Leroy and Towbin eased over the past into current business and varieties of cognac: Courvoisier, Hennessey, V.S.O.P., Remy Martin. Towbin had left Mountain Trust to go on to Harvard, then Yale Law. Like Mahlon, he’d grown to be Leroy’s family. And like family, there was pain between them. Cypress was relieved to talk with Mahlon now. She was the only other person not emotionally overwhelmed by the history of Leroy McCullough. Through all the evening’s revelations, Mahlon became more tender, less severe than at first. Cypress wanted to tell her that, strange as it was, her father had died in a fire at sea. She was sure Leroy should have been the one to hear her say, years ago, that loss is not a crime, nor death a vendetta.

Every time her father went to sea, she and her sisters and her mama would wait, hoping he’d come back the way he left: with all his limbs, the quick gullah accent, how he’d laugh when he saw all three of them waiting for him on the stairway, peeking over the bannister to see Daddy. But one time he didn’t come. One time there just was no more daddy but what you could remember, what you could make up in yourself that would be like him. That’s why Cypress didn’t mind travelling all the time, doing without a home of her own when she had to, collecting odds and ends from round the world, because that’s what her father would have done. Maybe she was a dancer because her father couldn’t stand being still.

Mahlon liked Cypress. Even though she was quiet, her body reflected anything she might say. So this was a dancer. Someone whose body interpreted the world. Mahlon felt her mouth draw tight around her teeth. Where she worked, there might not be anyone who moved more than their bowels. If she wore a bright color, the office workers stared at her all day. In the stacks at Columbia, she was always mistaken for the cleaning woman. At Bryn Mawr, they asked for their laundry. Even this afternoon, her secretary had gone on and on about how tragic it must be for her to be so educated when the “Negroes” were so far behind. Mahlon wanted to take the bitch to Chicago, leave her stranded on the South Side somewhere after two A.M. . . . but Towbin had other ideas for the rest of the night.

“Let’s catch the last set at the Vanguard. I think Betty Carter is there.”

“No, man, Cypress and I are gonna turn in; artists don’t have any days off, you know.”

Leroy, back to his gentle self, pinched Cypress’ legs under the table. Cypress, who’d been engrossed in talk with Mahlon about the black people in prep schools, turned to catch Leroy’s hands.

“You could have told me.”