Out of the Ashes by William W. Johnstone

most country boys, but nonetheless, still . . . just a country boy. He liked black-eyed peas and beans and corn bread and fried okra and salt-meat sandwiches. But he also liked the good wines and fine cuisine found in the fancy restaurants of the world.
    And he knew he was a snob when it came to music, having sampled it all and found it lacking . . . except for classical.
    But he loved the South—especially Louisiana, with its rich heritage and diversity of people. There wasn’t much in the way of culture where Ben lived. As a matter of fact, he often told his eastern friends, there really wasn’t any culture where he lived: no little theater, no concerts, no ballet. Ben had once mentioned Zubin Mehta to a friend and the man had thought he was talking about a new brand of chewing tobacco.
    But Ben liked the people in the Delta—for the most part. He had friends here, good friends. There were some real shit-heads on both sides of the color line, but there had never been any real trouble in this part of the state.
    And damned little mixing, he reminded himself.
    You stay on your side of town, and I’ll stay on mine. I don’t like you much, and I know you don’t like me, but the government says we have to get along, so let’s just make the best of it.
    So far, so good.
    Like that black city-council member once said, “It’s better here than in a lot of places. ‘Least we haven’t started killin’ one another—yet.”
    Wise disclaimer on his part, Ben thought.
    Ben believed it was probably coming to the race-war point—someday. Probably soon. And he wasn’t alone in that view.
    Never married, Ben had experienced several intense love affairs that had ultimately soured, leaving him with a jaundiced eye toward everlasting love. He really didn’t trust women; and his being a hopeless romantic didn’t help matters. His books almost never had happy endings (something his agent used to bitch about). But the N.Y.C. man finally accepted that as part of Ben’s style, and assumed that Ben was not going to change.
    He pulled his attention back to the typewriter and the blank paper staring at him. But nothing flowed. He turned off the typewriter, then turned it back on, listened to it hum.
    Mother’s milk causes writer’s block, he recalled reading one time. Or the lack of it.
    I damned sure was sick from those wasp stings.
    â€œCome on, Ben!” he scolded himself. “Get with it.” He sighed, typed a few words, tore the paper from the machine, and wound in a fresh sheet.
    That scene was repeated several times that morning, until finally Ben hit his stride, as he knew he would. He did not work from an outline, never knew where the manuscript was going, and let his characters develop themselves.
    Ben settled down to write.
    All the muses seemed to be working and the words were flowing well; no strain. He wrote for three hours, was satisfied with the start of his novel, and then, with a coffee taste in his mouth and a slight headache (he assumed that was from chain-smoking a pack of cigarettes), he shut it down for the morning.
    Every Sunday morning Ben drove into town at about eleven o’clock to visit a friend of his who ran a service station. Every Sunday morning. Routine—almost never varied. Ben would visit for an hour, pick up the Sunday papers (three of them), and drive back home, where he would read himself to sleep, then work for several more hours in the afternoon.
    Ben slipped his feet into cowboy boots, put on a long-sleeved shirt, for the day was unusually cool, and once more glanced at the calendar. The meaning of the date finally hit him.
    â€œWell, I’ll be damned!” He smiled. “It’s my birthday. I’m forty-four years old.” He laughed, happy to be feeling good after his bout with the wasps. “Happy birthday, Ben Raines—many, many more, partner.”
    Then he wondered why his parents