I dreamed that Barack Obama was having an affair with Mae West. She lived in a big townhouse in the French Quarter, filled with old furniture and hardback books, the kind of place that would be in a novel about octoroon balls. Mae West had a daughter, maybe seven or eight, and our kids played. I opened a book—something by Flannery O’Connor. (I love my dreams, and read avidly, making whole worlds of private space.)

We left Charleston and made it as far as a dock near the Stono River. A mechanic named Ray ate Halloween candy we gave him and tried to figure out what was wrong with the engine. Tallulah and I took a walk on a road raised between the river and the tidal flats where long-legged white birds landed, poking in the grass, and tiny crabs with huge claws ran like ants across the sandy dirt.

In the end we headed back to Sullivan’s Island. Adam fixed the engine today. I’m dyeing the gray in my hair for the first time. We’ll head out again tomorrow.  


*Thanks, Vicki Stone, for the great photo.