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steps and sat herself down on the rocker, she would always call out to let Cally or Ruby know she was there. Again, the shadow loomed high on the porch, looking for all the world like a long black cloak. It moved away, and a normal looking shadow spread itself on the porch just in front of the door.
    “Mrs. Wainright? Are you out there?” Cally called.
    For the first time in all the years she and her sister resided on Eldred’s Bend, Cally had never once been afraid. Even when the Klan dropped by one night ten years ago to warn them against selling to Negroes, she didn’t bat an eye when she and her sister stood on the porch and exchanged insults with bigots wearing sheets.
    She even put buckshot into the backside of Stanley Cruder, whom she dated briefly, and left him when she realized he was one of those sheeted stooges out in the yard that night with a torch in hand. Despite the fact that he denied it, she knew. She could tell by his big feet jutting out from underneath the sheet and the stench of his pomade. And then there was the little matter of him neglecting to tell her about his wife and four kids. She put a stop to that real quick at the business end of her sister’s twelve-gauge.
    But now, Cally was genuinely frightened. The shadow flitted along the porch like so many scattered autumn leaves. “Mrs. Wainwright?” she asked. She took a timid step toward the front door, wishing with all her heart that Ruby was there. But she was not. She was showing the apartment to the fellow who arrived in the strange car. Cally was alone and she’d have to contend with whatever was skulking around on the front porch without making so much as a sound.
    That’s the problem, Cally realized with an alarming jolt. There’s no sound. I should hear Mrs. Wainwright clunking up the steps with that big African walking stick her grandson brought her from Nairobi. I would have heard that if she was up on the porch.
    The air was thick and still. Even the large fans that blew air into the store seemed to be going exceedingly slow, as if it were cutting the air into slices as it spun. Gathering up her nerve, Cally passed the fans and stepped out onto the porch.
    No one was there.
    It was hot and still, not unusual for a Louisiana summer. But unnatural in a way that Cally couldn’t articulate. Even the giant loblolly pines lining the edge of the plantation proper seemed still, like soldiers standing at attention. An old dead tree, struck by lightning years before, stood sentry duty at the docks. It was gray and bare as if it had shed its leaves in November and forgotten it was now midsummer. Cally’s breath caught and she found herself instinctively stepping backwards toward the doorway. The tree was laden with buzzards.
    This was in and of itself unusual, since animals of all sorts often died on the banks of the bayou, but the birds roosting there, their black feathers in sharp contrast against the sapphire of the sky, watching the plantation house, made Cally’s skin crawl. Their reddish eyes scanned the area, looked down at her and with one indifferent squawk, took flight into the mid day sky.
    There was a sudden and definite chill in the air, punctuated by an undefined dread. Her eyes were drawn to the docks; then to the water that was dark, greenish-brown and still. Cally rubbed her arms and pushed the fans aside, shutting them off. She pulled the doors shut, turned off the lights and hung the closed sign. She sat on the floor behind the counter, drawing her knees up to her chin, wrapping her arms tight around her knees. She lowered her chin to her kneecaps and, holding her breath, listened.

Chapter Three
     
     
    It had taken nearly an hour to for Cally to compose herself after scurrying behind the deli counter and hiding there like a frightened child. After scolding herself for her behavior, she stood, wiped the tears from her cheeks with the heels of her palms, adjusted her skirt and apron and reopened the store. As soon as