They call these parties "fais-do-do"; they started before the second World War. In France they still tell their babies do-do, as in "dormir," as in: "go to sleep, go to sleep." You fry up a bunch of Cajun crap and drink a lot of beer and dance, and when the children complain you tell your babies to go to sleep, go to sleep, before your husband finds somebody else to dance with. Sam's hanging lanterns for the fais-do-do while Bill's away and the sun's still up, but Sookie won't help. "Kind of busy right now setting up your bar." Sam rolls his eyes, stuck up a ladder, and Terry helps Sookie out. "Thank you, Terry. You are so sweet. And reliable!" Terry's confused; normally she's a little wary of him. You don't want to hear what's in his head. Things hurt enough. "I always know what to expect from you. No nasty surprises!" She launches it up at Sam, like daggers. "That's just because you don't know me very well," he says. Sookie's like, weird. He hates being this way.
Arlene arrives, full of compliments hiding pin-turn adjustments and suggestions and wouldn't-it-bes and how-bout-wes, until Sam finally just laughs and asks her what the hell she wants from him. "A debutante ball," Terry says, and Arlene smiles her special Terry smile: "Hug your neck, you know exactly what I'm talking about!" He always does. Sam looks at Terry, still grinning, and wonders how he knew. "My cousin Portia was a deb in Shreveport when she turned eighteen. Every Bellefleur woman's been doing it since they started having them before the Revolutionary War." Sam offers that it's nice to come from such an old family as the Bellefleurs, as the flashback camera closes in on him. Especially one God's kept such a good eye on. "All families are old, Sam. Some just keep better records..." It's nice to come from someplace at all:
Sam flopped on the couch, shaking, seizing; a tiny cute puppy growled and barked at him, shaking, stuck to the spot. His mother yelled from the other room for him to shut the dog up, but he couldn't. He couldn't move. When she came in to check on them, Sam flopped to the floor, and she screamed. His chattering turned to yips and the yips turned to growls, and he rose on all fours, and booked it for the back yard; he tore off his shirt as he was running, and his mother followed after. And under the moon, he shed his clothes and his skin, and went running into the night, and she cried out to God with her hand over her mouth... And Arlene snaps him out of it, screaming to get Sam's barking dog away from her, keep the red and green lanterns apart, the colors separated, the scallops smaller and more gingerbread-like. She brings him back, from memories and pain, back to the obligations and the friendships and the relationships he's trying to build, she brings him into the world: