Walk along one of the back streets towards Frenchman and you could find real quiet. It was a strange, muted quiet, made all the stranger because from here, you were still close enough to the carnival of Bourbon Street that your ears thought that you should be hearing something. This wasn’t the kind of quiet that raised the hair on your arms. No, this was the kind of stillness that happens in the hours before the sun rises.

It was that kind of quiet that I needed for my shop. I called it a shop like all the others but it wasn’t on the tourist map, and it didn’t have any shrunken heads or sets of dolls and pins. I didn’t advertise. If you came to my shop, if the quiet didn’t scare you, and if you faced the stillness, you needed to come because you had no choice.

On the very night that the storm was due to appear, the wooden sign above the shop door swung madly and the wind chimes danced like a banshee. But nothing made my blood turn cold like the sight of Joan that night. Centuries of knowing didn’t need to tell me that this girl had something up. Blonde and lanky like an egret she was, with blue eyes crying black tears of mascara and eyeliner as if something evil were leaking out of her, Joan opened the door that I hadn’t bothered to lock. With a hurricane’s air pushing on my end of the French Quarter, I hadn’t expected anyone to be looking for me or for my kind of help.
But clearly the gods had other plans for me that night.

“Cherie, my stars, you must sit down right away,” I said to her and motioned to the dark purple settee. I tucked my Grande-Mere’s quilt around her. Then, I took her hand, and – POW!

My eyes flew open and I dropped her hand as if a snake had bitten me. I could almost hear it slithering away under the settee. Joan looked at me first with confusion and then with embarrassment. She was about to apologize for something clinging to her soul like a thick vine strangling a tree, for something she clearly had no control over but was slowly ripping her to shreds. She snatched her hand under the quilt and dropped her head back against the settee.

I could barely speak but I managed to clear my throat and say, “Let me make you some tea, and we’ll try this again.” My palm still burned from where I had held hers. She closed her eyes and black oily tears rolled down her face.

My cat Esmeralda hissed as I came into the kitchen and flipped on the angry overhead fluorescent light, the one I never used. As if scalded, Esmeralda jumped down from her perch atop the fridge, stalked me on the counter as I switched on the electric kettle, and hissed again when I ignored her.

“I heard you the first time,” I responded.

The cat sat on the counter and flicked me with her tail. The kettle beeped.
“I’m making us some tea,” I stated the obvious to the cat as I reached for the lavender chamomile and the bourbon. I sipped the bourbon and placed the chamomile in a tea bag. The water pouring over the tea bag hissed like Esmeralda. I took another sip of bourbon and looked out the window.

The kitchen faced the small rear courtyard with its large water oak. I had already pulled in the patio furniture, but the wind whipped so hard that it snatched the witches’ hair right off the tree. I could see the spirits gathering out by large water oak, and I sighed. They were bringing their energy to help me in what I had to do for this girl, of course, and for that I was grateful. But on a wild night like this, there were an awful lot of them, and that can’t help but make me a little uneasy.

Joan slumped over on the settee. I settled the tea tray nearby with a few gentle clinks and she didn’t stir. I hesitated just a minute and gathered a bit of courage to touch her, but she sat up before my hand could make contact.

“I hope you like chamomile,” I said with a large silly grin as she sat up.

“I am so sorry,” she whispered, her genteel accent was rolling and proper.

This was not the kind of young woman I was accustomed to seeing here.

“There is no need for an apology. Just tell me your name, cherie,” I said, even though I already knew it. I sat next to her and I made her tea.

“Violet,” she answered. “Violet LeRoy.”

I tilted my head and studied her. “That just won’t work here,” I scolded gently.

Her eyes widened. Again, she felt that she had made a misstep and she was ready to atone for it.

“People wander in here for all kinds of reasons, but for you to wander in on a night like this, well, that’s very unusual,” I continued as I passed her the cookie plate. “Why haven’t you evacuated?”

“Why haven’t you?” she whispered as she sipped her tea.

“Because all that I am lives right here, always has been, always will be, and if it’s due to pass away, then pass away it shall,” I said plainly, not expecting her to understand. “There is no place for me to go. And,” I took a cookie myself, “I suspect you think there is no place for you to go, either… Joan.”

She started at that. “My name is Violet.”

Just a barely noticeable shift in the air, maybe it was the hysterical chimes taking a pause, maybe a slight tilt of my head, but I could see another woman in front of me, just for a breath. This new woman was bold, powerfully bold. She stood in her power without the trappings of eye makeup to intimidate, shock, and conceal. I leaned in and this woman, well, she leaned into me. But then like that – POW – she was gone.

“Why, yes, you are right about that, Violet… or Joan… or maybe both.”

She looked at me over the rim of the teacup and her eyes steadied. Dare I say I even saw something like hope buried in there?

This was going to be a very interesting evening.

An unholy shriek of wind rattled the door chimes and scattered our peace. The shop sign would not last until morning, but neither Joan nor I flinched as we sunk a little deeper into the purple cushions.

“So, what’s on your mind?”

She carefully sat down the teacup and folded her hands over a terribly short black denim skirt. Shredded stockings, a lacy black bra peeking out over a sequined tube top, combat boots. She looked like a vampire but carried herself like a debutante.

She took a deep breath and began, “My name is Joan Westleigh Grimes. I am a client services representative at Red River Bank on Canal.”

“Not dressed like that you aren’t,” I joked.

She cracked a smile. “I also sing in a punk band. Mostly in the Treme very late at night but sometimes here in the Quarter. I introduce myself as Violet when I’m with the band.”

“Now you’re talking sense,” I nodded at her.

Joan paused. The wind quieted. Esmeralda padded in from the kitchen and situated herself in the corner. Even the house itself seemed to listen in. Joan looked at me from the corner of her eye.

At that moment, I reached for her hand again and this time, I was able to hold it.

A rapid series of images flashed before my eyes…

A beautiful white mansion set back from the streets of rolling green lawns, wrought iron fences, and more stately mansions…

Joan as a young child plays the piano…

Four little blonde girls have a tea party in a manicured garden while in the house behind them, a blonde woman is carried out in a stretcher…

A wake full of mourners in black offer condolences to the blonde woman with unblinking eyes, her spine stiff, and behind her, a distinguished older man clamps a hand on her shoulders, three of the four blonde girls are poised by the coffin in matching black dresses…

The distinguished man slaps a young Joan across the face while the blonde woman stares unmoving…

Teenage Joan bangs on the piano in frustration…

A handsome young man in a service uniform escorts Joan at a ball…

Joan – or is it Violet – pockets a fake ID and crouches in the bushes of the mansion until a convertible drives by with no headlights on…

Joan in a college dorm room picking up a guitar…

Joan and the young man stand stiffly together at a garden party…

Violet with heavy eyeliner strides confidently along Bourbon Street…

The blonde woman, much older now, face still motionless, watches Violet sneak in the large white house in the early dawn light…

The man, losing all pretense of propriety, batters Violet…

A lifeguard pulls Joan from a rough ocean…

Violet on a dingy dive bar stage approaches a grimy microphone…

Joan the bride on her wedding day flanked by the two blonde sisters…

Violet takes a whisky shot offered to her from a flirty bartender…

Joan coughs up blood and ocean water on the white sand beach…

Violet shrieks into the microphone while the crowd gyrates…

Joan the bride drops her smile and her new husband’s hand as soon as they leave the church…

Wild fans pursue Violet and the band down Bourbon Street…

Joan straightens the jacket of her suit and greets customers at the bank…

Violet dabs concealer over a black eye and ladles on the eyeliner…

Joan wipes eyeliner away with tissues as bank clients wait for her…

The distinguished husband pushes Joan down a flight of stairs…

The wild fans and band members drop away but Violet runs on…

I released her hand but I kept my eyes closed for a long moment. When I opened them, Joan’s eyes were completely dry and hopeful as she stared at me.

“Well?” she finally prompted.

“Well, Joan Westleigh Grimes,” I said resolutely as I wiped tears from my own eyes, “what you need is an escape hatch.”

She grabbed my hand back. “Can you please…” Though she stopped speaking suddenly, her mouth gaped open as if she wanted to say more.

I arched my eyebrows. “Yes?”

“Please don’t hurt me, or make me drink chicken blood,” she blurted out.

I laughed and stood. “That’s not where you are, cherie. But I do make a wonderful roast chicken with lemon. I have it on Sundays when the family comes. The butcher takes care of the blood so I don’t have to.”

The large white credenza in the corner held all of my supplies. I pulled out the usual candles and made a mental inventory of what I might need from the garden. “Maybe you can come one Sunday for my famous roast chicken. You can bring dessert,” I said.

She stood up suddenly as if she was going to bolt for the door. Little did she know, the spirits of her ancestors were already pressing on the door, keeping it closed and her in.

She shook her head, collapsed down onto the settee, and closed her eyes. Esmeralda jumped up from the corner as if she had been electrocuted. The cat scooted across the floor with a high arch in her back as I placed all of the supplies in the parlor. Then it was out to the garden, with my crazy cat skipping in front of me.

The wind nearly blew the back door off its hinges as I pushed my way towards the garden. The little herbs blew gently in the gusts, as if to them this were nothing more than a Sunday morning breeze. As I picked and plucked, I prayed and prayed hard. I ripped leaves from the small herb plants. I crouched low to the ground and let the wind swirl above me. I squeezed the precious herbs in my palm and their warm fragrance bloomed upwards.

Esmeralda shrieked and I glanced up in just the nick of time to avoid the birdhouse from next door. The wind snapped it from its perch and threw it helter-skelter across my garden. It smashed into the large old water oak and disintegrated. The deepest, darkest rumble of thunder shook the air and made me plant my feet firm. Esmeralda high-tailed it for the house and I ran after her, herbs clutched in my skirt, as the raindrops crashed down.

Back inside the house, I wasted no time in setting out the candles and the herbs, moving at hyper speed like a cartoon. Once it was all prepared, I sat quietly and called upon everything that I could call upon – my ancestors, her ancestors, the spirits from long ago who still inhabited this place, and anything Esmeralda could scare up.

And then my voice came to me. “Joan, Violet. Come into the parlor.”

Her tall silhouette graced the doorframe. In the candlelight, she was skeletal. She had pieces missing. Yet I didn’t have to gesture to her to come closer and step over the candles. She came into my circle on her own steam.

The spirits immediately huddled close as she knelt next to me. Her eyes closed as she folded herself downwards. I shouted out for guidance with all of my might. The house vanished and the parlor floor fell away. I shouted again for help. This shout moved the spirits. This was not the kind of help that comes with ropes and pulleys, not the kind of help that comes in shovels, but the kind of help that guides you like a spark in the darkness.

Then suddenly, the spirits reached towards the folded form of Violet Joan Westleigh Grimes LeRoy, and she expanded upward as if she were a balloon being inflated. The spirits danced, hooted, and hollered. Joan rose to her feet, and the flames of the candles flared. The light gleamed in Esmeralda’s eyes. Ghosts danced by, touching Joan’s cheek, squeezing her hands, brushing their wispy fingers through her hair. Outside even the large water oak joined the dance and tossed its branches. Hurricane, be damned, I thought or shouted. Movement whirled around me, faster and faster. Joan moved against it, slower and slower.

She reached arms like tree branches up, up, up. Rain drummed down the sides of the house. I caught a glimpse of Joan’s eyes in the flaming candlelight. The spirits moved in tight and one by one, they reached in to pull Joan’s demons right out of her.

Suddenly, she shouted my name. “It hurts!” she wailed a banshee scream. “I can’t do this!”

Leaping to my feet, yet still seated in the center of the circle, I took a hold of her face with both hands. Under my palms her cold skin warmed. I felt through the layers and layers. The wind howled and the rain battered the windows. Joan wept harder and harder tears. Black, dark tears of torture.

She fell back in a faint and I barely caught her. The ghosts flew away. It was only the two of us now. I settled her down in the center of the circle and I kneeled by her head. I sang every strengthening and hopeful song that I could remember. Black, smoky tendrils swirled out of her mouth, eyes, ears. It caused her great pain as she disintegrated. She screamed, she twitched, she writhed, she arched her back. But she never once closed her eyes nor closed her mouth.

“VIOLET! COME FORTH!” I screamed as loud as I could. A million ghostly voices heard me, and shouted her new name over and over. More and more smoke poured forth, and while I held her thrashing body, I dared follow one tendril with my eyes.

A chill ran through me as it shaped itself into the young groom at the church. He looked around in utter confusion, and he angrily fixed his eyes on me.

“Oh, no, you don’t,” I let her writhe as I stood up quickly. I could see that he was shocked at how fast I moved, but he hid it well and raised a hand to me.

Esmeralda arched and sprang for his throat. She tumbled through the wispy smoke as he vanished into thin air.

Joan screamed again, this time in searing pain. The older man stood over her, fully formed from the smoke. Joan cowered and I saw her as a young child, fearful and painfully confused. A window in the parlor shattered and rain gushed in. Puddles formed over the floor and rain splattered through. Candles sputtered and went out.

The darkness pressed in, and everything felt strangely still, despite the wild storm outside. I found myself in the corner of the room, and I made myself as small as possible. I looked to Joan. I had done all that I could do for her, except one last thing.

I threw my head back and howled, “VIOLET! IT’S NOW OR NEVER!”

A terrible, devastating silent pause crashed into the room. Nothing moved, nothing whirled, nothing shifted. The stillness descended for just a moment. Then – POW.

Violet stepped forth, as if she had been standing in the corners of the room the whole time. Violet looked just like Joan, but her spine was straighter, her eyes were calmer, and her voice was louder. Violet reached a hand down to Joan, and in the darkness, Joan turned to Violet. The bold face of Violet melted across Joan’s fearful tears. Their hands met, Violet pulled Joan up, and then there were no longer two women standing in the circle. A bolt of lightening flashed and Esmeralda shrieked. Outside, the streets were rivers. That was when Violet turned to face her father. Standing at her full height, Violet was taller than the father’s shadow. She was a mountain to his tree.

As the wind sent the shop sign careening away into the sky, Violet crouched low and raised her eyes. She grinned a wicked smile at her father’s ghost before she launched into him with the full force she could bring. For a moment, Joan seemed to peel away. A look of peace swept across Joan’s face as Violet smashed the dark evil smoke and sent it howling along the wind. Violet fell to her knees, tossed back her fierce strong head, and wailed out years of rage, hurt, shame for Joan. The long hard cry melded into a shriek of victory when suddenly there was a fierce crack and everything went black.

I don’t remember how I survived that wild night full of destruction. Whether it was the rising waters that carried her along that terrible night, or whether it was her own steam, Joan Westleigh Grimes rested that night for the first time in a long while. Violet LeRoy came forth and triumphed. When the electricity went out, Violet ran out of my shop, out of the French Quarter, and out of New Orleans. I never saw her again.

It was months before I could go back, but finally, around the time that the spring moon hung low in the warm sky, I strolled back down the quiet streets. The heart of the city was broken but my little shop was still standing. Even the large old water oak in the back had survived the storm and a new batch of Spanish moss drifted gently in the night breeze. I stopped on the sidewalk and gazed at my home, grateful for the strength in those old bones.

There was a flier tacked up on the telephone pole next to the house. The photo immediately caught my eye and was unmistakable: MISSING SINCE AUGUST 29, 2005, it shrieked. JOAN WESTLEIGH GRIMES. It gave a hefty reward and a phone number to call.

“Missing?” I said aloud with a laugh.

Pulling the flier off the tree, I tapped the front door. It swung open and from the kitchen, the shadow of a cat scooted towards me.