Free Cajun Waltz by Robert H. Patton Page A

good things to the limit. He was almost seventeen and alert to her curvy shape and the scent of her hair as he awkwardly returned her embrace. Fearing to look past her lest he have to acknowledge the kid sitting in the chair, he let his gaze drop over her shoulder. She arched slightly and lifted one foot off the carpet. The small of her back tightened under R.J.’s hands. Her upraised calf flexed in its stocking and her bottom did the same in its tight skirt. He looked up dizzily and found himself gazing at a neatly dressed boy sitting erect and dutiful on the sofa behind her. They stared at each other for maybe two seconds. R.J., at a loss for what to do, winked. Seth winked back.
    The two of them—half brothers, odd as that sounded—had another exchange at the end of the evening. It turned out their rooms, new to each of them at Georgia Hill, were on opposite sides of the third-floor landing. Angel went to say bedtime prayers with Seth. R.J. waited till she returned downstairs to say goodnight to his father, sister, and Angel; he kept the last standoffish in case she made a move to hug him again. He grabbed two bottles of Jax and an opener from the kitchen. He opened his bedroom window and put the beers on the sill alongside a lighter, ashtray, and cigarettes. The movers had brought his guitar and Philco from the old house. A gift from his mother last Christmas, the Philco doubled as a radio and record player. His 78s were in a box on the floor and he took one out and inserted it in the front slot. Big Joe Williams’s “Crawling King Snake” came out grainy and raw, a lone guitar and an evil voice.
    I’m a crawlin’ king snake, woman, gonna drag all ’round your door,
    You had the nerve to tell me, baby, you don’t want me ’round no more …
    R.J. picked up his guitar, Cleoma Breaux’s old National steel, and began noodling to the music. It was his first time playing in months. He was more than pretty good, and in any case the guitar’s open tuning complemented Williams’s Delta style. It could make mistakes sound like slick improvisations, make an off note sound soulful instead of bad—and R.J. only played for himself anyway, a few beers in the better.
    Seth appeared in the doorway wearing red pajamas with feet. R.J. lowered the volume. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”
    â€œNot asleep.” The boy had a compact, earnest face that resembled their father’s more than did R.J.’s. “I didn’t know what it was,” he said, glancing at the record player.
    â€œBlues music. Negro blues.”
    This made no impression.
    â€œEasy to play. Hard to play good.” R.J. swigged his beer self-consciously. “You should go back to bed. I’ll stop.”
    Seth fiddled with the door latch.
    â€œHow about this house, huh?” R.J. ventured. “Big as two houses.”
    â€œWill you live here?”
    â€œI’ll be away mostly. You’ll have the run of the place.” R.J. had no idea how to talk to children, so went with something that mattered: “You like your daddy, Seth?”
    The boy nodded.
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œHe’s nice to my mother.”
    â€œGood reason.”
    â€œYour mother’s dead.” It wasn’t a question.
    â€œShe is,” R.J. said. “He wasn’t too nice to her.” He saw this troubled the boy and added quickly, “It’s different now. He’s gonna be fine with you.”
    Seth dropped cross-legged to the floor, eyes upraised.
    â€œGuess we ain’t sleepy.” R.J. lit a cigarette, flipped the platter to the B-side and reinserted it in the player. “Meet Me Around the Corner” had a country bounce with lyrics murky and ribald. R.J., amused by Seth’s vexed expression, explained over the music, “Guy likes a chubby woman, you get that? More she wobbles, more he wants her.” He blew smoke out his window. “No one we