The boy’s eyes grew wide. They reminded Hazel of a morning glory opening. “That’s why?” His tone was incredulous. “That’s why we almost died? Shoot, Stanley just may be dead already.”
“Don’t say that.”
“Why not? Jesus, I heard Memphis women were crazy, but this beat all. That was a police officer back there. We could’ve been killed. And all because you don’t like being called ‘girl.’ Jesus Christ on a cracker.”
Hazel crossed her arms, frowned. “You started it,” she said.
The boy shook his head. “Now, this is going to be rich.”
“With your dancing.”
He straightened up, put his hands on his hips, and stared at her. Hazel realized he was a full head taller than her. Looked like there was no end to his growing.
“No one else was in there,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. “And I like music.”
“You like music. Who don’t? We live in Memphis.”
“We don’t have music like that in Georgia.”
“That where you from?”
The boy nodded. “We got here right before the flood. Hell of a time to move, huh?” He looked at his feet. “Sorry about your daddy,” he said to his shoes.
Hazel looked down at her own boots. Her eyes felt hot.
“Heard about what he did,” the boy went on. “Saving all them families when the fire department had laughed. Took out his fishing boat—just a skiff, what folks say—and headed out. Drowned saving the drowning. And that’s more than God did that day. You must be proud.”
“Mm-hmm.” Hazel was determined not to cry in front of this boy.
He looked at her in surprise. “You’re a quiet gi—”
Hazel jabbed him hard in the shoulder—the only part of him she could reach—before he could finish.
“Ow!” He rubbed the spot where she hit him. “It’s true. Memphis women crazy. You might be more dangerous than any flood.” He smiled, and Hazel couldn’t have looked away if she’d tried—which she didn’t.
The boy extended his hand with the same gentle gesture he’d used in Stanley’s. She noticed the lines in his palms. How long and intricate they were. She wanted to trace her finger along them, discover where they led.
“Maybe we should try this proper. Hi. I’m Myron. Myron North. It’s been an absolute pleasure getting to know you,” he said.
Hazel blinked. She regarded his hand for some time. The hand that had been her safety raft, her compass. Instinct rose inside her for the third time that day. She knew if she took it, this hand, she would be opening the first chapter of a book that would span her lifetime.
Her chest expanded and contracted with a long breath. She steadied herself. Raised her head to meet his eyes. “I’m Hazel,” she said, and placed her hand in his.
Suddenly, a window in the second story of the pink house opened. A young woman in her twenties—with the loveliest brown arms Hazel had ever seen—had thrown it open. She wore a silk nightgown the color of a nectarine, and her head was a nest of short, messy locs.
“If y’all don’t go ahead and get married and get off my lawn, so help me God,” the woman shouted. Then, more to herself than anyone else, “But don’t nobody ever listen to Miss Dawn.”
CHAPTER 14
Hazel
1943
Hazel’s round tortoiseshell glasses kept slipping down the bridge of her nose. The almost-quilt in her lap consumed her attention. Technically, she was still piecing, not quilting. Quilting would come last, after Hazel had stuffed thick cotton in the middle and chosen a good, solid color for her quilt’s backside. Right now, she was piecing together the front side of her patchwork quilt in an assortment of robin egg blue and sea foam green.