Half of Paradise

“Around a thousand dollars. Maybe more.”

“Will he run in another race?”

“Not today.”

“Let’s come out next Sunday and see him again. Will he be here?”

“Probably,” he said.

“Oh, good. The track will be dry and he’ll win next time.” She looked happy again.

“Are you glad you came?” he said.

“Of course, darling. I always like the places you take me.”

“In the winter we can go to the Fair Grounds. They have some of the best horses from over the country there.”

“What happened to the mare you used to own?”

“She died in foal,” he said.

After the races they drove to the beach and went swimming. The sun had set and the afterglow reflected off the water in bands of scarlet, and then it was dark with no moon and the white caps came in with the tide and roared over the sand. The water was too cold for them to stay in long, and they lay on the beach and looked out towards the black horizon and the black sky.

Later, the moon came out and the sand looked silver against the black of the water. The wind was getting cool and everyone else had left the beach. She was shivering a little from the cold. Avery put his shirt over her shoulders.

“Do you want to go?” he said.

“Only if you want to.”

“You’re cold.”

“I feel fine,” she said.

“Let’s go back to town.”

“Hasn’t it been fun today?”

“Yes.”

“Maybe Denise will be gone when we get back,” she said.

He had to check in with his parole board the next afternoon. The board was located in an old office building built of weathered gray brick, and the plaster in the hallways was cracked and the air smelled close and dusty. He sat on a bench in the outer office with three other men and waited his turn to see the parole officer. The man next to him had a fat coarse face with large red bumps on his nose. He wore a windbreaker that had a ring of sweat around the collar, and his slacks were worn thin at the knees and his brogans had been scuffed colorless. He held his hat in his hand between his legs. There was a dark area around the crown where the band had once been. He cleared his throat and looked around for a place to spit. He emptied his mouth into his handkerchief.

“They ain’t even got a fucking spittoon,” he said.

The secretary looked at him across the room.

“Where was you?” he said to Avery.

“In a camp.”

“I was at Angola.” He looked at Avery as though expecting an answer. “I was there twice.”

“Fine place, Angola.”

“Better than one of them fucking camps.” He blew his nose on the handkerchief and put it in his pocket.

“What was you up for?”