“Nice to see you. How have you been?”
“I . . . I’ve . . . I . . .” She trails off with a forlorn little shake of her head.
All around them, students are chattering and scattering. None give Christina and Oran a second glance, but he sees her glancing around as if to make sure.
“Are you all right, Christina?”
Her mouth opens and closes.
“Did something happen?”
“You don’t know?”
Ah, there it is. He manages to contain his glee. “Know what?”
“I . . . my family . . . I lost my family, and . . .”
“Oh, Christina, I’m so sorry to hear that. Was there an accident?”
“No. Not an accident. I can’t—I don’t really want to talk about it. It’s hard.”
“I’m sure it is. Are you taking care of yourself? You look so pale, almost as if . . . well, if I didn’t know better, I’d think . . .”
“What?”
“No, nothing. You’re taking the medication I prescribed, aren’t you?”
She looks at the ground. “Why do you ask?”
“If you weren’t taking it, I’d suspect you might be . . .”
“What?”
She knows. He can see it on her face. Knows what he’s going to say.
He, in turn, knows that it’s the truth. He leans forward and whispers, “Pregnant.”
Her head jerks up as if he’d held a lit match to her chin, and her startled eyes meet his.
“Of course . . .” He rubs his chin. “The Pill isn’t foolproof.”
She stares at him. He can see her trembling.
“Christina, do you think you’re pregnant?”
She hesitates. “I don’t know.”
“Come to the clinic and I’ll do a test for you. Tomorrow night at seven—we’ll do an after-hours appointment, like before. If you’d like to bring your boyfriend . . .”
“We broke up.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. This must be hard for you, trying to get through this without him, or your parents, your sister . . .”
“It is. It’s really . . . it’s hard.”
“Do you have a guardian who can help you?”
“My aunt, but she’s not . . . she won’t understand about this.”
He nods. “I’m sorry. You can count on me, though, Christina. I’ll do whatever I can to help you. I’ll see you at the clinic tomorrow night, all right?”
“All right. Thank you.”
He touches her arm. “It’s going to be just fine. I promise.”
She turns to go, then swivels back. “Doctor? How did you know I have—I had—a sister?”
“You mentioned it, when we met at the clinic,” he manages without missing a beat.
“Did I?”
“Yes, but you’ve been through so much . . . it’s no wonder you’re having trouble remembering. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He walks away, resisting the urge to look back.
Rodney Lee Midget’s previous trips to Barrow Island had often been made in broad daylight, and always in the turquoise Impala accompanied by Buddy and Clive, two of his oldest friends, and fellow knights in the brotherhood.
They’d never cared who saw them; in fact, they wanted to be seen. Send a message, loud and clear.
We’re here, and all y’all had best watch your step, know your place.
Tonight, they arrive from the mainland by boat, trolling along the Intracoastal under cover of darkness. Thunder rumbles in the distance as they tie up to a forgotten piling and wade in through the muck, but it’ll hold off. Doesn’t smell like rain, and there’s none in the forecast.
By the time his feet hit solid ground, Rodney Lee has been devoured by mosquitos, though no one else seems bothered by them.
“Guess I’m just naturally sweeter than the rest of y’all,” he comments, scratching furiously, and is even more irritated when Clive shushes him. “Ain’t no one out here but skeeters and gators.”
“Maybe, maybe not. No tellin’ what goes on out here when they think no one’s keepin’ an eye on ’em.”
“The gators?” Buddy asks.
“Not the gators! The Negroes!” Clive hisses.
“I’ll tell you what one of ’em’s been doin’,” Rodney Lee says. “But not no more. Not after we’re finished with him.”
He thinks about the letter he’ll be mailing tomorrow morning, letting Travis know that it’s done, just like he promised. That man deserves peace of mind.
So do I.
Like Buddy, Rodney Lee has been ordered to report to basic training on Monday. This is their last chance to take care of business on Barrow before shipping out.
“Come on, let’s move.” Rodney Lee trains a flashlight’s beam low on the tangled path leading away from the water. They follow it a quarter of a mile, to the one sandy, rutted road that runs the length of the island, parallel to the Intracoastal and the ocean.
Rodney Lee turns off the flashlight and shifts the can of kerosene to his right hand. Clive carries the lighter. It’s a fancy antique one he inherited from his grandpappy, shaped like a pistol. When you press the trigger, a flame pops out of the barrel.
Buddy has a real pistol, and a coil of rope.
They’re still not sure how it’s going to go down. All depends on how much he fights back, though Rodney Lee can’t imagine he would.
The place is dark when they get there, but the junker car is parked in the driveway. They’d spotted it parked at Morrison’s Meat Market on the mainland last week, and known he was back from wherever he’d gone off to. Probably looting up in Washington, or maybe even Kansas City, he was gone so long. The riots there had started up almost a week after the assassination, with more than a hundred arrests and a handful of people dead. Or maybe he’d joined the masses of Vietnam protestors.
Shameful, all this public carrying-on and home front violence in a nation at war overseas.
They pull on their robes and hoods and Rodney Lee leads the way toward the house, footsteps softly crushing dry pine needles and magnolia leaves along the path, punctuated by rumbles of a far-off thunderstorm.
Behind him, Clive trips over a jutting live oak root and falls forward into Buddy, who lets out a grunt.
Inside the house, a dog starts yapping.
They freeze.
A deep voice carries through the open window. “Cut that out, Otis! It’s just armadillos prowling around out there.”
The barking continues.
Rodney Lee hates dogs, having been attacked by a mean one when he was a toddler. He falters, imagining a snarling monster bursting at him out of the darkness.
“We still goin’ or what?” Clive whispers behind him. He’s the kind of guy who’s always itching for a confrontation, despite his small, wiry build. His parents scraped up enough money to send him to college, but he’s planning to enlist in the Marine Corps right after he gets his degree and sheds his student exemption next month.
“Hell, yeah, we’re still goin’,” Rodney Lee snaps, as if there isn’t a reluctant bone in his own body.
Outlaws ain’t afraid of a stupid mongrel mutt.