they dreamed of freedom birds.

Shrugging, Kiowa pulled off his boots. He wanted to say more, just to lighten up his sleep, but instead he opened his New Testament and arranged it beneath his head as a pillow.

The lieutenant’s in some deep hurt. I mean that crying jag—the way he was carrying on—it wasn’t fake or anything, it was real heavy-duty hurt.

They shot chickens and dogs, they trashed the village well, they called in artillery and watched the wreckage, then they marched for several hours through the hot afternoon, and then at dusk, while Kiowa explained how Lavender died, Lieutenant Cross found himself trembling.

He would sometimes taste the envelope flaps, knowing her tongue had been there. More than anything, he wanted Martha to love him as he loved her, but the letters were mostly chatty, elusive on the matter of love.

The mon-ey lay on the table for the rest of the evening. It was stillrhere when I went back to my cabin. In the morning, thorrgh, I found anenvelope tacked ro my door. Inside were the four fifties and a two-wordnore rhar said EIr,4ERGENCY FUND'Ilne l-ltan Knew

. My conscience told rne ro run, bursome irrational and powerful force was resistine like a weighr pr-rshingme toward the war. What it came down to, srupidly, was a sense ofsharne

After supper one evening I vomited and went back to mycabin and lay down for a few moments and then vomited again; anothertime, in the middle of the afternoon,I began sweating and couldn'r shutit ofl. I went through whole days feeling dizzy with sorrow. I couldn'tsleep; I couldn'r lie srill. At night I d ross around in bed, half awake,half dreaming, imagining how Id sneak down ro the beach and quietlypush one of the old man's boats our into the river and starr paddling myway toward Canada. There were times when I thoughr Id gone offthepsychic edge

The draft notice arrived onJune 17,1968.Ir was a humid afrernoon,I remembea cloudy and very quiec, and Id jusr conle in from a roundof golf. My mother and farher were having lunch our in the kitchen.I remember opening up the letter, scanning the firsr few lines, feelingrhe blood go rhick behind my eyes. I remember a sound in my head. Itwasnt rhinking, jusr a silenr horvl. A million rhings all ar once - I wasrco good for rl-ris war. Too sffrarc, too compassionate, too everything.It couldn't happen. I was above it. I had the world dicked

That night he did not return at all, and the next day being Sunday, Delia was glad she did nothave to quarrel before she hitched up her pony and drove the four miles to Woodbridge. She stayed to the night service--"love feast"--which was very warm and full of spirit. In the emotional winds her domestic trials were borne far and wide so that she sang as she drovehomeward

She seized the iron skillet from the stove and struck a defensive pose, which act surprised him greatly, coming from her. It cowed him and he did not strike her as he usually did.

She better if she wanter eat,"

With all this they left the store, with Sykes reminding Bertha that this was his town and she could have it if she wanted it

As she was stooping to pass under his outstretched arm, he suddenly pushed her backward, laughingly.

He snorted scornfully. "Yeah, you just come from de church house on a Sunday night, but heah you is gone to work on them clothes. You ain't nothing but a hypocrite. One of them amen-corner Christians--sing, whoop, and shout, then come home and wash white folks clothes on the Sabbath."

Sorry, Willie. You know how she carried on the last time I did it. We'll just have to pool our combined imaginations and hope for the best. [Returns to the table.] Back to work. How are the points scored, Sam?

That sounds good! "A World Without Collisions." HALLY: Subtitle: "Global Politics on the Dance Floor." No. A bit too heavy, hey? What about 'ballroom Dancing as a Political Vision"?

He can't hear us from there. But for [goodness] sake, Mom, what happened? I told you to be firm with him . . . then you and the nurses should have held him down, taken his crutches away . . . I know only too well he's my father! . . . I'm not being disrespectful, but I'm sick and tired of emptying stinking chamberpots full of phlegm and [urine] . . . Yes, I do! When you're not there, he asks me to do it . . . If you really want to know the truth, that's why I've got no appetite for my food . . . Yes! There's a lot of things you don't know about. For your information, I still haven't got that science textbook I need. And you know why? He borrowed the money you gave me for it. . . . Because I didn't want to start another fight between you two . . . He says that every time . . . all right, Mom! [Viciously.] Then just remember to start hiding your bag away again, because he'll be at your purse before long for money for booze. And when he's well enough to come down here, you better keep an eye on the till as well, because that is also going to develop a leak . . . then don't complain to me when he starts his old tricks . . . Yes, you do. I get it from you on one side and from him on the other, and it makes life hell for me. I'm not going to be the peacemaker anymore. I'm warning you now; when the two of you start fighting again, I'm leaving home . . . Mom, if you start crying, I'm going to put down the receiver . . . Okay . . . [Lowering his voice to a vicious whisper.] Okay, Mom. I heard you. [Desperate.] No . . . Because I don't want to. I'll see him when I get home! Mom! . . . [Pause. When he speaks again, his tone changes completely. It is not simply pretense. We sense a genuine emotional conflict.] Welcome home, chum! . . . What's that? . . . Don't be silly, Dad.

That's what I've been trying to say to you all afternoon. And it's beautiful because that is what we want life to be like. But instead, like you said, Hally, we're bumping into each other all the time. Look at the three of us this afternoon: I've bumped into Willie, the two of us have bumped into you, you've bumped into your mother, she bumping into your Dad . . . None of us knows the steps and there's no music playing. And it doesn't stop with us. The whole world is doing it all the time. Open a newspaper and what do you read? America has bumped into Russia. England is bumping into India, rich man bumps into poor man. Those are big collisions, Hally. They make for a lot of bruises. People get hurt in all that bumping, and we're sick and tired of it now. It's been going on for too long. Are we never going to get it right? . . . learn to dance life like champions instead of always being just a bunch of beginners at it?

Yes, gentlemen, that is precisely what I am considering doing. Old Doc Bromely - he's my English teacher - is going to argue with me, of course. He doesn't like natives. But I'll point out to him that in strict anthropological terms the culture of a primitive black society includes its dancing and singing. To put my thesis in a nutshell: The war-dance has been replaced by the waltz. But it still amounts to the same thing: the releases of primitive emotions through movement. Shall we give it a go?

No, it isn't your imagination hasn't helped you at all. There's a lot more to it than that. We're getting ready for the championships, Hally, not just another dance. There's going to be a lot of people, all right, and they're going to have a good time, but they'll only be spectators, sitting around and watching. It's just the competitors our there on the dance floor. Party decorations and fancy lights all around the hall! The ladies in beautiful evening dresses!

didn't say it was easy. I said it was simple - like in simple-minded, meaning mentally retarded. You can't exactly say it challenges the intellect.

From now on there will be no more of your ballroom nonsense in here. This is a business establishment, not a bloody new Brighton dancing school. I've been far too lenient with the two of you. [Behind the counter for a green cool drink and a dollop of ice cream. He keeps up his tirade as he prepares it.] But what really makes me bitter is that I allow you chaps a little freedom in here when business is bad and what do you do with it? The foxtrot! Especially you, Sam. There's more to life that trotting around a dance floor and I thought at least you knew it.

And also plain bloody boring. You know what he wants, don't you? One of their useless old ceremonies. The commemoration of the 1820 Settlers [a resettlement scheme, in which British settlers were given land and paid to resettle in Cape Province] or, if it's going to be culture, Carols by Candlelight every Christmas.

My Dad wants to go home. SAM: Is he better? HALLY: [Sharply.] No! How the hell can he be better when last night he was groaning with pain? This is not an age of miracles! SAM: Then he should stay in hospital. HALLY: [Seething with irritation and frustration.] Tell me something I don't know, Sam. What the hell do you think I was saying to my Mom? [ . . . ]. SAM: I'm sure he'll listen to your Mom.

14SAM: [Simultaneously.] Ha, ha, ha. HALLY: Don't get clever, Sam. That man freed his serfs of his own free will.

might have guessed as much. Don't get sentimental, Sam. You've never been a slave, you know. And anyway we freed your ancestors here in South Africa long before the Americans. But if you want to thank somebody on their behalf, do it to Mr. William Wilberforce. {Early 19th-c. English abolitionist}. Come on. Try again. I want a real genius. [Now enjoying himself, and so is Sam. Hally goes behind the counter and helps himself to a chocolate.]

know how to settle it. [Behind the counter to the telephone. Talking as he dials.] Let's give her ten minutes to get to the hospital, ten minutes to load him up, another ten, at the most, to get home and another ten to get him inside. Forty minutes. They should have been home for at least half an hour already. [Pause - he waits with the receiver to his ear.] No reply, chaps. And you know why? Because she's at his bedside in hospital helping him pull through a bad turn. You definitely heard wrong.

ct your bloody age! [Hurls the rag back at Willie.] Cut out the nonsense now and get on with your work. And you too, Sam. Stop fooling around

Have you taken her to see a doctor? SAM: I think a vet would be better. HALLY: What do you mean? SAM: What do you call it again when a racehorse goes very fast? HALLY: Gallop!

o what makes you say he's going home? SAM: It sounded as if they were telling her to come and fetch him. Hally thinks about what Sam has said for a few seconds. HALLY: When did she leave? SAM: About an hour ago. She said she would phone you. Want to eat? Hally doesn't respond. Hally, want your lunch? HALLY: I suppose so. [His mood has changed.] What's on the menu . . . as if I don't know.

ravo! No question about it. First place goes to Mr. Sam Semela.

Beating her up every time she makes a mistake in the waltz? [Shaking his head.] No, Willie! That takes the pleasure out of ballroom dancing.

o? She make me the hell-in too much.

Now another one! What's romance?

ow can I enjoy myself? Not straight, too stiff and now it's also glide, give it more style, make it smooth . . . Haai! Is hard to remember all those things, Boet Sam.

Someone has found a photograph of Aaron, the one that ran with his obitu-ary. His smile melts into the part of Claire that still remembers when he was missing his two front teeth

Aaron, unnerved by the car behind him, flooring the accelerator; Seraphin’s boyfriend tailgating, flashing his brights, then the car full of boys pulling alongside them, his friends throwing a soda bottle and yelling at Aaron to stop. Aaron only goes faster, losing them for a moment, then, less than a mile from their houses, turning onto Cleveland Street at such speed that he spins out and the car flips into the trees. Claire wakes up, vaguely, to sirens, and then for real, in the hospital, where she has a concussion and a hangover and a starring role in someone else’s rescue story

Claire is three? Four? Four drinks in to something bright pink that the host calls panty-dropper punch, one drink for every month her mother has been dead so far. She still thinks of it that way, as in: so far, her mother is still dead, but that could change any day now, any moment her mother could walk in and demand to know what she is doing, and what she has been doing, tonight, is drinking

Because every time I see her I want to tell her I’m sorry your mother is alive, because it reminds me that mine is dead.”Aaron winces. He takes a nervous sip from his red cup before looking at her again.“That’s fucked up, Claire. My mom misses you too. You’re messed up right now, I get that, but at some point you’re going to have to stop making it worse

“So a hundred people can send me death threats, but I can’t put a flag in my window.

She showers for the first time this week, blow-dries and teases her hair. She wears a horrible mint green dress Puppy bought her for an engagement event that Claire refused to attend. She puts on her mother’s pearls, takes them off, puts them on again

Claire’s mother dies in July. They bury her on a damp Tuesday when the ground is slimy from an afternoon thunderstorm. She does not hear a word the priest says, thinking of her mother down there, rotting. For weeks before the funeral she has nightmares in which she is the one being buried, alive, the sickening smell of earth always waking her. At the funeral, Angela holds her hand and Aaron puts an arm around her shoulder. He is a perfect gentleman, but one with a mother, and Angela is a friend with a mother, and already they are galaxies away from Claire, alone in her grief

Mrs. Hall walks out of the hospital in full remission. Not a trace of the cancer left. Her hair grows back, soft and downy. She takes up running to drop the steroid weight. She is working up to marathons. Angela trains with her.

Claire fears that she will lose both her mother and her other mother, but it turns out that it is worse to lose only one

He is still skinny, his hips slimmer than hers, so she slides underneath him; the weight of her, it seems, might smother him, but the weight of him tethers her to something. He is too gentle with her even after she tells him not to be; after he is finished she has to fake an orgasm to get him to sto

“It’s Jupiter for me after all

A year later both of their mothers are sick. It starts slow, with both of them, and then quick quick quick. With Angela’s mother it is a lump, with Claire’s a vague malaise

When they kitten-pile into the grass, Claire turns to Angela. It is a love that requires touch, and so Claire snuggles against her, nuzzles into her neck to say it out loud against her. Love love love. Angela is her best friend, her other self. Someday they will go to college together. The world will unravel for them, fall at their fee

Claire, not yet entirely clear on the rules of family, thinks of herself as having not a half brother, but half-a-brother, and shortly after meeting the Halls she thinks of herself as having half of Angela’s too

Claire and Angela forever. By adolescence they have both lucked into beauty, but neither has really noticed yet; there is so little room for interlopers in the tight world of their friendship that they are often each other’s only mirrors

She prints out a copy of the flag and tapes it to her dorm window. She calls the reporter from the student paper back and tells him she is simply celebrating her heritage, like any number of groups on campus encourage students to do.

A reporter from the student paper, unable to reach her by phone, has slipped a note under Claire’s door asking for an interview. She gath-ers from his note that several bloggers have now picked up both the bikini photo and Carmen’s photo of last night’s postcard

Claire prints a photo of the Confederate flag and scrawls in loopy cursive on the back

Claire’s name is a tunnel from which a person can emerge on the other side. Claire is fascinated by their accents, and, yes, by the dark tint of their skin, but mostly she is anxious to be seen.