But we don’t just have that old woman with a cane to thank, in how she reminded Bethany of Marie Toussaint, the mid-wife present at her birth, spurring her on to listen, really listen to David, and give him what he needed to lose that lost look in his eyes after that old woman preyed upon his weakness, in the seemingly random way she decided to pay David a visit that night in Pirates Alley, a fan come to hear a musician play—how she made him take a look at himself, a process that always leads to something missing in your eyes.  We don’t just have her to thank, for this is where Popovitch also played a part.  How his need for closure on what happened in Biloxi before the war also brought David and Bethany together, making what could have been just a chance meeting, a momentary connection, something more.  But before this, perhaps a journal entry Bethany wrote at the time, soon after meeting David, can shed light on what led David to do what he did, in involving Popovitch with a drug deal gone bad, which not only led to Popovitch being killed, falling on his own sword as it were, but also how in almost a matter of will on David’s part caused Pete Southhouse to die as well, Johnny Tribout, David’s friend caught in the middle of this love entanglement, a scar on his neck his trophy from the ordeal.  All this what freed David and Bethany to marry, to have children—that next part in the telling of David’s life, how he met another prophet—a man, not woman this time— who foretold his future and the price he would have to pay for his sins.

 

September 11, 1945—I took a walk the other night.  I had spent the day alone.  I awoke alone and went about my day not really thinking I was missing anything.  Not my husband who left our bed while I was still asleep, for a job I knew he cared nothing about while he just waited for his next fix, not in the routines that were part of my normal day, routines that didn’t include talking to anyone.  My grandmother and my uncle just bodies in the house—their routines never interfering with mine—they had their rooms in the house and I had mine.  The kitchen and bathroom we shared at different times during the day…  But it’s funny how you can be haunted into feeling lonely when you really aren’t.  Maybe it was a dream I had while asleep that I couldn’t remember when I woke up, but it left me with the feeling it gave—the feeling that I should think something was missing.  And I guess it just made me remember Denny, that first time I fell hard in love and was burned by it, and it started me reasoning, started a conversation in my mind where I wondered if I was happy then, in those times we shared together.  I went through memories, trying to fix a point that defined the happiness, that declared the sadness of what I missed once it was over.  And it got me wondering if the happiness was ever real, if what I missed in that time being with him was something I should miss, and I realized the hesitance I felt was the conclusion I came up with, the conclusion that actually I didn’t need him at all, what I needed was it to have never happened so I wouldn’t be fooled into missing it once it was over.  I didn’t need what happened between us, but it had happened so I would think I need it, and for a moment I got a glimpse of the eternal—how nothing turns into something only when there’s a measurement of time, but without the measurement, without time, nothing was all there is, how in our mortality we create time in order for things to happen so we can remember them and record how they end, but without beginning, without end, nothing was created and nothing ended—these were just manifestations of our minds which never existed.  It was our mind’s idea of time which made things happen.  Things we mourn once we create the idea that they’re over.  That idea of God and love…  And so I went for a walk, this strange conclusion on my mind when I met him.  His name David.  And when that old woman with a cane came to our table, after he answered my eyes, I remembered Marie Toussaint, the mid-wife who presided over my birth.  I remembered her words to me when I came to her for advice, for the poison I sought from her.  And after a day alone, taunted by an unremembered dream that I should feel lonely, that I should feel something was missing, I saw in his eyes that I was never alone, even when I had no one to talk to.  Because when I listened to him I heard my life.  I heard my life in his life.  Almost like he was inside a mirror which reflected me.  And suddenly I knew I was never alone, even in days such as the one I’d just had where I was all by myself talking to no one.  My life was going on in everyone else’s life, and if you listened you could hear it.  The only horror of loneliness feeling they were just hidden inside your mirror, but when you went through, through the looking glass, when you truly listened, everyone was not you—you were everyone else.  And time stood still.  There was no measurement of it from one moment to the next when I took his hand, when I returned the smile he gave me, and followed him to that stage where together we sang a song.  A song that never began and never ended, only existing now because my mind is trying to express it.  And I knew this somehow—I remembered the dream.  I knew I was just a fool falling in love again…

 

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