Free Under a Dark Summer Sky by Vanessa Lafaye Page B

moved.
    â€œCan I help?” she asked. Selma took the plate of Mama’s corn bread and set it on the table. Mama had delivered a bucket of her famous barbecue sauce earlier that day to grace the roasted pig to come from Ronald LeJeune. Every year, he made a big show of his generosity toward the colored folks; he so loved playing the beneficent white man. Some coloreds took against his preening and posturing, but to Selma, it was simple: food was food. “You cain’t eat principles,” she always said.
    â€œIn that dress?” Selma eyed her up and down. “I don’t think so.” Selma’s apron was spattered with grease, her wrists marked with welts from the grill, her face shiny with sweat. She slapped at a mosquito on her neck. The air shimmered with them, and their wings filled the air with a constant hum, despite the pots of pyrethrum burning everywhere.
    Missy felt suddenly conscious of the pristine yellow of the dress, the scent of oil in her hair. All her careful preparations seemed silly and kind of stuck-up. After all, she was not a girl anymore, someone to primp and giggle at the boys, ribbons in her hair. She was stepping out with no one. She should have come prepared to work.
    â€œYou look very pretty,” said Selma with a squeeze of her arm and a warm, soft smile that Missy had only ever seen maybe once before. “And you can help by makin’ sure there’s enough food to go around.” She waved her turning fork at Ike Freeman, who had piled his plate with about twice as much food as it was designed to hold. He gripped a slab of corn bread between his teeth as he shuffled slowly through the sand toward a folding chair in the shade of some sea grapes.
    â€œWhere’s Jerome?” asked Missy. He could usually be relied upon to turn up at a party, if not much else.
    â€œFishing,” said Selma.
    A look passed between them. Selma never complained about Jerome. Missy was not sure if this was out of love or pride…or maybe both. Her eyes scanned the crowd.
    â€œHenry ain’t here yet,” said Selma, her tone returned to its normal tartness. “Might not come at all. Get a move on.”
    Missy took her place behind a big table covered in bowls and platters. Despite Ike’s gluttony, there seemed to be no risk of any shortages. She wrapped a spare apron around her waist and let the chatter of the other women flow around her as she served.
    She did not know what to expect from the evening, only that a voice in her head said something was going to happen. It did not say whether it would turn out good or bad. Over time, she had learned to listen to that voice.
    Lionel, the Kincaids’ gardener, stepped up to have his plate filled. That afternoon, he had looked like he might collapse with shock when he learned of the gator’s nearly successful raid, then seemed to take special satisfaction in cutting up the carcass. Missy knew he saw the Kincaid family as his personal responsibility. “That a mighty pretty dress, Missy,” he said. She spooned some coleslaw onto his plate. “You look like a princess.” His weathered features folded into a nearly toothless smile, eyes narrowed to moist slits.
    â€œThanks, Lionel. Here, have some more.” The man was so thin, he looked held together by the ragged clothes he wore every day and washed every night.
    He moved away and Missy let her mind wander. She recalled Henry’s wry smile, his haunted eyes, that scar on his neck. Who was she to judge anyone, anyway? A woman, no longer young, but still living with her mama. No husband, no babies, no schooling. And why? Because two men had let her down? That was no reason for anything. Men let people down every day, and folks still made something of their lives. She had done nothing, been nowhere. And if she wanted someone to blame, she only had to look in the mirror every morning.
    Eighteen years Henry had stayed away, clearly not in any