The Vanishing Half(15)

And maybe her mother was right about the world’s immeasurable cruelties. She had already been dealt her portion; she could see that Desiree’s was on its way and did not want a dark boy to hasten it. Or maybe her mother was just like everyone else who found dark skin ugly and strove to distance herself from it. Either way, Early Jones never visited again. Desiree wondered about him while she cleaned at the Duponts. She lingered in Fontenot’s on Saturday afternoons even though she had nothing to buy, hoping to catch a glimpse of him hauling groceries down the road. When she finally asked, Mr. Fontenot told her that the boy’s family had moved on to another farm.

And what would she have told Early if she knew how to reach him? That she was sorry for what her mother said? Or for what she hadn’t said in his defense? That she wasn’t like the folks she’d come from, although she wasn’t sure that was even true anymore. You couldn’t separate the shame from being caught doing something from the shame of the act itself. If she hadn’t believed, even a bit, that spending time with Early was wrong, why hadn’t she ever asked him to meet her at Lou’s for a malt? Or take a walk or sit out by the riverbank? She was probably no different from her mother in Early’s eyes. That’s why he’d left town without saying good-bye.



* * *



—

NOW EARLY JONES was back in Mallard, no longer a reedy boy carrying fruit in his tattered shirt but a grown man. Before she could think, she was pushing unsteadily to her feet and starting toward him. He glanced over his shoulder, his brown skin shining under the dull light. He didn’t seem surprised to see her, and for a second, he gave her a little smile. For a second, she felt like a girl again, unsure of what to say.

“I thought it was you,” she finally said.

“Course it’s me,” he said. “Who else would it be?”

He was, in a way, exactly how she’d remembered him, tall and leanly muscled like a wild cat. But even in the hazy bar, she could read hard years in his eyes, and his weariness startled her. He scratched the scruff on his chin, waving over Lorna and pointing lazily to Desiree’s glass.

“What on earth you doin here?” she said. Mallard was the last place she would ever have imagined seeing him again.

“I’m just in town for a spell,” he said. “Got a little business to tend to.”

“What type of business?”

“You know. This and that.”

He smiled again, but there was something unsettling about it. He glanced down at her left hand.

“So which one is your husband?” he said, nodding toward the roomful of men.

She’d forgotten that she was still wearing her wedding ring and curled her hand closed.

“He ain’t here right now,” she said.

“And he fine with you sittin up in a place like this all alone?”

“I can handle myself,” she said.

“I bet.”

“I wanted to visit my mama, that’s all. He couldn’t make the trip.”

“Well, he a brave man. Lettin you out his sight.”

He was only flirting, she knew, for old time’s sake, but she still felt her skin flush. She fiddled absently with her blue scarf.

“What about you?” she said. “I don’t see no ring on your hand.”

“You won’t,” he said. “Don’t have the taste for none of that.”

“And your woman don’t mind?”

“Who said I got a woman?”

“Maybe more than one,” she said. “I don’t know what you been up to.”

He laughed, tilting back the rest of his drink. She hadn’t flirted with a strange man in years, although Sam often accused her of it. She was making eyes with the elevator operator, she was smiling too friendly at the doorman, she laughed too hard at that taxi driver’s jokes. In public, he seemed flattered when other men noticed her. In private, he punished her for their attention. And what would Sam say now, finding her in a place like this, Early standing so close she could reach out and touch the buttons down his shirt?

“So when you headin back home?” he said.

“I don’t know.”

“You ain’t got a return ticket or nothin?”

“You sure askin a lot of questions,” she said. “And you still ain’t told me what you do yet.”

“I hunt,” he said.

“Hunt what?” she said.

He paused a long moment, staring down at her, and she felt his hand along the back of her neck. Tender, almost, the way you might soothe a crying child. It was so surprising, so different from his brusque flirting, that she didn’t know what to say. Then he tugged her scarf loose. It was beginning to fade, but still, even in the dim bar, he could see the bruise splotched across her neck.

Nobody had warned her of this as a girl, when they carried on over her beautiful light complexion. How easily her skin would wear the mark of an angry man.

Early was frowning and she felt as exposed as if he’d lifted up her skirt. She shoved him and he stumbled backward, surprised. Then she desperately wrapped her scarf around her neck before pushing her way out the door.



* * *



—

MALLARD BENT.

A place was not solid, Early had learned that already. A town was jelly, forever molding around your memories. The morning after Desiree Vignes shoved him in a bar, Early lay in bed at the boardinghouse, studying the photograph Ceel had given him. He’d stayed at the Surly Goat longer than he’d planned, but then again, he hadn’t planned to run into Desiree at all. He’d only wanted to kill time, maybe ask around a little. For two days, he’d poked around New Orleans, even though he knew Desiree wouldn’t be there.