Big Easy Bonanza

embracing him in earnest.
    He whispered, “Your head. We’ll hurt your head.”
    She didn’t answer. She didn’t feel the pain as they made love, didn’t feel anything except searing need, not so much for him, Steve Steinman, as not to be alone, to be reassured, to do something to prove to herself she was still alive, she was going to be all right. Afterward she hated herself for her neediness and moved to the other side of the bed.
    He woke her up in an hour, as promised, and made love to her again, this time his idea. She was sleepy and hurt. He took time to arouse her, to make her want him, to get back what she had taken from him, and she was grateful. He had evened the score. And this time she felt close to him, was glad to be with him rather than just someone.

Siblings
1
    ONCE AGAIN STARING at the ceiling fan, still for the winter, Marcelle felt the tears sliding down her face. André had pointed to the tomb and said, “Mommy, are they really going to put Poppy in there?” and she wished she hadn’t taken him to the funeral. He was too young to know about death, to have to experience it the way grown-ups did. But she didn’t want him to be left out. She wanted him to be an active, participating, wanted member of the family, not someone on the fringes. She’d miscalculated this time, though. She’d done it wrong. He had clung to her, and later he had nightmares.
    Yesterday, in the end, they hadn’t had time for
pain perdu,
and she had to give him cereal. Today she’d make the
pain perdu
. Then she’d take him to day care and then she’d go to Uncle Tolliver’s to apply for a job.
    She sat up, smiling. The tears were gone. She actually felt … happy. Wasn’t that what this feeling was? It felt light, strange, too good to be true. What was it? Relief that her father’s funeral was over? Or could it really be the first tiny green shoots of happiness?
    “Mommy! Mommy!” First the terrible clatter of feet, then the squirmy torpedo on her lap.
    “André Pandré! Good morning!”
    “Can we do something fun today?”
    “Of course. You were such a good boy yesterday. So brave, like a great big boy. We can do anything you want.”
    “Mommy, I’m glad Ma-Mère was there. She held my hand—you know—when they did that to Poppy. But she was so sad.”
    She stroked the small wriggly back. “I know, honey. We were all sad.” The tears came back with the word.
    “I didn’t know you could die before your mother and father.”
    She held him close and rocked him, crying again, but hoping he wasn’t. “Oh, honey, you can’t, usually. We just got very, very unlucky in our family. It won’t happen to you, sweetheart. I promise.”
    “I wish it would, Mommy. I don’t want you to die first.”
    “Honey, look at me.”
Oh, no, don’t, I’m crying
. He couldn’t, the way she was holding him.
    “Mommy, I can’t. Let me go.”
    “Okay, but first pull my hair.”
    “Pull your hair?”
    “Uh-huh. Pull as hard as you can.”
    He pulled. “Ouch,” she said, and released him. “You know why I wanted you to do that?”
    “No.”
    “So you could know I’m really here. And I’m not going anywhere. Okay? I’m not going to die, and you’re not going to die. Do you believe that?”
    “I guess so.” He wasn’t convinced. She could kick herself for taking him to the damned funeral.
    You had to use stale bread for
pain perdu
, and it was never a problem finding any in Marcelle’s house. She soaked some slices in milk and eggs, with a little sugar and vanilla, then fried them to a gorgeous gold. Sweeping them triumphantly onto a plate, she called, “André!”
    As the small feet pounded, she dusted her creation with cinnamon and powdered sugar. She poured milk as André sat down. Without even looking at his plate, he picked up the glass and drank half the milk. Then, big eyes staring up at her, milk mustache still in place, he said, “Could I have some Freakies?”
    “Sweetie, we’re having
pain perdu
this morning.”
    “But I don’t like this stuff.”
    “You liked it last time I made it.”
    “Did not.”
    “André, you like it. Don’t you remember?”
    “It’s yucky.”
    “Just try a little, okay?”
    “No!”
    “Come on, just a little.” She speared some with a fork and held it to his mouth. He pushed the fork away, dislodging the small piece of French toast, dropping it into his lap.
    “My pajamas! You got my pajamas dirty!” He got up and ran from the table, feet pounding