They call her Dana by Jennifer Wilde Page A

to—to—"
    I started sobbing yet again, and amidst the sobs I blurted out the whole story. I told him about Clem and Jake and Randy and about Ma seeing the redbird and her death and that terrible day at the cemetery with the wooden box and the grave and the mound of brown dirt. I told him about my being a bastard and about my unknown relatives in a place called New Orleans, and finally 1 told him about Clem's attempting to rape me in the kitchen. He listened with a solemn expression on his face, trying his best to follow my near incoherent ramblings.
    "And—and 1 ain't had—haven't had anything to eat since I ate a piece of combread yesterday and—and that's why I was goin' through your bags. I thought—the fowl wudn't—wasn't ready yet and I was afraid I'd bum my fingers and I thought

    maybe there'd be something to eat in one of them bags. I wasn't plannin' to rob you, I—I swear it."
    "Call me an idiot if you choose, but—you know, I think I actually believe you, lass. You just sit here and rest up, child. I'll have something for you to eat quick as a flash."
    He climbed to his feet and opened the third bag, the one I hadn't looked into. I watched him as though through a shim-mery fog, so weary after the crying and emotional outpouring I could hardly hold my eyes open. The third bag did indeed contain food, cutlery and utensils as well, and I watched him pull things out, my eyelids growing heavier and heavier. I felt dizzy again, like I was floating and not really here at all. The hunger pains I had felt earlier had vanished, and I just wanted to drift away. The man moved about briskly, rattling things, his shadow shifting over the ground in the dying glow of the fire.
    "Here we are," he said.
    He handed me a plate piled high with slices of roasted fowl and beans he had just heated and bread and a chunk of hard cheese. He handed me a glass, too, filled with a clear amber liquid that proved to be wonderfully tasty, if a bit peculiar when it slid down your throat. He stood with his arms folded, watching me eat, and I finally set the plate aside, half the food uneaten. I felt even dizzier than before, felt my head was actually spinning around, but there was a warm glow inside that made me cozy as a kitten.
    "Finished?" he inquired.
    I nodded sleepily and held up the empty glass.
    "Don't feel like eatin' anything else just now, but I'd sure like another glass-a this ftmny stuff.''
    "That funny stuff is wine, lass—a very fine vintage, incidentally, best my cellar contains. From the look of you, I'd say one glass was more than ample. Feeling better now?"
    "I feel like a kitten."
    "A kitten?"
    ' 'I just wanna curi up and purr."
    "Jesus," he said.
    "Mind if I take a litde nap on these blankets?"
    "Feel free."
    I yawned, making myself more comfortable on the thick blankets, everything hazy and kind of blurry, like I was looking through a shimmery piece of glass. The tepee thing with the

    half-finished picture on it seemed to wobble a little, and the glowing orange logs seemed to separate and become two piles of logs and then become one again. Curious as hell, I thought, blinking my eyes. My head still feh like it was spinning, only spinning slowly now, and I felt a wonderful glow inside. Never felt anything like it before. Maybe I'm dying, I told myself, and that frightened me.
    "Am—am I dying?" I asked him.
    "No," he said, "youYe just drunk."
    "I couldn't be drunk," I protested.
    "That was very potent wine. I shouldn't have given it to you. I should have given you coffee instead."
    I sighed and pulled one of the blankets over my bare legs. I was glad I wasn't dying, glad I was only drunk. The man had put my plate down and held a glass of the very potent wine himself, sipping it as he looked down at me. He was so big and so beautiful in them, no, those elegant clothes, even if he did have silvery temples and a tiny double chin. The proud Roman nose and strong, square jaw inspired confidence, while the gentle eyes and