“Poverty for most people is an inherited condition, Sylvia. There is nothing to be ashamed of. Ignoring or taking advantage of poverty—now that’s a sin. We can’t choose our histories. When we come into this life the greater part of our history is already in place—race, class, gender, religion, sexual preference, wealth, access … the things that remain pretty much constant throughout our lives. It’s not like the opposite of poor is happy. So why kill up yourself? Come home, sweet girl … even for a day … to sit by a river and eat a mango and say that God is good.”

“I should, shouldn’t I?”

“And if you need a family, I can always rent you some o’ mine. Some o’ them I’d give you free. I’d even pay the shipping.”

“Oh, you are so cheesy.”

“Is that good or bad?”

“Cheese is fat. Fat is comfort food.”

She kissed his nose, trailing a mist of moistness as she pulled away.

“So you know a lot about me, and I know nothing about you,” she said, standing in front of him, leaning against the metal railing, which was a few feet away from the bench.

Her life to this point had been a matter of avoiding history; she didn’t ask people about their lives because she didn’t want them to ask about hers in turn. So most of her involvements, both romantic and platonic, had been rooted in shallow earth. But with Fire she was feeling wet ground beneath her, layers of silt brought down from the hills of her fore-parents and laid down over thousands of years in a cycle of flooding and retreat, a pulling away that had left behind a treasure of minerals to nourish her like a tree. Her body was feeling damp now, from sweat, humidity, and the sap on the tip of her bud.

“What do you want to know?” he asked.

“Let’s start with your family.”

“Well, I’m an only child—”

“Like me.”

“Okay … and I grew up in Portland, in a little district outside Port Antonio, until high school, then I moved to Kingston. After high school I came to the States to go to college.”

“And your parents, what are they like?”

“Nice people,” he answered, thinking now of what he should say, wondering how much he wanted to reveal. She was insecure, and he didn’t want his background to be an issue. It wouldn’t be fair to tell her the whole truth. Not now. Not when she was feeling this way. He wouldn’t lie, but he would reduce the facts to their most passably general.

“Oh, come on, now,” she said, kicking him playfully. “Where are they from? Where do they live? What do they do for a living? What’s your relationship like?”

“My mother’s name was Elizabeth. A really nice woman who liked to enjoy life. Could do many things. Was a tomboy, actually. Tall woman. I get my height from her. She was about five-eleven, and slender, and loved the arts and political debate yet was also good with her hands. Could fix cars and cut steel and clean and oil her gun. A very confident woman. She was decidedly left-wing in her politics—a democratic socialist—and really funny. Loved life, man. Smoked two packs a day and could knock back a six-pack and drive home on those dark, winding country roads with one hand on the steering wheel and the other one around my shoulders. She liked the excitement of cities but she always lived on a farm. She liked the idea of nurturing things, plants and animals and all that. People too … she was always getting a job for this one or writing a letter of recommendation for that one, or running down to the police station to get another one out on bail. Liz was nice, man. She was a real progressive in a place where she could’ve just gone with the flow and accepted the fact of privilege.”