Chapter 7: Opal's Porch

Beau did not answer me that night, and I did not ask twice.

By Friday my hand had closed up.

I took the Buick and drove to the only place in Savannah where nobody had ever read my name in a newspaper and flinched.

Opal Gaines lived in the other half of my duplex, with a porch swing and a rosebush older than I was.

She was sitting on the swing when I pulled up, in her apron.

Her reading glasses hung on their chain, and a colander of butter beans sat in her lap.

"Look who remembered where she lives," she said.

"I've been gone nine days, Opal."

"I counted. Come here."

She put the colander down and held me against her soft front for a long time, and she smelled like bacon grease and Jergens.

"You're thin," she said. "They're not feeding you in that big house."

"They feed me. I just can't eat in front of them."

"Mm." Opal held me off by the shoulders. "What's that on your hand?"

"An oyster shell."

"Your husband do that?"

"No!" It came out sharp. "He wrapped it. He did a good job."

"Did he now."

She looked at me over her glasses for a beat too long, and I turned and went inside to put the kettle on.

Opal's kitchen had not changed in twenty years.

There was a yellow Formica table, a calendar from the union local.

A pile of mail on the counter with a rubber band around it.

I picked up the top envelope without thinking.

It was from the Local 1244 Dockworkers Pension Fund, and it was open.

I read it standing up.

Dear Beneficiary, it said. Due to market conditions, monthly distributions will be adjusted effective this quarter.

The number under it was one thousand and twenty dollars.

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