gesture, Mr. Lowery.”
“ My boy.” Lowery thumped his chest so hard I jumped. “And he was growing into a fine young man.” Lowery’s jaw hardened, relaxed. “That’s why I’m going on like this. I want you to think of Spider as a person when you’re cutting him up.”
“Mr. Lowery, I won’t be the one—”
“His mama kept this.”
When Lowery leaned my way, the cloaked BO was almost overwhelming. Opening the album, he slid it toward me.
Each page held four to six pictures. Black-and-whites with scallopy edges. Baby and school portraits. Three-by-five drugstore prints.
I leafed through the pages, asking about people, places, events. Lowery gave short, often single-word explanations. Christmas of 1954. 1961. 1964. A trip to Myrtle Beach. Harriet. Tom. The house on Red Oak. The trailer at the lake. Each image included a younger version of the boy I’d first seen in Jean Laurier’s desk drawer.
One snapshot showed Plato and a woman I assumed was Harriet.
“Is this your wife?” I asked.
Plato provided uncharacteristic detail. “Harriet had real pretty eyes. One brown, one green as a loblolly pine. Damnedest thing.”
The next Kodak moment caught Spider, Plato, and Harriet on a pier. All wore shorts and light summer shirts. Harriet looked like she’d seen way too much sun and way too little blocker. A stack of creases V’ed into her substantial cleavage.
The second to last picture captured Spider under a balloon arch with a girl in glasses and hair piled high on her head. He wore a boutonniered white jacket. She wore a pink satin formal and wrist corsage. Both looked stiff and uncomfortable.
The album’s last entry was a formal portrait of a baseball team, twelve uniformed boys and two coaches, front row down on one knee, back row standing. A printed date identified the season as 1966–67.
Again, Plato’s answer was unexpectedly long.
“This was took Spider’s senior year, before he went off to the army. He weren’t much for sports, but he give it a shot. Mostly rode the bench. That’s him.”
Lowery jabbed at a kid kneeling in the first row.
I was raising the album when Lowery yanked it sideways.
“Wait.” He held the page out at arm’s length, drew it in, then out again. This time the finger-jab indicated one of the kids standing. “That there’s Spider.”
I understood the source of Lowery’s confusion. Both boys had the same dark hair and eyes, the same heavy brows curving their orbits.
“Wow,” I said. “They could be brothers.”
“Cousins, down through Harriet’s side. Folks used to confuse ’em. ’Cept Spider got the green eyes from his mama. Reggie’s was dark like mine.”
The image was too faded, the faces too small to note the difference.
“Thick as thieves, that pair,” Plato went on. “Reggie’s the one talked Spider into joining the team.”
The old man took back and closed the album. There was another long, long silence before he spoke again.
“My daddy fought in France. I did my duty in Korea. Got three brothers was army, one navy. Their sons all joined up. Not bragging, just stating a fact.”
“That’s admirable, sir.”
“Spider went off to Vietnam, come home in a box.”
Lowery inhaled through his nose. Exhaled. Swallowed.
“I’ve always had faith in the military. Now—”
Abruptly, he reopened the album, yanked out the team photo, and thrust it at me.
“I’m trusting you to do right by my boy.”
My estimate was low by over an hour. When I reached my town house in Charlotte, Gran’s mantel clock was already bonging ten.
Bird cut me off at the door, radiating disapproval.
After apologizing and filling the cat’s bowl, I stripped, chucked my clothes into the washer, and headed for the shower. While toweling off, I told him about my day in Lumberton.
I’d just slipped on pj’s when something banged in the kitchen.
Puzzled, I hurried downstairs.
I was crossing the dining room when Katy slammed through the swinging
“ My boy.” Lowery thumped his chest so hard I jumped. “And he was growing into a fine young man.” Lowery’s jaw hardened, relaxed. “That’s why I’m going on like this. I want you to think of Spider as a person when you’re cutting him up.”
“Mr. Lowery, I won’t be the one—”
“His mama kept this.”
When Lowery leaned my way, the cloaked BO was almost overwhelming. Opening the album, he slid it toward me.
Each page held four to six pictures. Black-and-whites with scallopy edges. Baby and school portraits. Three-by-five drugstore prints.
I leafed through the pages, asking about people, places, events. Lowery gave short, often single-word explanations. Christmas of 1954. 1961. 1964. A trip to Myrtle Beach. Harriet. Tom. The house on Red Oak. The trailer at the lake. Each image included a younger version of the boy I’d first seen in Jean Laurier’s desk drawer.
One snapshot showed Plato and a woman I assumed was Harriet.
“Is this your wife?” I asked.
Plato provided uncharacteristic detail. “Harriet had real pretty eyes. One brown, one green as a loblolly pine. Damnedest thing.”
The next Kodak moment caught Spider, Plato, and Harriet on a pier. All wore shorts and light summer shirts. Harriet looked like she’d seen way too much sun and way too little blocker. A stack of creases V’ed into her substantial cleavage.
The second to last picture captured Spider under a balloon arch with a girl in glasses and hair piled high on her head. He wore a boutonniered white jacket. She wore a pink satin formal and wrist corsage. Both looked stiff and uncomfortable.
The album’s last entry was a formal portrait of a baseball team, twelve uniformed boys and two coaches, front row down on one knee, back row standing. A printed date identified the season as 1966–67.
Again, Plato’s answer was unexpectedly long.
“This was took Spider’s senior year, before he went off to the army. He weren’t much for sports, but he give it a shot. Mostly rode the bench. That’s him.”
Lowery jabbed at a kid kneeling in the first row.
I was raising the album when Lowery yanked it sideways.
“Wait.” He held the page out at arm’s length, drew it in, then out again. This time the finger-jab indicated one of the kids standing. “That there’s Spider.”
I understood the source of Lowery’s confusion. Both boys had the same dark hair and eyes, the same heavy brows curving their orbits.
“Wow,” I said. “They could be brothers.”
“Cousins, down through Harriet’s side. Folks used to confuse ’em. ’Cept Spider got the green eyes from his mama. Reggie’s was dark like mine.”
The image was too faded, the faces too small to note the difference.
“Thick as thieves, that pair,” Plato went on. “Reggie’s the one talked Spider into joining the team.”
The old man took back and closed the album. There was another long, long silence before he spoke again.
“My daddy fought in France. I did my duty in Korea. Got three brothers was army, one navy. Their sons all joined up. Not bragging, just stating a fact.”
“That’s admirable, sir.”
“Spider went off to Vietnam, come home in a box.”
Lowery inhaled through his nose. Exhaled. Swallowed.
“I’ve always had faith in the military. Now—”
Abruptly, he reopened the album, yanked out the team photo, and thrust it at me.
“I’m trusting you to do right by my boy.”
My estimate was low by over an hour. When I reached my town house in Charlotte, Gran’s mantel clock was already bonging ten.
Bird cut me off at the door, radiating disapproval.
After apologizing and filling the cat’s bowl, I stripped, chucked my clothes into the washer, and headed for the shower. While toweling off, I told him about my day in Lumberton.
I’d just slipped on pj’s when something banged in the kitchen.
Puzzled, I hurried downstairs.
I was crossing the dining room when Katy slammed through the swinging
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