Iron Lace by Emilie Richards Page A

wrapped their boneless fingers around his neck. He swallowed again, successfully. “I’z me.”
    “You don’ see the storm comin’, cher? You don’ worry?”
    Raphael shook his head and watched Juan stagger crab-like toward him. “It’s jus’ rain,” he said bravely, like a good pirate.
    “ Non. Mais, I wish you was right.”
    “It’s goin’ away.” Raphael squinted as Juan drew closer.
    “She goes ’way, then she comes back. Boom! Like that!” Juan clapped his hands.
    “How do you know?”
    “Me, I seen it before. The gulls go; and the pelicans. The cows, they go up to the ridges.”
    “Why?”
    “So they die slower.”
    Raphael took a step backward. “It’s jus’ rain.”
    “ Mais non, cher. Is win’, too. Big win’.” He spread his hands wide. “Lights in the sky, this morning. I saw them lights. I know.” Thunder sounded in the distance once more. He dropped his hands to his side, as if his point had been made for him. “Hein?”
    “What can we do?”
    Juan’s expression didn’t change. Slowly, he shook his head.
    Raphael felt a thrill of alarm. He had experienced many storms in his seven years. He knew what it was like to be wet and miserable because his house leaked. But he could sense there was a difference between that and what Juan was saying. He tried to imagine a big wind blowing over the chénière. He couldn’t.
    “The win’, she’ll take your house.” Juan turned toward his own house. “She’ll take mine, too, that one, and twist it to little pieces.”
    Raphael thought of the few things he owned that weren’t in his pocket. Most important was a pair of leather shoes that M’sieu Lucien had brought all the way from New Orleans. He seldom wore them, but now that he was old enough for short pants instead of the cotton dress he had worn until summer, the shoes were important. He couldn’t let themblow away. School was to start the day after tomorrow, in a brand-new building that had just been erected. Although his mother hadn’t yet promised he could go, he still held out hope. And he would need shoes.
    There was also his rosary, and a tiny pirogue that he had whittled from a soft tree limb, along with a little man who sat in it. And there was Angelle’s doll. That last thought made his eyes widen. “Angelle, will she blow away, too?”
    “You mus’ tell your maman to take you and Angelle to Picciola’s store when the win’, she start ’a blow. If she don’…” He shrugged.
    Raphael nodded solemnly. “My nonc, Auguste Cantrelle, he has a big-big house.”
    “That one.” He spat out the words. “He won’ take you in.”
    Raphael thought about it, and decided Juan was right. “When does this storm come?”
    “Who knows? Maybe soon, maybe later.” Juan moved forward and cupped Raphael’s chin in his hand. The old man stared at him long enough to make Raphael wish he could wiggle away. But he stood as still and tall as he could, and waited.
    “Your papa, he was a good man.” Juan dropped his hand. “You didn’ know him, but me, I did. He was good, strong. Les autres? Those who say differen’?” He spat on the ground.
    Raphael was affected by Juan’s words. He wanted to ask more, but he was spellbound by the revelation that Juan had known his father. Suddenly he was no different from the other boys on the chénière. His father had been a good man.
    “Come, I show you somethin’.” Juan turned and started back the way he had come. Raphael was too excited by all he had heard to be frightened now of the marsh. He stumbled after Juan.
    Juan parted the grasses, just like before. Raphael followed,noting their route as best he could. The path was both solid and liquid, and in places the sedge was taller than he was. He followed Juan’s zigzag steps, glancing from time to time at a thicket of moss-draped trees in the distance.
    They were almost at the ridge where three trees perched when Juan sank into water that came to the top of his boots. He turned