Where Southern Cross the Dog by Allen Whitley Page B

out.”
    Raymond scowled as he corrected the other numbers and gave the woman her purchases. Travis turned away. He knew Raymond was furious.
    At last Rachel emerged from the back of the store.
    â€œWhere’ve you been?” he said. “Let’s go.”
    â€œOkay, just a minute.”
    â€œC’mon, Rache, let’s go now!” Then she disappeared again.
    Travis walked back outside to the car. A couple of minutes later Rachel came out, carrying a paper sack and accompanied by a young woman. Travis guessed she was almost his age.
    â€œWhat’s in the bag?” Travis asked.
    â€œI’ll tell you in the car,” Rachel said. “Get in. We’re going to give someone a ride home.”
    â€œOkay.”
    They all got in, Rachel in the front, and their guest in the backseat. Travis had pulled onto the highway and was headed back toward town before his sister spoke.
    â€œThis is Hannah Morgan,” she said. “Sometimes she works at the commissary with me when they need extra help.”
    â€œHello, Hannah,” Travis said.
    â€œHannah,” she continued, “this is my brother, Travis.”
    â€œHow do you do, Travis,” Hannah said.
    An awkward silence held for a few moments as the setting sun cast a long beam of light into the car. It filled the backseat, dancing around Hannah’s face and hair, its brilliance enhancing her beauty. Her skin was flawless, her eyes bright, her features matchless.
    â€œWhat’s in the bag?” Travis asked again.
    â€œOh, these are some books for Hannah,” Rachel said. “She can’t get all the good ones she wants down at her library, so I’ve been checking some out for her. But we don’t like to let anyone know what we’re doing. You know—”
    â€œWhat do you like to read, Hannah?” Travis asked.
    â€œMostly the classics,” she said. “Shakespeare, books like that. Some poetry, too.”
    â€œHannah’s father is in the insurance business,” Rachel said.
    â€œIs his name Richard?”
    â€œYes, it is,” replied Hannah, somewhat puzzled.
    â€œI met him the other day at Mr. Hollingsworth’s funeral home. He seems very nice.”
    â€œI’m sure he is, but he’s still my father. My view is somewhat different.”
    â€œYou haven’t been in Clarksdale long, have you?”
    â€œNo. We moved down a few months ago from Philadelphia, to be near my grandmother. My parents were worried about her health, although she’s never been sick and doesn’t seem to be now. She used to visit us when we lived in Atlanta, and she lived with us up North for a little while. But she wanted to come back home.”
    Silence fell again. Finally, Hannah broke it. “It’s nice living near my grandmother. She’s the one who got me interested in books. She taught me to read.”
    â€œYou came from Philadelphia?” Travis said. “You don’t usually hear about people moving to the South from up North. That’s the wrong direction for most people in the Delta. Were you in school there?”
    â€œAt Cheyney University,” Hannah said, still gazing out the window. “I’m helping my grandmother now. I’ll go back to school next year, closer to Clarksdale.”
    Travis entered the city limits. “Where do you live?” he asked, trying to keep his voice calm, though he knew perfectly well what side of Clarksdale Hannah Morgan lived on.
    â€œDo you know where the Brickyard area is?” Hannah asked.
    â€œYes,” Travis said.
    â€œWe live on Mississippi Avenue.”
    To get to Brickyard, Travis first had to drive through Roundyard, a neighborhood immediately south of Brickyard next to the Sunflower River. They looked out the windows at Roundyard’s small homes, many adorned with dry flaky paint and drooping roofs.
    â€œMost of these homes are rentals,” Travis said. “You’d