“No way.”
“You’re like a baby. A big country baby. Anybody ever tell you that?”
“No. Nobody ever told me that.”
“Well, you are. Like you were just born. Where are your family?”
“Home, I guess.”
“You don’t know?”
“I haven’t been back in a long time.”
“Where in Florida are you from?”
“Eloe.”
“Eloe? What on earth is that? A town?”
“A town, yeah.”
“God. I know it already: gas stations, dust, heat, dogs, shacks, general store with ice coolers full of Dr Pepper.”
“No shacks in Eloe.”
“Tents, then. Trailer camps.”
“Houses. There are ninety houses in Eloe. All black.”
“Black houses?”
“Black people. No whites. No white people live in Eloe.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“I’m not.”
“Black mayor?”
“No mayor at all, black or white.”
“Who runs it?”
“Runs itself.”
“Come on. Who pumps the water, hooks up the telephones?”
“Oh, well, white folks do that.”
“I’ll bet they do.”
“But they live in Poncie, Ferris, Sutterfield—off a ways.”
“I see. What work do these ninety black people do?”
“Three hundred and eighty-five. Ninety houses, three hundred and eighty-five people.”
“Okay. What work do they do?”
“They fish a little.”
“Sheephead. Right. Oooooo, Ah got plenty of nuffin…”
“Don’t laugh. They work in the gas field too, in Poncie and Sutterfield. And they farm a little.”
“God. Eloe.”
“Where’s your home?”
“Baltimore. Philadelphia. Paris.”
“City girl.”
“Believe it.”
“Oh, I believe it.”
“Were you ever in Philly?” She put the pad and pencil down and rubbed her fingers together.
“Never.”
“Just as well.” Jadine dug her fingers in the sand then brushed them.
“Not so hot?”
“Well, better than Eloe.”
“Nothing’s better than Eloe.”
“Oh, sure. When’s the last time you were there?”
“Long time. Eight years.”
“Eight, huh. You haven’t seen your family in eight years. Even your mother must have forgotten your name by now.”
“She’s
