The Miracle (Edna Peterson) She was formulating a bargain a wise, hard bargain. by Carol Jean Vendell Lottie inched up closer against the cold, unfriendly wall and pulled her knees in against her stomach, trying to press away a subtle nausea. The thought that she was too old to sit on the floor in a public place kept mingling with the other ideas ideas about being sixteen, about miracles, and about how tightly the nurse pursued her lips whenever she came out of mama's room. If only . . . oh, if only her father were here. He would know what to do. He would talk to the nurses in that warm, sure voice that always made everything a little easier. He would make the doctor understand that her mother must not die. Lottie had often wondered what it must be like to be really lonely. It did not seem possible in a big city with so many people living so close to you. But now she knew that they were all living lives that did not include her. They did not care that four hours had passed since the accident, and that her father had not sent an answer to her wire yet. Maybe he did not even know. She took a lock of her blond hair and bit slowly at the end of it, and then, remembering how her mother disliked her to do that, pushed it quickly back from her face. There were dried shiny stains of tears on her cheeks and wet, shiny ones behind her eyes; but she could not cry any more. She was formulating a bargain a wise, hard bargain. She had been thinking it over ever since the telephone had rung, and a man's voice had told her that "A Mrs. Anderson has been hit by a car. Do you know her?" Know her! Know her! Lottie put her forehead down on her knees and shut her eyes. If God would make her mother well, she would know that He was there. All the doubts and suspicions that she had ever had about His existing would be gone. All her life she had been searching for something to make her "believe." She knew her mother did, and her father. But Lottie could trust nothing that she did not see or hear. And she was not quite certain that God had ever helped her. Quick pictures tumbled back: Of the time when she was seven and had wanted a doll so badly for Christmas that she had prayed for it just in case Santa Claus might make a mistake. But Santa Claus brought her a paint set and some little white china dishes and Lottie stopped praying. The year the family moved away from Brighton, Lottie prayed for two months before they left that something might happen so they would not have to leave, but her father took the position and they moved to Kenlin anyway. Lottie looked up to see a nurse at the end of the hall motioning to her. She got to her feet and hurried down the corridor. "Your father, Mr. Anderson, is on the telephone. Step right back there behind the counter." "Oh . . . thank you." The telephone receiver lay upon a pile of white papers. She picked it up, and the tears in her eyes crowded at her voice. "Hello "Hello, sweetheart. I'll be home in another two hours. Got a plane out of Frisco." His voice was warm and soft. "Oh, Daddy!" She pressed her elbows in against her sides to try to keep the sobs back. "It's all right, baby. You just hang on till I get there. Everything's going to be fine just fine." "Daddy . . ." "Now don't cry; the plane's taking off again. I'll be right home." "Daddy . . ." She didn't want to let him hang up. She didn't want the softness of his voice to be gone again. It was the only thing she could be certain was real. "Be good, honey. Goodbye!" The dull click echoed his words, and Lottie put down the receiver. He had not even waited for her goodbye. That loneliness again, that awful, biting loneliness. And it was so quiet. She did not like the sound of silence. "Would you like a glass of hot milk?" Lottie looked up at the nurse. She was tall and had shiny black hair, bobbed at the neck. There was a thin scar-line over her left cheekbone, but she was quite pretty. "No, thank you." "Maybe you'd like to lie down?" she asked. "No I don't believe so." The spark of friendliness in the woman's voice warmed Lottie. "When when will they know about mama?" The woman looked, once again, impersonal and efficient. "I don't know, dear. You must be patient." She looked at her watch. "Well, if there's nothing I can do for you, I'll have to leave." Lottie wanted to put out her hand to keep the woman, but she just smiled and said, "Oh all right thank you just the same." But she did not want to think, either. She had made her bargain. If her mother lived, then God lived; but if she died then He died too in Lottie's heart. Surely if God was there, He did understand and make her believe. And she had the materials of such a very religious nature. It was there for her, if He would mold it. She stopped short. The brass door knob of her mother's door turned slowly. The door hesitated and swung outward. And the doctor stepped out and closed the door . . . softly. Lottie imagined she could even see tears in his eyes. And there was no smile. No smile at all. Lottie did not wait for him to speak. She ran down the hall, took the elevator to the ground floor, and stepped out into the cold night air. It was not quiet any more. There were cars passing, horns honking, people talking, and the tears came again some for mama, and some for God. Page Eighteen FRENCH QUARTER Dave Fletcher Arriving in New Orleans at nine o'clock at night, Van Drury and I started out in search of a room in which to sleep. We tried five of the best hotels in the city and got the same line from all of the clerks: "Filled up doubt if you'll be able to get any place tonight." Some day I would like to go back and give each one of those clerks an eye full of knuckle. After trying the Roosevelt Hotel, we caught a cab and asked the driver if he knew of a place we could stay. Of course all cab drivers know of places, so he started out to find us one. After driving around to a half dozen small hotels that I'm certain he knew were filled up, he took us to a hotel where we got a room. This was only after his meter had been run up to over twice what the room cost. We paid for the room and left to visit the much-talked-about French Quarter. Crossing Canal Street, we walked up a dark, narrow, alley-like street. Whenever the driver of a car wanted to pass another, they both had to drive their two outside wheels up onto the sidewalk. This was the only way to pass. There was very little light out on the street. All the buildings looked dark and deserted, but opening a door here and there we found that there was a lot of night life hidden behind the dismal-looking walls. Out in front of one of the joints a young fellow was shouting at the top of his voice, informing everyone that a wonderful show was about to take place. As we attempted to pass, the character took hold of my arm and began to tell me all of the intimate details of the show. We went in. Van and I sat down at a table close to the rear door just in case of a raid. There were service men at tables drinking liquor and beer with girls they had picked up. At this time of the night a fellow who has been drinking is feeling pretty good; this was the case with the service men we saw. Up front was a very small dance floor which was used whenever the three-piece band became ambitious enough to swing out with some hot jive. The bar was made of some kind of hard black substance that glittered in the soft light. In back of the bar was a short, solid-looking man with a mustache that hung down over his upper lip. On the shelves there were bottles of all shapes and sizes. "You can get anything you want in a place like this," Van remarked. "All you have to do is ask." On the walls were painted pictures of nude women in all sorts of different poses. Here and there were tacked signs that read: "Two dollar cover charge on your own bottle." Over in the corner there was a group of drunken sailors trying to keep a bottle out of sight under the table. The band suddenly came to life. The drums rolled and the spotlight picked out the figure of a girl. Her lips moved with the rhythm of the music, snapping with every beat of the bass drum. She appeared to be nude at first glance, but upon further observation she was seen to have two skimpy bits of cloth tied about her with strings. One string looked as though it might slip down over her snakelike hips at any time. A drunken sailor yelled, "Take it off! Take it off!" The girls giggled and snuggled up closer to their wide-eyed companions. The dancing girl looked as though she might be in her late teens or early twenties. Her dark brown hair looked fluffy and newly-washed. Her eyes were hard as though she had seen a great deal of life in the past. Her mouth was large, with deep red lip- stick dabbed over the edges of her lips. This would have been her most striking feature if she had more clothing on. As the tempo of the music increased, the girl's hips moved faster and faster. Finally she was not able to move any faster, she stopped. With a wild yell she leaped up onto the bar and did her dance walking up and down the wide counter. The service men who had been half asleep before were wide awake now. Twice a soldier reached out to grab a slender ankle, only to be pulled back into his seat by one of his friends. As soon as the music stopped, the dancer hopped down from the bar and picked up a glass. She passed among the customers and then came over to us and asked, "How about something for the poor and needy?" She had looked much better when she was dancing. Close to her, we could see that her hip bones and slender legs could stand a little more meat here and there. Her full young curves were otherwise all right. As she left she gave her hips of couple of good shakes for our benefit. When we were out on the street again, Van told me what he thought of the show. His opinion was none too good. We walked for a couple of blocks and then stopped in at another joint. It appeared to be a little more high class than the last place. As soon as we stepped in, a fellow wearing dark glasses handed Van a card which read: "PLEASE HELP THE BLIND AND GOD WILL BLESS YOU." On the back it said: "This is to certify that God will help you." It was signed Early J. Johnson. Van handed the card back to him and walked away. If there are good people in the world, they won't be found in the French Quarters of New Orleans. Anyone who certifies that God will bless its inhabitants had better be careful. The next place we visited was the Daughters' Inn. Having heard that it was one of the oldest eating places in New Orleans, we decided to try it. As we walked through the front part of the establishment, we noticed the dull, crude-looking floor which was made up of large stones placed close together. The rafters were made of rough timber that had been cut perhaps a hundred years ago. Back in the garden where the customers eat, we could see small candles burning on each table. This was the only light. There were approximately thirty small tables. As we walked into the court we could see the five-piece band made up of girls. This took our eyes immediately. We took a table up front and motioned for the waiter, who was dressed in tails and a white shirt. We thought this rather strange in that section of town. After ordering fried chicken we turned our full attention to the five girls. The one playing the violin was nice-looking, and Van said he was going to ask her for a date. The one playing the piano looked good to me. She was a blonde with tempting red lips and a beautiful smile. When they stopped playing, we started talking to them and asked them when they got off work. Their job was to please the customers, and so they were nice to us. They told us that they would be off at one o'clock and would like to go out with us. I couldn't quite see taking all five of them out; so we told them that maybe we had better get some sleep tonight because we had a big day ahead of us. We ate our fried chicken and left to go back to the room that had caused us so much trouble to get. Page Nineteen