The Storm by Shelley Thrasher Page A

them.” She didn’t know what else to say.
    After a long silence, he gazed at her as if just realizing she was there. “I surely do appreciate you looking after both of us.”
    She murmured something polite, but he dismissed it with a wave.
    â€œNo, I really mean it. I’m in a tight spot right now, but I’ll get back on my feet. Eric will too. You’re a kind lady to help us out like this.”
    She started to remind him that she was Eric’s wife but wasn’t sure what Eric had told him. And he was obviously no fool. They didn’t act anything like a happily married couple.
    She and Angus sat there a while longer in silence until he said, “Well, I best go rest a mite too. Eric and I need to go see a man about some land later. You try to find something to occupy yourself, you hear? Don’t want you to be too lonesome while you’re here. Go visit somebody you met at church this morning. That Molly Russell is about the nicest one around.”
    What a dear man, she thought as he went inside. Worrying about me being lonely, when he must be grieving his heart out for his wife and boys.
    She tapped another cigarette from her pack. At this rate, she’d run out in a week, and then what would she do? As she sat there and smoked, Eric’s earlier remark about seducing Molly began to buzz around her head like a fly. Why were Eric and Angus both pointing her in Molly’s direction? Did they think she’d treat Molly the same way Sister Mary had treated her?
    Suddenly an image of Sister Mary Therese pulled her into the past, though she’d rather not visit it again. Why keep torturing herself?
    Sister Mary sat next to her on a concrete bench in the convent garden, spring flowers blooming yellow and blue. Eighteen, she’d noticed only how Sister Mary’s hair and eyes outshone the flowers. “I’m glad you decided to stop skipping school this year,” Sister Mary had said.
    â€œYeah. Mother is too. You must be a good influence.” She had promised her mother not to miss any more classes in exchange for taking singing lessons from Sister Mary.
    She recalled almost bloodying her fingers when she pressed them into the rough concrete to keep from edging them toward Sister Mary’s thigh. “But I do miss spending all day in the French Quarter and Storyville listening to music and taking pictures. Would you like to see my favorite of all the ones I’ve taken?”
    Riffling through the photographs she’d pulled from between the pages of one of her textbooks, she selected one of a dark-haired prostitute wearing an almost-transparent black dress. “What do you think?”
    Sister Mary had paled but had questioned her about it. She’d even called it a work of art, which thrilled her. She also remembered exactly how she’d sighed in relief. Any of the other nuns would have ripped the photo to shreds and reported her to the mother superior.
    Her legs had burned when she’d looked at the shot. She’d given the woman five dollars to pose for her, and as she and Sister Mary sat side by side and gazed at it, Sister Mary seemed to have trouble catching her breath. The area between her own legs definitely began to throb.
    Eventually, Sister Mary said, “You’re a fine student and have developed your voice quickly this year.” She must have been trying to resume her role as teacher rather than peer.
    She had thanked her and said, “You’ve influenced me more than you can imagine.”
    Then Sister Mary had beamed, and two of her blond curls slipped out from her wimple. And when Sister Mary patted her back and let her hand linger, she’d sat as still as possible, silently willing Sister Mary to never move it. It radiated heat and made the blood rush through her body so fast she could almost hear it. She began to sweat in spite of the cold concrete she sat on.
    She had spent many precious minutes with Sister