Seneca smiled. "That's okay. Everybody makes mistakes."
The friend said, "It's fine now. Look."
Seneca and Jean both looked. Her hands were clean, no blood.
Just a few lines that might or might not leave marks.
"Great!"
"Let's go."
"Well, bye."
"Jean!"
"Bye."
Gunning the gas pedal while watching his rearview mirror, Jack said, "Who was that?"
"Some girl I thought I knew from before. When I lived in those apartments on Woodlawn. The housing project there."
"What housing project?"
"On Woodlawn."
"Never any projects on Woodlawn," said Jack. "That was Beacon. Torn down now, but it was never on Woodlawn. Beacon is where it was. Right next to the old playground."
"You sure about that?"
"Sure I'm sure. You losing it, woman."
In ocean hush a woman black as firewood is singing. Next to her is a younger woman whose head rests on the singing woman's lap. Ruined fingers troll the tea brown hair. All the colors of seashells-wheat, roses, pearl-fuse in the younger woman's face. Her emerald eyes adore the black face framed in cerulean blue. Around them on the beach, sea trash gleams. Discarded bottle caps sparkle near a broken sandal. A small dead radio plays the quiet surf.
There is nothing to beat this solace which is what Piedade's song is about, although the words evoke memories neither one has ever had: of reaching age in the company of the other; of speech shared and divided bread smoking from the fire; the unambivalent bliss of going home to be at home-the ease of coming back to love begun. When the ocean heaves sending rhythms of water ashore, Piedade looks to see what has come. Another ship, perhaps, but different, heading to port, crew and passengers, lost and saved, atremble, for they have been disconsolate for some time. Now they will rest before shouldering the endless work they were created to do down here in paradise.
The End