“I’d like some of those potato chips if I could have them. And a Coke. Could I have a Coke?”

“You want anything in it?”

“No. A Coke will do. Just a plain old Coke.” The bartender reached down into an ice chest and brought up a Coca-Cola and popped the top and handed it to Winston, who handed it to me. “What about my potato chips,” I said. “I’d like them too.” The bartender reached behind himself and took down a package of potato chips and handed it to Winston and he handed it to me.

“Oh, Dee, look at this. Isn’t this hilarious?” Charles William had a punchboard in his hand. On the front was a photograph of an aircraft carrier. There was a small metal punch attached to the board. “You want a punch? You can win a hundred dollars or ten or five. You want to try? I’m paying for it.” He handed the board to me. The men at the tables were all watching us. I moved closer to Winston. I concentrated on my potato chips. “Come on, Dee,” Charles William insisted. “Have a punch. I’m paying for it.” He held the board out toward me. I took it from him and punched out a number. I unrolled the tiny piece of paper and read out loud. “Not today. Better luck next time.”

“Oh, God,” Charles William said. “Isn’t that great? Here, let me try.” He took the board from me and zeroed in on number seven. “You win five,” the paper said. “Pay this man and let him go. Where he lands nobody knows.”

“I won.” Charles William brandished the paper toward the bartender. “Who pays for this?”

“I’ll take it.” The bartender took the paper and deposited it underneath some cash in the cash register and handed Charles William a five-dollar bill.

“You lucky stiff,” Winston said. “I haven’t won anything in six months off them goddamn boards.”

“Let’s go find Junior,” Charles William said. “I want to show him this.”

We went around back to where men were gathered around a wire enclosure. There were fires going farther back from the store and a burning cross from which smoke seemed to endlessly ascend, a black burning cross against the sky. It was the most evil thing I had ever seen. Somewhere, I could not remember where, I had seen a photograph of such a thing or heard a story of it. There was a blackened corpse on it in my memory. A figure hanging from a rope. “I want to get out of here, Charles William,” I said. “I can’t stay here. I want to leave.”

“Oh, come on, Rhoda. We’ll just watch one fight. I want you to see this. We’ll see one fight and then we’ll leave.”

“What’s wrong?” Winston asked. “What’s wrong with her?”

“Nothing. There’s nothing wrong.”