One Saturday morning, a couple of weeks after school had begun, I walked alone down to the city library. Using the microfilm reader, I read though the old newspaper accounts of the Westervelt family. It was like a wonderful walk down memory lane as I read about my former life. I wept uncontrollably when I read the accounts of my son Peter's death in the skies over France, and I again relived the agony of that day when I had received the telegram informing me. Peter had been my youngest, my baby, and I had been so very proud of him. I received quite a few strange stares from other people in the library but, as no one came over to comfort me, I ignored them. I also cried as I read Jeremy's obituary. He was my one true love and I shall never love another as I did him. Finding some humorous accounts of my family's chronicles, I was able to cheer myself up and I even giggled a little. I took the time to trace the history of all of my children, to the extent possible from the microfilm. Husband made a quick stop in front of the theater, which sat right next to the world famous Voodoo doughnut shop. I had read of their extreme popularity but didn’t expect the line to extend out the door and down the street ending directly in front of the Paris. I knew I was going to have to run that gauntlet of shame in order to enter those dark confines.“Thought seeing this monument to sadistic venality might help get rid of your butterflies,” he smiled devilishly. He was beyond excited, like a little boy on Christmas eve.“I’m fine,” I lied. I was a wreck, soooo needed a drink and a joint.We proceeded to our hotel, just a few, sketchy, six or so blocks from the Paris theater. A walk I was not looking forward to, knowing parts of me would soon be exposed to the sultry summer heat. I had by now become accustomed to the mob mentality, the feeding frenzy, that never failed to materialize whenever I set foot in any adult theater but I could never quite compartmentalize those feelings.
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