My answer surprises her. More than that, it makes her happy. With a smile of anticipation she signals Jenny over, asks for two go-cups, and passes her a company credit card. Jenny meets us at the front door with the ticket, and while Caitlin signs it, I say hello to a couple of people at the bar. It’s strange to be back in a place where I know someone every place I go.

Stepping from the air-conditioned restaurant to the street is like putting on a mildewed coat in the jungle. October in Mississippi. In Crested Butte they’re skiing right now.

“We could take my Miata,” Caitlin says, “but I don’t advise it. I thought a convertible would be perfect for the South, but it’s too damn hot down here to use it.”

“My car’s right down there.”

I lead her across the street, then turn right on the sidewalk, heading toward the small parking lot where I left Dad’s BMW. A country dance bar is going strong on this side, and knots of people line the sidewalk for the length of the block. The club draws mainly from the Louisiana farmland across the river, hard-shell Baptist country that birthed Jimmy Swaggart and Jerry Lee Lewis. Caitlin and I weave carefully through boots and hats and clouds of cigarette smoke.

As we near the parking lot, I see four men who look a little rougher than the rest, passing around a bottle of Jack Daniel’s. They’re wearing oil-stained denim and caps instead of hats. Roughnecks who drove straight from the oil field to the bar, most likely. Lean, hard-muscled, burned brick red by the sun, they wear thin mustaches and suck dips of snuff while they drink. As Caitlin and I approach, one points at me.

“You oughta keep your goddamn mouth shut about the niggers in this town, Cage.”

The use of my name surprises me, but I have no intention of stopping to discuss the issue. Feeling Caitlin slow down, I squeeze her arm and keep walking.

“You’re fucking up the chemical plant deal,” says another.

Now that we’re closer, I recognize the man who spoke first. His name is Spurling. A year older than I, he attended the White Citizens’ Council school on the north side of town. Spurling has the sullen expression of a man for whom life holds few happy surprises. He will fight me on the slightest provocation, and probably on none. These guys have never gotten past the emotional age of fifteen. They brawl over disputed calls at little league games, beat up homosexuals for fun, and shoot each other over marital infidelities.

“Keep walking,” I whisper to Caitlin, and we pass them with only a brush on the shoulder.

“I’m talking to you, cocksucker,” Spurling calls after me.

“That was the newspaper chick,” says a slurred voice. “That stuck-up Yankee bitch.”