"If you continue to disregard my wishes, I will have to call Father O'Donagan," Mother Superior told Genevieve, as though the arrival of the priest were a deadly threat.

"Call anybody you like, Sister," Genevieve said, taking Vivi's hand. "But, Vivi, she comin home with me."

"Drop that child's hand," Mother Superior commanded.

Ignoring the nun, Genevieve walked Vivi out of the office.

"Let go of Joan!" the nun said, following them.

"Her name isn't Joan," Teensy said. "Her name is Vivi."

Genevieve led the girls down the long, dark hall. Vivi could hear Mother Superior's footsteps as she followed them; she could hear the rustling of the nun's gown. The footsteps sped up, and then the nun was upon them, her bone-dry hand reaching down to pry Vivi's hand away from Genevieve's. Vivi's fear was so strong she could taste it in the back of her throat. So strong it caused her to pee ever so slightly in the borrowed boxy panties she wore.

Genevieve flung Mother Superior's hand away. The nun stumbled backward, so that when Vivi looked at her it seemed a wind had lifted her black veil and spread it out in all directions. The nun was no longer Mother Superior, but a shuffling black vulture.

"I am responsible for saving this girl's soul!" the nun shouted.

"You'll be lucky if you can save your own!" Genevieve said. "Now, get out of here! Go on! Get!"

Genevieve put one arm around Vivi and one arm around her daughter, and the three of them walked fast, but did not run, out of the building. They walked down the stone steps and into the waiting Packard. Genevieve climbed behind the wheel, and Teensy shoved Vivi into the front seat and then climbed in herself. As the car sped out of the grounds of Saint Augustine's, not one of them looked back.

Still clutching Delia's feather pillow, Vivi thought she could detect the scents of oranges and pine needles and shrimp boiling in a big iron pot. She thought she could smell October in Louisiana during cotton harvest on crisp Friday nights. She thought she could smell life.

She looked at the dress Teensy wore underneath her plum jacket. It was the garnet wool jersey with the peplum waist they'd picked out together at Godchaux's on a trip to New Orleans with Genevieve. Reaching down, Vivi rubbed her fingers across the fabric. The material seemed to come up and meet the flesh of her fingertips.

Teensy placed her hand over Vivi's. "Bebe, that outfit you're wearing has got to go."

"Got to go," Vivi repeated after her, trying for the old Ya-Ya tone.

"Got to," Genevieve said, and lit a cigarette, tears in the corners of her eyes.

They rode along in silence for a mile or so before Genevieve spoke again.

"Ecoute, femmes," she said, her voice like the slow-moving rich bayou itself, her tone wavering somewhere between tears and ferocity. "God don't like ugly, Mes Petites Choux. ca va? No matter what they'll try to tell you, Bebes! God don't make ugly, and God don't like ugly. Le Bon Dieu is a god of loveliness, and don't yall forget it!"

"Yes, Maman," Teensy said.

"Yes, Maman," Vivi said.

"And, Vivi, Ma Petite Chou, ecoute voir ici: life is short, but it is wide. This too shall pass."

With those catechism lessons, Genevieve drove Vivi, mile by mile, all the way back home.

22.

The girl in the photo on the front page of The Thornton High Tattler, from May 21, 1943, was so thin and drawn-looking that at first Sidda did not recognize her mother. My God, Sidda thought, she looks like a war orphan.

Accompanying the photo was the following item: THORNTON FAVORITE RETURNS HOME.

Vivi Abbott, sophomore cheerleader, beauty, and varsity tennis player, has returned from Saint Augustine's Academy in Spring Hill, Alabama, where she spent almost all of the past semester. Sorely missed by the entire student body, Vivi is welcomed back by everyone, from the football team to the Red Cross Canteen. Have a great summer, Vivi! Even with Jack gone, we know you and the Ya-Yas will be in high form!

Sidda ached for more information. Searching the scrapbook, she examined each pressed corsage, each ticket stub, willing there to be more information about her mother's departure and return from Saint Augustine's. She tried to imagine what her mother's life had been like during the summer of 1943. Shoes were rationed, along with meat and cheese, but what else was rationed? Was her return difficult, or did Vivi "rise above it" as she'd always told her children to do?

When she could find no other information, Sidda began to make it up. Say Mama flourished that summer. Say she was safe and loved. Say the newspaper clipping tells the whole story: golden girl, universally welcomed home. Say Mama watched Casablanca when it first came out, and necked with whatever boy she was with. Say she was beautiful and blonde and more popular than I ever was. Say Mama did not know what lay in store for her and woke every morning grinning. Say there is no truth. Say there are only scraps that we feebly try to sew together.

Vivi Abbott Walker lay on the table in the small rose-colored room with the piped-in music at Chez Health, ready to let Torie, the massage therapist, touch her body. Necie had been the first to discover Torie, and now all the Ya-Yas made appointments to lay their aging bodies on her table, and indulge in a sensual pampering that the Church they grew up in would have labeled a sin of indulgence, if not a near occasion of sin.

Once a week, Vivi took off her clothes, lay down, and babbled nervously for ten minutes. Then, as her breathing grew deeper, she gave over to the stroking she craved. Never in her life had Vivi been showered with such physical attention, no strings attached.

"A bargain at any price, Torie Dahlin," she said at the end of each session as she handed a check, complete with generous tip, to the massage therapist.

Now, as Torie massaged her feet and toes, Vivi felt herself sink down into the table. She found herself, as she had many times in the past week or so, thinking about Jack.

Vivi had done her best to reclaim her old life when she returned from Saint Augustine's. She had tiptoed back onto the tennis court, where her weight loss and exhaustion embarrassed her no end. She had hung out at Bordelon's Drugs and drunk Coca-Colas with peanuts plunked into the bottles. She wrote Jack cheery letters at least every other day, and she tried to stay out of her mother's way. Buggy had refused even to speak to her for the first month Vivi was back home, but as the summer passed, things began to return to what passed for normal life in the Abbott house.

Vivi said regular novenas for Jack, and tried to get excited about the other boys she still dated. But even after she began to eat again, to rediscover some of the energy she'd lost, there was something about her that hesitated, that held back, that hedged her bets. Now she did not know who she was or what she was supposed to do. And she did not know exactly when she had stepped away from herself. She did not know if she would ever stop feeling tired. She learned to camouflage her exhaustion with a slightly forced vitality. She became a high priestess of self-presentation, and was rewarded for it at every turn. The town of Thornton, Louisiana, extolled self-presentation. It was a sort of religion.

It had been a Sunday afternoon, the third week of June, 1943, not long after she'd returned from Saint Augustine's. Jack was home for a visit before departing for a bomber base somewhere in Europe. Buggy had suggested that the gang come back to the Abbott home that afternoon for some homemade ice cream.

All week long, there had been swimming parties, barbecues, and get-togethers to celebrate Jack's visit. Vivi, Jack, Caro, Necie, and Teensy had just walked over from the Whitman house, where Genevieve had prepared a meal that included every one of her son's favorite foods-from Saint Landry crayfish bisque to mayhaw jelly rolls.

It was early summer, not yet unbearably hot. The clematis vine was in full bloom, and blackberries trailed along the fence in wild profusion. Some of the berries, picked and washed by Buggy, were already gathered in a big yellow bowl that sat on the steps.

Vivi's baby sister, Jezie, quiet for once, leaned against her mother's leg as Buggy stood cranking the ice-cream freezer. Buggy wore the lilac-and-gray housedress she changed into every Sunday after Mass. Her hair was caught up in two combs at the side of her face, and her cheeks were slightly flushed from the exertion of the cranking. Pete was draped over the porch railing with a couple of his buddies.

Vivi sat on the swing, between Teensy and Necie. Caro leaned against a column, her feet kicked out in front of her, crossed at the ankles.

Jack sat in a straight-back chair in the middle of all of them, his fiddle in his lap. Not just any fiddle, but the handmade Cajun fiddle his Uncle LeBlanc had made for him when he was nine years old. The fiddle his father forbade him to play inside the house because it smacked of the bayou, of a world unacceptable to the prosperous banker.

But, oh, Jack played on every single visit to Genevieve's people in Marksville, on the bayou. And he played it at all his friends' houses. And he played in the middle of fields when Genevieve loaned them the Packard and they'd head out to Spring Creek with picnic blankets and a couple of six packs.

Jack's French fiddle joined with the music of Harry James to break Vivi's heart in those days. Once, after she'd sprained her ankle on the tennis court and was laid up in bed in the foulest mood, Jack had played under her bedroom window, making her feel like Juliet. Another time, she put him up to playing during a basketball game half-time in the Thornton High gymnasium. There Jack Whitman stood, waving that bow across the strings, his long legs flowing out of his gold-and-blue-satin basketball uniform, his head tossed back with the music, a wide grin sweeping across his face.

And now he was home again, his father's pride. Never had Vivi seen Jack so contented. His father had bragged about him all week long. Mr. Whitman, in fact, had been the one to arrange several of the parties. His son was going to fly bombing raids over France. Jack was proud that his father was proud.

Vivi was delighted that her mother was making ice cream. It was the first outwardly kind gesture Buggy had made toward her daughter since Genevieve had talked Mr. Abbott into not sending her back to Saint Augustine's. As Buggy cranked the ice-cream freezer, Vivi hoped this was a sign things would get better between them.

The sunlight hit Jack's jet-black hair. His skin was tanned, and he was thinner than usual. Chiseled down to his essence. He tucked his fiddle under his chin and raised his bow. But before beginning to play, he paused. He glanced at Vivi and smiled. Then, for some sweet Jack reason, he looked over at Buggy.

"Madame Abbott," he said, "how bout I play this little waltz for you?"

It was the most gentlemanly thing Vivi had ever witnessed. As she watched her mother's face, she understood for the first time that no one-ever-had dedicated a song to Buggy Abbott. She watched as her mother raised her hand to her mouth, shy, embarrassed, and utterly delighted. Buggy let go of the ice-cream crank, and the grinding sound of ice against wood gave way to silence.

Then Jack began to play.

He struck up "Little Black Eyes," a waltz he knew Vivi loved.

There was no war on the Abbott front porch that afternoon. Just an overflowing of Cajun fiddle music, sweet, plaintive, from the heart. The notes danced through the June air; Vivi could feel them dust her hair and shoulders. She could feel the notes enter her and settle deep into her bones. Jack's notes tumbled over all of them that afternoon, as if there were an endless supply of music somewhere, waiting to be called forth.

As Vivi listened to the music, she glanced at Buggy, and she noticed a smile she had never before seen on her mother's face. It was the smile of a girl with her own longings, her own pleasures. It was a smile smiled for no one else. It was a smile that forgot about motherhood and the Catholic Church and the child clutching at her leg. For that one moment, Vivi saw Buggy as a person. The music and the fading afternoon light and the berries in the yellow bowl and the sun on Jack's face, Vivi's own bony body sitting in the swing surrounded by her friends and family, and the expression on her mother's face-all of this seared Vivi's heart for an instant, and she was filled with love.

She credited it all to Jack. That is what Jack could do: he could crack her wide open to more love; he could transform the face of her mother.

When the tune ended, everybody clapped. Jezie, who had been mesmerized, called out, "Do again, do again!" Pete and his buddies whistled and cheered. But it was Buggy who surprised Vivi most.

She stepped over to Jack and gave him a kiss on the cheek, something she never did, not even with her own children. "Thank you, Jacques," she said.

Then she took the corner of her apron, wiped her eyes, and resumed cranking the ice-cream freezer.

It was a small thing. Nobody noticed it but Vivi. Even if they had, they might not have thought it special. But Vivi loved her mother for it. On the day Buggy died, almost forty years later, Vivi remembered the kiss her mother had given her beloved on that day and the tear she had wiped away, and she loved her mother for it. She didn't forgive her mother for never loving her the way she needed, but she loved Buggy for that one kiss.

In late October of 1943, Vivi Abbott was playing a mean game of singles against Anne McWaters. Back in shape but still not at the top of her form, Vivi was to have played Caro that afternoon, but Caro had had to stay late at a yearbook meeting.

Anne McWaters, Vivi's old rival, was beating her three to two, and it was driving Vivi crazy. Ever since coming home from Saint Augustine's, she had devoted herself to tennis, and even though she was still a bit underweight, she'd picked up a lot of her old strength. But Anne McWaters could always throw her. The girl had a killer serve, and she knew how to keep her opponent running.

Vivi was determined to close in on her, and thought she saw her chance, when she noticed Pete ride up on his bicycle. Usually the arrival of a spectator wouldn't faze Vivi-on the contrary, she preferred to play most any game in front of an audience. But Pete's showing up anywhere without two or three buddies tailing along was unusual.

"Viv-o," Pete called out, his voice sounding strained.

When Vivi didn't respond, Pete came closer to the fence that surrounded the city-park courts. He was wearing a brown baseball cap over his auburn hair, and his nose was sunburned. It was October 19, 1943, around five in the evening. Teensy and Vivi had a double date planned that night to see Orson Welles's Jane Eyre. A green parks department truck with a bad muffler passed by. Vivi's body was perfectly poised, ready for her opponent.

Anne McWaters served hard and Vivi returned it down the line. She'd worked extra hard at her backhand since coming home, and she knew how to keep her eye on the ball. She was training herself, once she stepped onto the court, to think of nothing but that ball. In the past few months, with Jack away, she'd devoted even more time to her tennis. She still dated, of course, still had at least three boys at any one time who claimed to be in love with her, but Vivi never gave them a thought unless they were standing right in front of her. She thought more about Pauline Betz winning the U.S. Singles than she did about any of those boys. Vivi thought about tennis, the war, and Jack Whitman.

As Anne McWaters lobbed a high return, Vivi's mind was with the ball. Her body responded easily as she stepped back to get under it, in perfect position to take the point.

At that moment, though, a bird flew close to the ball. It seemed to come out of nowhere, and it stole Vivi's attention. Never in her life had she seen a bird fly quite so close to a tennis ball. The bird mesmerized her for a second, causing her to forget about the ball, forget about the game, forget about everything but the bird's gray-blue wings against the October sky.

Signaling a time-out, Vivi strode off the court to Pete. "Darn you, Pete! What do you want?"

Pete looked at his sister for a moment, then turned away.

"What do you want?" she asked again.

"Why don't yall call it a game, Viv-o?" Pete said.

"With McWaters leading? You gotta be kiddin."

"Yoo-hoo!" Anne called out, twirling her racket.

"Just a minute," Vivi called back. "I'm in the middle of a game, Pete. Either tell me what you want, or let me get back on the court."

She waited for Pete to respond. When he didn't, she started back toward the court.

As though it were easier to speak now that Vivi's back was to him, Pete said, "Teensy asked me to come get you. She wants you over at their house."

"Great," Vivi said, bouncing the ball with her racket, smiling at her opponent. "Tell her I'll be there soon as I beat McWaters."

"I think you better come right now, Stinky," Pete said. He shook a cigarette out of a Lucky pack, and lit it, his face pale in the fading light.

"Is something wrong?" Vivi asked, turning back to him.

Unable to meet her gaze, Pete said, "Why don't you just come on with me? You can ride on the handlebars."

"No," Vivi said. "I don't want to come now. I want to finish this game."

Focusing her attention, Vivi resumed the game, smashing the ball hard. In the few minutes it took for her to win the game, each sensation was heightened for Vivi.

She shook hands with Anne McWaters, then took her time gathering her racket press, the extra can of balls, her jacket. Stalling, she took a long drink of water, and ignored Pete, who stood waiting, watching her every move.

Finally, Pete rolled his bike to where Vivi stood, pulling on a sweatshirt over her blouse. "Will you come on with me now, Viv-o? Please, Baby-cakes."

"You're being too nice to me," she said. "What the hell's going on?"

"Come on," he said, pointing to the bicycle handlebars. "Hop on."

Carrying her tennis racket, Vivi climbed onto the handlebars and balanced herself. As Pete pedaled, she looked straight ahead, and they did not speak. When they reached the bottom of the circular drive that led to Teensy's house, Vivi felt dizzy.

"Turn around," she said.

"What?" Pete said, continuing to pedal.

"I said turn around, Pete. I don't want to go in there."

Pete stopped pedaling.

Vivi jumped down from the handlebars, her breath coming fast. She could feel herself begin to sweat as though she had been the one pumping the pedals for eight blocks.

"What did you bring me here for?" she asked him, accusing.

"Cause Teensy wants you."

"I want to know why. Tell me this instant."

Pete set his bike down on its side. It seemed to Vivi that it took him an inordinately long time to do it, like everything was happening in slow motion. She watched as he walked over and put his hands on her shoulders. She could smell spearmint gum over the scent of tobacco on his breath.

"It's Jack," he said, the weight of his hands heavy on her shoulders.

Vivi appeared not to have heard. "What did you say?" she asked.

Pete pulled her to him. She could smell the healthy smell of sweat, and did not know whether it was her brother's or her own.