me to death?”
“If you like.”
“I don’t like. If you want to come around here, do it at a decent hour and knock on the door like a human being. And you’re too old to be a Peeping Tom.” It was only a guess, but it turned him red.
“I think I’d better be going,” he said, half-rising. He nodded toward the knife. “If it’s all right.”
“It’s all right,” she said.
“I do apologize for intruding upon you,” he said, suddenly serious and courtly. He reminded her of his grandfather for a moment. “I’ll be off, but I hope I’ll see you again.” He walked to the back door, which stood open.
Liz rose and crossed to the sink counter, replacing the knife in its rack. “Then I don’t suppose I’ll be needing this,” she said, turning.
He was gone. It was if he had simply dematerialized. She walked out the back door and peered into the trees, their leaves bright with moonlight. A moment later, a puff of wind chilled her, and she thought she heard something large moving through the brush. She was left with the disconcerting feeling that she had dreamed the whole encounter.
Liz walked back inside, turned off the light, and went to her room. As she settled into the bed, it occurred to her that there was one very big difference between the twins. Keir Drummond had reacted to her as a woman. She was still angry with him, but she felt the attraction, too. In spite of her recent longings, the thought unsettled her, made her wide awake.
She was lying on her side, and she suddenly realized that her hand was between her legs. She spread herself and felt with her finger. A rush of feeling—old memories and sensations—swept through her body and mind, and, in a moment, rose to a climax.
Soon, she was sleeping soundly.
9
J ames Moses stood and, once again, presented the gelding to Angus Drummond, who declined, as always these days. James, now fifteen, had been taking care of the horse since he was seven, when he had had to stand on a stool to curry the animal. His grandfather, Buck Moses, had delivered him to Drummond the summer he had finished the first grade.
“You got sump’n this boy can do, Mist’ Angus?” Buck had asked.
Angus had cast an appraising eye over the small boy for longer than a moment. “I reckon he’ll keep busy in the stables,” he had said, at last.
James had been terrified of the amazingly tall white man the first summer. After that, he had gotten used to his imperious ways, had even learned to tell when the old man was pleased. He had been nine when he had learned for sure that Angus Drummond was his father.
His mother had died that year, old at fifty, and another, older boy had taken the occasion of her funeral to explain to him why his skin was so much lighter than hers. The relationship had seemed impossible to him at the time, but he had come to accept it, even if old Angus had never given the slightest hint that he did.
This morning, at first so like hundreds of others, suddenly became different. Angus Drummond stopped as he was about to turn toward the jeep and regarded James gravely.
“You’ll be going back to school at Fernandina pretty soon, won’t you, boy?”
“Yessir,” James replied. “Next week.”
“You like going to school with those white children over there?”
“I always been to school with white kids,” James replied. “They’re okay.”
“They don’t give you a hard time?” Angus asked.
“How you mean, sir?” James asked back.
“About being colored.”
“A couple of boys called me a high yeller one time,” James said, shrugging. “I saw ‘em about it. They didn’t do it again.”
“You’re getting big,” Angus said. “Tall. You going out for football?”
“Yessir, I played end on the freshman team last year. I reckon I’ll make the varsity this year. I like basketball best, though.”
“Yes,” Angus mused, “you’ll have the height for that.”
“Coach says I might get a scholarship somewhere if I
“If you like.”
“I don’t like. If you want to come around here, do it at a decent hour and knock on the door like a human being. And you’re too old to be a Peeping Tom.” It was only a guess, but it turned him red.
“I think I’d better be going,” he said, half-rising. He nodded toward the knife. “If it’s all right.”
“It’s all right,” she said.
“I do apologize for intruding upon you,” he said, suddenly serious and courtly. He reminded her of his grandfather for a moment. “I’ll be off, but I hope I’ll see you again.” He walked to the back door, which stood open.
Liz rose and crossed to the sink counter, replacing the knife in its rack. “Then I don’t suppose I’ll be needing this,” she said, turning.
He was gone. It was if he had simply dematerialized. She walked out the back door and peered into the trees, their leaves bright with moonlight. A moment later, a puff of wind chilled her, and she thought she heard something large moving through the brush. She was left with the disconcerting feeling that she had dreamed the whole encounter.
Liz walked back inside, turned off the light, and went to her room. As she settled into the bed, it occurred to her that there was one very big difference between the twins. Keir Drummond had reacted to her as a woman. She was still angry with him, but she felt the attraction, too. In spite of her recent longings, the thought unsettled her, made her wide awake.
She was lying on her side, and she suddenly realized that her hand was between her legs. She spread herself and felt with her finger. A rush of feeling—old memories and sensations—swept through her body and mind, and, in a moment, rose to a climax.
Soon, she was sleeping soundly.
9
J ames Moses stood and, once again, presented the gelding to Angus Drummond, who declined, as always these days. James, now fifteen, had been taking care of the horse since he was seven, when he had had to stand on a stool to curry the animal. His grandfather, Buck Moses, had delivered him to Drummond the summer he had finished the first grade.
“You got sump’n this boy can do, Mist’ Angus?” Buck had asked.
Angus had cast an appraising eye over the small boy for longer than a moment. “I reckon he’ll keep busy in the stables,” he had said, at last.
James had been terrified of the amazingly tall white man the first summer. After that, he had gotten used to his imperious ways, had even learned to tell when the old man was pleased. He had been nine when he had learned for sure that Angus Drummond was his father.
His mother had died that year, old at fifty, and another, older boy had taken the occasion of her funeral to explain to him why his skin was so much lighter than hers. The relationship had seemed impossible to him at the time, but he had come to accept it, even if old Angus had never given the slightest hint that he did.
This morning, at first so like hundreds of others, suddenly became different. Angus Drummond stopped as he was about to turn toward the jeep and regarded James gravely.
“You’ll be going back to school at Fernandina pretty soon, won’t you, boy?”
“Yessir,” James replied. “Next week.”
“You like going to school with those white children over there?”
“I always been to school with white kids,” James replied. “They’re okay.”
“They don’t give you a hard time?” Angus asked.
“How you mean, sir?” James asked back.
“About being colored.”
“A couple of boys called me a high yeller one time,” James said, shrugging. “I saw ‘em about it. They didn’t do it again.”
“You’re getting big,” Angus said. “Tall. You going out for football?”
“Yessir, I played end on the freshman team last year. I reckon I’ll make the varsity this year. I like basketball best, though.”
“Yes,” Angus mused, “you’ll have the height for that.”
“Coach says I might get a scholarship somewhere if I
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