She wanted him to know, wanted him to connect with her, wanted him to know she was one of his, hoping this would make a difference. To whom? And in what way? She wasn’t sure.

“When my mother died my father sent me to live with a relative in the States, and while I was here, we lost touch. I don’t know if he’s dead or alive. I’m an only child, so I never felt there was anything to return to, really.”

“Oh no.” He stroked her brow. “Oh, I really didn’t mean to make a joke about it.”

“Oh, don’t be sorry,” she said. “If anything, I should be sorry for bringing this up now … for imposing this on you.”

His arm, which had been waiting behind her, slipped around her shoulders now. She leaned over and wiped her face with the tail of her dress and leaned against him, shifting her weight to create her own space between his chest and arm.

“You remind me so much of that place, Fire,” she said, her face turned toward the sky. “You make me think about it in a way that had never been as important to me. I feel like that woman in Secrets and Lies felt when the child she’d given away as a baby comes back into her life as an adult. God, man. It’s all the luggage that comes with that kind of rediscovery. Fire … for the longest time … before I met you, I thought all that luggage was at the bottom of the sea, man. And then you—you come along flopping like a frogman in your scuba gear, going, ‘Hey, this grip has your name on it.’

“I remember thinking one day, ‘God, why do I feel this way about this man?’ And I guess the answer has something to do with the fact that, along with all the really wonderful things about you, you remind me of that place. Yeah, I know—Through the Ivory Gate.”

“So go home, then,” he said. “Go home and see what you might find.”

“I think if I knew people there it would be easier. But to go there as a tourist, I think, would make me feel even more alienated. Fire, I don’t even know the name of the place I’m from. I know it’s in Kingston and fairly close to water, and the people were shit poor, but that’s it.”

“What about the relative you used to live with? He might be able to tell—”

“He’s dead, the fucking bastard. Excuse my French.”

“If the people in your area were rich,” he asked, “would that make it any easier?”

She thought for a bit.

“I think so. Going home is one thing. Going home to bad news is another. The way I feel is the way a lot of African Americans used to feel about Africa. Before they knew of Africa’s greatness they were afraid to embrace it. Now they go there with joy. They sing and dance on the plane. It would be easier for me to go back if I knew I would find something I could be proud of. I know it sounds trifling, but it’s true.”