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Ann's decrepit Datsun would never make it all the way to New Orleans； she had no car； no panion； and she had sold her Walkman to another girl at work so she could see R。E。M。 play at Duke University last month。 She couldn't even listen to her Cocteau Twins tapes on her way to meet her love。
By the time she got home that night； she knew she was going to New Orleans。 It had been easy enough to stand there in the trailer yard talking to the tall bartender； telling him she would follow Zillah anywhere。 But when it came right down to going…well； that had to be thought out for a while。
At work； waiting tables in the Spanish restaurant whose gold flocked wallpaper and red pile carpet passed for elegance in the North Carolina slicks； she thought it out。 By the time she left； she was able to phrase a note to the kitchen manager explaining that there was a sudden illness in her family and could the balance of her pay please be forwarded to Ann Bransby…Smith； General Delivery； New Orleans； Louisiana： She didn't really expect to see that money。 Maybe when Zillah saw how she truly loved him； he would provide for her； the purple silk lining of his coat spoke of wealth。
She had thought it out carefully； but she was still scared by her decision。 Leave Missing Mile？ She had never done that； not even to go to college。 After high school graduation she hadn't applied to any schools； telling herself she was taking a year off to concentrate on painting。 Steve and Ghost were going to State。 If they thought college was worth anything； then she might go。 But the year turned into two。 Steve and Ghost got disillusioned and came back home； fell back into their dream of being rock stars。
She couldn't talk to Steve now； didn't think she ever would again。 But there was still Eliot； only ten miles down the highway； who knew nothing about her night with Zillah outside the Sacred Yew。 She could see him any day after work。 She admitted to herself that she hadn't wanted to see him much lately。 He wouldn't smoke pot and was a little shocked that she did。 He even wanted her to quit smoking her unfiltered Camels： 〃Can't you at least switch to one of the low…tar brands？〃 he'd asked； and hadn't understood why Ann burst out laughing。 Eliot couldn't even outdrink her。 What kind of man got sleepy after drinking three Lite beers？ The only thing Eliot really liked to drink was his loathsome gin…and…Cokes。
She couldn't pretend that Eliot mattered anymore。 He had tried to make Ann jealous last weekend； telling her his ex…wife was ing to town。 〃She's got no place to stay；〃 Eliot had said innocently； 〃Do you think I should offer to put her up here？〃 Ann didn't give a shit。 She had not stayed in Missing Mile for Eliot。 She had not stayed for Steve。 She had stayed because of her father。 Simon's strangeness had kept her here； kept her worried enough to postpone her life。 Now it was the final thing that drove her away。 If Simon found out she was pregnant 。 。 。 well； he would think she was stupid。 And Simon did not suffer fools gladly。
But none of those men mattered now。 Steve； Eliot； Simon …they were just names receding into her past； names with none of the susurrant magic of Zillah。 She whispered his name to herself constantly。 It was like the smooth taste of whipped cream； like a deep tongue kiss。
She drove out to Violin Road； but the trailer was dark。 The black van and the silver Bel Air were gone； and there was an air of emptiness about the trailer： already it looked as if no one had lived there for a long time。 They were on their way to New Orleans； then。 Soon she would be too。
Simon's car wasn't there either； when she drove home。 She wanted to see him one more time； but she was afraid to。 This was how it had to be。 She began to pack。 What should she put in the one small bag she would be able to carry？ She wished she could take the new series of paintings she had begun。 All of them were unfinished； all were of faces with sly pink smiles and iridescent green eyes。 But those would have to stay。 She wouldn't need them in New Orleans。 Instead she packed her black lace underwear and two pairs of old pink cotton panties。 Her toothbrush； her cigarettes； her little wooden pipe and her film can； which contained three pinches of marijuana she'd cadged off Terry。 She might need to sneak a toke in some bus station bathroom between here and New Orleans。 Somewhere in the swamps。
There were a few crumbly leaves left in the bottom of her bowl； so she sneaked a toke now。 It put her at loose ends。 She stood staring around at her possessions； suddenly feeling unable to leave anything behind。 Her mourning hat with the little black veil； her record collection。 The R。E。M。 poster on the wall stared down at her。 Stipe's eyes were like loss。 Peter Buck's were like dark fire。 How could she leave her posters； her clothes； her canvases and paint box？
Frenziedly she snatched at a black lace scarf and tied it around her throat。 That； at least； would go with her。 She put on a string of ebony beads； a gray sweatshirt； a skirt with a torn silk lining。 She was caught in the mirror； adding lipstick and silver eyeshadow （in just eighteen hours or so she might see her true love again； she must look beautiful）； when she heard Simon at the front door。 She snatched off her beret and with the side of her foot shoved the suitcase under the bed。
Ann heard him stepping carefully through the mess in the living room。 Picking his way through the piles of books and newspapers； emphasizing how untidy the room was。 He dragged the books off the shelves； he read the newspapers； but she was supposed to keep the house picked up。 That was one of her duties。 Simon was very big on duties。 Sometimes she wondered whether he didn't strew his things around just to make the absence of liquor bottles more obvious。 He said he had not taken a drink for five years； six months； and twenty days； and Simon was never wrong。
Here he was at the doorway； small and spare。 His hair； unbed for days； flared wildly about his head。 It was thick and snow…white； his skin was almost phosphorescent in the gloom of the hallway。 In the summer Ann worried about her father's health。 He had e over from Dorchester twenty years ago； but the hot； humid summers here still made him droop。 He was like some glacial plant whose fragile structure was supported by ice crystals； his hair went limp； he perspired from the dark bags beneath his eyes。 But in the winter he exuded a kind of mad vitality。
Suddenly she was sure he would be able to read her mind； or look through the mattress and see the suitcase beneath it。 He would begin to argue with her； calmly； reasonably。 But his argument would be slippery。 There would be no tail end she could grab onto so that she might argue back。 In ten minutes she would feel as if she were trying to wind up earthworms on a spoon。 In half an hour she would feel as if she were trying to drive a nail through a blob of mercury。 In an hour or two or three； he would have her talked out of the whole stupid notion。 She would not go to the Greyhound station； would not catch the all…night express to New Orleans。 She would never see Zillah again。
Simon had talked her out of so many