But Clara had to wonder, did any of those men in the white hoods even know her father's name.

The cabin was darkening. They huddled in the dark. Whatever was happening, it was pa.s.sing them by. Clara crawled over to crouch beside Roosevelt, where he was huddled on the mattress, and would fall asleep. Drew her bare legs up to her chest and hugged them tight and in the morning she would see mud marks everywhere, not just hers but prints made by the others, too. She would see, and she would know. Whatever it was, it pa.s.sed us by. Whatever it was, it pa.s.sed us by.

Waking later to hear Carleton's low voice in the other room. Saying, "We couldn't do nothin. One of them hit me with his gun and-I couldn't do nothin for him. They about broke his face in with their gun b.u.t.ts. They dragged him out to this pickup they had waiting. Some of them was sheriff 's deputies, not wearing their uniforms but you could tell. Where they took him, I don't know." Clara had not heard her father speak in such a way, almost quiet, and wondering; Nancy was asking questions, but Carleton talked slow and solemn like a man trying to explain something to himself he knew he could not, but had to try. Clara snuck to the doorway to see her father hunched over in a chair like an old tired man. His hair was wet, in strands on his face, and you could see the bald patches, and parts of his scalp showing through. Clara was shocked to see how beaten-looking Carleton's face was, blood and sweaty dirt like a mask. Nancy kept saying, "He ain't killed. They wouldn't do that. I just don't believe they would do that."

Carleton laughed harshly. In that low flat dead voice saying, "He'd wish he was killed, then. When they're done with him."

"Look here, Carleton: they're Christian men. They swear by the cross. My folks in Alabama, some of them are Klansmen. They only punish people who need punishing."

Carleton laughed again. It was a sound like ashes being shaken in a woodstove.

In a softer voice Nancy said for him to come to the sink so she could wash where he'd been cut, it looked dirty. This shirt was ruined, nothing to do but throw it away. Carleton muttered to leave him alone but Nancy persisted and finally he heaved himself to his feet like it was a heavy task, and he was swaying so Nancy had to help him and there was Clara crouching unseen in the doorway telling herself My daddy is safe. My daddy. My daddy is safe. My daddy.

8.

Island Grove, Florida. It was a hot afternoon in late summer, Clara was alone minding Nancy's baby. Thinking how, G.o.dd.a.m.n, if it'd been some other time, and a thousand miles to the north, she'd be with her friend Rosalie. Even picking oranges together, warding off flies, she'd like better than this. It was a hot afternoon in late summer, Clara was alone minding Nancy's baby. Thinking how, G.o.dd.a.m.n, if it'd been some other time, and a thousand miles to the north, she'd be with her friend Rosalie. Even picking oranges together, warding off flies, she'd like better than this.

A knock at the door! Kind of hesitant, soft. n.o.body knocked, ever. Just called your name or barged right in.

In this Island Grove they were living in an actual building long and low and flat-roofed. Fifteen units in each building and concrete floors that could be hosed down; each unit had two rooms and two windows, one in front and one in back, and the buildings were sided in beige asphalt that was rough like sandpaper, and there were roofs that leaked only in heavy rain. At the far end of the camp the outhouses had concrete floors, too. Clara had never seen anything like it.

Except there was a harsh chemical smell here. Like lye Carleton said, made him cough and wheeze. Clara had gotten used to the smells of the other camps, that were mostly garbage and outhouse smells; but this was worse, not a natural smell but one to burn your nostrils and mouth and make your eyes water. When they'd first moved in they'd been amazed at the way the garbage and trash were hauled off to be burned in a big dump pile at the edge of the camp, and at how women could wash laundry for free in a big roofed place like a barn; there were showers, and sometimes hot water. And soap you squirted onto yourself out of a big jar. Even Carleton was impressed, there was an actual doctor and a nurse from the county who came to examine the workers, it was "mandated" that everybody be examined including blood tests but some refused, or just didn't show up; including Carleton who said he didn't want any d.a.m.n doctor poking at him and taking his blood and next thing you know they're telling you you have blood-cancer or TB and have to be quarantined; but for sure Carleton wanted his kids examined, and of his kids Clara especially. Pa, why? Pa, why? Clara asked, and Carleton said Clara asked, and Carleton said Because I say so. Because I say so. In fact, Clara had liked being examined. Strangers touching her, caring about her. It made her feel happy. The nice youngish doctor said, " 'Clara Walpole'-your teeth! Don't you ever brush your teeth?" He was shaking his head, but smiling. Out of a big box of toothbrushes Clara was given one, with a red handle; she was proud of having it but didn't use it much, the bristles either tickled her sensitive gums, or made them bleed. In fact, Clara had liked being examined. Strangers touching her, caring about her. It made her feel happy. The nice youngish doctor said, " 'Clara Walpole'-your teeth! Don't you ever brush your teeth?" He was shaking his head, but smiling. Out of a big box of toothbrushes Clara was given one, with a red handle; she was proud of having it but didn't use it much, the bristles either tickled her sensitive gums, or made them bleed.

And there was a grocery store they could go to with special tickets so you didn't need actual money. And, with the strong smell, there weren't so many insects, though always a few palmetto bugs for as Carleton said, This is the f.u.c.kin Sunshine State. The burning smell stayed with them, though, even out in the orange groves amid the sweet pungent smell of oranges.

That day, Nancy wasn't picking but sorting oranges in the big sorting shed at the edge of the camp, and Carleton had gotten lucky with a county crew doing emergency roadwork on some highway. They'd been living here for five weeks now and Clara had decorated some of the walls, cut pictures out of magazines and flower shapes out of oilcloth and tacked them up to make the place pretty. You could always find something to make a place prettier than it was, like covering up places where people'd squashed bugs on the walls.

When Clara heard the knocking she was nervous thinking it was maybe these older guys, seventeen, eighteen, who'd been hanging around and bothering her, who knew that Carleton was away. She wasn't sure she wanted to see them, Nancy warned her what guys were after, still she put the baby down in his crib and glanced at herself in Nancy's mirror, propped up on the windowsill.

"Y'all come in"-Clara saw it wasn't the boys, and it was n.o.body she knew: two ladies outside, standing awkwardly on planks that had been placed in the muddy walks.

"h.e.l.lo!" The ladies' voices were bright and hopeful and you could see they were nervous. Town ladies, wearing hats and boxy shapeless knit suits-the one an ugly bone-color, the other a puke-pale green-that must have been expensive because there was no other reason to wear such clothes. Their faces were soft and powdered and their mouths had been reddened with lipstick that gave them a frantic look in these surroundings where no women or girls wore makeup during the day, and only on rare occasions at night. One of the ladies wore tortoisesh.e.l.l gla.s.ses like a teacher, so Clara looked at her.

"I'm Mrs. Foster," she said, "and my friend here is Mrs. Wylie, we're from the First Methodist Church over in Florence. We came out for a little visit-"

"Y'all want to come inside?" Clara said again, because she knew this was the polite thing to ask; but the ladies seemed nervous of stepping up the cinder blocks and into the building, like there might be something inside they would not wish to see. "n.o.body's home right now but me and this baby I'm minding."

The lady who'd called herself Mrs. Foster was saying how they'd been made welcome here by the orange grove owner who was a Christian and a good citizen and how they'd seen Clara's flag hanging out-"Brought us here right away." Clara had mostly forgotten about the flag, it was just one of her decorations, hanging out the window on a two-foot pole. Nancy liked it fine and Carleton said it "added cla.s.s" (maybe Pa was joking, twisting his mouth in that way of his) to their quarters. This flag was so small, and now so faded and limp, it wasn't much like flags Clara saw sometimes at the tops of tall buildings or flagpoles; those were usually whipping in the wind with a proud look. Clara's flag was just a rectangular piece of red-and-white-striped cloth hanging down. Still you could see it was an American flag. And seeing it through the church ladies' eyes, Clara was proud it was there.

"Yes, it shows such a ... an interest-"

"Brought us here right away," Mrs. Foster said in an earnest, happy voice. "There is nothing so important as-loving your country."

Clara was glowing with pleasure. "I'm real glad you like it," she said, hoping the ladies would take the burden of talk from her. Smiling so hard! It was like that strange excited feeling she'd had pushed up against the man in the car driving her and Rosalie into town in New Jersey-that she had to hook onto the other person, she had to make him like her, had to make these smiling ladies like her, and fast. But she couldn't think of much to say to them, who were looking at her with that mixed look you get from mother-types-like they can see things to improve in you. Clara felt a stab of shame, her hair was likely snarled, and her clothes were likely not too clean. And she was barefoot.

The ladies were clean of course. And they wore stockings and dress-up shoes. And white gloves.

Gloves! Clara smiled happily to think that she had been singled out by ladies wearing white gloves. She hoped everybody in the units was watching her, who was home. For these were women who lived in real houses and went to church and had all the money they wished to spend, and n.o.body ever yelled at them, or cuffed them.

Such a cordial voice inquiring of Clara, "What is your name, dear?"

Clara saw some kids gathering to watch a short distance away. G.o.dd.a.m.n if those brats ruined this.

"My name is Clara Walpole." Like at school, Clara spoke clearly.

"And where did you say your family is, dear?"

"Oh, they're-out. My stepma is down at the sorting shed, and my pa is-away somewhere." Clara began to speak more rapidly, out of a fear of running out of words. "Like I said, I'm minding the baby. Roosevelt is picking oranges I guess, and Rodwell is-" Clara pointed toward the kids hanging out across the way, one of whom was her brother, and when the women shaded their eyes to look around, the kids waved with exaggerated enthusiasm and made animal noises. So mortified! Clara shook her fist. "d.a.m.n you, shut up!" It occurred to her immediately that she shouldn't have yelled, she surely shouldn't have shaken her fist-she saw how the ladies exchanged startled glances. "They don't mean nothin," she said weakly.

Next door the old man wandered out and, Jesus!-Clara saw his pants were unb.u.t.toned, she hoped to h.e.l.l he wouldn't p.i.s.s right in front of them but the ladies were trying not to look. The one with the tortoisesh.e.l.l gla.s.ses adjusted them, and peered at Clara with her hopeful smile, and said maybe yes they could step inside, just for a minute.

So Clara held the screen door open for Mrs. Foster and Mrs. Wylie, who brushed past her seeming to be holding their breaths, into the "unit," and Clara saw with dismay how messy the kitchen was, dishes soaking in the sink, damp towels and clothes hanging on the backs of chairs, Nancy's flypaper twist hanging down from the light fixture above the table covered in flies and moths. Some of these were dead, and some were still living. "We only just moved in," Clara said, as if the flypaper twist wasn't their fault. She was noting a discrepancy between the ladies' pink-lipstick mouths that were smiling, and their eyes that looked frightened and quivery. "Here is Esther Jean," Clara said proudly, picking up the baby, such a hot little bundle in her arms she had to smile, "ain't she cute?"

"She isn't-is?-no, she isn't-"

"-isn't her baby, Catherine. Really!"

The ladies were murmuring together. Clara laughed at what they were saying. "She's my stepma's. I ain't married-I don't have any baby." The ladies appeared embarra.s.sed.

"Dear, the purpose of our little visit is to inquire whether ... anyone in your family would like to accept an invitation to visit our church." Mrs. Foster spoke in a rush of words, twining her white-gloved fingers around one another. "We of the First Methodist Church of Florence wish to extend to you a warm welcome from the Reverend Bargman and we hope-we hope that you will accept."

An invitation. Clara smiled at the word, it had a sound she liked. "Oh, I'm real interested in church!" she said. "I just never been, much." Clara smiled at the word, it had a sound she liked. "Oh, I'm real interested in church!" she said. "I just never been, much."

"Your family isn't aligned with any particular church, then? But you are Christian, yes?"

"Oh, yes. Christian. But not-not particular about it."

Clara shook her head solemnly. All eyes All eyes she'd gone in that moment, as certain of her girlfriends teased her when guys hung around her and tugged at her hair sometimes; Clara wasn't conscious of behaving any differently, only just her gaze seemed to soften and melt and she lifted her face like a flower to whoever was talking to her. It always seemed to have some effect, as now the ladies smiled at her startled and pleased. she'd gone in that moment, as certain of her girlfriends teased her when guys hung around her and tugged at her hair sometimes; Clara wasn't conscious of behaving any differently, only just her gaze seemed to soften and melt and she lifted her face like a flower to whoever was talking to her. It always seemed to have some effect, as now the ladies smiled at her startled and pleased.

"We are having a prayer meeting tonight, in fact," Mrs. Foster said quickly. "At seven. A lovely child like yourself, you would be so very welcome. And of course your-stepmother, you said? And your father, and-anyone else. All of you are welcome."

They all smiled at one another, as if a difficult hurdle had been overcome. The ladies examined the walls decorated with pictures of snowcapped mountains and southern plantation houses and careful cutouts of yellow oilcloth in the shapes of flowers; Clara was wishing she'd taped up a picture of Jesus Christ, like some people did, because the ladies would be happy to see it and like her better.

Clara walked with Mrs. Foster and Mrs. Wylie back to their car, that was parked at the front of the camp. She was deeply ashamed of the units they were pa.s.sing, where laundry was hanging out, and all kinds of junk lay in the lane; little kids everywhere, fat little dark-skinned boys with no pants, and their p.e.c.k.e.rs bobbing. Just like animals Just like animals Clara knew the ladies were thinking. Clara kept up a bright stream of chatter in the way of Nancy when she'd been drinking and trying to deflect Carleton out of a bad mood. Clara knew the ladies were thinking. Clara kept up a bright stream of chatter in the way of Nancy when she'd been drinking and trying to deflect Carleton out of a bad mood.

Almost they'd made it to the ladies' car, where a beefy boy of about twenty was sitting behind the wheel listening to a loud radio, when some kids from the camp came running by, splashing mud and shouting what sounded like c.o.c.ksucker! f.u.c.ker! c.o.c.ksucker! f.u.c.ker! and laughing like hyenas. Mrs. Foster gave a little shriek, and Mrs. Wylie clutched at her purse as if fearful it would be s.n.a.t.c.hed from her. Clara saw to her mortification that that d.a.m.n a.s.shole Rodwell was running with the gang, they'd done it to embarra.s.s her. and laughing like hyenas. Mrs. Foster gave a little shriek, and Mrs. Wylie clutched at her purse as if fearful it would be s.n.a.t.c.hed from her. Clara saw to her mortification that that d.a.m.n a.s.shole Rodwell was running with the gang, they'd done it to embarra.s.s her.

"Never mind them," Clara said hotly. "They're just animals."

At the ladies' car it was decided that Clara should wait at this spot after supper, and she would be picked up and driven to the church. The boy behind the wheel, who'd had to turn the radio down at Mrs. Foster's murmured request, was staring at Clara without as much as a smile.

They drove off. Clara waved goodbye. "Don't forget me!" she called after.

There wasn't any supper that night except what Clara put together for herself. Luckily Nancy came back to get Esther Jean, to take her to a friend's place (where they'd be drinking real late, Clara knew) so Clara could wash her hair in the sink, and comb it out to dry, and put her favorite little blue barrettes in it. She wore a blue dress, too; a castoff somebody had given her. And flat black shoes called "ballerina" shoes and were only a little scuffed. "I'm going to church tonight in town. A special invitation." She spoke to herself in a friendly way like somebody bearing good news.

By six-thirty Clara was out on the road waiting. Seeing cars she knew didn't belong to Mrs. Foster, she scrambled through a ditch to hide behind some bushes. At about five minutes to seven the stocky boy arrived, in a swirl of dust. He stared at her. "You all that's coming?"

Clara said apologetically she guessed so. Her father and stepmother couldn't come.

"O.K., Blondie. Jump in."

He was smoking a cigar as he drove and it smelled bad. Clara tried to make herself like it, as if it were the sign of church, of a new world. She kept glancing at him nervously and when he looked at her she smiled. He said nothing. Clara thought he drove sort of fast.

"Is it hard to drive a car?" she said.

He shifted the cigar around in his mouth and took a while to answer. "Depends on how smart you are."

"How old do you need to be?"

"You ain't old enough."

He said no more. Clara was staring out at the houses they pa.s.sed, at people who had nothing else to do but sit on their front porches and watch traffic go by. She felt something ache in her that was mixed up with the heavy sweet smell of lilacs from the big bushes by everyone's front porch.

At the church-not as big as Clara had hoped, but clean and white-the boy said to Clara, "When you get sick of that c.r.a.p in there, come out. I'm gonna be over there." He pointed down the street to a gas station.

Mrs. Foster was waiting inside for her. She held a book pressed up against her chest, and when Clara came in she seemed almost ready to embrace her. "Ah, yes, yes," she said, smiling sadly, "so wonderful that you could-such an opportunity for you-"

Clara looked around, smiling in her confusion. The church reminded her of a schoolhouse. There were maybe eight people there, sitting in pews right up at the front.

Mrs. Foster kept talking about the "opportunity" Clara had. She walked with her up the aisle, whispering and nodding sadly. Mrs. Wylie was sitting by herself in one of the pews, her head bowed, whispering to herself. Clara noticed that the other people-three men and four women and a crippled boy with a crutch propped up near him-were also whispering to themselves. The men's voices occasionally turned into murmurs.

Mrs. Foster had her sit on the side. She felt cold and shaky. At the front of the church was a raised platform, and on that was a podium for the minister. Off to one side was an organ. She waited, glancing over now and then at the praying people, who seemed very serious and unaware of anything except their prayers. After a while there was a bustle in the back and Clara saw an enormously fat woman in a dark silk dress come in. She smiled at Mrs. Foster, who was back at the door waiting for people to come in, and her eyes were fast and bouncy like a girl's. Clara saw that her dress was stuck to her legs and looked funny. Then another man came in, tall and thin and stoop-shouldered. He whispered to Mrs. Foster and they both looked over toward Clara. She began to smile at them, but they did not quite see her-not exactly her. Then the man came over to her and put out his hand for her to shake. Clara saw that there was a dull red rash on it, as if he'd been scratching himself there hard.

"My dear, I am Reverend Bargman. Mrs. Foster has told me about you. Let me say we are all so happy you came tonight."

Clara smiled. He was a tall, earnest, gawky man, with a smile that cut the lower part of his face in two. "You may be entering the threshold of a new life. A new life," he whispered. Clara nodded eagerly. He went on for a minute or two, using the words "threshold" and "opportunity." Then he excused himself, stood for a while near the wall with his hands behind him, staring at the floor, and finally shook his head as if to wake himself. He strode to the front of the church, scratching the back of his hand.

He began: "My dear brothers and sisters in Christ, let us give thanks for our being here this evening-for our church, our wonderful new building- And let us begin by singing hymn number 114. All together-let us rise and sing all together-"

They moved slowly. He seemed to be pulling and nudging them with his hands and little prodding movements of his body; everyone stood. Clara stood. She had found a hymnbook on the pew beside her and leafed through it. They had already begun singing, without any music behind them, before she found the hymn in the book. They made a thin, discordant mixture of voices that kept trying to waver apart. Clara stared hard at the music in the book. She had never seen music before. And the words were big words. She felt perspiration break out on her and she wondered if everyone was waiting for her to sing her part- Just ahead of her the fat woman sang, raising and lowering her head with a deliberate meekness. She was a warm, energetic partridge of a woman, with damp spots on her dress that looked like wings folded back.

Clara had thought the song was ending but it began again. The back of her neck was damp. She raised the book closer to her face and tried to read the words. Then she noticed that the minister was crying! He sang words that Clara could not even make out and these words were so sad that he was crying. He shook his head sadly. Clara waited tensely, wondering what there could be in words to make a person cry. She only cried when something real came along. But she never did find out what the words meant. After the song ended a few people cleared their throats, as if self-conscious at the silence. The minister closed his hymnbook and everyone else did the same. They sat.

"I see," he said, with a special little smile, "that I have not worked hard enough this week. I have not worked hard enough."

There was an intake of a breath or two. Clara did not understand. "Only this child is new to us," the minister said, looking kindly at her. "I have not worked hard enough this week. I have not brought people to our worship of Christ."

Mrs. Foster sighed.

"No, I have not worked hard enough. Just this child ... And it is through the efforts of Mrs. Foster and Mrs. Wylie that ... No, I have not worked hard enough." He did not wipe his eyes or even his nose, Clara saw. He let the tears run down as if he were proud of them, and when he smiled she could see tears glistening around his mouth. He bowed his head and clasped his hands before him, out before him as if he were going to help pull someone up there with him, and prayed aloud. Clara stared at the top of his head. It was thick with dark hair in some places but thin in others; she wanted to laugh at it. Everything made her so nervous that she wanted to laugh. He prayed in a loud, demanding voice that got more and more angry as it went on, about Christ and blood and redemption and little children and sin and the world and money and city life and the federal government and the Sunday collection and Pontius Pilate ... and his voice was angry and hard as any man's, not about to cry at all, and he began to pace tightly around on the little platform as his voice rose higher in a sudden upward swerve, as if something had caught hold of it and jerked it right up toward heaven. "G.o.d is watching! G.o.d is listening! You people in sin, how can you think G.o.d isn't with you all the time? Right now, tomorrow, yesterday, next year-always-G.o.d is always with you-"

Just when his voice was hardest, though, it collapsed down into a sob. He could not get his breath for a moment. Clara pressed her hand against her mouth to keep from smiling. In the center section women were crying freely, their heads bowed; the men stared down at the minister's shoes. Only the crippled boy was looking around the way Clara was. Their eyes met and he seemed not to see her; he had lines on his forehead and around his mouth like a man getting old.

Someone had once told Clara that G.o.d was watching her, or maybe Christ, someone was with her all the time and watching her. She hadn't bothered with it because it didn't make sense. It might or might not have been true, like many complicated things, but since it didn't make sense she forgot about it. But tonight when the minister said the same thing, it struck Clara that if G.o.d was watching anyone, it was not the people here. He was probably watching other people who were more interesting. Clara knew that G.o.d would never bother with her and she thought this was a good idea.

The minister was clearing his throat and Clara cleared her throat involuntarily, in sympathy with him. She felt the way she felt when her father or Nancy was acting silly, wanting to help but a little impatient. Then something extraordinary happened: The fat lady with the damp dress lumbered out of the pew and headed for the platform. Clara wondered if she was going to hit the minister or do something violent-maybe she was his wife. She could see the woman's thick, pale, doughlike arms, the flesh swinging free just beneath the sleeves, and her legs in brown stockings round and thick as tree limbs, working her up to the front. There she knelt, heavily, and buried her face in her hands. She was sobbing too and the minister bent over her and let his eyes streak across the pews as if drawing everyone else up to him. A pouchy-eyed spider he was, drawing the buzzing flies to him. "To Jesus! To Jesus!" he whispered loudly.

A man in a bulky drab-yellow suit coat and brown trousers gave a little sob-"Amen! Jesus!" He pushed clumsily-desperately- over knees and legs to get out into the aisle. He was panting and his face was oily-slick with happiness. "Amen! Oh Jesus, have mercy!" Clara had to pinch herself not to laugh aloud, was everybody in this place crazy crazy? This man hurried to Reverend Bargman, too, and knelt so hard you could feel the vibrations. There came an older man, with a face like something rotted, and there was a nice-looking lady who might've been Mrs. Wylie's sister, they looked so much alike. And a chunky teenaged girl with bad skin, leaking tears behind her hands. It was so strange! What did it mean! Clara was scared something would draw her forward, too; like a magnet; she could feel invisible things in the air, like waves; like the beating of birds' wings; or maybe they were spirits, nudging and b.u.mping against her. Why was everybody so happy, and why was everybody sobbing? Why would you sob if you weren't hurt-except out of a fear of being hurt in the future? Was it to stop G.o.d from wanting to hurt you? To show how weak you are? Clara was smiling so hard her cheeks felt like bursting. If she could fix her gaze on G.o.d she'd have gone all eyes all eyes and make Him like her but-where was G.o.d? Where was Jesus? and make Him like her but-where was G.o.d? Where was Jesus?

Crock of s.h.i.t Carleton said of religion. Clara hoped if there was a G.o.d, He wouldn't blame her for her pa's opinions. Carleton said of religion. Clara hoped if there was a G.o.d, He wouldn't blame her for her pa's opinions.

But here was her chance, Clara saw. Her opportunity. She slipped onto her knees onto the hard floor. She hid her face in her hands like G.o.d seemed to want, and made herself weak and placating praying for Rosalie. Clara had no prayer for herself, she would take care of herself, but Rosalie needed her help, maybe. After her father was taken away the rest of the family disappeared overnight and the rumor was they'd been given bus tickets back to Texas. Clara prayed Jesus let Rosalie into Heaven. Jesus let Rosalie's baby that died into Heaven. And Rosalie's pa. Jesus have mercy. Jesus let Rosalie into Heaven. Jesus let Rosalie's baby that died into Heaven. And Rosalie's pa. Jesus have mercy.

That was enough. Either it would work, or it would not.

Clara was out in the aisle. On her feet, and in the aisle. She wasn't going to be drawn to Reverend Bargman though she could see he was waiting for her, his pouchy eyes greedy upon her. He'd seen her praying, on her knees. He'd seen, and he was waiting. But Clara just laughed at him, ugly old spider, turned and ran out of the church. She was so happy! She could feel her hair flapping between her shoulder blades. I'm not a sinner like these people. Whatever they have done, I'm not one of them. I'm not a sinner like these people. Whatever they have done, I'm not one of them.

Outside, she discovered the d.a.m.n old hymnbook in her hand, she tossed it down on the top step where they'd be sure to find it.

9.

First they went to a little restaurant near some railroad tracks. There were several trucks parked outside, and inside were men who shouted and laughed in one another's faces. Their fists and elbows struck the tables accidentally and made them wobble. Clara, who had never been in a restaurant before, said right out to the young waitress: "I'm hungry, I want some hamburgers. I want a c.o.ke."

The boy was older than Clara had thought. He had a blotched, heavy face with eyes sunk back into his skull. He kept joking and interrupting himself and laughing nervously; he played with his car keys for a while. In his shirt pocket were five cigars wrapped in cellophane. Clara smiled at him and showed her teeth and kept pushing her hair back out of her eyes. With the table between them and other people around, what did she care? "You got out of there faster'n I did," he said. His name was LeRoy. He was Mrs. Foster's only son and he was going to join the Navy and get out of Florence forever, as soon as he had some operation he had to have before they'd let him in. "My old b.a.s.t.a.r.d of a father that's dead now, he had me carry anvils and junk all around the barn. That's what done it," he said sourly, smiling and twisting the cap on the ketchup bottle. He got ketchup on his fingers and wiped them underneath the table.

A song began on the jukebox. It was a country song with a tw.a.n.gy, forlorn, sleepy voice. Clara tried to imagine what that man would look like and she knew he wouldn't look like LeRoy. But LeRoy hummed along with the music, grinning and squinting at her and turning the cap on the ketchup bottle nervously. He seemed so excited he couldn't sit still.

"Don't you want nothin to eat?" Clara said.

"I'm just gonna sit and watch you."

He shook his car keys once more and dropped them in his shirt pocket. He laughed and snickered at something he thought of, then put his elbow down on the table and his chin in his palm and watched her. Clara ate her hamburger fast, licking her lips and then licking her fingers. She drank the c.o.ke so fast it hurt her throat. This made LeRoy laugh. "You're such a cute little girl," he said. "I bet you know that."

He wanted to drive out to the country, but Clara said she knew a place she wanted to go-it was a tavern she'd heard about. People from the camp went there. She wondered if she had made a mistake, going with him, when he did not quite turn into the tavern drive but idled out on the road, saying something vaguely about a better place a few miles on. He hadn't looked at her. "Like h.e.l.l," Clara said. So he turned into the drive. Clara got her door open fast and was outside before he had even turned off the ignition. He jumped out and ran around the car, his feet making heavy crunching noises in the gravel. He started breezy little sentences that went nowhere, like "If my ma- What a night- That's the way things are-" He opened the screen door for her and Clara went inside as if she'd never seen him before. "My sweet Jesus," the boy said, wiping his forehead.

Clara felt a little dizzy with excitement. The man behind the bar, who looked like LeRoy, said: "How old are you, sweetheart?"

"How old do you need to be?" she said.

The man and LeRoy both roared, this made them so happy. Clara took the bottle of beer someone handed her and sipped at it, looking around. Her eyes darted from face to face, not as if she were looking for someone she knew but as if she supposed there was someone here who might know her. Her hair was hot and heavy about her head. One time in the evening LeRoy took a bunch of it in his hand and Clara jerked away like a cat.

"O.K., no scratchin, no bitin!" LeRoy laughed. He put out his hands to defend himself. Now that he had been drinking a while, his laughter was wheezing.

People kept coming in. Clara noticed a man with blond hair at one of the back tables; her heart gave a lurch, she thought it might be her father. But when he turned she saw it wasn't, thank G.o.d. He was maybe twenty, maybe twenty-five, she didn't know. She forgot him and then saw him again and felt the same tripping sensation around her heart. He sat leaning back precariously in his chair, legs crossed at the knee, listening to what his friends were saying but not saying much himself. Reminded Clara of a hawk: just waiting.

Nancy liked to play cards, solitaire. Slapping the sticky cards down. You were supposed to value the king the highest but Clara had an eye for the jack. Jack of spades was her favorite.