Free Under a Dark Summer Sky by Vanessa Lafaye Page A

arms crossed. He spat on the ground as the group passed by, eyes fixed in a hateful stare at Henry.
    Henry took his place at the head of the formation. “Gentlemen, now we ready.”
    They had traveled maybe a hundred yards from the camp gate when there came a scuffle at the rear. Max Hoffman puffed to a stop next to Henry. “I ain’t a big fan of cockroaches,” said Hoffman.
    They fell into step. The sun slanted across the formation, lying in orange bars on the dusty road. Sweat stained their backs and under their arms.
    â€œHenry,” said Max, “I hear you from Heron Key? That so?”
    â€œYep.”
    They trudged on a bit farther. Henry was very much aware that Max expected him to say more. Sure enough, after a few more silent paces, Max said, “That why you came back here?”
    Henry glanced at Max. The man had broken ranks to walk with them. Now he was asking personal questions. Although Henry despised all that Two-Step stood for, he didn’t need to go out of his way to find trouble. What’s his game? But Max’s broad face, pink with exertion, showed only open curiosity.
    â€œI woulda gone anywhere there was work,” said Henry. He hitched up his pants, which were too big for his skinny frame, despite Selma’s cooking. “And since the work was here, it seemed like the Lord intended me to see my family.”
    Max stared at the sea, hand shading his face, and said nothing for a few minutes. There was only the crunch of boots on oyster shells, the low rumble of conversation from the other men. A pelican buzzed them on its way to the water. Cigarette smoke drifted on the hot breeze. “I had a family too, long time ago. Here.” He pulled from his pocket a yellowed, creased photo of a little boy of about six with a big gap between his front teeth. Same square face, pink cheeks, cowboy hat askew on his head.
    Henry studied the photo. “That a fine boy you got there. Where he at now?”
    Max returned the picture to his pocket with a shrug. Henry knew that kind of shrug. He had used it many times when asked unanswerable questions. “Dunno,” said Max. “His mother took him away…when my drinkin’…well, you know.”
    â€œYeah.” A look of understanding passed between them. “Yeah, I do.” Henry hesitated one more moment, conscious that he was crossing some invisible line. “That why you here?”
    Max shrugged. “I guess so. When it all went wrong, I just started walkin’. I figured I’d walk till there was no more road.” He squinted into the sun. “Seems to me like that place is here.”
    He’s right , Henry thought. This is it, the place where the road ends. It was where you ended up when you had tried everything else. It was a place of last resort. Every man marching with him left a trail of wrecked hopes and shattered lives, like the shells that crumbled under their boots.
    They marched on into the deepening twilight.

Chapter 6
    When Missy arrived at the beach, Selma already had the gator steaks on the grill, shooing the flies away with one hand while she flipped the meat with the other. A pot of swamp cabbage boiled on the fire with plenty of bacon and sugar. A line of people had formed by the makeshift tables, which were trimmed with red, white, and blue bunting, filling their plates with slaw and fried conch and scoops of sweet coquinas on their way to the grill. A few yards away, a series of posts stuck in the sand ran down the beach to the surf, strung with twine to mark the boundary of the whites’ area. Atop each post fluttered a small American flag.
    The horizon was awash with apricot light beneath a band of china-blue sky. Ridges of insubstantial clouds mirrored the sand in the shallows. Very unusually, the afternoon thunderstorms had passed over them, driven inland by a strong onshore wind. Missy fanned herself with a paper plate, grateful that at least the air