ANNE HODGES WHITE

A week later, the goat-man moved downstairs to LuLu’s bedroom closet, its uplifted arms poking out from under uneven hems like it wanted air, relieved like everybody else to be out of the One Night Room. I played in the closet, making up my stories. A maid waited imprisoned, a prince climbed her long braid up into her tower, and he stole her away. I stroked the maid’s long brassy hair, hair I wondered if I’d ever have. I sneaked looks at the goat-man’s wicked face.

Then Mama took a deep breath. Mrs. Hodges. Please. It’s illegal. And dangerous. The words flew at me like other unspeakables and pushed cold fear into my belly. You had catching the polio bug in Morehead City, you had getting sucked out to sea by a rip tide, you had being demoted to the Red Bird Reading Group, you had going to Hell, which had been described as a burning place where sinners got poked day and night by guys who looked a lot like the goat-man with a spear.

But it was the likker and the long distance bills toted up by friends visiting the beach house that stuck in Hodgie’s craw. LuLu always gave herself over to hosting friends, and most weekends the beach house filled up with them. The men baited hooks and cleaned fish. The women trailed LuLu through antique shops from Morehead City to New Bern, herded us children along the tideline and waved us beachside of the breakers.