But Nora showed how it couldn’t. He had to think about that.
He and Arlette paused in the shade of one of the camp’s pecan trees. He kissed her again, looked into her somber brown eyes.
I would die for you, he wanted to say. Instead he tilted his head a little to the left, to ease the pain in his throat, and said, “How are you doing?”
“I’m okay.” She shrugged. “Shots, bodies.” Anger hardened her face. “I’m beginning to understand why you’re mad at God.”
“I’m not anymore,” Jason said.
She looked at him.
“The universe is too big to be angry at it,” he said. “It’s like being mad at this tree for being a pecan instead of a magnolia. It’s a waste of our time.”
She glanced over one shoulder in the direction of the gate. Her eyes hardened. “Is it a waste to hate a murderer for being a murderer?” she said.
“Murderers are different,” Jason said. “They’re more our size.” Arlette gave a little sniff, tossed her head. “They’re smaller,” she said. “Much smaller.”
“Yes,” Jason said. He glanced over the camp, the people in their small, hurried groups. “I was surprised that you or your mom didn’t talk to Cudjo in French.”
A smile touched her lips. “I think his French was probably as funky as his English. I’ve learned French French, not Cajun, and probably Cudjo speaks a pretty strange version of Cajun, at that.”
“Captain Joe could have talked to him, I guess.”
“From what I heard of him over the radio, he probably could.”
He took her hands. “I’m glad we had a chance to be together last night, before Cudjo turned up.”
“And before my momma came and separated us.” She smiled.
“I don’t think she’s looking at us now,” Jason said.
“No. I don’t think so.”
They kissed. Arlette leaned back against the tree. Jason pressed himself to her. Her presence whirled in his senses.
“God damn, girl,” said a voice. Jason turned, saw the three boys Arlette had spoken to the day before.
“What are you doing with this boy?” Sekou said to Arlette. “You think his color’s catching? You think those pecker-woods won’t hurt you, you kiss him hard enough?”
Fury flashed through Jason. He faced the other boys, fists clenched by his side. Then he saw that Sekou carried a heavy stick, just hanging casually against his leg, and that the boy called Raymond had a hammer stuck through his belt, and he took a step back.
“Why don’t you mind your own business,” Arlette said.
“It’s your business to be with black people,” Sekou said. “You’re disrespecting the race.”
“Sisters gotta support the brothers,” Raymond said.
Arlette looked at them. “Even when they’re being as charming as you?” she asked.
“We’re gonna fight for you,” Sekou said, “so why are you hangin’ with the little kid? Jason—” His tone turned mocking. “Jason! What kind of trifling Yuppie-ass name is that?” Jason considered kicking the nearest one in the crotch and then running for it. He thought that probably some adult would call the situation to order before he got his head beaten in. Anger flashed from Arlette’s eyes. “Why don’t you just leave us alone?” she said.
“Scandalous-ass bitch upset, now,” said Raymond.
“Jason saved my life,” Arlette said. “He saved my whole family from a boat full of crazy men. You want some respect, you go do something useful instead of fronting on this crap.” Raymond looked at Jason from under half-closed eyelids. “You better watch it with the white boy,” he said. “They set up a nigga every time.”
His pulse throbbed in Jason’s ears. He felt his toes curl in his Nikes. Getting the range on Raymond’s crotch.
“Jason’s black enough to be here!” Arlette said. “He’s black enough for them!” She flung a pointing finger toward the deputies. Arlette’s eyes flared. “He’s black enough to die with you!” The others fell silent. Arlette glared at them for a moment, then took Jason’s arm and steered him away.
“‘Scandalous-ass bitch’!” she fumed. “You heard what they called me?” Jason’s mouth was dry. Adrenaline sang in his veins. He’d been a half-second from violence, and it would probably have been violence inflicted mostly on him.
“Thanks for sticking up for me,” he croaked through his injured throat.
“You stuck up for me when it counted,” she said.
Jason strove for words to express his surging feelings, the thoughts that whirled in his head. Found himself baffled. “This race thing,” he said finally. “It’s really fucked.” The diarrhea at Clarendon was responding to treatment. Dr. Patel went home for his first sleep in days, and Omar returned to his office. Omar had ordered David to stay away from Woodbine Corners—had sent him out patrolling with Merle, in fact, on the other end of the parish, down by the Bayou Bridge. Merle and David were the two key people he absolutely wanted away from the A.M.E. camp. He wasn’t going to go anywhere near the camp himself, especially not today. Deniability was an absolute necessity. Containment. That’s what Omar was after. Build a nice fence around everything. Omar’s head throbbed. A sharp icepick pain flamed beneath his sternum. Sometimes it seemed he could barely breathe.
It was ten in the morning. Knox and Jedthus and their people should be about their work by now. Work he did not, officially, know about.
That’s why he was surprised when Jedthus walked into his office. Omar looked up in surprise. “What’s going on?” he said.
Jedthus carefully closed the door before speaking. “We’ve been ready to go,” he said. “You know, do the necessary at the camp. But Knox didn’t turn up. He was supposed to join us at eight o’clock.”
“Says which?” Omar was thunderstruck. “He’s gone?”
“He’s not gone, he’s asleep.”
“What?”
“I went to where he’s been staying—Sunny Spence’s old storefront, you know—and there he was. I tried to wake him up, but he just rolled over and went back to sleep.”
“Is he sick?”
“He’s—” Jedthus hesitated. “You’d best see for yourself, Omar.” Sunny Spence’s Dress Shoppe and Gifts, on Beauregard Street, had been closed for five years. No other business had wanted to rent the building, so the place had remained boarded up till the parish, under emergency decrees, had opened the place to house refugees. It had survived the quakes remarkably well for a building that hadn’t been maintained in ages. Omar had given it to the Crusaders as a crash pad. Knox was asleep, lying atop a down sleeping bag behind the counter. Clothing and sleeping bags belonging to the other Crusaders lay around the store. A pistol, a shotgun, and a deputy’s badge sat atop the counter, within arm’s reach of where Knox lay. Knox wore only his undershorts and was curled up on his side in a fetal position.
“Hey Micah,” Omar bent down—the movement sent pain ringing through his head—and shook Knox’s shoulder. “Micah, it’s time to get up.” His nose wrinkled at Knox’s acidic body odor. “Man,” he said, “this boy needs a bath.”
Omar shook Knox again. Knox gave a kind of sigh, and then his eyelids cracked open. “Oh, hi Omar,” he said, then rolled on his back, smiled a little, and went back to sleep.
“Son of a bitch,” Omar said. He straightened, and looked in stunned amazement at the needle tracks that ran up and down Knox’s arms.
“God damn,” he said.
“Yeah,” Jedthus said. “We got us a junkie, Omar. You figure he’s OD’d?” No wonder he always wore long sleeves, Omar thought. And the way he smelled—that was the drugs coming out in his sweat.