(25)

I was upstairs peeling my melted Baby Ruth out of the wrapper. I had forgotten to remove it from the sun-bathed windowsill. It looked like a fresh turd, and that put me off my appetite. I decided to rewrap it and place it on the edge of my desk where it was cooler and it might become more solid in a short time. This seemed deathly important in that moment, but then I heard the phone ring below, heard Mrs. Chandler trudging up the stairs. I heard her step on the creaking board near the top of the stairs. I heard her breathing heavily outside the door, and then she knocked.

When I answered, she said, “I’m not going to be your walking answering machine. You can get a phone in your room if this keeps up. I think it’s that colored girl, the cop.”

“I think the term ‘colored’ went out of vogue sometime back.”

“Not with me.”

I went downstairs and picked up the phone. “Ronnie?”

“Hey, want to go see my parents tonight? Have dinner?”

“I do.”

“I’ll pick you up at six. They eat early.”

“I prefer it myself.”

“Till then.”

*  *  *

Ronnie drove me to the Candleses’ house in her squad car. The house looked the same except smaller. It’s the bane of childhood existence; all of your memories are subject to miniaturization.

Inside, the Candleses were much the same. Mr. Candles had put on some pounds, but he still looked as if he could turn over a truck and make it wiggle its tires. Millie, as I had been told to call her those many years ago, looked the same but with gray hair. The house smelled of baked bread and bacon grease. I loved it.

After handshakes and hugs, Millie commanded us to the table. She said a prayer, and when she finished, Mr. Candles said, “‘Good food. Good meat. I’m hungry. Let’s eat.’”

I had heard him do that before.

Millie’s prayer and then Mr. Candles’s playful one made me think of what Shirley had said about ritual. It was part of our lives and was so ingrained, we forgot how much of it there was, large and small, important and mediocre.

We ate, and the food was as good as always. When the meal was done, Millie put on coffee, and we sat and talked. We talked about the time I was there, and they caught me up on what they were doing now, which was still working, Mr. Candles looking forward to retirement, Millie saying never for her. She was still baking and selling her goods out of her house and so on. They praised me for becoming a writer so young and doing so well after a less than auspicious start.

Ronnie sat smiling and listening. When the coffee was ready, she got up and poured us cups. There was milk and sugar on the table, and they went about adding it to their coffee, and I kept my coffee black.

Conversation paused, and there was only the sound of their spoons making tinkling noises against the cups as they stirred.

Millie said, “I don’t know why we quit writing each other. I feel bad about it.”

“Life and getting on with things,” I said. “It happens. I never quit thinking about y’all, though.”

“He grew up so handsome, didn’t he, Ronnie?” Millie said.

“Oh, he looks all right,” Ronnie said.

“You don’t look all polished out,” Mr. Candles said. “I like that. A man ought not look polished out.”

I wasn’t sure what that meant, but I knew whatever it was, it was a good thing as far as Mr. Candles was concerned.

We were starting to sip our coffee when Millie said, “Oh, wait a moment.”

She got up and pulled a pie from the oven. The oven was turned off, but when she opened the door the warmth hit the already warm room and was uncomfortable for a moment until the pie was placed on the table and the oven door was closed.

It was apple, and we all had a slice.

We talked some more. I told them how I planned to be in New Long Lincoln for a while, maybe a long while.

“You’ll come see us regularly, won’t you?” Millie said.

“That’s the plan,” I said. “Especially around supper time.”

“You’re always welcome,” Mr. Candles said. “Maybe when you come by again, we could hit the bag a little. You and me and Ronnie, like the old days.”

“I’d like that.”

“That was some night when we went fishing and it came that big rain,” Mr. Candles said. “Remember, Danny?”

“I do. Very well.” I couldn’t forget it. That entire night was one of the best in my life.

“Me too,” Ronnie said.

“I was thinking the other day about the kid we saw on the bridge,” I said. “Do you remember that?”

“Yeah,” Mr. Candles said. “Winston. They call him Flashlight Boy. Poor kid. Been wandering those woods for years, ever since his father left him, like a stray cat. Some ways, that may have been the best thing that happened to him. His father used to beat him with a belt and was mean to him in a lot of soulless ways. I see Winston often when I’m out fishing. He knows me. Knows I won’t bother him. He finds or steals flashlights and batteries from somewhere, rambles the woods with his light, shining it around. No one knows what he’s looking for, if he’s looking for anything. Hasn’t got a home anyone knows of. There’s been some mean-ass boys try to catch him, but Winston, he grew up fast and he grew up big. I think after his father, he decided he’d been pushed around enough. Heard some big-ass football players tried to chase him down, and Winston whipped them up one side and down the other, busted them up. Only thing got busted of his was the flashlight he bounced off their heads. But I’ve told you about him before.”

“That’s all right,” I said. “I find it curious.”

“Poor boy,” Millie said.

“He doesn’t ever speak,” Mr. Candles said. “Might not be able to, might not want to. When I think of him and his light, I always think of Diogenes.”

“Who’s that?” I said.

“An ancient Greek that went around with a lantern, shining it on people, claiming he was looking for an honest man.”

“Did he find one?” I asked.

“I don’t think so,” Mr. Candles said.

Our visit seemed to go swiftly, but we were actually there for three hours, and at least fifteen minutes of it was taken up with saying goodbye. This required moving from the kitchen to the porch, and then all of us walking out into the dark to the car. Eventually Ronnie and I ended up in the cruiser still waving at them and them at us.

Ronnie drove away slowly, the headlights poking at the night. “That was nice,” she said.

“Like old times.”

We tooled along for a while until we came to a nice neighborhood. I said, “We going somewhere special?”

“Thought you might like to see my house.”

“Sure.”

Ronnie’s house was in a neighborhood filled with similar-looking houses, all of them nice.

“When I was growing up, black people couldn’t live here. I don’t think they love me being here now, since the rest of them are white, but I’m here, and I like it.”

“Because they don’t?”

“Partly. I was in before they knew I was black or brown or made of wheat straw. I don’t have any social calls from the neighbors.”

Inside, the house was nicely painted, and the lights were set just right to make things look even better. Ronnie asked if I’d like a drink.

“What you got?”

“Water, milk, and coffee. I have a couple beers.”

“No more coffee. What are you having?”

“Would you believe a glass of milk?”

“Same for me.”

We sat on the couch and drank our milk from small glasses.

I said, “Buying or renting?”

“Buying.”

“This is nice.”

“Think so?”

“Sure. My house, one I got from my aunt, I’m selling it. It ought to bring me some dough to last awhile. And I got a little from the novel, so I might even put some money down on a house here. I don’t know yet.”

“You got time to think it over.”

I got up and walked around and looked at photographs on the wall. There were photos of her parents, and there was one of her at her high-school graduation, another where she had on her uniform and had made the grade in the police force. There were four people in the photo with her. Chief Dudley was on one side of her, grinning, and on the other was an elderly man who had a face only a dog could love, and then only if it was greased with a pork chop. There was a woman who had been beautiful once, not too horribly long after the Big Bang. The third was a blobby fellow who looked to have had his eyes glued open and seemed to be held up by a stick; he looked rough. Except for Ronnie and Chief Dudley, the others looked like hell’s demons on a lunch break. I recognized those three, of course. They were the ones in the photo in Chief Dudley’s office, in the books I’d checked out from the library. Jack Manley Sr., Kate Conroy, and Judea Parker.

In a moment, Ronnie was standing beside me, holding her glass of milk in one hand, pointing at the photo with the others.

“See those other people, not counting Chief Dudley?”

“Yeah. City council, right?”

“They’re acting all glad I’m a cop, but that was just their way of dealing with change and trying to turn it into a photo opportunity. They didn’t want a black woman on the force, but there I was. Just five years earlier they wouldn’t even have considered me. They were filling a quota, but I like to think I’m more than that.”

“Of course you are.”

“I believe you believe that, Danny, but I may never rise above a basic officer due to my color. Chief Dudley was all right about me being on the force, got me the job, but he didn’t crow too loud about it. He’s afraid of the city council. Everyone is. They own nearly everything, and what they don’t own, they soon will. When they die, they have their own replacements picked, or at least Jack Manley Sr. does. His son, Jack Jr., is just like him. A nasty piece of work he is. Big, handsome, looks strong as Hercules and probably is. Cold as a dead penguin on an iceberg. The others don’t have kids, and my guess is they don’t want them. Parker has a nephew. Maybe he’ll be a replacement. He’s a cop. Dumb as a bar of soap, so maybe not.”

“Everywhere I turn, they pop up in photos or in conversation,” I said.

“They would. If ever there was a secret government, it’s them. Let me show you the rest of my little place.”

We put the milk glasses in the sink. She took me through a gap that led to a short hall with a bathroom door that was open. She turned on the light in the bathroom. The porcelain was as bright as the sun. Unlike my place, there was plenty of room in there.

“You have no idea how long I cleaned in here so it would look good when I brought you over. I wanted you to see how I’ve done, that I had a very nice place to pee.”

“You’ve done good. And it is indeed a very nice place to pee.”

As we stood there, I was reminded of that moment long ago in her parents’ hallway when she had kissed my lips and made my stomach flutter. I felt it more when we stepped out into the hallway again.

She showed me one of the bedrooms. It was simple, occupied mostly by a large bed, with an adjoining bathroom. There was an open closet and I could see two uniforms hanging there, some other clothes. There was a chest of drawers.

“Comfortable,” I said.

“Enough.”

“Show me the other bedroom.”

“Looks just like this one without the extra bathroom. Bed has different-colored sheets and I have a desk in there. I mostly use it as a kind of office when I need it. You know what I was thinking a moment ago, Danny?”

“I don’t think so.”

“About that time.”

“That time?”

“I want to know if a moment ago when we were in the hallway you thought about something I remember pretty well.”

“I’m scared, because if I tell you what I remember, I’m afraid you’ll have meant you remember a song playing on the radio or some such thing.”

“I can assure you that’s not it.”

“Would it be about a kiss?”

“Happy you remember.”

“How could I forget.”

She was close to me. I had the sensation of greater warmth in the room.

“You want to see if the kiss is still good?” I said. “You know, experiment?”

“Thought you’d never ask.”

It’s impossible to adequately describe how soft her lips were. It would be like trying to describe the touch of a butterfly’s wings, the taste of fresh honey. We kissed and held each other next to the bed for a long while, and then somewhere between our kisses, she turned out the light and we ended up in bed, hastily pulling off our clothes, then finding each other, soft and wet and warm and in motion.

When we were satisfied, we held each other and made sounds like purring kittens, and then our need built up again, and we were at it some more. Then it was over, and we were spooning, the curve of her sweat-damp back against my sweat-damp chest. She was like a puzzle piece I hadn’t known was missing, and then she said, “That was good, wasn’t it,” and I said, “Sure was,” which seemed like a damn inadequate remark for what had just happened, but it was all I had the energy to say.

Eventually I could hear Ronnie’s slow and steady breathing, and there was still the sweet smell of her in my nostrils. I listened to her breathe for a long time, delighting in her closeness, and then I gently kissed her on the back of the neck near her hairline and drifted peacefully off to sleep.

My father’s ghost, thankfully, didn’t show up.