Jane tossed her cigarettes and matches into her purse. She couldn’t even look Chloe directly in the face. She felt such a confusing mix of anger—for obvious reasons—and apology—for not taking her claims of discrimination more seriously, for not defending her more loudly, probably for being white—she didn’t dare open her mouth. She pulled a twenty dollar bill out of her purse and slapped it onto the table. Let Lucy keep the change or give it to her sick kid, assuming she really had one. “You’re not eating here,” Jane said, and slid out of the booth.

“That’s okay. I only want coffee.”

“You don’t want anything here. Believe me.”

“I just want—”

She took hold of Chloe’s upper arm—narrower than her own wrist—and gave it a tug. “I said we’re leaving. All of us. Right now. We’re not giving this coffee shop another penny.”

She practically dragged Chloe out the door with Tim trailing behind them like a child embarrassed by his parents. “Did someone say something?” Chloe asked.

“Yes,” Jane said. The heat and humidity slammed into her again as they walked outside. She let go of Chloe’s arm and leaned against the hot glass of the door to stabilize herself. “Someone said something. And I’m sorry, I’m very, very sorry.” Chloe opened her pretty mouth, outlined in subtle pink lipstick, about to speak some brave and wise words. “But how could you do this to me, Chloe? How?”

“I just came in for coffee, Jane. It isn’t my fault.”

“No,” Jane said. “It isn’t. It absolutely is not. And I know it, but I’m pissed off anyway.” She walked toward her room, digging in her bag for her keys.

“You forgot this,” Tim called after her. “On the table.”

She ignored him and made it to her door just in time. She needed ten minutes of privacy, that was all, ten minutes for a good, humiliating, poor-forty-year-old-me cry. Then she’d be ready to put it behind her and face the rest of the day.

Twenty-two

Desperate Hair

1.

All in all, it had not been a good day.

Desmond collapsed back onto the orange bedspread in his room at the Gulf City Hotel. He’d complained about the broken air conditioner at the front desk this morning, and the clerk had told him, cheerfully, as if offering a solution to the problem, that the air conditioners were broken in almost all the rooms. Infuriating as the response was, it did make him feel marginally better to know he hadn’t been singled out for frostbite. It was late afternoon and the air outside was steam-bath wet and hot, but it couldn’t be above fifty in this chamber of horrors. He kicked off his shoes and folded himself, mummylike, into the bedspread.