“He came home every night and his hands were seamed with grease, and Mama would say, go wash your hands and we’ll eat, and he wouldn’t do it. Like he was proud of them. He’d say you can’t wash off black, and give Mama a look just daring her to make more of it. Some nights he’d go all around the table where the girls were doing their homework, and he’d leave grease smudges, dirt, oil from his hands all over their homework, all over the Baptist church bulletin Mama had in her typewriter. Sometimes she’d call him on it, and he’d take after Mama, and there would be a lot of noise and chairs falling over, that kind of thing, but he knew he never dared go too far, not with all her family nearby. You can imagine what they thought of him. Clarence especially. Clarence and the white gloves.”

“Why didn’t your mother divorce him?”

“Maybe your people divorce, Liza Jane, but not Addie Dexter. Out of the question. Truth to tell, we were all sort of relieved when he left. Life was easier. No more rages and cursing. The girls were older, but I was only six, and Booker was four. Mama already had a job cooking at Ruby’s, so it wasn’t like we were suddenly broke. The girls looked after us while Mama worked. We had to move to a duplex, but we stayed in the same neighborhood. Clarence stepped in to be a father to us. After a time, Booker and me just started saying our Daddy was dead. It was easier all round, at the school, you know? We said it so often, we came to believe it. The whole family. It quit feeling like a lie.” He put out the cigarette, slid his arm underneath my shoulders, rolled me on my side and brought his lips to the back of my neck until I shuddered with delight. “Say me something in French, Liza Jane.”

The next morning I managed to help him pack without crying, but when he snapped the Royal into its case, that’s when I knew for sure he was leaving. I hid my tears, putting my head against his chest, and we held each other for a long time, while we murmured endearments and he hummed “Little Liza Jane.” It was a bright December morning with clouds scudding high at the horizon, the sea gunmetal gray, and the uncaring waves pounding the beach. I carried the suitcase, and tucked my arm closer to his as we walked down the stairs, and bent my head against the wind as we rounded the corner. He lifted the garage door and put the Royal and the suitcase in the Porsche.

“I’m going to miss you, Liza Jane, miss this place, miss what we’ve got together.”