East is East

shock of 50,000 volts.

“I want to ask you about this Japanese boy—and I want to know the whole truth of the matter. It’s become somethin’ of an embarrassment for the colony, especially since he’s gone and escaped—the phone, Ruthie, has been ringin’ off the hook all day, reporters from New York and Los Angeles, everywhere. Well, I want to know the extent of your involvement—the full extent. I think I have a right to that knowledge, don’t you?”

“Of course,” Ruth insisted, “of course you do, but like I told you—”

Septima cut her off. “You know I’m open-minded, Ruthie, and you know how I feel about the creative atmosphere at Thanatopsis and the artists’ behavior as regards their personal ethics and standards of sexual conduct—”

Ruth could only stare at her.

“Well, when my son told me he was bringin’ home a Jewish girl I didn’t bat an eye—why would I, with all the talented Jewish artists we’ve had here over the years—but I’m gettin’ away from what I want to say altogether. Whether you were more, more intimate with this foreign boy than you allow or not is really not at issue here …” She paused, and the silence could have engulfed ships and swallowed up oceans. “Ruth”—the sound of her own name made Ruth jump, she couldn’t help it—“Ruth, what I want to say is that I had a call from Saxby this afternoon.”

A call from Saxby, a call from Saxby. Yes? And so?

“He was in jail, Ruth. In the Clinch County Jail in Ciceroville.”

“In jail?” Ruth couldn’t have been more surprised had the old woman told her he was taken hostage in Lebanon. “For what?”

Septima gave her a close penetrating look. “My law-yers are seein’ to that, don’t you worry. He’ll be out by this time and that sheriff down there and all the rest of them will be mighty sorry they ever tangled with Septima Lights, believe you me—but that isn’t the point. The point is that they accused him of helpin’ that boy escape and takin’ him in my car, my Mercedes, down to that swamp. The point is, Ruthie, I wonder who put that boy in the trunk of that car and what you want to tell me about it.”

Ruth was stunned. Paralyzed. She could feel her toehold at Thanatopsis slipping, her career in jeopardy, Saxby alienated from her, waitressing looming up like a black hole in her future. “I lied,” she blurted, “I admit it and I’m sorry. But just about Hiro, I mean how much I helped him when he was … was at large. But I swear to you, I had nothing to do with his getting out of that cell, I knew nothing about it—and neither did Sax.”

They sat there for half an hour, and Ruth fed the old woman the bits and crumbs of the truth about Hiro—but she’d never been intimate with him, never, she insisted on that—always circling back to the justification that she’d been using him for a story, for research, for art. That was it: she’d done it for art. And she hadn’t meant any harm. She hadn’t. Really.

When she was finished, the shadows beyond the window had lengthened perceptibly and the chatter of the forest had settled into an evening mode, richer now with the chirp of tree frogs and the booming basso of their pond-dwelling cousins. Owen was at the door. Septima cleared her throat. “They want you to go down there tomorrow, Ruthie—Mr. Abercorn does—and it’s not a request. I know all about that shameful incident on the patio and I just kick myself for lettin’ that class of people stay on at Thanatopsis, and I don’t know how to be delicate about this, but I want you to go too.” Septima fixed her eyes on her. “And I’m afraid it’s not a request either.”

“But—but what they did, grabbed me by the hair, called me names—” Ruth was angry now, she couldn’t help herself. And then a little fist of fear clenched inside her. “What do they want with me?”

The old woman chose her words carefully. “I don’t really know, Ruthie, but it seems to me the least you can do. My boy’s gone to jail over this.” She let the words sink in, and the moment held between them, bloated and ugly. “In light of all this—” Septima said finally, searching for the words, “—this emotional upset, I would understand if you’d like to postpone your readin’ tonight …”

Postpone the reading! Ruth nearly came up out of the chair with joy and relief at the mention of it—off the hook, she was off the hook!—but then she caught herself. If she didn’t read, no matter what the reason, short of nuclear war, they’d be on her like jackals. Ruth backed down, they’d say, she’s nothing but talk; did you bear what Jane Shine said about it?

“You’re sure Saxby’s all right?”

“I’ve known Donnager Stratton for forty-two years and he went down there personally to set things right.” Septima sighed. “He’s a stubborn boy, Saxby, always has been. He’s after those little white feeish, Ruthie, and he’s goin’ back into that swamp after ’em, manhunt or no manhunt. That’s what he told me.”

Ruth looked down at her lap. She was still clutching the manila folder. When she looked up again, she’d made her decision. “No,” she said finally, “I’ll read.”

The Power of the Human Voice

The first thing he was going to do when they got him out of here was find that little paramilitary goon with the scraggly beard and kick his ass into the next county. And Abercorn too, that crud. The strong-arm tactics might go down with some poor scared hyperventilating wetback drowning in his own sweat, but he’d be damned if anybody was going to slap him around. Or Ruth either. It was unnecessary, totally unnecessary. It was outrageous, that’s what it was.

Saxby Lights, scion of the venerable Tupelo Island clan, son of the late Marion and Septima Hollister Lights and lover of an obscure literary artist from Southern California, found himself in a concrete-block cell in the Clinch County Jail in Ciceroville, Georgia, guest of Sheriff Bull Tibbets and Special Agent Detlef Abercorn of the INS. The cell featured a stainless-steel toilet bolted to the floor and a cot bolted to the wall. Three of the walls were painted lime green and displayed an ambitious overlay of graffiti relating to Jesus Christ Our Savior, the probability of His coming, and the sex act as it was practiced between men and women, men and men, men and boys, and men and various other species. Crude drawings of a bearded Christ replete with halo alternated with representations of huge bloated phalluses that floated across the walls like dirigibles. The fourth wall, which gave onto a concrete walkway, was barred from floor to ceiling, like the monkey cage in a zoo. The whole place smelled of Pine Sol cut with urine.

Saxby was on his feet—he was too angry to sit. In the interstices of his anger he was alternately depressed and worried, anxious for Ruth—and for himself too. Had she helped the kid escape? Had she concealed him in the trunk? He wouldn’t put it past her, not after she’d hidden the whole business from him, not after she’d lied to him. Sure he was worried. He hadn’t seen the inside of a jail cell since college, when he’d spent a night in the lockup at Lake George on a drunk-and-disorderly charge. But that hardly made him a career criminal. And while he could appreciate that the whole business with the Japanese kid looked pretty suspicious, especially after what Ruth had done, and he could understand that Abercorn was frustrated and beginning to look more than a little foolish, it didn’t excuse a thing. They were such idiots. He was no criminal, couldn’t they see that? He was the one who’d reported the guy in the first place. And yet here they’d sicked their commandos on him and wrenched his vertebrae out of joint, they’d handcuffed him and humiliated him and dragged him off to jail like some Sicilian drug runner. They didn’t have to do that. He would have gone with them peaceably.

Or maybe he wouldn’t have. On second thought, he definitely wouldn’t have. That was the thing. Nothing could have gotten him off that island this morning—nothing short of physical force, that is—and the minute Donnager Stratton showed up he was going back, police cordon or no. What was he thinking?—settling the score with Abercorn and his henchman could wait.

The reason, of course, was Elassoma okefenokee (or Elassoma okefenokee lightsei—he couldn’t resist appending his own name, though he knew it was a bit premature, and, well, a little childish too). He’d found them. He’d finally found them. And he’d just gotten going, just thrown his nets and discovered the mother lode, when that brain-dead little storm trooper came at him from behind. Talk about bad timing—he’d finally found his albinos, over two hundred of them in his first six pulls, only to have them taken away from him. Or to be more accurate, he was taken away from them.

But it was amazing. There they were, right where Roy said they’d be. And the thing was, Roy hadn’t even wanted him to go out—not after the Nipponese escape artist popped out of the trunk between them and tumbled headlong into the swamp. “What in god’s name was that?” Roy had said, scratching his head and gaping out across