group of people who seemed to be close to her in age. When they opened to let her into their circle, she said who she was, and, of course, she did know a couple of them, she recognized them as they said their names and introduced their spouses.
They talked for a while about which of them was staying up and for how long— they must get together! —about their parents, some of whom had died. When several of them broke away to greet other summer friends, Frankie moved on, too. She had a conversation with someone she used to like dancing with, Jay McMahon, a conversation about the music of that time, about her life in Africa, then about his work as an economist in London. He had that slightly off accent of someone who’s lived abroad too long, faintly but definitively British. Frankie knew she, too, had a version of this, and that hers was undoubtedly British also, but the postcolonial version of British. Maybe posttribal, too—a little bit of that clipped, singsong African thing, sometimes she heard it herself.
When Jay moved off—to get some food, he said—Frankie talked for a while to a group of people her parents’ age and found out more about their children than she would have from the children themselves, Because their currency is their children , she thought. How accomplished, how far flung. She wondered how her parents were explaining her, the spin they were putting on her own life. Oh, Frankie’s still in Africa, yes. She practically runs the East Africa office now . Or maybe not. She could imagine another version, Sylvia, rolling her eyes, saying something like God knows what she’s up to over there .
She was called upon to explain herself to this group of parents, andshe did, not mentioning that she was on leave. That she wasn’t sure when, or even whether, she was going back.
While they were standing there on the sloped lawn, she was suddenly aware that she’d been hearing the thumping of a bass, of drums, of rhythmic music, getting slowly louder. Hip-hop. And now much too loud. She turned. A long, low car was approaching in the circular drive, windows down, music thudding. There were four boys inside—young men, really—their faces turned to the lawn, to the milling summer people in their fancy clothes. Someone in the car must have said something, because they all laughed at once, throwing their heads back, one of them in the rear pounding the back of the driver’s seat.
The music was deafening. Frankie saw that most of the people on the lawn had turned, too, turned to follow the slow cruise of the car along the driveway. It came to the end of the driveway and pulled out onto the dirt road, headed back the way it had come, and the music slowly faded, became mere thudding again, and was gone.
“Ah, youth!” one of the parents in her group said loudly, and several people within earshot laughed.
Just as Frankie was turning away from this group to move up to the porch, thinking that she’d get some more punch, she noticed a man standing a few feet away from her, with a camera. A camera trained on her.
Without thinking, she put her hand up to shield her face. In response, he instantly lowered the camera. He was about her age, with dark, curly hair, a blue work shirt, and jeans. She thought of her mother, of her being offended by those who wore jeans to the tea.
“Sorry,” he said. Then, stepping closer, his voice lowered: “Are you a fugitive from justice?” He had an odd voice—hoarse, scratchy.
“I don’t know why I did that,” Frankie said. “I’m not. A fugitive from justice. Are you … a representative of justice?”
“Nope. I’m a loyal member of the fourth estate,” he said.
“The fourth estate is not the clergy, I’m thinking.”
He shook his head. “Press. Vile, scandalmongering, left wing, elitist, et cetera.” He stepped even closer, his eyes steady on Frankie. “Bud,” he said, holding his hand out.
“Bud is your name?”
“Yeah.” Frankie shook hands
They talked for a while about which of them was staying up and for how long— they must get together! —about their parents, some of whom had died. When several of them broke away to greet other summer friends, Frankie moved on, too. She had a conversation with someone she used to like dancing with, Jay McMahon, a conversation about the music of that time, about her life in Africa, then about his work as an economist in London. He had that slightly off accent of someone who’s lived abroad too long, faintly but definitively British. Frankie knew she, too, had a version of this, and that hers was undoubtedly British also, but the postcolonial version of British. Maybe posttribal, too—a little bit of that clipped, singsong African thing, sometimes she heard it herself.
When Jay moved off—to get some food, he said—Frankie talked for a while to a group of people her parents’ age and found out more about their children than she would have from the children themselves, Because their currency is their children , she thought. How accomplished, how far flung. She wondered how her parents were explaining her, the spin they were putting on her own life. Oh, Frankie’s still in Africa, yes. She practically runs the East Africa office now . Or maybe not. She could imagine another version, Sylvia, rolling her eyes, saying something like God knows what she’s up to over there .
She was called upon to explain herself to this group of parents, andshe did, not mentioning that she was on leave. That she wasn’t sure when, or even whether, she was going back.
While they were standing there on the sloped lawn, she was suddenly aware that she’d been hearing the thumping of a bass, of drums, of rhythmic music, getting slowly louder. Hip-hop. And now much too loud. She turned. A long, low car was approaching in the circular drive, windows down, music thudding. There were four boys inside—young men, really—their faces turned to the lawn, to the milling summer people in their fancy clothes. Someone in the car must have said something, because they all laughed at once, throwing their heads back, one of them in the rear pounding the back of the driver’s seat.
The music was deafening. Frankie saw that most of the people on the lawn had turned, too, turned to follow the slow cruise of the car along the driveway. It came to the end of the driveway and pulled out onto the dirt road, headed back the way it had come, and the music slowly faded, became mere thudding again, and was gone.
“Ah, youth!” one of the parents in her group said loudly, and several people within earshot laughed.
Just as Frankie was turning away from this group to move up to the porch, thinking that she’d get some more punch, she noticed a man standing a few feet away from her, with a camera. A camera trained on her.
Without thinking, she put her hand up to shield her face. In response, he instantly lowered the camera. He was about her age, with dark, curly hair, a blue work shirt, and jeans. She thought of her mother, of her being offended by those who wore jeans to the tea.
“Sorry,” he said. Then, stepping closer, his voice lowered: “Are you a fugitive from justice?” He had an odd voice—hoarse, scratchy.
“I don’t know why I did that,” Frankie said. “I’m not. A fugitive from justice. Are you … a representative of justice?”
“Nope. I’m a loyal member of the fourth estate,” he said.
“The fourth estate is not the clergy, I’m thinking.”
He shook his head. “Press. Vile, scandalmongering, left wing, elitist, et cetera.” He stepped even closer, his eyes steady on Frankie. “Bud,” he said, holding his hand out.
“Bud is your name?”
“Yeah.” Frankie shook hands
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