Find out exactly who said what to him, and exactly what the photographs looked like. He was evasive. It was a long time ago, he kept saying. Maybe he was telling the truth the best he knew how. It was a long time ago, and for him to keep on living with these people, maybe he had had to forget. He had to go, he said. He stood up, leaving his dirty dishes at the table, on his way to get things ready for the Big Game Cookout that always kicked off the Tashimee Fiesta. I had just finished changing back into my more customary attire when Johnny dropped by. I opened the kitchen door, and he was standing there with a big newspaper-wrapped package tucked under his arm. There was a pungent, smokey smell I recognized but could not place. “Hi there, Laurie Marie. My father sent me by with a mess of smoked mullet to show his appreciation for your mother’s fig preserves.” He looked for all the world like a good old boy dropping by on one of those friendly errands that make up the texture of life in a town like this.
