On the way through the door, she caught a glimpse of herself in the hall mirror. She looked awful, her color as washed out as Mrs. Fontenot’s. She pulled herself upstairs, brushed her hair, splashed on cologne, and smoothed on some waterproof makeup.

Rushing through the front door, she ran straight into the Larousse twins, who were standing shoulder-to-shoulder on her porch. She had to stare at them a moment before she realized who they were. Victor had had his teeth pulled and sported a shiny upper plate, and Vincent had lost his blackest incisor, which softened his appearance.

Vincent rolled his eyes. “Hey, baby, me and Plastic Face here just comin’ by. You want us to gas up and go look for T-Bub, just give us the word.”

Her mouth dropped a bit. “What can you do that the Coast Guard can’t?”

Vincent sniggered, not at all insulted. “Colette.” He looked at his brother. “The Coast Guard is a bunch a nearsighted weenies from the city.”

“They wimpos,” Victor added.

She glanced at the women tattooed on their forearms and walked down the steps, hoisting an umbrella. “They’re trying hard. They’re keeping me informed.”

“They from New Orleans. If the streetcars would stop runnin’, they couldn’t find downtown.” Victor opened her door.

Before she got in she studied their faces, their broken noses, trying to remember when she hated them and why. “Let me call around,” she said. “You gonna be home?”

“Yas. We in the garage putting new fiberglass on Nonc’s Lafitte.” Vincent shook back a wet strand of hair from his forehead.

“The planes are out,” she said from behind the wheel. Then she looked into their dark eyes. “But you know Paul. You know the channels.”

Vincent tilted his head and nodded, then closed the door for her. She watched them in her rearview mirror, their ropy arms and V-shaped heads.

She found Paul’s mother seated in the kitchen, her fingers pinched on a rosary. Their eyes met, but neither of them smiled.

“Ah. I don’t know what to think. Mrs. Latiolais from across the street brought some potato salad over already.”

Colette opened the refrigerator and eyed the big Tupperware bowl. “I guess word is getting around.” She walked over and put a hand on the prickling skin of Mrs. Thibodeaux’s upper arm.

“You want some lunch, Colette?”

“No thanks. Mrs. Fontenot already brought me some gumbo.” They looked at each other and laughed against the odds, feeling guilty and sad.

Colette sat at the oak table and spread out her hands on its surface, feeling the humidity on the varnish, the signs of the coming storm even here. The square plastic clock over the plywood cabinets said one o’clock. “You know, the crazy Larousse twins came by a minute ago saying they would go out and search. They said the Coast Guard wouldn’t look as hard as friends would.”