long."
We walked past a couple of wrought iron benches to a little gazebo in the square. An older man in coveralls and a red engineer's cap was on one of the benches, head back, mouth open, eyes closed. Sleeping. He had a tiny dog on a leash with him, the leash tied to the bench. The dog sat in the shade beneath the man and whined when we passed. The little dog was black and shaggy and its hair was matted. I thought it must be hot, with all the hair. We walked up the steps onto the gazebo and stood there in the shade. It was still hot, there in the shade.
Jodi stood well away from Edith, still holding my hand. She said, "So."
Edith uncrossed her arms, then recrossed them. She started to say something, then stopped. The little dog crept out from under the bench and tried to follow us up onto the gazebo, but reached the end of its leash and cried. Both Edith and Jodi looked at it.
I said, "Don't everybody talk at once."
Jodi frowned. "That's not funny."
"Nope. I guess not."
We stood there some more. The gazebo was sort of nestled in a stand of three mature magnolia trees, and the air was heavy with their scent. The big bumblebees zigged in and around the gazebo like police helicopters on patrol.
Edith said, "I'm sorry. I don't know what to say. I always thought you might come back to me. I would think of you, sometimes, and try to imagine what this moment would be like, and now here we are."
Jodi frowned, and her face pulled into a tight, uncomfortable knot. "Mrs. Boudreaux, I think I should make something clear."
"All right."
"I haven't come here to find my mother. I have a mother. She's the woman who raised me."
Edith glanced at the little dog again. "Of course."
"Just so we understand."
Edith nodded. "Oh, yes." She pooched out her lips, and then she added, "I hope the people who got you were good to you."
"They were. Very."
Edith nodded again.
Jodi said, "Was Leon Williams my father?" She said it abruptly, the same way she had gotten out of the car when she decided to go into Edith's store, like she had to do it that way or it wouldn't get done.
Edith's eyes flagged. Knew it was coming and here it was. "Yes. Leon was your father."
Jodi drew a slow breath, her mouth still the tight knot. "All right," she said. "All right."
Edith uncrossed her arms and cupped her right hand in her left at her breast. She looked at me, and then she looked back at Jodi. "That is what you wanted to know, isn't it?"
Jodi nodded.
Edith again took a single step toward Jodi, and Jodi lifted her free hand, stopping her. She still held onto me. "Please don't."
"Does it bother you that your father was a black man?"
Jodi's face tightened even more. "It seems to bother a great many people."
"It always has," Edith said. "I was just a girl, and Leon wasn't much older. We were children, and we were friends, and it became more than that." Her eyes grew wet and she blinked several times. "I hope you don't hate me for all of this."
Jodi stared at the little dog, and then she leaned against the gazebo rail. Even in the shade it was hot, and a single line of perspiration ran down the side of her face in front of her left ear. She didn't say anything for a while, maybe trying to put it in a kind of order. A couple of flies buzzed around the old man's race and he swatted at them without opening his eyes. She said, "Of course, I don't hate you. Don't be silly."
Edith was blinking harder. "Someone was blackmailing you with this, weren't they?"
"That's right."
Edith smiled softly, but there was no pleasure in it. Just a kind of acknowledgment of shared experience. "Yes, well, I know about that, too. When they say getting in trouble, they really mean it, don't they? It looks like you get everybody in trouble."
Jodi looked at me, embarrassed, as if she suddenly regretted being here and speaking with this woman and witnessing her pain. Edith said, "You've grown into quite a beautiful woman. I'm very proud of you."
Jodi said, "How did Leon Williams die?"
Edith drew breath and closed her eyes. "My father murdered him."
"Because he was black?"
Edith wet her lips and thought for a moment, and I found myself wishing that I were not present. I