“I always had my music and the piece of land my father left me and my sister and my mama,” she said. “I sang wit’ BonSoir, Catin. I was queen of the Crawfish Festival in Breaux Bridge. I t’ink back on that, and it’s like it was ten years ago instead of two. A lot can change in a short time, cain’t it? My mama died. Now it’s just me and my li’l sister, Blue, and my granddaddy back in St. Martinville.”

“You’re a great musician, and you have a wonderful voice. You’re a beautiful person, Tee Jolie.”

“When you talk like that, it don’t make me feel good, no. It makes me sad.”

“Why?”

“He says I can have an abortion if I want.”

“That’s his offer to you?”

“He ain’t got his divorce yet. He ain’t a bad man. You know him.”

“Don’t tell me his name,” I said.

“How come?”

Because I might want to put a bullet between his eyes, I thought. “It’s not my business,” I said. “Did you really give me this iPod?”

“You just saw me.”

“I can’t trust what I see and hear these days. I truly want to believe you’re real. The iPod is too expensive a gift.”

“Not for me. He gives me plenty of money.”

“My wallet is in the nightstand drawer.”

“I got to go, Mr. Dave.”

“Take the money.”

“No. I hope you like the songs. I put t’ree of mine in there. I put one in there by Taj Mahal ’cause I know you like him, too.”

“Are you really here?” I asked.

She cupped her hand on my brow. “You’re burning up, you,” she said.

Then she was gone.

Nine days later, a big man wearing a seersucker suit and a bow tie and spit-shined shoes and a fresh haircut and carrying a canvas bag on a shoulder strap came into the room and pulled up a chair by the bed and stuck an unlit cigarette in his mouth.

“You’re not going to smoke that in here, are you?” I asked.

He didn’t bother to answer.