It was the thirtieth of May.

"It shore nuff is hot for this time of year." (Boss Man Swilley was talking to the man in the new Caddy.)

Billy Joe McAllister didn't much mind the heat; filling up the Caddy was the problem. Twenty cents a gallon and a big car like that drank like a camel. Uh-oh. Four dollars. He bit his lip.

Would the owner get mad?

"Excuse me, sir, but that rang up to four dollars."

"Yall must think I'm made out of money." Since the driver was wearing little tiny blind-man sunglasses, it was hard to read him; still, he didn't seem to be too mad.

"You gummit types IS made out of money, ain't you?" said Boss Man Swilley.

The man didn't say anything, just stuck his long arm out the window of the Caddy with a five-dollar bill in his hand; then, when Billy Joe went over to take it, he pulled his hand back.

"What else am I getting for my four dollars?" he said in a slow rich voice.

Billy Joe wasn't sure what the man meant.

"Forget it. Here's your money. Keep the change. Look here, Swilley, I'm going down that long and lonesome road. Today I get to measure cotton to make sure none of you trash is growing too much and causing prices to come down."

"That dadgum commie Yurrup is all to blame."

"So true, Senor Swilley," the driver of the Caddy sighed. Then he looked at Billy Joe. "I need an assistant out there in the cotton field. What's Swilley paying you?"

"Seventy-five cents an hour?" Billy said.

The government man frowned at his reflection in the rearview mirror; then, wetting the tip of his little finger, he smoothed an eyebrow down. "I'll pay you a dollar and a half an hour to work for me. Cash. Moolah." He gave Swilley an intent look. "I know *you* don't mind at all in the least." His voice was low and he made an odd little motion with his hand.

Swilley blinked. Then he blinked again. "I know I don't mind at all in the least," he said; he sounded stunned.

"Good! So, what time do you get off, boy?"

Billy Joe looked at Boss Man Swilley nervously. "Around five."

"Maybe we could talk then."

"I got to go to church. Wednesday night prayer meeting. My girlfriend is expecting me."

"Ah. Why am I not surprised." The man had still not taken off his blind-man glasses. "I'm staying over at the Carroll County Tourist Cabins. Number Eight." He leaned his head out of the window and looked at Billy Joe over his glasses. His head was large and elegantly shaped, and his eyes were black as night. "You come on over to the motel after church. Ask for Mr. . . . Quincey. Although my friends call me Q."

"Okay."

"We'll have to fill out some forms to get you on the payroll. You are eighteen, no?"

Billy Joe was blushing. "I just turned eighteen yesterday!"

Mr. Quincey gave a slow smile; he seemed enormously gratified by that piece of news.

******************

Sometimes, when Billy Joe walked across the bridge to get to church, he lingered to gaze into the Tallahatchee river's smoky green depths. Its soothing rhythms seemed to help him think.

And he had a lot to think about.

For example, since he had accepted Jesus as his personal savior at the age of nine, Billy Joe had known he was going to live forever.

But how did that work exactly?

Would it be because of his girlfriend, Dixie? See, Dixie had apparently heard something or else just read something and now she was determined to be a famous folksinger. So Billy Joe guessed he could get famous by sitting with her, or by playing guitar(as soon as he learned how to), or just *be* famous as her man, the one she sang all the songs about.

Good enough. The only thing was that he had a few problems loving her completely. She was pleasant, efficient, she had long hair and a sweet smile, but she also had bad skin, tiny little eyes and a thick waist, and Billy Joe sometimes wondered if she was the best he could do.

The oblivious river rolled on.

******************

It was the thirty-first of May.

Billy Joe had worked side by side all day long with Mr. Quincey, holding all his peculiar measuring devices and handing them to him until late afternoon.

Eight hours: twelve dollars. It was probably ridiculous, but he couldn't quit shooting shy looks of gratitude at Mr. Quincey.

Now, to cool off in the hazy heat, they sat on the banks of the Tallahatchee. Behind them, Mr. Elmer's cotton field stretched out until it was overtaken by kudzu, green-black and secret in the sun.

"I'm glad you decided to work with me, Billy Joe. Not only have you earned yourself a pretty piece of change, but there's also the fringe benefits." Mr. Quincey had a strangely pleasant personality, warm, intimate.

"Benefits?"

Mr. Quincey stretched out and smiled. To be as tall as he was, he was quite graceful. "Every August there's a stag show for all the men who work for the government. You don't want to miss that. We have real New Orleans strippers."

"Strippers?"

"Have you ever seen a strip show?"

Billy Joe laughed nervously.

"They're very interesting." Mr. Quincey's voice was soft, and it seemed to throb like a low engine. "There's one dancer in particular I like. She calls herself Salome, and they say she dances the dance of the seven veils."

Billy Joe swallowed. He liked listening to Mr. Quincey as he told this tale, but he liked looking at him too. Mr. Quincey had a large mobile mouth, and Billy Joe couldn't tear his eyes away from it.

"See, Salome wears black gloves that reach up to her shoulders. But, after she dances for a little bit, she takes those gloves off. Very slowly."

Mr. Quincey moved his hands when he spoke, and it made his conversation even more intriguing. He also wore a gold pinky ring with a real jewel in it. (Maybe Billy Joe could get a pinky ring with a real jewel too. Working for the government.)

Then Mr. Quincey smiled at Billy Joe; he was big and handsome and elegant as any movie star. Billy Joe suddenly saw himself ringside at the strip club with Mr. Quincey, Mr. Quincey in a fine suit, smoking a big cigar, and Billy Joe beside him. They would drink beer from crystal glasses.

"You want to hear the rest? Are you sure I'm not boring you?" Mr. Quincey's eyebrows danced as he asked the question.

Billy Joe slowly nodded his head.

"She takes off the gloves, peels them off actually. Very very slowly. Did I mention that she's wearing see-through harem-girl pants? With little ties on the side? Now she draws the string out on one side and then the other and she stands there just slightly shaking her hips from side to side. She is perfect and she knows it."

Mr. Quincey's voice was hypnotic.

"When she lets go of the ties, the harem pants fall to the ground. Now she's wearing only a little tiny pair of lace . . ."

Billy Joe's eyes grew large and he forgot to breathe.

But: "What are you doing in my cotton field?"

What . . .

"Hello, Picard," drawled Quincey.

"Hello, Quincey. Who's your little friend?"

Billy Joe gasped; he felt as if they had been caught doing something they shouldn't be doing. He stood up quickly. "You know, me, Mr. Elmer. My daddy is Waymon McAllister. We farm over there near Choctaw Ridge. I used to work for Mr. Swilley at the Shell station. You saw me last week; I filled up that two-tone blue truck of yours."

But Picard only gave him a cold stare.

Billy Joe looked away.

(Mr. Elmer Picard was kind of famous around those parts. The old man who swept up for Boss Man Swilley always said Picard's mother had been scared by a snake when she was carrying him and that was why he had a snake's hooded eyes, a snake's low hiss of a voice, a snake's smooth hairless head.) "I repeat: what are you doing in my cotton field?"

Mr. Quincey stood up too; he was broad-shouldered and a full head taller than Picard, but it sure seemed like the little man could take him easily.

"Just measuring us some cotton, Picard."

"Clear out," Mr. Elmer said in a dark whisper.

"And so we shall," Mr. Quincey said in a smooth voice; then he turned to Billy Joe. "Let's hit the road. No sense getting Mr. Picard all steamed up over the federal government."

*******************

"That was scary."

"I can certainly see why you say that, Billy Joe."

They drove along in silence for a little while.

"You sure live far out on the ridge, boy."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Quincey, just let me out and I'll walk the rest of the way."

"I don't mind. Except . . ." Mr. Quincey paused. "Except tomorrow morning I don't relish having to drive out here at six a.m. just so we can get to Tupelo by eight o'clock."

Then he looked at Billy Joe. His eyes were dark and gleaming; they looked as if they might know everything.

"When we get to your house, ask your momma and daddy if you can spend the night in town with me. Tell them we need to head out early."

***********************

The lights in Cabin 8 were out, and Billy Joe and Mr. Quincey could see the lights of the few cars going up Highway 19 on their way to Tupelo.

"It's too hot to wear more than my step-ins", Mr. Quincey said. He meant his underwear, expensive-looking boxers imprinted with a little shield design.

Billy Joe's underwear was homemade, old and worn, but otherwise he was otherwise dressed the same way.

They lay down side by side, the covers at their feet because it was hot. It had been hot all day. It was like breathing steam to walk around at midday, and night was a big warm animal right next to you.

Billy Joe could see Mr. Quincey's big body outlined in the dark.

"That shower cooled me off some, but it's going to take a while to get to sleep," Mr. Quincey said.

Billy Joe didn't say anything.

Mr. Quincey got up. "I'm going to splash some cold water on my chest."

He left the bed.

Billy Joe watched the car lights cross the wall. Then he heard Mr. Quincey say, "oh hell."

Billy Joe waited. Then he saw Mr. Quincey's pale form materialize back in the room: "Splashed my boxers too. I'll lay them across the chair to dry. Hope you don't mind if I sleep like this."

In the nude.

Nobody in Mississippi had ever had done anything in the nude. Billy Joe thought his ears would explode.

Now Mr. Quincey was lying down right beside him, and Billy Joe could feel the warmth of Mr. Quincey's body.

Then Mr. Quincey turned over. Facing him. "Why don't you take off those boxers so we'll be equal? You'll be a lot cooler too."

Billy Joe said nothing, only slid to the side of the bed and peeled his underwear off. He had been afraid of becoming aroused, and now he was. Because even though Mr. Quincey was a man, there was still something very arousing about his presence.

So, when Billy Joe lay back down, he lay on his stomach.

"Feel any cooler? How about an alcohol rub?"

Billy Joe had no idea what to say.

He heard Mr. Quincey get up and go across the room. And then come back.

"Don't be startled, kid."

And Billy Joe felt it -- a smoothness, a coolness, as if Mr. Quincey were stripping his skin of anything that would keep him the least bit warm.

"Just relax."

Against his will, Billy Joe moved his hips into the mattress. It must have been some accident of nature; he was completely erect now.

Then he felt Mr. Quincey putting his hand on his rear end. "You're very pretty here, Billy Joe. Pretty the way a man is, not the way a girl is."

Billy Joe said nothing, he just stayed buried in the bumpy mattress of the tourist court.

Now Mr. Quincey had his hands on each side of Billy Joe's behind, rubbing, cupping; it was an incredibly pleasant sensation.

"Do you like that?"

"Yes," Billy Joe muttered.

"I like it too. I like how well developed you are. Are you that well developed all over?"

"Hmmm?"

"Turn over."

Billy Joe was helpless to refuse. He turned over.

He heard Mr. Quincey breathe in. "Nice." Then he felt Mr. Quincey touch him there.

"Relax, Billy Joe."

But Billy Joe could not relax. He was the most alert he'd ever been in his whole life. It was as if he had never lived until this moment. Feeling Mr. Quincey's hand touching him, stroking him up and down and up and down was just too good, and then, before he knew it, Mr. Quincey had ducked that big elegant head down and was placing his warm mouth on Billy Joe's aroused body and suddenly Billy Joe was shuddering and pumping into Mr. Quincey's mouth.

When he opened his eyes, he could see Mr. Quincey sitting up and watching him. "And that's not all," he said to Billy Joe. "How much do you know about this?"

"Men put it up each other's tail ends."

"Billy Joe!" Mr. Quincey said. His voice had a certain amused excitement. "I have so much to teach you. So, yes, men do those things to each other. May I do that to you?"

Billy Joe said nothing.

"I promise and guarantee and pledge it will feel better than anything you've ever felt. See, you already know it here." And he touched Billy Joe's cock which was indeed hard again.

Billy Joe said nothing.

"Billy Joe, I want to be inside you."

And those words thundered against Billy Joe's ears. He was harder now than he had been before he came and he was panting like a drowning man. He could imagine the tightness and warmth of Mr. Quincey at his backside and he wanted it badly.

"Okay."

"On your back? Or on your stomach? You'll feel more the last way."

"Okay."

And Billy Joe turned over, his eyes shut, waiting for some sort of eternity to kick in.

There was a motion, a warmth as Mr. Quincey positioned himself, and then Billy Joe felt it, stubby, wet, gently moving in the furrow of his ass, zeroing in on his asshole. He could hear Mr. Quincey's heated breath.

"You think you might be ready?"

"Okay."

He felt Mr. Quincey's broad cock nosing around down there and he breathed in because there was a little bit of pressure and it felt so right and so real.

Then Mr. Quincey moved his whole body forward, and it was as if the summertime had climbed inside Billy Joe.

So he backed up against Mr. Quincey, his cock as hard as it could be, and Mr. Quincey was breathing hard. "Oh, you are good, Billy Joe, extremely good." Then Mr. Quincey pushed again and again into him, and Billy Joe felt it in one little place the way he'd never felt anything. He moved his ass against Mr. Quincey wanting that feeling and that feeling only. And when Mr. Quincey started moving faster and faster and Billy Joe reared up to meet him, Mr. Quincey said "I love it I love it" a few times and grabbed Billy Joe's ass as if he would tear it in two and they both started coming together, hot and sudden as the summer air all around them.

***********************

It was the first of June.

Tupelo had been wonderful; Billy Joe's eyes were full of Mr. Quincey's humor and smiles and gentle pats.

But they had had to come back in the evening, and Billy Joe knew Dixie wanted to see him.

********************************

He met her where they had always met. On the Tallahatchee Bridge.

"I love you," she said when she saw him.

And she put her hand in his.

He did not respond.

"Billy Joe?" she said. "Has something happened? Don't you love me anymore?"

"Dixie, I love you in a way I never thought I could love anybody, but I'm not ready to love anybody permanent right now."

Dixie seemed stunned. "Look." She was trembling as she held out a sheaf of papers. "I wanted to show you these. They're love songs I wrote for you."

Billy Joe looked at her. "Dixie, there's things I can't tell you. Things you shouldn't know. Things you'd couldn't know. I'm in over my head. I'm like a drowning man."

All she could whisper was: "I love you."

He opened his mouth; he felt he could barely breathe. "Dixie, things have happened."

"What about these?" She held the sheaf of love songs out. He could see where she had carefully copied the words in her round hand.

"I'd like to see them. But not now. Too much is going on."

Her tiny eyes were suddenly red. "A lot you care. You don't want them, well, here then."

And she threw them off the bridge. They separated lazily and floated down like a flock of pale birds.

And, before he could say anything, a car pulled up. "Hey, Dixie," someone said.

She didn't turn around. Unreachable now.

"Dixie," someone in the car repeated.

Billy Joe looked over. It was her brother with his best friend, Tom. And they both smirked at Billy Joe.

Then her brother said, "Dixie, I mean it, Papa wants you to git home early. They's five more acres in the lower forty he's got to start plowing tomorrow and somebody needs to chop cotton."

"What about you, Brother?" Dixie was still looking into the Tallahatchee.

"I'm baling hay for a few days. Now get in this car."

She looked around at the car haughty as any queen.

"Oh, hello, Tom," she said disinterestedly. "I didn't see you before."

And Tom and Brother both continued to smirk. "Dixie, you get in this car before there's even more trouble."

Dixie looked at the car and shrugged.

"I mean it."

At that, she got in the car.

And it sped away down the road. Billy Joe thought he heard them laugh as they drove away. He gripped the handrail on the bridge and looked into the black water of the Tallahatchee; it seemed to be looking back at him.

**************************************

That night in Cabin 8, Billy Joe stayed on his back while Mr. Quincey made love to him, their chests glued together with sweat, Mr. Quincey burying his head in Billy Joe's neck and murmuring his name over and over again.

**************************************

It was the second of June.

After they had breakfast, Billy Joe carried Mr. Quincey's measuring equipment to the car.

"Hello, boy."

It was Mr. Elmer standing right beside Mr. Quincey's car. His pale skin had the faintest gleam, as if he were part angel.

Billy Joe lifted his head.

He had heard the word *queer* pretty early on, although he hadn't know what it was at first. It had taken him long nights looking through the dictionary and home encyclopedias and old `Time' magazines about Shakespeare and poems and Broadway plays to find out.

(All the while his momma and daddy watching him fondly: "You sure are smart, Billy Joe." But he wasn't smart; he was scared. He just wanted to know what it meant when Tom and Dixie's brother and that whole crowd called him queer. He had been dating Dixie for nearly two years, but it hadn't stopped them. What did they mean?)

Now, looking at Mr. Elmer with the new eyes Mr. Quincey had given him, he knew. He knew what he was for. It was as if Mr. Quincey had opened a door, and then another one and another one and there was a light on in the last one and he went in there and he wasn't alone at all although all the men in the room were strangers right now but they wouldn't be for long.

He looked at Mr. Elmer the way Mr. Elmer looked at him. Mr. Elmer was wearing his usual clothes, a sleeveless undershirt, white pants, suspenders, and a fedora carefully placed on his hairless head. But now Billy Joe could look at the clothes and see what they hid and what they revealed. The pale perfection of Mr. Elmer's legs and lightly furred chest, his cruel and handsome face, his huge hands cupped in loose fists. He had a sudden absurd idea of kissing the dust off Mr. Elmer's shoes.

"And now what, Picard?" Mr. Quincey called from the door of the cabin.

"Just taking my morning stroll. A man can see all sorts of things on his morning stroll. Things good and bad." Then Picard stepped closer to Billy Joe. "You know there's a revival going on at Choctaw Baptist. A good chance to wash away a man's sins. If he had any." He leaned closer. "Sin blackens the soul like dirt, and washing in the blood of the Lamb is the only way to wash it clean. You want to live forever, don't you, boy?"

Billy Joe nodded nervously.

"Picard," Mr. Quincey called out. "Enough of this oversimplification. Leave the boy alone."

And both men gazed each other for a long second.

*********************

"What's up with you and him?"

Mr. Quincey was driving the twisty little road to Iuka, but, when he heard Billy Joe ask that, he put the brakes on.

"He's just a mean man, but I have bigger fish to fry." He stopped the car. "Come here, boy."

Billy Joe leaned over to Mr. Quincey.

Who kissed him. Kissed him as one would a girl, only better. His full open mouth, his heat, and, pressing against Billy Joe, something warm and large. "Your sweet little mind couldn't take it in. It's for grown-ups."

Billy Joe sighed. Being in Mr. Quincey's arms was heartbreakingly good.

But it wouldn't last. Billy Joe knew nothing lasted but eternity. A lot of people said Billy Joe didn't have a lick of sense, but that wasn't so. Billy Joe knew many things. Mr. Quincey kissed him again, and Billy Joe melted right into him.

"Mr. Quincey, I'm not sure which one of you is good and which one is evil."

"It's not going to be that easy, Billy Joe," Mr. Quincey said smoothly, "so let's talk about something more pleasant. We'll be spending the night in Iuka, you know. I don't know if they have a tourist court, but it doesn't matter because I brought a big tent -- it's made of screening to let the air in. And I have a couple of camp cots too. We can camp in the open air by the river. Maybe we can even go skinny-dipping in the moonlight."

Skinny-dipping. Walking into the warm river water 'til it reached the top of his thighs, himself protracted and tight, the water washing against every secret part of him, now out there in the open.

Billy Joe was already hard.

******************************

"You can take me this time," Mr. Quincey whispered.

Naked and erect in the airy tent. His sighing body propped up on a pillow and turned towards Billy Joe.

The night made a million sounds around them as Billy Joe pushed himself into Mr. Quincey. Mr. Quincey wet and slick down there and once Billy Joe had pushed all the way in, Mr. Quincey whimpering like a dog as he did so, even wetter and slicker on the inside, and nothing had ever been easier than screwing Mr. Quincey in the ass.

Then they went skinny-dipping, walking naked to the creek and washing off, the night alive as a person around them, and Mr. Quincey held him in his warm wet arms before they walked back to the tent.

The air was as warm as Billy Joe himself and it was hard to say where the night ended and Billy Joe's skin began.

In the tent, Mr. Quincey insisted on lying there beside Billy Joe in his cot.

Now seemed like as good a time as any.

"Can we talk?" he asked Mr. Quincey.

Mr. Quincey kissed him on the cheek. "Of course."

"Why'd you pick me? How'd you know?"

"Oh, I'm all-knowing." Mr. Quincey's voice was full of humor.

"Only God is all-knowing," Billy Joe said reproachfully.

"God."

"You don't believe in God?"

"Au contraire, I most certainly do believe in God."

Something had been troubling Billy Joe. "How wrong is what we're doing?"

Mr. Quincey shook his head. "As I said earlier, wrong doesn't really enter into it. Billy Joe. The world's more complicated than that. It's wondrous, with treasures to satiate desires both subtle and gross, but it's not for the timid."

And something sad shone in Mr. Quincey's eyes, something a little like tears, and in the black starry air of night, Billy Joe moved closer to him.

"What did you think of Mr. Picard?" Mr. Quincey said.

A surprising question.

"He's all right, I guess. Scary."

"He's very attractive, I think. Don't you find him attractive?"

How did Mr. Quincey know that?

And what was he suggesting?

Mr. Quincey only smiled.

***************************

It was the third of June.

Mr. Quincey and Billy Joe drove back into town.

"You're not mad at me for asking all those questions?" Billy Joe was just curious.

Mr. Quincey looked at him and smiled. "Just remember what we talked about. Are you okay?"

"Yes," Billy Joe said shyly.

Mr. Quincey patted Billy Joe's hand with his own, large and warm and dry.

Billy Joe gave Mr. Quincey a small complicit smile. Then he got out of the car and began to walk down the lane to his home while Mr. Quincey sped away.

"We saw y'all in the woods."

He stopped and looked up.

Brother and Tom were leaning against a tree.

"What?" he said.

"You heard me," Brother said. "We saw you and that old man down in the woods. In that screened-in tent."

The day suddenly turned arctic; the dust on the road was a frozen haze.

"You didn't see nothing," Billy Joe said, but it didn't matter really.

Brother and Tom made kissing sounds. "Oh I love you Billy Joe, oh I love you Mister Man," Brother said.

"It was disgusting," Tom said.

"Yall oughta be beat," Brother said. "And maybe you will."

Billy Joe stood there, his head tucked down, looking at them. His eyes felt salty and grainy.

Suddenly Brother was right on top of him, grabbing his shirt and bringing him in. "I'll gut you like a deer if you come near my sister again."

Billy Joe nodded. He was in an icy land now. It was as if Brother were speaking to someone else.

Tom and Brother were turning away from him. He watched them dispassionately.

"We saw y'all in the woods," Tom said again; he didn't even look back.

Of course, they had. Billy Joe remembered the noises of the night. It had been wrong. Wrong all along and he had known it.

When they disappeared, Billy Joe started walking down the road to the river. He had long entertained a notion of its greenness jumping up to meet him, a flat slap in a summer day and the rest was the silence of the waters.

He leaned over the bridge with his hands outstretched. He was ready for the Tallahatchee now.

************************

"Stop this, Q!"

Q looked at him from under his brows.

"Q, I repudiate this nonsense! We have to stop that boy! This stupid bet of yours, I let it go on for too long!"

"Keep your pants on, Picard," Q had his arms folded into front of him. "Billy Joe McAllister will jump off the Tallahatchee bridge in any reality. How do you think I feel? I loved that boy like a son," he said smoothly.

"Oh, I'm quite sure of that."

"Jean-Luc, I never said we wouldn't get our hair mussed. My problem with this is the same one I have with you. Your stupid puny human now-ness." He lifted his elegant head. "So *that's* what it like to have only a little amount of time. Enjoying the vast gift of eternity, I forget what have no idea what it would be like to be trapped in a second. And yet you take such delight in that second. Knowing that you will die must make life very special to you. And must make the great gesture of death undeniably alluring. To unthrow Billy Joe McAllister off the Tallahatchee bridge would be like uncrucifying Christ. It would do him no favors. It would make your lives even more meaningless."

"Q, when I accepted this . . . wager over good and evil, I never dreamed. . ."

"You thought that good -- as embodied by Jean-Luc Picard of the Federation Starship Enterprise -- would easily win over wickedness -- currently being personified in the lovely frame of yours truly. Looks like you lost. But I wouldn't worry about it. I don't think you really understand what evil is. Poor Billy Joe. And poor Jean-Luc."

Picard was stunned into silence.

Q suddenly grabbed him by the arms: "If you can't take a little bloody nose, maybe you ought to go back home and crawl under your bed. It's not safe out here." Then Q let Picard go. "It's wondrous, with treasures to satiate desires both subtle and gross, but it's not for the timid." He seemed disgusted.

When Picard spoke again, he was much quieter: "That boy only wanted to live forever."

Q whirled around. "What makes you think he won't?"

*****************************

It was late in the evening as she stood there, impassively dropping slow blossom after slow blossom into the river.

A car.

She looked up.

A slow car, a black car, maybe a Caddy, drove by. She looked at the passengers. They were driving like they had all the time in the world. They looked at her.

Two old men.

The old man they called Picard and another, dark-haired man. They drove slowly past. She stared at them, and their eyes locked all the way across the bridge.

Then they were across the bridge and their car kicked in. It left a trail of dust that glittered in the late afternoon sun.

She looked down at the water. And then she threw some more faded blooms into the muddy water off the Tallahatchee Bridge.

THE END

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