against a parked car, holding her stomach with both hands. Her breathing was heavy. The glow from a street lamp created a shadow across her face, but he could see fear in her eyes. "Let's get back to the house," she said.

"Is it time to call the doula?"

"Yes. Hold my hand."

He held her hand and kissed her, and led her back to the house. With his free hand he pulled out his cell phone and punched the hot button he had set up to ring the doula.

Night Watch, Part 1

(Note: This is a new serialized fiction piece. It has a few connections to Peggy Finds A Friend. Enjoy, and thanks for reading.)


"The what?" David looked at his wife. She had just said a word that he didn't recognize.

"The doula."

He stalled for time. They had had this conversation already. If only he could remember the details.

"D-O-U-L-A. Doula," she said. When she spelled things, it meant trouble.

"Oh yes, as in Missoula. The doula from Missoula. I made that up to help me remember."

"Ouch!" Angela laid a hand on her stomach.

"What is it?" asked David.

"Another contraction."

"Should we call the...uh, doula?"

Angela's face showed not a trace of humor. "This is a bad time to start an argument."

"Look, I'm with you on the doula thing. But if you decide you would rather just go to the hospital I can do that, too."

David looked at the meal getting cold in front of him. His stomach rumbled, but something told him that he should show some concern for Angela's contractions instead of pigging out on lasagna. Angela was hardly eating. This was unusual; for the past twenty-seven weeks and two days she had been eating like a horse.

"No, I would not rather go to the hospital." She looked at him. It was her no-bullshit-dear expression. But even with that expression, which David knew very well, and even at forty weeks pregnant, she was beautiful. Her dark curls framed her flushed face and emphasized her deep brown eyes. She had given up her family name of Tortorich, which went so perfectly with her looks, in order to take his totally ordinary name of Smith. Angela Smith. Christ, what a sacrifice.

"Angela, I know what you want: a totally natural childbirth. No drugs, no C-section, no nothing. You want that baby to slide out like a fish."

"David, fish metaphors should not be used with a person who doesn't like seafood." Pause. "Ouch."

"Should I call the doula?"

"No, that was a kick. Wow, he's a strong one."

"How do you know it's a he? You said you didn't want to know."

"I don't really know, I just feel it. He's kicking the way Tony kicked."

Tony was their first born, now age three and having a sleepover at the Scott's house, oblivious to the imminent arrival of his new younger sibling. David took a bite of lasagna. He had to eat. He would give anything for a glass of red wine to go with it. The doula was a labor coach. This was different from a midwife, he had learned, after it was explained to him several times. The doula doesn't deliver the baby, the doula helps the mother through labor. The midwife delivers the baby. He hadn't known that child birthing had become so compartmentalized. "What's my job?" he had asked. "Hold my hand," was the answer.

"I'm still hoping for a girl," he said.

She reached over and laid her warm, puffy fingers on his arm. She was a walking bag of blood and emotions. "I just want it to come out."

"Tonight," said David. "It's going to be tonight. I'm ready."

"Oh that's good to know. The husband is ready. Thank, God. Let's have the baby." Angela got up from the table and carefully balanced herself on her feet before taking a step. "It's time for another walk."

David got up, too, and looked at the unfinished lasagna on his plate as though he were parting with a dear friend. He opened the front door and escorted his wife out into a warm, June evening.

In Touch With Trends

The June 1 New York Times contains a very interesting article by staff writer Elizabeth Olson about how men and women behave differently when they lose their spouses following a long marriage. The main thrust of the article is captured in this line: "When there is death in a marriage, women mourn, men replace."

I think this nicely reflects the basic story line in Peggy Finds A Friend, and in the subsequent novel, Sea Changes. I am impressed that so many readers were right on the mark when they made suggestions about how the story should end.

Bill
www.billbranley.com