* * *
ON FRIDAY NIGHT, Clete took Homer to a movie in New Iberia, then for ice cream. Homer carried the baseball glove Clete gave him on his belt, and never took off his baseball cap. On the way home, his face looked wizened in the dash light, as though it had been freeze-burned or his youth stolen. He was the most isolated and strange little boy Clete had ever known.
“They treating you all right at school?” Clete said.
“Not everybody, but most people do.”
“You worried about something?”
“When are they gonna take me back?”
“Who?”
“The people who run the foste
r program.”
“I’m not going to let them do that.”
The boy stared at nothing for a long time. “I’m glad my father was killed. And that makes me feel bad.”
Clete turned off Main into the motor court, bouncing Homer in the seat. “Your emotions get mixed up in a situation like that,” Clete said. “See, what you’re glad about is he can’t hurt you anymore.”
“I feel dirty.”
“Your father didn’t deserve to have a fine little boy like you.”
“I feel dirty all the time.”
“Why?”
“Because of what they did.”
“Who are you talking about?”
“The men who came to the trailer. His friends. I told him about it, but he didn’t care. He called me a liar.”
Clete pulled the Caddy under the oaks and cut the engine and lights. “Those things were not your fault. Your father was an evil man. So were his friends. If I catch up with the men who hurt you, they’ll never have a chance to hurt anyone again.”
“They’re gonna take me back. They won’t let you keep me. There’s got to be both a man and woman in the house.”
“Maybe Miss Carolyn and I will work something out.”
“I heard you talking to her on the phone. She’s moving in with her mother in Lake Charles. Don’t pretend.”
“I won’t, Homer. I promise.”
Homer walked ahead of him into the cottage and turned on the light. Clete heard a hiss from the shadows and stared into the darkness. A tug was droning up the bayou, its running lights on. “Who’s there?”
“Pookie. I got to talk,” a voice said.
Clete removed a penlight from his pocket and shone it into the darkness. “You trying to creep my cottage?”
“I got a flat. Down the street. I got to hide.”
Clete shone the light on Pookie’s clothes. “Did you wet your pants?”
“A guy was following me. Not a guy. The guy.”