I'm finishing up a letrer lo. my Parents chat tells whatI'- "bo,rt to do and why I'm doing it and how sorry I am thar I d neverfound the courage to talk to thern about it. I ask them not to be angry'I rry to explain some of my feelings, but there aren't enough words, andso I just r"y th"r its a thing thar has to be done

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

"we11, ro be honesri' he said, "when you firsC showed up here, Iwondered about all chat. fhe aroma, I mean. Smelled like you wasawful {amned fond of pork chopsi' The old man almost smiled. Hemad"e a snuflling sound, then sar down wirh a pencil and a piece ofpaper."So whard rhis crud job pay? Ten bucks an hour? Fifreen

1 all I wanted was to live the life I was borr-r ro - a main-stream lfe- I loved baseball and harnburgcrs and cherry Cokes - andnow I was offon the margins of exile,leaving my counrry forever,and itseemed so impossible and terrible and sad

. 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

-dO'Brien m On rhe Rainy River 779I7B MoDEL TEXTS FoR wRITERSexhausted, and scared sick, and around noon I pulled inro an old fish-ing resort called the Tip Top Lodge. Actually it was nor a lodge ar all,just eight or nine tir-ry yellow cabins ch-rsrered on a peninsula thar-juttednorthward into the Rainy River. The place was in sorry shape. Therewas a dangerous wooden dock, an old minnow rank, a flimsy tar paperboarhouse along the shore. The main building, wl-rich srood in a clus-ter of pir-res on high ground, seemed ro lean l'teavily ro one side, like acripple, rhe roof sagging roward Canada. Briefly, I rhoughr abour rurn-ing around, jusr giving up, buc rhen I gor our oi rhe car and walked upto the fronr porch.

'lhough ir -a.,still August, the air already had the smell of Ocrober, foorb"il season,piles of yellow-red leaves, everyrhing crisp and clean. I rernernber a hugeblue sky. off ro rny righr was the Rainy River, wide as a lake in places,and beyond rhe Rainy fuver was Canada

remember rhe rage in my sromach. Later ir burned down to asnroldering self-pity, rhen to numbness. Ar dinner rhat nighr my fatherasked what my plans were."Norhing," I said. " Wai

. I was no soldier. I haced Boy Scouts. I hatedcamping out. I hated dirt and tents and mosquiroes. The sight of bloodmade me queasy, and I couldn'r tolerare authority, and I didn't knowa rifle from a slingshot. I was a liber,tl, for Christ sake: If rhey neededfresh bodies, wl-ry not draft some back-to-rhe-srone-age hawki Or somedumb jingo in his hard har and Bornb Hanoi burron, or one of LBJspretty daughrers, or Wesrmoreland's whole handsome family - neph-ews and nieces and baby grandson

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 horv

I assumed rhar rhe problems of killing and dyingdid not fall wirhin my special provinc

n any case rhose were my convicrions, and back in college I hadtaken a modesr srand against rhe war

She saw him on his hands and knees as soon as she reached the door. He crept an inch or two toward her--all that he was able, and she saw his horribly swollen neck and his one open eye shining with hope. A surge of pity too strong to support bore her away from that eye that must, could not, fail to see the tubs. He would see the lamp. Orlando with its doctors was too far. She could scarcely reach the Chinaberry tree, where she waited in the growing heat while inside she knew the cold river was creeping up and up to extinguish that eye which must know by now that she knew.

She lay there. "Delia. Delia!" She could hear Sykes calling in a most despairing tone as one who expected no answer. The sun crept on up, and he called. Delia could not move--her legs were gone flabby. She never moved, he called, and the sun kept rising.

Oh, fuh de light! Ah thought he'd be too sick"--Sykes was muttering to himself when the whirr began again, closer, right underfoot this time. Long before this, Sykes' ability to think had been flattened down to primitive instinct and he leaped--onto the bed.

Then, moved by both horror and terror, she sprang back toward the door. There lay the snake in the basket! He moved sluggishly at first, but even as she turned round and round, jumped up and down in an insanity of fear, he began to stir vigorously. She saw him pouring his awful beauty from the basket upon the bed, then she seized the lamp and ran as fast as she could to the kitchen. The wind from the open doorblew out the light and the darkness added to her terror.

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

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.

Well, Ah'm glad you does hate me. Ah'm sho' tiahed uh you hangin' ontuh me. Ah don't want yuh. Look at yuh stringey ole neck! Yo' rawbony laigs an' arms is enough tuh cut uh man tuh death. You looks jes' lak de devvul's doll-baby tuh me. You cain't hate me no worse dan Ah hates you. Ah been hatin' you fuh years."

Sykes almost let the huge wad of corn bread and collard greens he was chewing fall out of his mouth in amazement. He had a hard time whipping himself up to the proper fury to try to answer Delia.

Delia pushed back her plate and got up from the table. "Ah hates you, Sykes," she said calmly. "Ah hates you tuh de same degree dat Ah useter love yuh.

Dat's de reason Ah got mah letter fum de church an' moved mah membership tuh Woodbridge--so Ah don't haf tuh take no sacrament wid yuh. Ah don't wantuh see yuh 'roun' me atall.

"Syke! Syke, mah Gawd! You take dat rattlesnake 'way from heah! You gottuh. Oh, Jesus, have mussy!" "Ah aint gut tuh do nuthin' uh de kin'--fact is Ah aint got tuh do nothin' but die. Taint no use uh you puttin' on airs makin' out lak you skeered uh dat snake--he's gointer stay right heah tell he die. He wouldn't bite me cause Ah knows how tuh handle 'im. Nohow he wouldn't risk breakin' out his fangs 'gin yo' skinny laigs." "Naw, now Syke, don't keep dat thing 'roun' heah tuh skeer me tuh death. You knows Ah'm even feared uh earth worms. Thass de biggest snake Ah evah did see. Kill 'im Syke, please." "Doan ast me tuh do nothin' fuh yuh. Goin' roun' trying' tuh be so damn asterperious. Naw, Ah aint gonna kill it. Ah think uh damn sight mo' uh him dan you! Dat's a nice snake an' anybodydoan lak 'im kin jes' hit de grit."

The village soon heard that Sykes had the snake, and came to see and ask questions.

Delia and Sykes fought all the time now with no peaceful interludes. They slept and ate in silence. Two or three times Delia had attempted a timid friendliness, but she was repulsed each time. It was plain that the breaches must remain agape

She avoided the villagers and meeting places in her efforts to be blind and deaf. But Bertha nullified this to a degree, by coming to Delia's house to call Sykes out to her at the gate.

Ovah Apopka. Guess dey musta been cleanin' out de town when she lef'. She don't look lak a thing but a hunk uh liver wid hair on it."

"Where did Syke Jones git da 'oman from nohow?" Lindsay asked.

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.

Sho' you kin have dat lil' ole house soon's Ah kin git dat 'oman outa dere. Everything b'longstuh me an' you sho' kin have it. Ah sho' 'bominates uh skinny 'oman. Lawdy, you sho' is got oneportly shape on you! You kin git anything you wants. Dis is mah town an' you sho' kin have it.

Bertha had been in town three months now. Sykes was still paying her room rent at Della Lewis'--the only house in town that would have taken her in

Delia's habitual meekness seemed to slip from her shoulders like a blown scarf. She was on her feet; her poor little body, her bare knuckly hands bravely defying the strapping hulk before her.

Sometime or ruther, Sykes, like everybody else, is gointer reap his sowing." After that she was able to build a spiritual earthworks against her husband. His shells could no longer reach her. Amen. She went to sleep and slept until he announced his presence in bed by kicking her feet and rudely snatching the covers away.

Two months after the wedding, he had given her the first brutal beating. She had the memory of his numerous trips to Orlando with all of his

A little awed by this new Delia, he sidled out of the door and slammed the back gate after him. He did not say where he had gone, but she knew too well. She knew very well that he would notreturn until nearly daybreak also. Her work over, she went on to bed but not to sleep at once. Things had come to a pretty pass

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.

"Looka heah, Sykes, you done gone too fur. Ah been married to you fur fifteen years, and Ah been takin' in washin' for fifteen years. Sweat, sweat, sweat! Work and sweat, cry and sweat, pray and sweat!

SAM: It's me you're after. You should just have said "Sam's arse" . . . because that's the one you're trying to kick. Anyway, how do you know it's not fair? You've never seen it. Do you want to? [He drops his trousers and underpants and presents his backside for Hally's inspection.] Have a good look. A real Basuto {South African people living in what's now Lesotho, then 'Basutoland'} arse . . . which is about as nigger as they can come. Satisfied? [Trousers up.] Now you can make your Dad even happier when you go home tonight. Tell him I showed you my arse and he is quite right. It's not fair. And if it will give him an even better laugh next time, I'll also let him have a look. Come, Willie, let's finish up and go. [Sam and Willie start to tidy up the tea room. Hally doesn't move. He waits for a moment when Sam passes him.]HALLY: [Quietly.] Sam . . . [Sam stops and looks expectantly at the boy. Hally spits in his face. A long and heartfelt grown from Willie. For a few seconds Sam doesn't move.] SAM: [Taking out a handkerchief and wiping his face.] It's all right, Willie. To Hally. Ja, well, you've done it . . . Master Harold. Yes, I'll start calling you that from now on. It won't be difficult anymore. You're hurt yourself, Master Harold. I saw it coming. I warned you, but you wouldn't listen. You've just hurt yourself bad. And you're a coward, master Harold. The face you should be spitting in is your father's . . . but you used mine, because you think you're safe inside your fair skin . . . and this time I don't mean just or decent. [Pause, then moving violently towards Hally.] Should I hit him, Willie?

HALLY: That's perfectly correct. You see, you mustn't get the wrong idea about me and my Dad, Sam. We also have our good times together. Some bloody good laughs. He's got a marvelous sense of humor. Want to know what our favorite joke is? He gives out a big groan, you see, and says: "It's not fair, is it, Hally?" Then I have to ask; "What, chum?" And then he says: "A nigger's arse" . . . and we both have a good laugh. [The men stare at him in disbelief.] What's the matter, Willie? Don't you catch the joke? You always were a bit

HALLY: You might just lose your job. SAM: [Quietly and very carefully.] If you make me say it once, I'll never call you anything else again. HALLY: So? [The boy confronts the man.] Is that meant to be a threat? SAM: Just telling you what will happen if you make me do that. You must decide what it means to you. HALLY: Well, I have. It's good news. Because that is exactly what master Harold wants from now on. Think of it as a little lesson in respect, Sam, that's long overdue, and I hope you remember it as well as you do your geography. I can tell you now that somebody who will be glad to hear I've finally given it to you will be my Dad. Yes! He agrees with my Mom. He's always going on about it as well. "You must teach the boys to show you more respect, my son." SAM: So now you can stop complaining about going home. Everybody is going to be happy tonight.

34SAM: Hally, Hally . . . ! Come on now. Let's stop before it's too late. You're right. We are on dangerous ground! If we're not careful, somebody is going to get hurt. HALLY: It won't be me. SAM: Don't be so sure. HALLY: I don't know what you're talking about, Sam.SAM: Yes, you do. HALLY: [Furious.] [ . . . ] I with you would stop trying to tell me what I do and what I don't know. [Sam gives up. He turns to Willie.] SAM: Let's finish up. HALLY: Don't turn your back on me! I haven't finished talking. [He grabs Sam by the arm and tries to make him turn around. Sam reacts with a flash of anger.] SAM: Don't do that, Hally! [Facing the boy.] all right, I'm listening. Well? What do you want to say to me? HALLY: [Pause as Hally looks for something to say.] To begin with, why don't you start calling me Master Harold, like Willie

SAM: I'm not the one who's been saying things about him. HALLY: What goes on between me and my Dad is none of your business. SAM: Then don't tell me about it. If that's all you've got to say about him, I don't want to hear. [For a moment Hally is at a loss for a response.] HALLY: Just get on with your bloody work and shut up. SAM: Swearing at me won't help you. HALLY: Yes, it does! Mind your own [ . . . ] business and shut up! SAM: Okay. If that's the way you want it, I'll stop trying. [He turns away. This infuriates Hally even more.]HALLY: Good. Because what you've been trying to do is meddle in something you know nothing about. All that concerns you here, Sam, is to try and do what you get paid for - keep the place clean and serve the customers. In plain words, just get on with your job. My mother is right. She's always warning me about allowing you to get too familiar. Well, this time you've gone too far. It's going to stop right now. [No response from Sam.] You're only a servant in here, and don't forget it. [Still no response. Hally is trying hard to get one.] And as far as my father is concerned, all you need to remember is that he is your boss. SAM: [Needles at last.] No, he isn't. I get paid by your mother. HALLY: Don't argue with me, Sam! SAM: Then don't say he's my boss. HALLY: He's a white man and that's good enough for you.

33SAM: Do you know what you've been saying? [Hally can't answer. He is rigid with shame. Sam speaks to him sternly.] No, Hally, you mustn't do it. Take back those words and ask for forgiveness! It's a terrible sin for a son to mock his father with jokes like that. You'll be punished if you carry on. Your father is your father, even if he is a . . . cripple man. WILLIE: Yes, Master Hally. Is true what Sam say. SAM: I understand how you are feeling, Hally, but even so . . . HALLY: No, you don't! SAM: I think I do. HALLY: And I'm telling you you don't. Nobody does. [Speaking carefully as his shame turns to rage at Sam.] It's your turn to be careful, Sam. Very careful! You're treading on dangerous ground. Leave me and my father alone

HALLY: I don't give a [crap] about my homework, so, for Christ's sake, just shut up about it. [Slamming books viciously into his school case.] Hurry up now and finish your work. I want to lock up and get out of here. [Pause. And then go where? Home-sweet [ . . . ] home. [Geez], I hate that word. [Hally goes to the counter to put the brandy bottle and comics in his school case. After a moment's hesitation, he smashes the bottle of brandy. He abandons all further attempts to hide his feelings. Sam and Willie work away as unobtrusively as possible.] Do you want to know what is really wrong with your lovely little dream, Sam/ It's not just that we are all bad dancers. That does happen to be perfectly true, but there's more to it than just that. You left out the cripples

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

31[Normal voice.] 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

HALLY: [To the telephone.] Hello, Mom . . . No, everything is okay here. Just doing my homework . . . What's your news? . . . You've what? . . . [Pause. He takes the receiver away from his ear for a few seconds. In the course of Hally's telephone conversation, Sam and Willie discreetly position the stacked tables and chairs. Hally places the receiver back to his ear.] Yes, I'm still here. Oh, well, I give up now. Why did you do it, Mom? . . . Well, I just hope you know what you've let us in for . . . [Loudly] I said I hope you know what you've let us in for! It's the end of the peace and quiet we've been having. [Softly.] Where is he?

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"?

SAM: Of course it is. 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?

SAM: There's no collisions out there, Hally. Nobody trips or stumbles or bumps into anybody else. That's what that moment is all about. To be one of those finalists on that dance floor is like . . . like being in a dream about a world in which accidents don't happen.

HALLY: 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? SAM: Maximum of ten points each for individual style, deportment, rhythm and general appearance

SAM: What did he say? HALLY: Tried to be clever, as usual. Said I was no Leonardo da Vinci and that bad art had to be punished. So, six of the best, and his are bloody good. SAM: On your bum? HALLY: Where else? The days when I got them on my hands are gone forever, Sam. SAM: With your trousers down! HALLY: No. He's not quite that barbaric. SAM: That's the way they do it in jail. HALLY: [Flicker of morbid interest.] Really? SAM: Ja. When the magistrate sentences you to "strikes with a light cane." HALLY: Go on. SAM: they make you lie down on a bench. One policeman pulls down your trousers and holds your ankles, another one pulls your shirt over your head and holds your arms . .

HALLY: 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?

SAM: 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! HALLY: My mother's got one of those, Sam, and quite frankly, it's an embarrassment every time she wears it. SAM: [Undeterred.] Your imagination left out the excitement.

HALLY: What do you mean? Me dance? SAM: Yes. I'll show you a simple step - the waltz - then you try it. HALLY: What will that prove? SAM: That it might not be as easy as you think. HALLY: I 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. SAM: It does other things. HALLY: Such as? SAM: Make people happy

. 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

HALLY: Get back to your work. You too, Sam. [His ruler.] Do you want another one, Willie? Sam and Willie return to their work. Hally uses the opportunity to escape from his unsuccessful attempt at homework. He struts around like a little despot, ruler in hand, giving vent to his anger and frustration.

HALLY: Sam! Willie! [Grabs his ruler and gives Willie a vicious whack on the bum. How the hell am I supposed to concentrate with the two of you behaving like bloody children!

SAM: They'll refund you if you withdraw now. WILLIE: [Appalled.] You mean, don't dance? SAM: Yes. WILLIE: No! I wait too long and I practice too hard. If I find me new partner, you think I can be ready in two weeks? I ask Madam for my leave now and we practice every day. SAM: Quickstep nonstop for two weeks. World record, Willie, but you'll be mad at the end. WILLIE: No jokes, Boet Sam. SAM: I'm not joking. WILLIE: So then what? SAM: Find Hilda. Say you're sorry and promise you won't beat her again. WILLIE: No. SAM: Then withdraw. Try again next year. WILLIE: No. SAM: Then I give up. WILLIE: Haaikona [meaning No!], Boet Sam, you can't. WILLIE: What do you mean, I can't? I'm telling you I give up. WILLIE: [Adamant]. No! [Accusingly.] It was you who start ballroom dancing.

HALLY: Nonsense, as usual. [Opens an exercise book and reads.] "Write five hundred words describing an annual event of cultural or historical significance." SAM: That should be easy enough for you. HALLY: 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.

HALLY: [Before he can stop himself.] And we've got him! Please! I don't want to talk about it anymore. [Unpacks his school case, slamming down books on the table.] Life is just a plain bloody mess, that's all. And people are fools. SAM: Come on, Hally. HALLY: Yes, they are! They bloody well deserve what they get. SAM: Then don't complain.

You heard right. 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.

HALLY: [Relieved.] You see! I told you. [The telephone.] Hello, Mom . . . Yes . . . yes no fine. Everything's under control here. How's things with poor old Dad? . . . Has he had a bad turn? . . . What? . . . Oh, [Gosh]! . . . Yes, Sam told me, but I was sure he'd made a mistake. But what's all this about, Mom? He didn't look at all good last night. How can he get better so quickly? . . . . Then very obviously you must say no. Be firm with him. You're the boss . . . You know what it's going to be like if he comes home . . . Well, then, don't blame me when I fail my exams at the end of the year . . . Yes! How am I expected to be fresh for schoo

: It started off looking like another of those useless nothing-to-do afternoons. I'd already been down to main Street looking for adventure, but nothing had happened. I didn't feel like climbing trees in the Donkin Park or pretending I was a private eye and following a stranger . . . so as usual; See what's cooking in Sam's room. This time it was you on the floor. You had two thin pieces of wood and you were smoothing them down with a knife. It didn't looking particularly interesting, but when I asked you what you were doing, you just said, "Wait and see, Hally. Wait . . . and see" . . . in that secret sort of way of yours. So I knew there was a surprise coming. You teased me, you bugger, by being deliberately slow and not answering my questions. [Sam laughs.] And whistling while you worked away! [Gosh], it was infuriating! I could have brained you! It was onlywhen you tied them together in a cross and put that down on the brown paper that I realized what you were doing. "Sam is making a kite?" And when I asked you and you said "Yes" . . . ! [Shaking his head with disbelief.] The sheer audacity of it took my breath away. I mean, seriously, what the hell does a black man know about flying a kite? I'll be honest with you, Sam, I had no hopes for it. If you think I was excited and happy you got another guess coming. In fact, I was [ . . . ]-scared that we were going to make fools of ourselves. When we left the boarding house to go up onto the hill, I was praying quietly that there wouldn't be any other kids around to laugh at us.

It was for your benefit, Mr. Malopo, which is more than being fair. It was an act of self-sacrifice. [To Sam.] But you know what my best memory is, don't you?

he old Jubilee Boarding House. Sixteen rooms with board and lodging, rent in advance and one week's notice. I haven't thought about it for donkey's years . . . and I don't think that's an accident. [Boy], was I glad when we sold it and moved out. Those years are not remembered as the happiest ones of an unhappy childhood.

HALLY: [Interrupting him.] No, Sam. They can't be discharging him. She would have said so if they were. In any case, we say him last night and he wasn't in good shape at all. Staff nurse even said there was talk about taking more X-rays. And now suddenly today he's better? If anything, it sounds more like a bad turn to me . . . which I sincerely hope it isn't. Hang on . . . how long ago did you say she left? SAM: Just before two . . . [His wrist watch.] . . . hour and a half. HALLY: I 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. SAM: Okay.

Willie lets fly with his slop rag. It misses Sam and hits Hally. HALLY: [Furious.] For [Pete’s] sake, Willie! What the hell do you think you're doing! WILLIE: Sorry, Master Hally, but it's him . . . HALLY: Act 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. Sam moves away

HALLY: [Goodness gracious]! 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!

HALLY: Did you hear my Mom talking on the telephone, Willie? WILLIE: No, Master Hally. I was at the back. HALLY: And she didn't say anything to you before she left? WILLIE: She said I must clean the floors. HALLY: I mean about my Dad. WILLIE: She didn't say nothing to me about him, Master Hally. HALLY: [With conviction.] No! It can't be. They said he needed at least another three weeks of treatment. Sam's definitely made a mistake. [Rummages through his school case, finds a book and settles down at the table to read.] So, Willie!

WILLIE. I said okay, Boet Sam! SAM: You hit her too much. One day she going to leave you for good. WILLIE: So? She make me the hell-in too much.

WILLIE: I only got bus fare to go home. [He returns disconsolately to his work.] Love story and happy ending! [. . . .] Three nights now she doesn't come practice. I wind up gramophone, I get record ready and I sit and wait. What happens? Nothing. Ten o'clock I start dancing with my pillow. You try and practice romance by yourself, Boet Sam. Struesgod, she doesn't come tonight I take back my dress and ballroom shoes and I find me new partner. Size twenty-six. Shoes size seven. And now she's making trouble for me with the baby again. Reports me to Child Wellfed, that I'm not giving her money. She lies! Every week I am giving her money for milk. And how do I know is my baby? Only his hair looks like me. She's [messing]around all the time I turn my back. Hilda Samuels is a [bad woman]! [Pause.] Hey, Sam!

SAM: You got it. Tapdance or ballroom, it's the same. Romance. In two weeks' time when the judges look at you and Hilda, they must see a man and a woman who are dancing their way to a happy ending. What I sawwas you holding her like you were frightened she was going to run away. WILLIE: Ja! Because that is what she wants to do! I got no romance left for Hilda anymore, Boet Sam. SAM: Then pretend. When you put your arms around Hilda, imagine she is Ginger Rogers

I am relax. SAM: No, you're not. WILLIE: [He falters.] Ag no man, Sam! Mustn't talk. You make me make mistakes. SAM: But you're too stiff. WILLIE: Yesterday I'm not straight . . . today I'm too stiff! SAM: Well, you are. You asked me and I'm telling you. WILLIE: Where? SAM: Everywhere. Try to glide through it. WILLIE: Guide? SAM: Ja, make it smooth. And give it more style. It must look like you're enjoying yourself. WILLIE: [Emphatically.] I wasn't. SAM: Exactly.

2WILLIE: Okay, count for me. SAM: Ready? WILLIE: Ready. SAM: Five, six, seven, eight . . . [Willie starts to dance.] A-n-d one two three four . . . and one two three four . . . [Ad libbing as Willie dances.] Your shoulders, Willie . . . your shoulders! Don't look down! Look happy, Willie! Relax, Willie!

The year: 1950

Leaning on the solitary table, his head cupped in one hand as he pages through one of the comic books, is Sam.

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. Grief has a palpable quality, and it is all she can feel unless she’s making an active effort to feel something else. Tonight she is feel-ing drunk—pink and punchy and panty-dropping, because all of those things mean she is not at home, where Puppy has already strutted into the space her mother left behind with such velocity that it’s clear to Claire that her father checked out well before her

ty. 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, when it’s the one that counts.

They don’t love each other that way, or pretend to, so it isn’t weird afterward, just a thing that hap-pened because everyone is closer now. Claire and Angela can com-plete each other’s thoughts.

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 stop

a person to suffer through this with. Who else knows the smells of hospitals, the best way to sleep in a hospital chair, the flushed shame of disgust at cleaning up your mother’s vomit, the palpitat-ing anxiety of waking each morning thinking that this is the day something will go terribly wrong, the wince every time the phone rings while your mother is out of sight? Claire doesn’t even have to give Angelawords

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 feet.