"And next time, don't stand all the way in the back there like some lost little lamb, y'hear?"

Kate nods.

"Now, F.M., I want you to take good care of this young lady."

"Yes, ma'am, I will."

"All right, now. I best get on my way. You two travel safely, now, y'hear?" Beulah crosses the lawn and climbs into a bus that has I THINK MYSELF HAPPY REVIVAL CRUSADE emblazoned on its side.

F.M. turns to Kate. "Did you notice that she didn't care what you were wearing?"

Kate puts the Bible in her tote bag.

On the second story of a motel's walkway, Kate sits on the floor, pensively dangling her legs through the bars. F.M. approaches.

"Mind if I join you?"

Kate looks up and nods. He settles in.

After a comfortable silence Kate says, "You know, I've been golfing my whole life."

"You must be pretty darn good at it."

"No. Not the game. The idea."

"Ma'am?"

"Seems to me that golf is just one example of most people wanting to be part of the same group. To belong. It's about feeling safe, I guess, and it's pretty much one of those things that's expected of you when you reach a certain age."

"I don't care for those golf clothes much."

Kate continues as if he hadn't spoken. "I'm like that. I do what's expected of me. Like everybody else in my crowd."

F.M. shakes his head. "I don't see how you can say that, Kate. I think you really stand out."

"No, I don't. We're all trying so hard to be different, which is almost funny in itself, and we all have the same opinions. We even dress alike. It's like an antipopularity contest that we're all trying to win. To be the weirdest. Kinda sad, really."

Quietly, F.M. asks, "Then why do you do it?"

"I dunno. It's just what kids my age do."

"You're not a kid, Kate."

"Yeah ... I still am. I pout like a kid, I expect things like a kid, I'm impatient as h.e.l.l, and I haven't got the faintest idea what being a grown-up is like."

"It's the same. 'Cept you're not as surprised by your sameness. There's only so many ways to dress, and so many opinions to hold, Kate. That's not what makes you different."

"What does, then?"

"The way you eat a sandwich. You start on the outside and leave big chunks in the middle-the good bits. Then you go at those. You don't ever tie your shoes single, you always double-knot them. Before you draw, you run the outside of your hand along the paper three times, almost like you're cleaning it, or putting your scent on it. And I've noticed that when you sleep in the car, your ankles cross."

Kate looks at him for a long moment before gently saying, "I don't see how that makes me different."

"That's what makes you who you are. Those little things, the odd quirks and habits-that's the everyday stuff that makes up a life. That's what folks will remember about you. That's what would make a guy fall for you."

Kate starts to smile. "You're not getting sweet on me, F.M., are you?"

"No, ma'am. But I can sure see how someone could."

Kate looks out over the parking lot. She's touched by what F.M. has said. "You're so nice to me. I can't figure out why you're so G.o.dd.a.m.n nice to me."

He's not going to figure it out for her. He just sits there looking out over the motel parking lot and the night sky with her. In a few minutes he gets up and dusts off his pants. "I'll bring you coffee in the morning?"

"Sure."

"Okay. 'Night, then."

He turns to leave. Kate calls to him. "F.M.?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks."

Kate and F.M. sit at an outdoor picnic table. F.M. is still eating. Kate's half-finished plate is pushed to the side and she is sketching. The place is hopping, music being pumped outside through tinny speakers, people ga.s.sing up, talking, playing cards. Most have come from church and are still dressed up, although neckties are loosened and fancy hats have been left in the car. A group of old black men sit at the table next to Kate and F.M. Joe, at least seventy, is telling a story.

"Mr. Pembroke, see, he hated black folk. But he liked my uncle, used to have Uncle Lowell take him into town all the time."

"Yep," another elderly man chimes in. "I remember seein' your Uncle Lowell with Mr. Pembroke. Always bowin' and sc.r.a.pin', he was."

"Yep, he sure did," Joe allows. "That's the way it was back then. Well, Mr. Pembroke, he hated anything black, even his black mules. He had one white one, tho' by the name of Teddy. Remember him, Herbert? Mr. Pembroke even kept that mule separate from the others."

"I remember that mule ... white as snow."

"Teddy had no sense at all and was mean as a snake, to boot. But when Mr. Pembroke come to town he always told Uncle Lowell he wanted Teddy to be pullin' the cart. Didn't even want to be seen bein' pulled by a black mule."

Herbert chuckles at the memory. "That was one baadd mule, all right."

Joe continues. "So one day, ole Teddy jus' decides to lie down in the middle of the road, with Mr. Pembroke in the cart and everything. Now, Uncle Lowell starts beggin' the mule, then he gets to kickin' him, 'C'mon, Teddy! C'mon, mule, stand up!' And do you know what Mr. Pembroke says?"

Herbert, playing the straight man, says, "No, what'd he say?"

"He says, 'Lowell, what color is that mule?' An' my uncle says, 'Why, suh, that mule is white, suh.' And Mr. Pembroke says, 'Now, how do you talk to that white mule?' And Uncle Lowell says, 'Please get up, MISTAH Teddy, please get up!' "

With that the whole table cracks up. Kate, who has been sketching Joe and Herbert, smiles over at F.M.