Chapter 11: East Beach

"Then tell me," I said. "Right now."

"No."

"You owe me a true thing every day."

"I gave you today's." His hands were still spread on my bare back. "This one isn't about Russ. It's about me."

"That makes it worse."

"I know."

I climbed off his lap and found my clothes in the dark.

He didn't try to stop me, and he didn't look away while I dressed.

At the door I turned around.

He was still sitting in the chair by the window with his shirt open, surrounded by spilled cards, watching me.

"Before the month is out," he said. "I'll tell you before the month is out."

I went home to Andre's and lay down on his couch, since my mother had his recliner and I couldn't face his bed.

I could still feel Laurent's hands on me when I closed my eyes.

I could hear Andre breathing in his bed across the room, awake, not saying anything either.

On Monday morning Mama wanted to go home.

Not to stay.

She spelled it on the board at breakfast: CLOTHES. PILLS. RAY.

Ray was my father.

His picture was in a frame on her nightstand, and she'd never slept a night without it.

"Russ will be there," Andre said.

"Russ will be at the Sandpiper," I said. "He hosts the Monday brunch. He hasn't missed one in five years."

We went at ten.

Andre carried her up the front stairs, and I carried the chair.

There was a white van parked on East Beach in front of our house.

It said GULF COAST MEDICAL TRANSPORT on the side, and the back doors were open, with a ramp down.

A sheriff's car sat behind it.

And Russ was on the porch in his brunch suit, holding a folded paper, his right hand taped across two fingers.

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