At the end of our first week in exile, my family was invited to a pool party at the home of my sister-in-law's brother, Brandon. Brandon and his wife Kelly live deep into the southern suburbs of Houston, in a planned community of newly snapped together mansions, abutting a lush and expansive golf course. Kelly, herself a mother of two boys, five and three, was particularly anxious in that first week to provide us with a luxurious distraction from our worries and grief. And, in fact, by the end of the week we had suffered both relief and horror to learn, almost simultaneously, that our house had been spared and that bands of looters were roaming the neighborhood, which was being defended by a "militia" of armed neighbors who had refused to evacuate during the storm and were engaged in gun battle with the intruders. What this meant to us was that, although our home was in tact, our community, as we knew it, had, effectively, dissolved. Not only did we face the prospect of looting and damage to our home, we were confronted with the reality of living in the future with a population of homeowners who were, at the very least, permanently altered, if not deeply scarred, by the violent aftermath of Hurricane Katrina.

Not that the storm actually caused any of the unnerving social dynamics that ensued in the city or elsewhere. Rather, I believe, it shed a glaringly bright light on those normally neglected—or repressed—regions of our country's collective psyche. But none of this was at the forefront of my or my husband's thinking on that Sunday afternoon as we parked our Subaru Outback at the edge of Brandon's virtual castle of a house amid a sea of nearly identical houses nestled a long and comforting way from the battleground of New Orleans. Instead, we gathered our towels and waited eagerly for the security gates that protected Brandon's drive and property with iron posts to magically part, a sign that our hosts' relief effort had, indeed, begun.

Inside, we found a curvy and capacious saltwater pool and hot tub, complete with rocks and waterfall, ensconced in the fantasy of a tropical garden. Before either of us had a chance to exclaim our thankfulness for this vision of paradise in the suburbs, Brandon handed each of us a beer and directed Dylan, who was already tugging at his T-shirt and kicking off his shoes, to join his three year old, Hunter, frolicking in the pool. Soon the three of us were enjoying the deeply inviting oasis; Dylan on my lap as I lay in a floating recliner, my husband, Chris, on a raft gazing up through the trees at an almost painted blue sky. Gradually, our troubles began to recede. "This is really surreal," my husband observed, almost guiltily. "New Orleans is in total disorder, thousands are homeless, and we're practically on vacation."

After an enchanted spell, however, a deeper reflection of our relation to our hosts and their relation to New Orleans began to emerge. "Dylan seems to be doing great!" Kelly exclaimed, wide eyed from her seated post on the patio. "Yes," I nodded, gratefully, watching Chris and Dylan as they danced through the water. "I'm so happy you could come…this whole thing is so disturbing!" she added emphatically, refilling her glass from a bottle of Pinot Noir. "Well, thank you for having us and yes, it is," I confirmed. "My biggest concern is that they're going to try to pin it all on Bush!" she asserted, cocking an eyebrow knowingly and spearing an olive. I had to admit that this was not my biggest concern. "Would you like a glass?" she asked, motioning towards the bottle. "This was all the rage in Wine Spectator last month." "Thanks, but no," I answered, holding up my beer. "Cheers!" she smiled, leaning back in her chair. "You know, you should feel free to drop by some afternoon with Dylan next week." "Thanks," I answered, trying to conjure an image of Kelly and I alone with our sons."

This image became even less tenable for me as the afternoon wore on. Ignoring Dylan for most of the afternoon in the pool, Hunter became openly hostile when the children retired to the plush second floor of Brandon and Kelly's home. Here in two spacious connecting rooms Dylan discovered a smorgasbord of toys, a child's fantasy of the good life. In front of a big-screened TV, their older son, Hartzen sat, frozen before a game of Nintendo, with two of his friends, who were shouting competitively, while Hartzen maintained control of the joystick. Dylan stood in fascinated delight before a vast and intricate train set, occupying another corner of the room. However, almost as soon as he began to maneuver a line of cars around the track, Hunter, who was hovering protectively in the background, dashed over and smashed up his train. Dylan stared at Hunter for a moment and then glanced at me, questioningly, before resuming his play. Once again, Hunter sent his cars flying across the table. At this point Dylan verbally protested—"STOP!"—in response to which Hunter shoved him. "It's alright, baby," I assured Dylan, swooping over to pick him up as he began to sob. "These aren't our toys." "He should go home and play with his train," Hunter declared ruefully, glaring up at me. "He will," I answered back, more defiantly than I had intended, and moved, with Dylan, away from the room.