Long Black Curl by Alex Bledsoe Page A

Juliet.”
    â€œIt’s not a joke, Nigel. His parents would’ve shot me on sight, and mine would’ve done the same to him. You ever risked anything like that for love?”
    â€œThen it truly was love?”
    â€œIt truly was a kind of love,” she said, her voice distant.
    â€œBut not the kind that lasts.”
    She looked down at her boots in the snow. “I’m done talking about this.”
    â€œOf course,” he agreed gently.
    When she spoke again, her voice had its normal sarcasm. “So I should also warn you, my family will call you a nigger to your face.”
    His eyebrows rose. “Will they?”
    â€œThey will. They’ll watch you like a hawk, and treat you like a Martian. They won’t hurt you, because you’re with me, but I just want you to be prepared.”
    â€œNo worries. I’ve been called a Martian before.”
    This made her smile. “All right, then. Let’s get this over with.”
    When they moved, the dog Stinkerbelle trotted around the side of the house and disappeared. On the porch, Nigel followed her example and stomped to dislodge the snow from his boots. Then she stepped to the door and firmly knocked. It rattled against the frame.
    â€œPut your pants on, everyone, the prodigal has returned!” she called out. There was no answer. She opened the door.
    Inside was an enormous room, made even larger by its singular lack of furniture. A semicircle of straight chairs was arranged around the hearth, where a tepid little fire fought the winter chill. Oil lamps burned on two small tables in the corners. Beyond this, bright electric light radiated from a kitchen where three people sat at the table. To Nigel, it was like standing in the nineteenth century and looking into the twenty-first.
    On the wall was a large, strange painting of a baby, maybe a year old, standing on a chair. The baby’s head seemed to float just above its body, with no neck to attach it. It was disconcerting, and to Nigel, a little creepy.
    The two people visible in the kitchen, an old man and an elderly woman, turned to look. The man immediately jumped to his feet, his fists clenched, as if he expected a fight. He wore overalls and a John Deere baseball cap.
    â€œHey, Paw-paw,” Bo-Kate said as she took off her coat and handed it to Nigel. “That Memaw with you?”
    â€œBo-Kate,” the old woman said. She didn’t stand up, but her whole body grew tense.
    â€œIt’s Bo-Kate,” the man said to the third person, who sat just out of sight. Only a pair of slender, feminine bare feet could be seen.
    â€œJust toss ’em on a chair,” Bo-Kate said to Nigel, and he draped their coats across the backs of two of the seats. Bo-Kate grinned, but didn’t move any closer to her family. “Reckon y’all are surprised to see me.”
    â€œSurprised ain’t the word,” Paw-paw Wisby said. His given name was Beauregard, but even people unrelated to him called him Paw-paw. “Why don’t you tell me why you’re here.”
    Bo-Kate raised her chin and sang in a sweet, pure voice:
    To thee I’ll return
    Overburdened with care
    My heart’s dearest solace
    Will smile on me there.
    For a moment, there was no response. Then the bare feet withdrew from sight, followed by the scrape of a chair across the floor as the unseen person rose.
    Nigel gasped as the newcomer stepped into the doorway.
    She was a staggeringly beautiful, dark-haired girl of about twenty. Despite the weather, she wore scandalously short denim cut-offs and a threadbare, tight T-shirt with plainly nothing under it. She leaned against the doorframe and said in a low purr, “And who’s your friend, Bo-Kate?”
    â€œYou just settle down, Tain,” Bo-Kate said. “He’s mine.”
    â€œYours? You can buy and sell niggers again? I sure didn’t see that on the news.”
    â€œI warned you,” Bo-Kate asided