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Authors: Sterling Watson
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wealth and privilege move in stately patterns on the stage, Teach shuddered and thought, I could be handcuffed in a police station, could be fumbling through the Tampa phone directory for the name and number of an attorney, could be leaving a phone message for my daughter: “Uh, it’s Dad. Sorry I didn’t make it, honey. Something’s happened. I’ll be home as soon as possible.”
And then the entire vista of disaster opened up before James Teach: himself in prison, a lost man in a world of grinding stupidity and violence, all because of a few seconds of bourbon-inspired heroism in a men’s room.
And there was gorgeous Dean. She had swept onstage in a swell of violins, turning on pointe with her arms sweetly arched above her head, the stiff tutu flaring out to reveal the clean line of her thigh. God, she was beautiful. God, what gifts she had given and been given.
She had inherited Teach’s athletic talent, but that wasn’t all of it. She was the perfect combination of his power, reflexes, and concentration, and something ineffable and inexpressibly fine that was Paige. Teach watched as Dean commanded the stage, turning and twirling in front of the other girls. Behind her, they were no more animate than the trees and shrubs of the backdrop. When the solo was finished, Dean moved to the wing and three other girls danced in unison—wood nymphs, shepherdesses? Teach wasn’t sure. He looked at the program. There would be three more moments for Dean, and one of them had to be Teach’s too. He would rise in false apology, hurry, bent-backed, down the aisle, and kneel at the foot of the stage. As unobtrusively as possible, he would snap the Minolta’s shutter, capturing the elusive art of Dean.
Teach pushed himself up and apologized his way to the aisle. When he got to the foot of the stage, the music was swelling for Dean’s second solo. Teach knelt and the corps de ballet moved into his viewfinder. In the middle was the black girl, and, as she entered Teach’s field of vision, he heard to his right a small squeal of pleasure, a whispered, “There she is. Isn’t she just so sweet?”
Teach lowered the camera and looked over at the black couple. They had melted in delight at the sight of the girl. Beside them, the mayor and his wife looked on with dutiful appreciation. The black man slowly turned his head. He looked mildly annoyed to see Teach crouching in the dark. Teach lifted his chin in greeting, held up the camera, shrugged. The music swelled. The man nodded and turned back to the stage. Teach focused the camera on the dark space in the wings where Dean would enter, bringing magic.
EIGHT
Bloodworth Naylor aimed the camera and snapped the picture. “Oh yes,” he said. “Oh my, my, yes. I love it. I do love it. Turn the other way. To the light. That’s right. Now hold it just like that.”
The boy, Tyrone, turned his pretty head to the side, that sullen, pouty look on his face. That injured-party look. The shutter clicked. The Polaroid that rolled from the camera looked like a mug shot. Bloodworth Naylor moved closer, getting the wound on the boy’s cheek into clear focus. Blood liked the wound. It was lucky. More than he could have asked for if he’d written the story himself, the story of what happened in a bar between a black boy with an attitude and a white man with a bad temper. He told the boy to hold still, adjusted the light from a standing lamp so that it was harsh on the nasty, bruised-mango gash. The pictures were turning out very True Detective , very National Enquirer . Blood took the last picture, then sorted through them all. Lord, weren’t they wonderful?
He put the camera on the table by the lamp. He had the boy in the warehouse behind his rent-to-own furniture store. Back here among the cardboard boxes and the packing crates and the repossessed mattresses and the bedroom suites tagged for the loading dock, nobody would bother them. Nobody would see the splash of light from the
And then the entire vista of disaster opened up before James Teach: himself in prison, a lost man in a world of grinding stupidity and violence, all because of a few seconds of bourbon-inspired heroism in a men’s room.
And there was gorgeous Dean. She had swept onstage in a swell of violins, turning on pointe with her arms sweetly arched above her head, the stiff tutu flaring out to reveal the clean line of her thigh. God, she was beautiful. God, what gifts she had given and been given.
She had inherited Teach’s athletic talent, but that wasn’t all of it. She was the perfect combination of his power, reflexes, and concentration, and something ineffable and inexpressibly fine that was Paige. Teach watched as Dean commanded the stage, turning and twirling in front of the other girls. Behind her, they were no more animate than the trees and shrubs of the backdrop. When the solo was finished, Dean moved to the wing and three other girls danced in unison—wood nymphs, shepherdesses? Teach wasn’t sure. He looked at the program. There would be three more moments for Dean, and one of them had to be Teach’s too. He would rise in false apology, hurry, bent-backed, down the aisle, and kneel at the foot of the stage. As unobtrusively as possible, he would snap the Minolta’s shutter, capturing the elusive art of Dean.
Teach pushed himself up and apologized his way to the aisle. When he got to the foot of the stage, the music was swelling for Dean’s second solo. Teach knelt and the corps de ballet moved into his viewfinder. In the middle was the black girl, and, as she entered Teach’s field of vision, he heard to his right a small squeal of pleasure, a whispered, “There she is. Isn’t she just so sweet?”
Teach lowered the camera and looked over at the black couple. They had melted in delight at the sight of the girl. Beside them, the mayor and his wife looked on with dutiful appreciation. The black man slowly turned his head. He looked mildly annoyed to see Teach crouching in the dark. Teach lifted his chin in greeting, held up the camera, shrugged. The music swelled. The man nodded and turned back to the stage. Teach focused the camera on the dark space in the wings where Dean would enter, bringing magic.
EIGHT
Bloodworth Naylor aimed the camera and snapped the picture. “Oh yes,” he said. “Oh my, my, yes. I love it. I do love it. Turn the other way. To the light. That’s right. Now hold it just like that.”
The boy, Tyrone, turned his pretty head to the side, that sullen, pouty look on his face. That injured-party look. The shutter clicked. The Polaroid that rolled from the camera looked like a mug shot. Bloodworth Naylor moved closer, getting the wound on the boy’s cheek into clear focus. Blood liked the wound. It was lucky. More than he could have asked for if he’d written the story himself, the story of what happened in a bar between a black boy with an attitude and a white man with a bad temper. He told the boy to hold still, adjusted the light from a standing lamp so that it was harsh on the nasty, bruised-mango gash. The pictures were turning out very True Detective , very National Enquirer . Blood took the last picture, then sorted through them all. Lord, weren’t they wonderful?
He put the camera on the table by the lamp. He had the boy in the warehouse behind his rent-to-own furniture store. Back here among the cardboard boxes and the packing crates and the repossessed mattresses and the bedroom suites tagged for the loading dock, nobody would bother them. Nobody would see the splash of light from the
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