I wished I had the nerve to say, "Fred here, who I only know because we're on the same shift, has the hots for Annette.

       She made him bring somebody for you. His friends knew better." Instead, I grinned and shook her hand, which she jerked back as quick as she could.

       Annette was near my age, thirty-one. She served lemonade made from real lemons and giggled a lot for her age. Angela was the youngest, not much over twenty. Angela didn't have a date. I was glad of that.

       That night, I learned that blind girls' eyes make tears like normal girls. Angela's eyes were sunk in but, overall, she had a face like a famous picture. Her hair was brown and bobbed short, real stylish. Her skin reminded me of a ceramic doll. She looked like you'd leave a mark if you touched her.

       We played cards, using a deck with both pictures and Braille. Angela won the most. Around nine, we took a lemonade break. We got to talking about the race riots that were all over the Birmingham newspapers and television stations. Annette, looking to talk about something else, asked me about my job. I got all tangled up trying to explain how to make steel in an open hearth furnace. Fred corrected me several times, even though he was a second helper and I was a first. Finally, Annette took over. She explained that Angela was a ballet dancer and a good one, blind or not. "Somebody takes her once around the stage to memorize it and she’s good to go. They never announce she's blind until the end and nobody believes it. She even got away with it in New York City."

       Angela got rose petals in her cheeks. "I didn't get away with anything, I just didn't let it stop me. The choreographer was more concerned about my lack of experience with a partner."

       Dancing was not something I'd choose to talk about but this dancing had to do with Angela. "You always dance alone?"

       Agnes butted in. "Precious doesn't do anything on her own. I help pay for her dance lessons. We know she appreciates it." Annette hissed at the sourpuss to hush. Agnes got redder. "Well, excuse me."

       Angela ignored the spat and turned toward me. Her eyes went off to nowhere but I didn't care. "My teachers fear a partner will be concerned about my blindness and his style will be hampered. You often do things alone, too, don't you?"

       That surprised me. "How can you tell?"

       "I'm sorry. I shouldn't intrude. But, everyone else says 'We did something.' You say 'I did something.' I have a bad habit of analyzing people."

       I liked being analyzed by a pretty girl. "It’s okay. What else can you tell about me?"

       "You had onions for supper."

       "I guess I should've brushed better."

       Her eyes got shiny. "I'm sorry again. Maybe that’s why I never have a partner." She sipped her lemonade and I let it drop.

       Angela had hit the nail on the head, about me being a loner. Maybe it had to do with the way I look or the way I was raised. For whatever reason, I got left out. One time, I heard some guys at the plant talking about drag racing. They made it sound interesting and I went to the drag strip. I didn't race, I just watched. The guys from work were there with girls who wore tight shorts and smoked cigarettes and hollered cusswords at the racers. I couldn't fit in with that so I sat by myself. I never went back.

       Mostly, on my off-days, I'd wash and wax the new Pontiac I bought every year, pack a cooler of baloney sandwiches and root beer, and just take off. I'd ride around by myself, back roads all the way down to Montgomery or up to Huntsville. I liked it that I could look all I wanted to and not be bothered with people looking back.

* * *

       I tried to call Angela the day after we met, which caused a lot of confusion. She answered but called Agnes to the phone before I could explain I wanted to talk to her. I made a lame excuse about calling to say thanks. It took me six months to get up the courage to try again. I was on the night shift that week, so I was off while her parents and sisters were at work. I went home, took a nap, got cleaned up, and was at her door by noontime. "You still dancing by yourself?"

       Angela clapped her hands. "Luke!"

       "You remember me?"

       "I recognized your voice."

       "You want a cheeseburger?"

       Angela pointed her nose toward me and sniffed the way kittens do. "Do you have one?"

       "Not on me." She giggled and I caught on. "You’re teasing me."

       "I'm sorry. I'm such a smart-aleck. Are you inviting me to lunch?"

       "Yes."

       "Well, Luke, I would love to join you for lunch." She held the door open and waved me into the living room. "I'll slip on something more appropriate."

       I checked her out when she left the room. There was nothing wrong with her jeans, dancers have the kind of figures they make jeans for, but I didn't tell her that. She came back in a frilly dress, low-cut just enough, with pink flowers. I was in love before we got out the door.

       I was grateful she was blind, which I've never seen as cruel of me. I didn't cause it or wish it on her. She was blind from birth. It was sometimes a problem for her, not driving, reading only in Braille, searching for something in plain sight. But there was no call for feeling sorry because she got along fine with her other senses. She could recognize somebody by a hitch in their gait. She knew what somebody had been doing by their smell--sweat or perfume or food. A tone of voice told her somebody's mood. She was in no way needful of pity.

       As for my being thankful she was blind, one look at me would tell all you need to know. I'm short and chunky. My hands for some reason have always been oversized. I started losing my hair the same year I started getting pimples. My nose is flat as a pug dog's. I once heard somebody say, behind my back but so I could hear it, that I had a face only a mother could love. Mine took one look at me, dumped me in a foster home, and bought a one-way ticket to ride.

* * *

       Angela and I celebrated our three months dating anniversary at a ritzy restaurant. I'd never liked places like that, but now I got a kick out of strolling in with an angel on my arm and watching people stare. Going in, she asked me what color flowers they had. Earlier, she'd got me to call and ask about their best meal. After we were seated, she pretended to study the menu. Then, she told the waiter their purple pansies were pretty and said she'd have the prime rib and baked potato. It’s not that she was ashamed of being blind. She wanted to prove something. It’s hard to explain but I felt powerful, being with her. Angela knew how to overcome shortcomings.

       Back at her house, we stood on her porch for a minute like we usually did. "You have a great deal of respect for me, don't you, Luke?"

       "Yes. Why'd you ask?"

       "Because you've never tried to take advantage of me."

       This conversation was making me nervous. "I know you’re not that kind of girl."

       "Luke, even my kind of girl may wish to be kissed by her beau."

       She kept her lips pressed together and I did too. It was more of a peck than a kiss. I wanted to do more than that so I put my hands on her cheeks, like I'd seen in a movie. She made a little gasp and stepped back from my hands.

       "Did I hurt you?"

       "Not exactly. It’s just that your hands are bigger and rougher than I expected."

       I put my big mitts against my chest so they could stay out of trouble. "They've always been that way. From work, I guess."

       "It’s all right. But that’s enough for now, Luke." She was right, that was enough. Some things are worth waiting for.

* * *

       Annette married Fred and seemed okay with Angela's marrying me. Agnes, on the other hand, felt that what she could see, and Angela couldn't, had to be brought up. I was so proud of Angela. She said, right in front of me and her family, that what Agnes was saying about me didn't matter. She told them I'd take good care of her, like I always had. She said I'd encouraged her to continue dancing, which was true. Angela said looks don't matter, only the heart, and I had a good heart. Her momma agreed. Her daddy continued to hem and haw for a while but Angela knew how to cozy up to him. Finally, he gave in and that shut Agnes down.

       Annette was the maid of honor and right pretty. Agnes sat hunkered down like an old bullfrog. I was stuck with Fred for my best man. We got married in the morning and drove to Gulf Shores before sunset. Angela chattered about dancing all the way down. I kept wondering how much she knew about sex. I hoped it was more than what I knew.

       What I knew came mostly from my foster parents' church. They were foot-washers and they held sex to be

       devil-inspired. Its only Christian use was what they called procreation. Practically everything a teenage boy might do--smoking, drinking, beating off--was sinful. They even got me to sign a pledge card not to go to movies or dances. On the other hand, the congregation accepted me, ugly and all. They said I had a beautiful soul and they made me a junior deacon.

       Then, about a month before I turned eighteen and had to leave my foster parents, an elder found out I'd been sneaking off to picture shows and said I could no longer serve the body and blood. I felt so bad about that, I stopped going to church. But, a lot of what they'd preached stayed with me. I never had many chances to sin, anyway.

       Except once. I was fifteen and I got this cockamamie notion to spend the day hitchhiking around the countryside. I got several rides and saw a lot of barns and fields but I also got turned around. It started getting dark and I was standing alongside a road wishing I'd headed home sooner. A jeep with three guys in it went by. They yelled and one gave me the finger. About five minutes later they came back and said they'd take me to Birmingham. I'd been warned about falling in with the likes of them. I could've run into the woods and they probably would've left. But, they were cutting up and saying I was a chicken if I didn't come with them. Besides, it was almost dark.

       They took me to a house on a dirt road and got to shooting dice. Instead of playing for money, they played for me. The winner got to make me do stuff. One turned on a radio and made me dance. I'd never done any dancing so I just shuffled my feet around and jerked my elbows up and down. I felt goofy and scared at the same time. Another made me take a big swig of whatever they were drinking and laughed when I nearly puked. After that, the one who drove the jeep won. He made me take my pants off and wiggle my butt when I danced. Then, he called me sweetmeat and made me get down on all fours. He got behind me and yanked my shorts down. I begged him not to, but he did, and so did the others. I thought they'd kill me but they dumped me beside the road when they were through with me. I never told anyone about it.

       Angela got real quiet after we got to our motel. She came out of the bathroom in this grandma-looking flannel nightie and laid down on the bed and waited. I stripped down to my underwear and laid down beside her. I was ready but I was nervous about what to do next. So, I said, "You know what to do now, don't you?"

       "I thought it was up to the man to know what to do. I've never done anything."

       If I'd quit right there, things later might've turned out different. But, because I was ready and had procreation on my mind, I told her to turn over.

       "Why?" Her voice sounded shaky.

       "Like you said, it’s up to me to know what to do."

       I got as far as trying to push into her. She screamed and kicked until I got off of her. She stumbled to the bathroom and refused to come out until I agreed to sleep in the car. The next morning, we didn't even eat, just packed up and left. As soon as we got home, Angela called Sears and ordered furniture for a second bedroom.

* * *

       Other than three drunks taking their turns at me, I'd done without sex all my life, anyway. A few times, when we seemed to be getting closer, I tried talking to Angela about it. Each time, she'd start screaming at me about my stupidity and my unnatural desires. Each time, it took her longer to get over it. After a while, I had to face it. I'd brought this on myself, not intentionally but it was my fault. The devil can get to you in a lot of ways.

       I bought Angela a three-bedroom brick house in one of the better parts of town. Angela was comfortable around that kind of people, her being in the arts and having a college degree. They were highly impressed by her, as everybody always was. I put a lot of effort into our yard, rock paths leading through arbors and beds of yellow jonquils. I also kept my promise about encouraging Angela's dancing. When she said she wished she could dance with a partner, I said she ought to find one.

       "The problem is finding someone with the self-confidence to dance with a blind partner. Someone who won't compensate for so-called handicaps. A lot of trust is required."

       "Do you know anybody like that?"

       "My teacher does. She's just moved here from New York. My teacher says she worked with blind dancers up there and understands us."

       "She?"

       "I know. Partners are usually one male, one female. But it doesn't have to be. Men sometimes dance female parts. My teacher says Lucy can dance any part."

       Maybe, I thought, this Lucy could make Angela feel better about things in general. "Go for it."

       "I shall." She touched her cheek to mine. "Thanks, Luke, for understanding."

* * *

       Lucy bought an old fieldstone house and turned it into a dance studio. Most of her neighbors were university people from India or some such place. Angela insisted that I drop her off and pick her up at the curb. She said this helped establish her independence and increased Lucy's confidence in her. I didn't feel right about that, but I'd learned not to argue with Angela. For a while, Lucy was to me nothing but a name.

       Yard work took over most of my off-time. The neighbors hardly ever spoke to me, but a couple of them came around when they saw how good my yard looked. Before long, I started doing other people's yards. I liked the yard work, especially the heavy work, which I preferred to do by hand. I could swing a machete with the best of them. My hands kept getting tougher and rougher but I didn't have anybody to touch, anyway. The extra money from my yard work went toward converting our empty bedroom into a dance studio. I did a first-class job, with hardwood floors and these rails dancers practice with.

       Angela had a party -- she called it a grand opening -- for her studio. Her dancer friends tried to be nice, but I caught a couple of them staring at me. Lucy tried the hardest to be polite to me. She offered me her hand, like a man would. She was as slender as Angela but taller. Lucy moved more like an athlete than the boy dancers. I could see her running track or swimming in competition. She had a hard jaw and long muscles in her arms.

       Lucy was the best looking colored girl I'd ever seen. Her skin reminded me of coffee with a lot of milk. She had a sharp little nose and regular size lips, not like the Negroes I was used to. Her accent was more Yankee than anything else. It was only her color and her kinky hair, which was tight on her skull, that showed what she truly was.

       The other thing about Lucy was her hands. She had long, slim fingers and her palms were smooth and pink and pliable. They weren't weak, just soft. When we shook, her hand disappeared into mine but she gave me a good grip. She smiled the way people do when they think they know something about you that you don't want them to know. She said her name was Zaire.

       After she took her hand back, I could still feel the warmth and the softness. It was the first time I'd ever shook hands with a Negro, male or female. The union had gone along with the company hiring a few for low level jobs in the plant, but I hardly ever spoke to those. The only Negro women I'd been around were waitresses. Ordering a barbecue doesn't require handshaking.

       My face got hot. "Oh. I thought she danced with somebody named Lucy."

       "Didn't Angela tell you? I've exchanged my slave name for one that reflects my heritage. My people were abducted from Africa to the Caribbean to Virginia." Lucy, Zaire, whoever, put her hand on my shoulder. "This is all very new for you. The important thing is, I love Angela."

       That’s not something I wanted to hear from a colored girl, even a highfalutin one. But this was not the time and place to make a fuss about it. "Yeah. Everybody does."

       Zaire nodded. "True. She’s a lovely woman and a remarkable dancer."

       "She says you're a good partner."

       "Somos muy simpatico."

       I'd heard Spanish before but I didn't know they spoke it in Africa. Art people like to show off but I could always remind myself that I made more money than most of them.

       Angela pretended she didn't want to when the others asked them to dance, but Zaire grinned like a pretty possum. Zaire said they'd do this interpretative number they'd been working on, called A to Z. A tinkerbell boy sat down at the piano I'd bought for the studio and the show began. I watched Zaire lift Angela above her head, jacked her up as good as any man could've. Then, Zaire let Angela's body slide down her own. Angela quivered all the way down. I overheard a girl dancer whisper that this was the shock of first encounter. They took turns touching each other all over with their fingertips. I guessed that showed them getting acquainted. They wrapped their arms and legs around each other and swayed back and forth. The

       girl dancer said the message was black and white joining through lovers' consummation. By the time A and Z collapsed in a sweaty pile on the floor, I understood what was sinful about dancing.

* * *

       I saved what needed to be said until the next morning. "Do you understand what she is?"

       Angela swallowed a bite of yogurt. "I assume you mean Zaire?"

       "Whatever she calls herself. Maybe dance people don't care, but this is still Birmingham, Alabama."

       "Care about what?"

       "That Zaire is a Negro. Your parents might not like that."

       Angela slammed her yogurt down on the table. "My family disapproved of you, too. That didn't stop us, did it, Luke? All Zaire and I demand is the same rights people like you get."

       Angela was wrong about people like me. Nobody rode a bus down here so I'd get treated decent. Nobody bent over backward to take care of me. Lucy from Zaire had the federal government looking out for her. Angela had a husband and a family to take care of her. "I'm going to work."

       "Fine. By the way, the correct term is Afro-American."

* * *

       Angela practically disappeared during the weeks before their first dance show together. She said her own studio didn't provide the freedom of movement they needed, so she took to spending a lot of time at Zaire's. I continued to take her over there and pick her up until Zaire started coming to get her. Angela said that left me free to do my thing. My thing was working sixty or seventy hours a week. Sometimes I didn't know where Angela was, what with me working two jobs and her dancing every day and sleeping in her own bedroom. I didn't fuss about it because Angela looked tired all the time and was a ball of nerves.

       I was watching a late movie when the phone rang. To tell the truth, I thought Angela was asleep in her room. I know it bothered her to send me into her room, but she needed a certain pair of dancing slippers. She'd forgotten them and Zaire was too tired to come get them. She told me to go straight to her closet, find the shoes, and bring them to Zaire's.

       Blind people can be as messy as normal people. Angela’s room looked like it had exploded. I guess she couldn't find something and got upset. Like I said, she'd become a bundle of nerves. The only thing not messed up was her bed, which hadn't been slept in. I stepped over a pile of girl stuff and found her shoes in the closet.

       I don't know what caused me to pry. It's not my usual nature. Maybe I thought her sending me in there made it okay. Maybe I had something in the back of my mind. For whatever reason, I started looking through her stuff, jars of hand lotion or perfume, such as that. I was thinking I better get over to Zaire's when a recording tape partly under her bed caught my eye. There was a tape player on the dresser. I threaded the tape onto the machine and punched Play. Angela's voice gave the title of the poem. "Hard Hands, Soft Hands." I listened to it all the way through. Then, I put it back where I'd found it and got out of there.

       Angela was waiting at Zaire's door. She held her hand out for the shoes. "That took long enough." She grabbed the shoes when I touched them to her hand and started to close the door.

       "You want me to wait for you?"

       "Zaire will bring me home. We may have to practice all night."

       "Zaire’s too tired to fetch your slippers but not too tired to dance all night?"

       "Fetch? There’s a fine old Southern tradition. Give me a break." She slammed the door.

* * *

       The mayor of Birmingham and three TV stations came to their opening night. The newspapers ran a front page story about Birmingham growing in racial togetherness. There was a picture of Angela and Zaire draped all over each other. Over the picture was a headline, "A and Z Raise Money for Multicultural Center." One night, a few rednecks stood in the back and booed. They were drowned out by the standing ovation and the cops ran them off.

       After their show closed, I told Angela she should spend some time with her momma, who saw her even less than I did. She was surprised I was concerned about her mother but liked the idea. I drove her to her parents' house. Angela and her momma got to chatting about the good old days. I said I had to do a yard and left.

       Zaire sounded surprised when she answered her telephone but she understood about Angela being down in the dumps over their show ending. She agreed to come over and cheer her up. I said I had to do a yard pretty soon and they could spend some time together after I left. She asked if she could speak to Angela but I said she was in the shower and to come on over. For once, I wasn't feeling nervous, just kind of empty.

       When I opened the door for Zaire, she had that know-it-all smile I remembered from before. I hadn't been sure until right then. I said Angela was still in the bathroom and asked Zaire to sit at the kitchen table and hold my whetstone while I sharpened my machete. She gave me a big-eyed look but she did it, holding it with both hands on the table. Give credit where it's due, Zaire was not the kind to back away from something that would scare most Negroes.

       The machete took Zaire's hands off at the wrist, sliced right through flesh and bone, both hands at the same time. Zaire never moved nor made a sound. Shock, I guess.

       I'd lied about getting ready to go do a yard, I was actually on my way to the plant for the afternoon shift. I wrapped her hands in aluminum foil and put them in a paper bag and took them with me. I left Zaire sitting there, staring at a whetstone in a pool of blood, waiting for Angela to finish her long shower. I told Zaire I'd be back in a little while.

       At the plant, I waited until nobody was paying attention, strolled over to the furnace, and tossed in what looked like my lunch. There was a puff of flame for not even a second. I told my boss I was feeling bad and left. On my way home to take care of the body, I got to remembering Zaire’s soft, warm hand in mine. After a few minutes I told myself, "What’s done is done."

       An ambulance was pulling away and there were three cop cars in front of our house. They had me before I could turn around. In court, Angela said her momma drove her home and she entered the house alone. The smell of blood led her to the kitchen. She recognized her visitor by touching her face. She said she was hysterical for a while after she touched Zaire's stumps, then she called for help.

       By the time the prosecutor finished, everybody in Alabama knew about how my brutal perversions drove my poor wife into a relationship with the woman I murdered in cold blood. The prosecutor said I was racially motivated. He said Birmingham had been too long under the influence of the Klan. He said it was not only a beautiful, talented dancer who'd died, it was understanding and tolerance.

       My lawyer got worried and he put me on the stand to say I'd never held with the Klan. I told the jury the Negroes never did me any harm and I'd never looked to harm any of them. That gave the prosecutor a shot. He got me to say that Negroes would be better off in their own place. The jury, half of it Negro women, sat there and nodded and made up their minds. Nobody, including me, was surprised when it took the jury exactly nine minutes to find me guilty. I expected the chair but didn't get it.

       After they took me to prison, Angela sold the house and furniture. She moved in with her parents and gave her daddy my Pontiac. I've been told she quit dancing, which is unfortunate.

* * *

       The day I got processed in, a spade sporting an afro issued me my duds. He spit in my face and said I'd have my butt busted wide open and an ice pick in my liver inside of a week. I knew he meant it, even though, setting aside the fact that I did kill one of them, I'd never been a racist. For example, I'd always been careful to call them Negroes and not niggers. But, in the penitentiary, it’s black there and white here and dog eat dog. You're part of it, like it or not. Lucky for me, the Aryan Nation guys acted like I was a white hero. That was a load of crap. I've got no use for them, either. But, it protected me from being shanked by the black boys. Nothing I'd ever learned in church had that power.

       After awhile, some fresh meat came in. The white cons fell in love with a skinny young guy who had wavy hair and an ear ring. The blacks got into a tussle over who owned this fat kid who squealed every time somebody touched him. All that ruckus got their attention away from me. I'm grateful for that. I've seen them, one hunched over the other, humping away like the sinful mutts they are. It reminds me of all that I'll be held to account for in eternity.

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