I arrived home from Blanche's house and two hours later, under the stealthy dementia of LSD-laced absinthe, walked to Fritzel's Pub. The evening ended at midnight, with me sprinting from the bar, hoping those I'd antagonized wouldn't be chasing after me.   I probably wouldn't even have been there at all, and certainly wouldn't have ingested such numbing quantities of the Green Goddess, had it not been for the twisted antics of a senile one-time debutante -- of two old women, actually -- sour, spiteful, one-upping 'til the grave, evil queens of the Garden District   My name is Steve Garvey. And I am the best quilt maker in New Orleans.   I had been experiencing a slowdown recently. With the exception of one sale two weeks earlier, people weren't buying my quilts. I was still rather well off financially (very profitable, quilt-stitching), but no current business and relatively no social life had me contemplating escape again. I contemplated escape all the time. Made me feel like I was actually free. Like I could just get up and go if things ever became too boring or dreary. I generally felt like that a couple of times a month and, to this day, when I smell something that reminds me of the French Quarter, that tinge of restlessness flutters up into my stomach and I have to do two shots of Bourbon before it goes away.   Something usually came along and snapped me out of it, however, and so I'd come to appreciate those southern summer lulls -- as long as they didn't last too long, that is, in which case I was often forced inward and groping for things that don't have names.   So I sat on my stoop for two days or three, drinking, looking around, one moment deciding to flee, the next convincing myself not to. Something would come along. Something always came along.   Blanche Le Blanche -- no shit -- that was her name. She'd changed it from Le Blanc after her husband died because there were already too many Le Blancs in town, and none of them lived up to her standards of possible relatives. My telephone pulled me from the stairs, and she gave me directions to her house uptown. I recognized the address. I knew who she was. I'd delivered a quilt to her next door neighbor, Linette Ansel, only two weeks earlier, and had seen Ms. Le Blanche spying on me from an upstairs window. "I have a job for you," she said. "How soon can you be here?"   Still in somewhat of a lethargic mood, I left my bicycle and took the streetcar, that living museum of the lost and forlorn, and was strongly considering the color grey by the time I knocked on her door. (People on the streetcar -- and this is the only city in which I've ridden them, so my experience is limited -- but they are chiseled to graven in that light, regardless of the truth. Even the most common of dispositions can come at you framed and gallerized. Sad is the end of the world, happy is contrived and diversionary, not caring is too pensive to let on. The light of which I speak -- the color cast inside those damnable cars -- is green or yellow, both hazy, both coming to grey because it fits.)   It's effect on me is often mistaken for aloof, which I am used to, because I'm rarely interested in making the effort at anything else. If I were watching myself on the streetcar, it would be irreverence by default, in a plain oak frame, in a room by itself; aggressive disregard if a tour group should happen upon me. And it is aggressively uninteresting to you right now, I'm sure, that grey eyes on the trolley can, and will, drain focus -- if you pay attention -- and the blur can last for several minutes.   By the time the edges came clear, and I found myself inside Blanche's house with a cocktail, she was talking about her great-great-great-great-great grandfather, or somebody, who had been killed by the pirate Jean Lafitte in The Battle For New Orleans.   "That's how far back I go in this town," she said, winking her shriveled eye at me as if to imply and that's why I deserve a damned fine quilt.   She obviously had money. I opened my mouth to say "that's a pretty skewed notion of 'deserve,'" and then remembered she hadn't actually said it. My jaw hung open for five seconds before I came up with something else.   "Why would Lafitte kill his own man?"   "My ancestor -- Cobocheaux, his name was -- he married a fine young fille a la cassette." (This claim did not surprise me. It seems that all native New Orleanians are able to trace their heritage in a straight line directly to the filles a la cassette, who are carefully distinguished from the original eighty-eight female inmates transported to the Louisiana Territory from La Salpetriere in an effort to supply wives for the wanting colonists. Apparently, not one of these "correction girls" ever bore a single child, however, and no one presently living in Louisiana has but a speck of second-class blood.)   "I see." Blanche detected the patronizing tone of my voice, which was intentional, and scowled.   "He hated Americans," she spat. "Hated 'em coming down here and thinking they had rights to the place. He traited over to the Brits mid-battle, God bless him." She'd probably told the story a thousand times.   "What a bastard."   Blanche's eyes thinned, stalled, her face searching for an appropriate reaction. "Watch your tongue, boy. That's my lineage you're talking about. And New Orleans is French. Always has been, always will be. You and your kind ain't got no more claim to it than the roaches."   "I certainly agree," I said. Since I couldn't have cared less who had rightful claim to the city -- French, Brits, me or my kind, Vikings, roaches, whoever -- I let her speak her piece.   "Well, then..." she trailed off. My non-reaction had taken her by surprise. I think she'd expected me to argue.   "So if New Orleans is French," I indulged, "then why was Cococheaux fighting for the Brits?"   "It's Cobocheaux. Anyway, France wasn't the ones fightin' over it, Britain was -- and because he'd have rather seen this place as European than American, that's why. It's all been downhill since the damned Joneses and Williamses, and Jiminezes showed up. And the Ansels."   Jiminezes? Ms. Le Blanche had evidently had a distasteful experience with some American named Jiminez somewhere along the line, but I didn't ask, because I was sure that it only would have led to a drawn out conversation about surnames, ethnicity, and the event itself, which, with Blanche (I eventually learned), could sometimes mean spending the entire day there while she finished a story. Since she'd emphasized "Ansel," and because of the subsequent frozen contempt that spread across her face, I assumed this was the epicenter of the statement.   "Yep... all downhill since them Yanks all showed up," she said again.   "All downhill... all downhill for the last three hundred years, huh?"   "Yes. You gonna make a quilt for me or not?"   "Yeah, if that's what you want."   "That's what I want."   Indeed, the reason for my being there was beginning to present itself a little more clearly. I'd gotten the lowdown on "that horrible Le Blanche widow" from Ms. Ansel two weeks ago. Now, I assumed, Blanche was out to even the score. But I didn't bring it up.   "This is a real nice place here, Ms. Le Blanc."   "Le Blanche."    "Sorry." But I wasn't, really. In fact, I'd said it on purpose, just for the goddamned hell of it. See, I had something that rich people wanted -- beautiful quilts, the best in town -- and I was indispensable. It gave me the upper hand. Quilts. "I see autumn colors prevailing. Earth tones, perhaps..."   "Huh? Look around, boy, you see any earth tones?"   "Well, no, not really. Maybe for the bedroom, though-"   "No. This quilt's gotta be a big bold beauty. I saw you going next door a couple of weeks ago with one, you know. Y'know the one you did for that Ansel widow?"   "Oh, sure. One of my best. Perhaps the best. I studied oak leaves for a month before I felt comfortable embroidering their likeness."   "She didn't say anything about oak leaves."   "Nevertheless."   "Oak leaves are pedestrian."   I used her feigned disregard, her arrogance, for my own amusement. "I tell ya, that Ansel place is quite a palace. I mean, it's really-"   "It's a hovel. Now listen -- my quilt's gotta be better than hers. And not by a hair, either. Gotta be better and well apparent about it."   "I see. So that'swhat this is all about," I said, making no effort to hide the fact that I'd figured as much all along. The monetary possibilities of being a quilt-stitching pawn in such a competition were limitless, and so I refrained from laughing out loud.   As it turned out, this was only the latest battle between the two -- in a war that had been raging for forty years. Blanche poured herself a gin and grenadine, me a straight Bourbon, and told me the story in much greater detail than Linette ever had.   In April of 1956, Dr. and Mrs. Remy Le Blanc, eighth generation New Orleanians, found the house of their dreams. Edge of the Garden District, riverside of St. Charles Avenue, and a mere $200,000 -- just within their inheritance-padded price range. "Oh, I'm sorry," the real estate agent had said on the telephone, "somebody else just closed on that place about an hour ago. A Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Ansel."   "Yankees," Blanche hissed into the receiver.   "Well, yes, I guess. They are from up north, if that's what you mean."   "It's not. Not entirely..."   "Well, I'm sorry about the confusion, Mrs. Le Blanc -- we just haven't had a chance to take the sign down yet."   So the Le Blancs had to settle for their second choice -- the house next door. It was a square foot smaller, a thousand dollars less expensive, not quite as old, and the wrought iron around the upstairs balcony was just a hair less intricate. Blanche stood in the front yard the day after closing and leered at her new house, breathing heavily and forcing satisfaction. It may as well have been a shotgun shack.   "... but it's a perfectly darling little house anyway," Ms. Ansel told her new neighbor after stepping out onto her enormous porch and tactfully pointing out its shortcomings. "Of course, compared to this place, well, you know... it's a perfectly darling little house."   "Where are you from, Mrs. Ansel?"   "Akron. And, please, call me Linette."   Blanche turned red. Outdone by an American. And a northern one at that. Linette? Akron? Rich Americans from the North were soulless. Plastic. Fake. They played golf and tennis and mail-ordered wine from Napa Valley. They thought they were sophisticated, but they weren't. They simply stole other people's traditions. There was no base. No culture. Only imitation of culture, and a glib disregard for the genuine item.   Inside of a week, the Le Blanc balcony had been re-wrought into a complex web of geometric sophistication far beyond that of any of the other uptown mansions. And just a shade -- but a noticeable shade, still -- more intricate than the Ansels'.   Linette knew that she was being challenged. Such an innate sensibility to the specter of battle, no matter how subtle, had been honed down through generations. Her great-great-great grandfather had been shot and killed by none other than General Lee himself. He'd won a posthumous medal for it, thereby setting an immortal example for his proud and steadfast descendants. The Adamses (Adams was Linette's maiden name) were fighters, and Linette would not be outdone -- especially by a southerner. And a French one at that. These smug southern prissies knew nothing of substance and duty. Theirs were lives of umbrellas in the sun, of resting under oak trees as a break from leisure. One great lakes winter would rip them at the seams, these hoop dress and church hat frailties in their pink and pretty ivory towers.   So every spring, the gardens got bigger; every Christmas, the lights got brighter and multiplied; every Mardi Gras, the parties grew louder and more out of hand; and they took to throwing elaborate hurricane parties at the slightest threat of rain, simply for an opportunity to not invite the other. And in between, the interior decorating war -- forty years long in total and summarily waged within these eight grand walls -- made Lafitte's campaign look like a Sunday social, the terrific images of Generals Le Blanc and Ansel reducing that of the pirate himself to a cap gun-wielding steamboat cub.   By the time Ms. Ansel originally telephoned me to commission a "quilt for the ages," September of 1997, neither of their yards were visible. Rather, both properties were stuffed so full of bushes and gaudy flowers they oozed out through the fences and crept up over the first floor windows. Their respective gardeners were given no instructions other than to never cut anything down, intensify the colors, and keep the fertilizer flowing. When either of the women caught their yard keepers fraternizing across property lines, it was a ten dollar deduction.   "The withered old fruit had four life-size nativity scenes -- one in every yard -- in '82," scowled Blanche as I was scouting her interior. "And fake snow, for heaven's sake. The South don't need no fake snow. That was just a slap in the face..."   On the occasion of my delivering her first quilt, as I noted, Ms. Ansel had filled me in on a few things herself. "That Le Blanc hussy -- that's her real name, you know. Le Blanc. She changed it. She's always going on about the South and the French. It's like she doesn't know which one to be. Move to France, I say. Anyway, she had a Mardi Gras party a few years ago and hung a sign that said 'Long Live The South' above the porch. Who ever heard of that? 'Long Live The South'? For MARDI GRAS?! Well, that was just a slap in the face..."   And so this is how it proceeded, my involvement commencing in the early Autumn of 1997. They started calling me, each of them, at least once every two days, to come down and give them decorating advice. It had become a battle for my leisure time as well. ("He spent three hours here yesterday." "Oh yeah? Well, he was here all day on Tuesday. Made him lunch, I did... AND SUPPER.") The truth was, I was a spy -- a double agent. Blanche would see me over at Linette's one afternoon, and would call me the next. "What's her bathroom lookin' like, honey?" I never lied. Told them both exactly who was winning and in which categories. I charged them fifty dollars for each visit, which they paid gratefully.   At one point, overly indulgent shower curtains became the focus. Clear plastic, then patterned; vinyl, then silk; dyed silk, then corduroy (big mistake); I even wove one for each of them. Whether or not they were waterproof was of no concern. By the time it was over, I had no choice but to install new industrial strength steel shower rods in each of their upstairs bathrooms to support the magnificent gold and maroon velvet shower curtains that I had fashioned from old drapes.   But the quilts, for some reason, the quilts became the hallmark of the battle. The first one I made for Blanche was just a little nicer than Linette's (deep, deep red borders swirling inward to threatening-sky-blue, then softening in the center to an off-haze sunsetish version of green that you'd have to see to understand). I made sure to leave myself plenty of room for improvement. I'd take pictures of my work, show the pictures of the other person's quilt to the one who was now "behind" in the race, and would then be commissioned to outdo myself. They both seemed willing to play this game, a game which would eventually net me over eighty thousand dollars.   But it would not be without consequence.   I showed up on Blanche's doorstep one day in July of '98, photograph of the quilt I'd just sold to Linette in hand (royal blue theme, abstract precipitation implied by dipping minute pieces of fabric into any one of nine choices of grey dye, then stitching them in, arbitrarily, while still wet, and hanging the finished product out in the wind to be "blown" complete by nature -- strikingly malevolent in mood, but cozy. I've always done my best work while considering rain). She pulled me inside hastily, then mixed me a stronger than usual julep.   "This is it, Stevey," said Blanche. "This has gone on long enough."   "Whatever do you mean?" I asked coyly, quite certain her answer would include something billable.   "We've gone the distance in every aspect of home decorating. That Ansel wench'll never let me get too far ahead, and vice-versa. It goes back and forth, back and forth, and it's clear that these quilts are the key to victory." She was hunkered down, this seventy-seven year-old warrior, a bottle of gin on the table in front of her and the light of a single antique lamp casting sinister shadows across her cheek. She fastened a cigarette into the end of a long plastic holder, lit it, never moved her eyes from mine, and said "it's time for the poisoned apple."   "Duuuhhh, youse want I should killher, boss?"   "Heavens, no. I'm speaking figuratively, of course. You see, I intend to win this battle of quilts, and I think I've figured out how to do it."   "Oh?"   "Steve, I want you to make the most beautiful quilt you've ever made. And I want you to give it to Ms. Ansel as a gift from me. I'll pay whatever it takes. Weave in some gold if you have to."   "What? Why?" The very thought of weaving gold into a quilt gave me an erection.   "But, while I want it to be more fabulous than anything you've stitched for either of us up to this point, I also want you to make sure that you leave just a little space for... improvement. Understand?"   At this point, I would have said anything that I suspected would enable me to pursue such a grandiose adventure as weaving precious metal into one of my quilts; but I had to admit, it was a rather fetching plan, regardless of this spine-tingling new prospect. "Ahhhhh... yes, I think I do. Brilliant."   Blanche would play the role of peacemaker, offer a spectacular quilt in truce -- one so beautiful, and so graciously presented, that Linette's sense of taste and manners would prevent her from ever commissioning me to stitch her a new one. Then, for herself, Blanche would have me perform the "impossible" task of improving upon it. The quilt war would be over, and victory would be hers. I admired her strategy.   "You see, honey," she explained, "although her quilt will be fabulous, we'll all know that mine is better. Yet Linette's sense of grace -- and keep in mind that grace is very important to northerners, because they have none -- it will keep her from asking you for a replacement. And I will be the Quilt Queen of the Garden District. I will be the victor -- once and for all." And then, in a venomous spray, she hissed "the South will prevail," from which I recoiled in pure fright. I waited patiently for any indication she was joking, regarding that last marginally psychotic avowal, but she just sat there with smoke coming out of her nose. My Lord.   The South will prevail? Check the Vicksburg Citizen, I thought... Rumor has it the war may have ended a hundred and thirty years ago. And then I continued thinking, but accidentally began talking out loud, as I am prone to do sometimes: "I'm not sure, but I think it might have..."   "What might have?" Blanche asked. "The South?"   Yes -- I'd definitely said that last part out loud. But I covered. "Uh, yeah. I think that the South may have prevailed... rather... than... the North... in some battles." Her face contorted, puckered, but I didn't give her a chance to respond. "I can't turn down a customer's request. I'll have a magnificent -- but not too magnificent -- quilt for you in one week. Of course, I'll have to work around the clock if this is to be the masterpiece you expect."   "Do it. Money is no object. I have... 'energy pills'... if you need them."   "Wonderful."   "Oh, and Mr. Garvey? One more thing. You use goose down, correct?"   "One hundred percent."   "I want you to use wool for this one."   "Well, I suppose I can do that." Wool is far inferior in my opinion. "Why?"   "She loves wool. Off with you, now. Stitch, stitch!" she yelled, raising her bottle of grenadine, laughing like Snow White's stepmother.   Linette had never mentioned that she preferred wool.    ***   The cold front's initial thunderstorm was at full force, blowing razor sharp lines of rain at our backs, and Blanche and I walked over to Ms. Ansel's. Linette came outside and met us on the porch.   "Linette," said Blanche, "Here. I want you to have this as an offering of cease-fire."   Ms. Ansel seemed a bit taken aback by this strange turn of events but, upon pulling my quilt out of the box (genuine silver borders -- oh, how my soul melted upon first running my fingers through that bag of stranded sterling -- and the most fabulous concoction of home-dyed teal blues you've ever set eyes on), wrapped it around her shoulders and smiled. "My word, Blanche," she said. "I absolutely love it. Beautiful work, Mr. Garvey."   "Thank you. It is the pinnacle of my professional career."   Blanche extended her hand in truce, and Linette took it warmly into her own. She folded the quilt, put it back in the box, and coughed violently. "I think I must be coming down with a nasty cold," she said. "I think I'll go inside." She held up nicely, graciously, but still seemed a little confused. "Blanche, thank you so much. This is truly a beautiful offering. A beautiful gesture. I accept it humbly, and hope that we can put all this behind us now."   "I couldn't agree more," said Blanche. "I'm so glad you like it."   "Oh, I do. You know, this calls for an entire refurbishing of my bedroom. Yes, yes -- I'll have the workers come and color the walls anew, all as an accessory to this wonderful quilt. And when they have finished, I will take it from the box and spread it out upon my bed as the crowning jewel."   "That sounds wonderful, dear. Please have me over when the walls are done and you are ready to complete the scene."   "Certainly."   Linette blushed, then turned and carried the box inside. Before Blanche and I had even reached her steps -- instead of inviting me over for whiskey to wait out the storm as I had expected -- she said, "now go get yourself to work," and went inside her house without even bidding me a good day. In light of the current weather conditions, and the possibility that I was developing somewhat of a head cold myself, I had no choice but to leave my bicycle chained to her gate. I had no choice but to take the streetcar.    ***   Three weeks and one day later, after averaging two hours of sleep per twenty-four, I collapsed to my knees in reverence, beholding the miraculous manifestation of my unlimited talent and Blanche's bottomless pocketbook. It was the first time I'd cried since I was a child. She had asked for "slightly better." She would be getting the artistic equivalent of infinity. Mere words could never do it justice. All I will say is this -- the emotionally unfathomable depths of home-brewed death-red, and the subtle, almost peripheral, almost subliminal indication of hope through mourning brought forth with an impossibly intricate meandering of tributary platinum strands, soul-wrenching rivulets of light struggling up from a darkness ten thousand times thicker than a moonless night, make for the most orgasmic of marriages -- painfully luxurious, foreboding and amaranthinely rapturous at once. The ultimate sin. The final elysium. For many, it would have easily sufficed as a lover.   I had achieved artistic perfection. There could be nothing left after this. A terrifying melancholy clutched my throat, so Bourbon.   Very carefully, respectfully, I packed it away in the large hardshell case I had bought with Blanche's credit card, and rode the rails uptown to deliver it, certain that Linette would be peeking out her window, weighing grace against further pursuit of victory. I didn't think the plan would work, actually. In a war like this, I figured grace would be damned, gifts or no gifts.   After dropping the nineteen thousand dollar quilt off at Blanche's place -- and looking on in horror as she stood there, callously flipping it back and forth; arrogantly, ignorantly, coming to the facile conclusion that "it'll have to do" -- I walked over to Ms. Ansel's. Blanche peered out the upstairs bedroom window at me. I didn't have to look up to know. I could feel her. Linette's front door was unlocked, and when she didn't answer, I let myself in. The tea kettle on the stove was red hot and trying to whistle, but dry.   "Stevey, is that you?" she coughed down the stairs.   "Yes, Ms. Ansel. It's me."   "Could you come up here?" I walked upstairs and found Ms. Ansel in her bedroom, bent over beside the night stand and wheezing for air. My sea-teal quilt was spread out freshly on her bed, the open box on the floor beside it. Her walls were blue instead of brown, still wet. She'd just completed the scene.   "What's in here?" she asked hoarsely, pointing at the quilt.   "What do you mean? Where?"   "In the quilt. What's inside?"   "It's... it's-" I gasped and then rushed at Linette, pulling her to the corner of the bedroom. I knew what was happening here. "It's wool!" I cried, the thrust of the matter finally registering. Being in the quilt business for a while, you come to learn a few things about the materials involved.   Linette began breathing a little more easily, and lifted her head. "Well, that explains it. I'm allergic to it. To wool. Can you put it back in the box, please?"   I sat her down on the floor and propped a pillow behind her head, then folded the quilt and returned it to the box. "Allergic?"   "Yes. I thought you knew that."   "No. No, I didn't know." And then I did it again -- said something out loud that was meant to stay in the brain. "Blanche."   "What? Blanche?"   Heavens. Not this again. "Yes. Uh, yes, Blanche. She... she said... that she was so happy you liked it. Yeah. This would destroy her." Covering for the bitch gave me hives, but I wasn't about to be drawn into this twisted labyrinth any further. "I'm sorry, Linette. I didn't... I didn't know about the wool." A fresh wave of nausea overcame me and I had to sit on the bed to avoid fainting. Christ in Heaven. The nerve. The unconscionable nerve Blanche had displayed in using me like this. So that was it. She really was insane. The war would go on, and I should have known it would. "I'm taking this quilt out of here, Linette. I'll re-stuff it with down." Or not. Actually, I was thinking about removing myself from the situation permanently, immediately, heading back home and forgetting I'd ever met either of them. "I'm sorry about the wool. Do you want me to call a doctor?"   "No, no. I'll be fine. Steve, please don't tell her. Please -- don't tell Blanche about this. Leave the box. Come up sometime when you can do the work here. I'd hate for her to see you taking it away."   "Did she know about this? About your allergy?" Of course she did. Oh my god, of course she-   "Well, no, I don't believe I've ever mentioned it."   "You were her husband's patient, weren't you?"   "Well, yes, for some things. This wool thing was diagnosed long before I ever came down here though. He wouldn't have known about it."   Poor, naive Ms. Ansel. I wanted to tell her what I believed was the truth -- that Blanche had found out about it from her husband, the good doctor, who no doubt had the information in Linette's chart. But I could not. I was leaving. And I wouldn't be back. Let them have their battle to themselves, you fool. Retreat. For your own fledgling sanity, RETREAT. Should death or hives befall either of them in your absence, so be it. I put the box in Linette's closet and left her house, turning off the stove on my way out. But I could not resist paying one last visit to Blanche -- I found myself physically unable to take that last step onto the sidewalk. Something was calling me in, and when I burst through her door without knocking, I immediately realized what it was.   "What?" she offered before I'd even finished, a poor effort at surprise, and completely devoid of concern. Her breath smelled of gin and horehound.   "She's dead, Blanche. Congratulations. You won." I would leave her with that -- with the notion that she had killed Linette. Maybe it would catapult her back into reality.   Then again, maybe not. Perhaps that had been her intention all along. I didn't care anymore.   She fixed me a sloppy drink and prepared a cigarette, then sat down directly across from me, completely unmoved by what I had just told her. My platinum death-red was draped over the back of her couch. Over the back of her davenport. Although grand enough in itself, I now realized that the interior of her house was an inadequate backdrop -- serving only to further corrupt the beatific fruits of my labor -- and I cursed myself for not having kept it.   "Easy come, easy go," she said without a conscience. I could contain myself no longer.   "Jesus H. Christ on the Matterhorn. That cuts it." I sprang to my feet, ran around behind the davenport, and dug my hands into the quilt. Release.   "Here, have another julep," she said, "and don't use Christ's name in vain."   "What? I haven't even started the first one yet."   "Nevertheless."   I studied her from behind, my right hand clutching the quilt. Then I reached over her shoulder and snatched one of her Capri Menthols, a horrible mistake, because I nearly vomited at the taste. "I have a question, Blanche."   "Yes?"   "Did Linette, by chance, ever mention anything to you about-" I glanced back at the corner, at her late husband's office door. It was so beautiful. Pearl inlay borders. The family crest carved into its center. I'd studied it at length on a number of previous occasions, but had never noticed the skeleton key sticking out of the hole. I walked over and looked in, Blanche making no effort to stop me. The office was in disarray, files spread out upon the desk.   She lit another foot long cigarette. "Mention what, dear?"   I contemplated civic duty, the good of the whole... but remove yourself was the only thought that penetrated my will, leaving me no choice in the matter. My face felt flushed, small red welts had begun forming on my hands, and I knew then that I was through with the whole charade. Further pursuit would have wrecked my nerves completely, already lain bare and throbbing. I was leaving, and would not be answering my phone for a while.   I walked back over to the couch and stood there behind Blanche, staring at the back of her head. Had Linette been my relative, or someone for whom I cared deeply... I stood there, silently, entertaining unwelcome thoughts of reaching for the antique lamp and bringing it down in a single crushing blow. Remove yourself. For a moment, I imagined the noise it would have made. The cracking of her feeble skull. The blood seeping into my quilt, providing further texture -- a justifiable sacrifice.   "What are you doing back there," she asked without turning around.   "Making a correction," I answered flatly. Grasping the quilt with both hands, I ripped it from behind her back and made quickly for the door. Perhaps its absence would remind her of ultimate failure, of her reckless dismantling of an otherwise sound battle plan. Of the South not prevailing.   I would return my quilt to its rightful domain -- to its place of birth. And that would be the end.   "What do you think you're doing?"   "Keep your seat, Blanche. I'm warning you." My contempt for her was causing a horrible pressure in my temples. Had she rushed at me, I was not certain that I wouldn't have struck her. I needed to get someplace dark and seedy. To sit by myself and drink.   I wrapped myself in my wondrous labor and drifted for a few seconds. When she rose from the couch, I took three quick steps toward the door. "Come no closer."   "You won't get away with this, Steve."   "I already have." She moved closer. "Stop, wench!" And closer. "Enough!" My voice resonated violently inside my head, and before she could place a single bony finger on my quilt, I pulled it up around me like a cape and fled through the doorway, nearly flattening the pretentiously suave young man who had snuck up onto the porch. I beheld his turtle neck from twelve blurry inches and gasped, at which he seemed to take mild offense. I considered ripping the fabric from his neck and shoving it down his throat.   "Ahh," said Blanche, "Mr. Reese. Thank you for coming."   He was holding a small water color painting. I noticed that it was a nice but rather cliched rendering of what appeared to be Blanche's rose garden. Not too bad, but plenty of room for improvement. "Run from this place," I told him. "Run... now." I shot one last disgusted look at his shirt and bounded from the porch, skipping all six stairs. "Good bye, Ms. Le Blanc," I yelled, my quilt flying out from behind me in rich royal folds. I would run until my head stopped pounding. I would wait for the streetcar at the next stop. Or even the next one after that.   Her shrill voice echoed after me. "Le Blanche, damn you!" But I ran. And kept running, until that terrible sound dissipated and was replaced by another. By steel wheels on steel tracks. They groaned. I groaned.   I got home at seven o'clock, disoriented from the ride, still sick to my stomach, and started in on the absinthe. If anything rivaled my skills as a quilt-stitcher, it was my equally deft touch as a steeper of extraordinarily mind-bending green elixir. And that was my immediate plan. I would work on delusion, distraction. Pure and simple. I would forget about Blanche. I would forget about beautiful quilts. I would forget about the faces I'd seen on the way home, and how they knew everything, although I, myself, knew nothing. I would go to dark and swarthy Fritzel's Pub for a Beck's Dark. I would retire from quilt-making and contemplate my future.   Eleven months, two old women, driven to heaven's deep red door, and slowly slipping from my bearings. So I would sit at Fritzel's. And try to get my mind off it.   Something would come along. Something always comes along.