“I play tennis at Irene’s. I don’t go out much. I’m fine on my own. And you? Are you back with Jaylene?”

“Nah. She’ll never be coming back from New York. Why should she? Her career’s going great there. No, I’m on my own too.”

As we followed the other cars and the MG’s heat needle inched upward, we spoke of the Montgomery bus boycott, which was still going on while appeals to the convictions of Reverend Cooke, Dr. King, Jo Ann Robinson, E. D. Nixon, and the others dragged through the courts. Terrence had written articles about the political and historical significance of the boycott for the Paris Tribune. I mentioned my baby uncle, Aaron, but I didn’t say that Leon and I had reconciled. I did not want to tread so close to the turbulent past. We were both carefully avoiding any suggestion of the intimate, saying nothing to indicate or acknowledge that our lives were complex, or that we had once loved each other, that we had laughed and quarreled, and raced naked to the water’s edge by moonlight, that we had rested and roused in each other’s arms, that we had played card games, and worked contentedly side by side, that we had been the warp and woof of each other’s lives. None of that.

Finally I said, “I suppose you’ll go back to Paris now.”

He ruminated before replying. “It was a good place, a fine place, like Jerrold said. But I’m not Jerrold Davies, and I’m not Jimmy Baldwin. My life, the work I’m meant to do, I need to be here.”

I was so happy to hear these words. I wanted to reach out and take his hand and bring it to my lips. I downshifted instead; the cortege had slowed.

“Got my old room on Naomi Avenue back, but not the garage. I don’t need a garage for the DeSoto. I’m driving Ruby’s old sedan. She has Clarence’s car now.”

“I can’t imagine you in a DeSoto.”

“Yeah, it’s certainly not an eagle. Not even a firefly like this MG. More like an old sow bug just rolling along the street. But it gets me to work.”

“At the Challenger?”

“I started there again last week.”

“And your book?”

“I wrote it, Roxanne. I didn’t finish it, and what I have is a mess, but I have enough to work with, to go on working.”

“What’s it about?”

He gave one of those rueful, almost unwilling laughs I so well remembered. “Truth is, I’m not real sure yet. Something to do with my daddy. I know that. My daddy and Moses Shaw.”

“I saved all your letters from Alabama. You can have them back if you want. For your book,” I offered without looking at him.