Under a Dark Summer Sky by Vanessa Lafaye Page B

in hand, but no one was obviously drunk. A big guy with a goofy grin was doing a shambling shuffle. Even the rather scary one with the eye patch seemed to be getting on well with Violet. Some of the white folks had drifted over to get a better look at them. Maybe Doc was right, and it will be okay after all.
    Something akin to disappointment settled over him. A good fight would be a welcome distraction from the words overheard earlier, which had twined around his brain like a strangler fig: baby Roy’s daddy…Henry, Henry Roberts. They slithered through his consciousness to the point where he could barely wrest his thoughts away. Could that be the answer? After so long, wondering, torturing himself and Noreen, was the answer as simple as that?
    He forced himself to focus on what he could be sure of: Mabel was the worst kind of fool and an inveterate gossip. She slavered over a hot rumor the way he did a sirloin steak. Yet he also knew that, in small towns, this was exactly how news got around. It was often just a kernel of truth, wrapped in layers of speculation and even pure fantasy.
    He jabbed the toe of his boot into the sand, hands sunk deep into his pockets. The timing of Roberts’s arrival at the camp fit. Everyone knew the colored soldiers got a taste for white women overseas. And he was well aware of Roberts’s reputation for causing trouble with his ideas. In every way, Roberts was the kind of man who could do such a thing.
    The sand spilled over his boot. Millions of grains of it, in only a few inches of space. Was there even the tiniest grain of truth in what Mabel said? He had to find out.
    His eyes were drawn to the other side of the beach, where Roberts was deep in conversation with his sister. The man clearly thought a lot of himself, just from the way he was standing, back straight, shoulders square. Like he was in charge of something. Dwayne could not help himself, despite all the rational arguments against it. He studied Henry’s face, looking for the resemblance. The longer he looked, the more uncertain he felt. There were things that reminded him of Roy in the shape of Henry’s face, the tilt of his head. But nothing definitive, nothing that would serve as conclusive proof.
    More confused than ever, he was about to turn away, determined to master the turmoil in his head, when he saw something that fixed him to the spot. Henry and Selma were arguing. From their posture, Dwayne could tell it was about something important. Then Selma’s lips formed the words that made up his mind. She said to Henry, “Now go on, say whatever you got to say. But be a man. It time you take responsibility for what you done.”

    Hilda watched and waited for Henry to finish talking with his sister. When he set off down the beach, she saw her chance and rushed around to meet him. She hugged him with a cheery, “Welcome home, Henry!”
    With deliberate care, he removed her hands and stepped away. “Evenin’, Missus Kincaid.”
    â€œCall me Hilda, silly!” She gave him a playful slap.
    â€œNow, Hilda, I mean Missus Kincaid—”
    â€œDance with me, Henry, c’mon.” And she began to shuffle around him in a stumbling approximation of the beat coming from the gramophone. She tried to put his arms around her but he held her away stiffly, his smile taut. She was acutely aware that everyone had stopped to watch the display.
    The shocked stares on both sides of the barrier fueled her determination. Now she had their attention. Now they would see. She was not someone to be mocked and ignored. After all, she had been Miss Palmetto. Two years running. “No one else will dance with me,” she said, loud enough for Nelson to hear. “Not even my own husband.” She switched to a stage whisper. “’Cause he likes those other girls better.”
    Nelson flung his cigarette aside, separated himself from the group, and strode toward her. He took Hilda