James returned to the living room, sat on the couch and the pil ows gave a sigh. “Where is your mama?” he wanted to know. “Why didn’t Gwen tel me about this boyfriend?”
I didn’t respond, and the room was quiet except for the pop of Raleigh’s knuckles. He was also a person longing to use his hands. I could tel that he wanted to turn the camera on James again. My father was sitting on the sofa hunched over like a mourning bear. “I would have thought your mother was raising you a little better than this.”
“Don’t talk about my mother,” I said.
“He didn’t say anything about Gwen,” Raleigh said. “Dana, simmer down.”
“My mother’s at work. Not everybody can have a beauty parlor right in their own house. Not everybody can wear a fox-fur coat. Some people have to work.”
This was the kind of thing Mother said late at night when we were here alone, when she was drinking. I used the tone she used at the best part of the night, when she played her Simon and Garfunkel and sang “Sail on, silver girl” until her voice grew tough and textured. This was the way she sounded just before she started to cry.
“She is a good mother,” I said.
Raleigh murmured, “We know that.”
James said, “Don’t change the subject. Who is the boyfriend? How old is he?” He paced around the living room with heavy steps, making the picture frames rattle on the wal . Raleigh’s fingers stil fluttered on the shel of the camera, and I looked at the clock, not sure now if Marcus would show up at al and not sure if I wanted him to.
James turned to me. “W-w-w-what’s . . .”
I waited.
He tried again, “I-I-I-I w-w-ant to know . . .”
Standing up, James folded his lips over on themselves and breathed through his nose. Deep breaths swel ed his chest inside his cotton shirt.
“The name. I’l k-k-k . . .”
I leaned forward just a little bit. He was going to do what? Kick Marcus’s ass? Kil him? My mouth twitched into a little smile.
The words gave way with a swinging of my father’s arm, and I ducked.
“I wil kil him,” my father said. “I wil kil him. What’s his name?”
“Marcus McCready,” I said, and my father’s face changed.
“I know his father,” James said.
“The tax guy,” Raleigh said.
James sat back on the sofa. “God damn it. How old is he? Isn’t he out of high school yet?”
“He didn’t get kept back,” I said. “He has a late birthday.”
Raleigh said, “Didn’t he get in some trouble?”
“Is he going to col ege?” James asked me in a way that made it sound like he knew the answer.
“He’s taking the year off,” I said. “He’s going to work and save up some money.”
Raleigh patted James’s arm. “Dana, Marcus isn’t the kind of guy you want to even know your daughter’s name, let alone . . .” He looked at the keyhole. “Let alone whatever else.”
“He’s a loser, baby,” said James. “A pervert. He got kicked out of some private school.”
“Something like that,” Raleigh said.
Now my hands were pumping like a heart. “He’s on his way here.”
“I’l kil him,” my father said again, but his voice wasn’t so determined. His hands were not ready.
“No, you won’t.”
“I’m going to kil him.”
“Who are you going to tel him that you are?” I asked. “The neighborhood watch?”
“Watch your mouth,” James said.
Raleigh was looking at the window. “Does he drive a red Jetta?”
My father answered for me. “Yeah, that’s his car. I helped his daddy pick it out.”
We heard the horn. It was a queer sound. People weren’t yet used to foreign cars.
“He’s just going to blow the horn like that?” James said.
I shrugged. “Doesn’t matter.”
“I am not letting you leave this house,” my father said. “I’m not playing, Dana.”
I reached for my keys on their purple rabbit’s foot.
My father said, “Put those keys down.”
Marcus blew the horn again. Two toots this time.
