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led us back to the front door. I don’t know who was more disappointed—me or Nathan. He sulked along behind us, kicking bits of plaster at his sister.
    â€œWhere in Louisiana?” I asked the preacher.
    â€œMy church used to be in New Orleans, but my mother’s family lives in Opelousas—the Trapagniers of Opelousas.” They sounded like a trapeze act.
    Once we were outside on the porch, Deacon padlocked the door. “Well, Jackie Lyons. What do you think?”
    â€œYou haven’t made me an offer yet.”
    â€œI’m willing to pay professional rates, in exchange for which you will supply me with copies of the photographs. The originals remain yours, of course. You can use them or sell them to other people, if you can find somebody to buy them.”
    â€œI’ll do it,” I said. I’d have to pick up a tripod and some lighting, but I was pretty sure Deiter would loan me the equipment I needed. That wasn’t the problem. “I just wish there were some way we could start right away.”
    â€œThere’s plenty of time to make the pictures after I return,” he said. Then he looked at me in an odd way. His eyes had a strange light to them that I’d never noticed before, an intensity that was almost disconcerting. “If you’re in need of money…” he started to say.
    â€œI just want the work.” I’d lived most of my life off the charity of men, and it had got me into more trouble than it was worth. I was through being a leech.
    Well, mostly through.
    â€œI can respect that,” he said, but his eyes lingered on me, as though he were seeing for the first time the holes in my jeans and in my arms. I thought he might change his mind, but he only nodded and returned the key to his pants pocket. “It’s getting late. We should head back.”
    We walked down through the twilight woods in single file, Deacon leading, Nathan dangling from my hip pocket. “I don’t usually go for older women but your body is amazing,” he grunted in my ear, his breath smelling like cinnamon Certs.
    â€œNot so amazing with the lights on.”
    â€œBullshit, lady. You’re hot.”
    â€œThanks.” I tried not to make it sound like I meant it. “The years have not been kind.”
    â€œYou should let me be the judge.”
    â€œIf I ever need a jury, I’ll let you know.”
    Clouds had moved in while we explored the house, and it was getting dark quicker than we expected. We hadn’t gone far before we heard kids playing in the woods ahead of us. They were running and shouting all along the paths that crisscrossed the forest. A couple of times, I saw a whirl of color or a flash of long blond or red hair. Somewhere ahead of us, two girls were singing the jump-rope song I’d heard the day before. I wondered if they were jumping rope in the woods.
    Suddenly, I heard the song repeated behind me, in a soft, dreamy voice. It was Holly, and she chanted it all the way through:
    Wire, briar, limber lock.
    Three old geese in a flock.
    One flew east, one flew west,
    One flew over the cuckoo’s nest,
    Up on yonder gallows hill,
    Where my father’s bones do dwell.
    He had jewels, he had rings.
    He had many pretty things.
    He had a hammer with two balls.
    He had a cat with nine claws.
    Whip Jack! Lick Tom!
    Blow the bellows, old mon!
    Saddle the horse and beat the drums,
    Tell me when the Yankee comes.
    Sit and sing, by the spring.
    Clap, clang, clattery, cling.
    Hintlery, mintlery, cutlery, corn,
    Apple seed and whipple thorn.
    Screw a dishcloth up his snout.
    Turn him over and shove him out.
    She finished with an embarrassed smile. “That’s the way we used to sing it.”
    I was finally able to remember where I’d heard the chant before. “Where I grew up, that was a counting song. Like eeny-meeny-miney-moe.” The words were a little different—our version didn’t have a Yankee