temperature was keeping the mosquitoes at bay. A few couples had begun to dance in the open area in front of the DJ booth. Slinky was making the rounds, still wearing his sunglasses, smiling.
As she crossed the platform toward the bar with Jarrell, Martha was acutely aware of her otherness as the only white person at the affair. And she could hear, inside her head, the protective voice of Dr. Goodwin telling her she wasn’t ready for all this. But if not now, when? Now was what really mattered, wasn’t it?
“Professor Humphries,” said a young man in a shiny silver blazer with close-cropped hair and a goatee. A young woman with winged magenta eyeliner hung at his side, her arm draped over his shoulder. “I thought you’d left us for the big city.”
“Just back on a little business, Clem,” Jarrell said. “This is a friend of mine, Martha Covington. She lives out on Shell Heap. She’s a writer.”
“Oh, you’re the one who wrote that book about Shell Heap, right?” Clem said. “It’s a privilege to meet you.”
Martha felt a pleasant tingle inside. With her isolated island lifestyle, she had little awareness of how far her reputation had spread.
Slinky stepped up, plastic cup in hand. “Everybody having a good time?”
“Cool vibe, Slink,” Clem said. “You do know how to throw a shindy.”
“Y’all be sure to get some shrimp over there and try some of the special bug juice,” Slinky said, waving a ringed hand toward the bar. Towers of plastic cups were stacked next to a yellow Coleman barrel with a spigot. Next to the bar, someone was dumping an enormous plastic bag of raw shrimp into a cooler.
They continued to mingle for a few minutes, chatting with some of Jarrell’s old friends and acquaintances. Then the DJ music stopped, and Martha heard someone shout, “C’mon, ring dance, y’all!” She turned toward the sound of the voice and saw a young man in jeans and a white T-shirt walking toward the center of the barge with an empty burlap sack across his hands. He held it out as if he were presenting the Golden Fleece. The partygoers were putting down their drinks and calling out things like “Hell, yeah!” and “Let’s go!” The crowd began to form a circle as he ceremoniously placed the sack on the deck.
Jarrell took Martha by the hand and led her toward the circle. “This is an old Geechee tradition. C’mon, it’s fun.”
“Sure,” Martha said.
The revelers began to clap and stomp in a syncopated pattern. A woman brought out a wooden washboard and ran a spoon up and down the ribs, adding a rasping rhythm. The young man in the T-shirt went to the center of the ring, folded his elbows like wings, and started to waggle, thrusting his head forward like a turkey. Martha and Jarrell joined in the clapping, and as the dancer’s birdlike moves around the sack intensified, he added intricate foot shuffles. The crowd began to sing:
Watch that star, oh watch star,
Watch that star, see how it runs
If you see that star in the western sky
Better watch that star, see how it runs.
The dancer stepped out of the circle and tagged a woman named Melva, who took her place in the center, improvising her own version of the dance, holding her hands up to the sky, then shimmying them down toward the deck, and finally up again.
Melva completed her turn, came back into the line, and tapped Jarrell, who smiled as he trotted around the sack, standing erect, arms folded, kicking his feet. Martha felt herself swept into the rhythm and spirit of the dance, and she didn’t hesitate when Jarrell stepped out and tagged her, flashing a smile and a wink.
She stepped into the center and started to move, hesitant at first, and then she began to bounce and twirl and skip. She surrendered to the moment, lifting her hands to the air, her chest pushed out in the cool night air, spinning. The concussions of the circle of hands and stomping feet seemed to propel her, and she twirled faster and faster, until the
As she crossed the platform toward the bar with Jarrell, Martha was acutely aware of her otherness as the only white person at the affair. And she could hear, inside her head, the protective voice of Dr. Goodwin telling her she wasn’t ready for all this. But if not now, when? Now was what really mattered, wasn’t it?
“Professor Humphries,” said a young man in a shiny silver blazer with close-cropped hair and a goatee. A young woman with winged magenta eyeliner hung at his side, her arm draped over his shoulder. “I thought you’d left us for the big city.”
“Just back on a little business, Clem,” Jarrell said. “This is a friend of mine, Martha Covington. She lives out on Shell Heap. She’s a writer.”
“Oh, you’re the one who wrote that book about Shell Heap, right?” Clem said. “It’s a privilege to meet you.”
Martha felt a pleasant tingle inside. With her isolated island lifestyle, she had little awareness of how far her reputation had spread.
Slinky stepped up, plastic cup in hand. “Everybody having a good time?”
“Cool vibe, Slink,” Clem said. “You do know how to throw a shindy.”
“Y’all be sure to get some shrimp over there and try some of the special bug juice,” Slinky said, waving a ringed hand toward the bar. Towers of plastic cups were stacked next to a yellow Coleman barrel with a spigot. Next to the bar, someone was dumping an enormous plastic bag of raw shrimp into a cooler.
They continued to mingle for a few minutes, chatting with some of Jarrell’s old friends and acquaintances. Then the DJ music stopped, and Martha heard someone shout, “C’mon, ring dance, y’all!” She turned toward the sound of the voice and saw a young man in jeans and a white T-shirt walking toward the center of the barge with an empty burlap sack across his hands. He held it out as if he were presenting the Golden Fleece. The partygoers were putting down their drinks and calling out things like “Hell, yeah!” and “Let’s go!” The crowd began to form a circle as he ceremoniously placed the sack on the deck.
Jarrell took Martha by the hand and led her toward the circle. “This is an old Geechee tradition. C’mon, it’s fun.”
“Sure,” Martha said.
The revelers began to clap and stomp in a syncopated pattern. A woman brought out a wooden washboard and ran a spoon up and down the ribs, adding a rasping rhythm. The young man in the T-shirt went to the center of the ring, folded his elbows like wings, and started to waggle, thrusting his head forward like a turkey. Martha and Jarrell joined in the clapping, and as the dancer’s birdlike moves around the sack intensified, he added intricate foot shuffles. The crowd began to sing:
Watch that star, oh watch star,
Watch that star, see how it runs
If you see that star in the western sky
Better watch that star, see how it runs.
The dancer stepped out of the circle and tagged a woman named Melva, who took her place in the center, improvising her own version of the dance, holding her hands up to the sky, then shimmying them down toward the deck, and finally up again.
Melva completed her turn, came back into the line, and tapped Jarrell, who smiled as he trotted around the sack, standing erect, arms folded, kicking his feet. Martha felt herself swept into the rhythm and spirit of the dance, and she didn’t hesitate when Jarrell stepped out and tagged her, flashing a smile and a wink.
She stepped into the center and started to move, hesitant at first, and then she began to bounce and twirl and skip. She surrendered to the moment, lifting her hands to the air, her chest pushed out in the cool night air, spinning. The concussions of the circle of hands and stomping feet seemed to propel her, and she twirled faster and faster, until the
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