Carnal Innocence

charitable organization or some other group sneakily begging for money were tossed in a paper sack at his side.
    Tucker’s way of handling them was to dig into the bag once a month, choosing two envelopes at random. Those would receive generous contributions, whether they were for the World Wildlife Fund, the American Red Cross, or the Society for the Prevention of Hangnails. In this way, Tucker felt the Longstreets were fulfilling their charitable obligations. And if certain organizations were confused when they received a check for several thousand dollars one month, and nothing for several years thereafter, he figured it was their problem.
    He had problems of his own.
    The simple routine of sorting the mail helped shift those problems to the back of his mind, at least for the moment. The fact was, he didn’t know what his next move should be, since Edda Lou wasn’t even talking to him. She’d had two days to follow up on her staggering public announcement, but was apparently playing possum. Not only hadn’t she contacted him, but she wasn’t answering her phone.
    It was worrying—particularly since he’d had a taste of her temper and knew she could lash out with the stealth and skill of a water moccasin. Waiting for the sting made Tucker jumpy.
    He piled up the YOU ARE A WINNER! envelopes Dwayneliked to ship off to his kids, and found the lilac-colored and scented stationery that could only belong to one person.
    “Cousin Lulu.” His grin flashed and his worries drained away.
    Lulu Longstreet Boyston was from the Georgia Longstreets and a cousin of Tucker’s grandfather. Speculation put her age in the mid-seventies, though she had stubbornly clung to sixty-five for many years. She was spit-in-your-face rich, a dainty five foot in her sensible shoes, and crazy as a June bug.
    Tucker flat out adored her. Though the letter was addressed TO MY LONGSTREET COUSINS , he ripped it open himself. He wasn’t about to wait until Dwayne and Josie wandered back from wherever they’d gone.
    He read the first paragraph, written with a hot-pink felt tip, and let out a hoot.
    Cousin Lulu was coming to call.
    She always phrased it just that way, so you could never tell if she’d stay for dinner or settle in for a month. Tucker sincerely hoped it was the latter. He needed a distraction.
    The last time she’d come to call, she’d brought along a whole crate of ice cream cakes packed in dry ice, and had worn a paper party hat with an ostrich feather poking through the pointy top. She’d kept that damn hat on for a full week, waking and sleeping, saying she was celebrating birthdays. Anybody’s birthday.
    Tucker licked strawberry jam from his fingers, then tossed the rest of his toast to Buster. Leaving the rest of the mail to be picked up later, he started toward the door. He was going to tell Della to have Cousin Lulu’s room ready and waiting.
    Even as he swung open the door, Tucker heard the dyspeptic rattle of Austin Hatinger’s pick-up. There was only one vehicle in Innocence that made that particular grunt-rattle-belch sound. After giving one brief thought to going inside and barring the doors, Tucker turned and walked out to the porch, prepared to face the music.
    Not only could he hear Austin coming, he could seehim, by the stream of black smoke rising up between the magnolias. With a half-hearted sigh, Tucker waited for the truck to come into view, and pulling a cigarette out of his pocket, broke off a fraction of the tip.
    He was just enjoying his first drag when the truck pulled up and Austin Hatinger rolled out of it.
    He was as grizzled and bulky as the old Ford, but was held together by sinew and muscle rather than bailing twine and spit. Beneath his grease-stained planter’s hat, his face looked as if it had been carved out of tree bark. Deep lines flared out from his walnut-colored eyes, scored his wind-burned cheeks, and bracketed his hard, unsmiling mouth.
    Not a speck of hair showed beneath the hat. Not that Austin was bald. Every month he drove into the barber shop and had his gray-flecked hair buzzed. Perhaps, Tucker sometimes thought, in memory of the four years he’d served in the Corps.
Semper Fi.
That was just one of the sentiments he had tattooed on his cinder-block arms. Along with it, rippling over muscle, was the American flag.
    Austin—who would be the first to tell you he was a God-fearing Christian—had never gone in for such frivolities as dancing girls.
    He spit a stream of Red