Saving The Book Tart – Excerpt from The Crossroads by Annie Rose Welch + Contest!

She makes a toy out of a grown man’s heart, and passing men admire you, because she brings a high sense of regard to your class. With her on your arm, you are respected, because keeping her satisfied takes skill and undeniable mojo. She’s beautiful, haunting, and has a chilling but warm voice. And she whispers to me, day in, day out, not even in the dreams that I don’t have. I hear her. She whispers such things as these:

“Gabriel, come to me. I’ve been waiting a long time for you. Sit down, dawlin’, take a load off, stay a while. Are you hungry? What would you like? A bowl of gumbo? A plate of jambalaya? A Po-boy, or how about red beans and rice? You know today is Monday, washday. Or how about a little music? Pete Fountain’s on the menu today. A little “Tin Roof Blues” never hurt nobody. You tell me what you want, na’.”

She always wants to feed me, nourish me, this place, this New Orleans.

“I know you have your cares and worries, but they belong to me now, dawlin’. And don’t you worry about the heat na’, ya’ hear? I’m just warming you up. I’m starting a fire in your life that you may never be able to contain. Yes indeed, I’m just getting started.” She howls with laughter. “Padnah’, do I have a surprise in store for you.

“You like stories, baby? Everybody loves a damn good story. I know I do. And everybody has one, whether they like it or not. So, how about you tell me a little about you, and then I’ll tell you a little about me. And we’ll come to some sort of neutral ground. I gave you a dream, my dear boy. The only one you’ve ever had. I am here to bring magic into your life. I am here to read to you the story of love, show you the simple glory of love…”

Her magnetism draws me in a little closer. She puckers those luscious lips and bats those dark, thick lashes at me, and I’m a man without a will.

“Welcome home, dawlin’. Welcome home…”she breathes.

No, New Orleans isn’t just a place. New Orleans has the power to be the blood in your veins. And if she is, she always calls for you. Yes she does. She always comes a-callin’.

Now I’m here. I’m here in her place. I’m a part of something stewing in her gumbo pot. I’m one of many elements, but one that adds flavor to her deliciousness all the same. But there’s something lurking this evening, her demeanor has changed. She’s silent, which is a first.

There’s calm before the storm, or so everyone around here says. The day is bright blue. The clouds are luminous white and the wind is warm, soft, and gentle as it moves. People are casually walking, holding hands, kissing, yelling, eating, and doing all of the normal things people usually do. Today is the sort of day you’d take to the river. You’d lie down in the warm grass, cold drink in one hand, toasty sandwich in the other, just to watch the ships pass by, to hear the clarinet or trumpet in the distance. And afterward, you would lie back on the sunny grass while the muggy heat carries you away to a fine blues tune.

If only today was a normal day. But it cannot be a normal day. I feel something different in the air. The calm everyone talks about is only temporary. The tempest will be here shortly to take her share.

I feel it. I feel it. I feel it.

I sit and watch as the humid breeze gently pushes leaves and debris, as it sweeps past souls walking by. But if you look close enough, it’s eerie. The wind. It tells a tale, a premonition of what is to come. The way it sweeps in and out of the trees, a sharp warning moving like a transparent ghost in the night. It’s gray and bleak and it holds secret warnings within its thin phantom voice.

The clock on the wall refuses to move forward. It’s broken, and only in this do I find some sort of comfort.

And suddenly, everything turns black. Rain pours, debris flies, the wind howls. The water, oh the water, drowns. The knocking and crashing seems never-ending. The pressure continues to build and build, like stacking wooden blocks until you know they are about to come tumbling down in rage.

This city, this place, this New Orleans, boy, is she furious. She’s fighting back, putting up the bravest of fronts. This woman of mine, she’s brawling her way through the blood and the muck. She’s protecting her children. But still, it might not be enough. What is enough? I only wish I knew. But I’m here fighting for her. I’m here fighting with her. A woman like her, she’s worth dying for.

There is fear, an unspoken truth that everyone is afraid—afraid of what? Losing lives to this storm. Everyone is panicking. The lights are flickering. Is the power about to go dead? I’ll have to tell you later. And we are caught in this fury with no way out. We are trapped fifteen stories high with doors closed and windows sealed shut.

They say we’ll be here for four days or so. Four days. What good can come of this? Tell me, if you can, what good can come of this storm everyone here calls Evangeline?

—Gabriel Roberts