Whale Season Read Online Free PDF Page B

as such clubs were called.
    After all the other bars closed—the bars for “Whites Only,” and those where “Coloreds” were allowed to sit near the toilets, but not to use them—anybody who could still drive would cruise over to The Dream Café. Jimmy Ray and the band would play until the sun rose. BYOB. Mixes available. Anything that happened behind The Café’s doors stayed there.
    At sunrise, the band, the dancers, the drunks, and the lovers—the “black” and “tan” who only had this place, this moment—would all eat breakfast together. It was served family style in overflowing plates passed around the table. Country ham baked in milk with crackling bread and wild orange jelly. Pancakes with cane syrup. And lots of Cuban coffee, sweet and thick.
    Growing up, Dagmar and her mother lived in a trailer behind The Café. On Saturday mornings, Dagmar would take her place at the table and have breakfast with the adults.
    It was magical. They spoke to her about things she knew nothing about, like politics and travel. It was like being in a movie. The women were birthday cake beautiful with their bouffant hair, pale pink lips, and rhinestones, lots of rhinestones in their ears, on their shoes, sewn into the fabric of their Sunday-best dresses. They sparkled like so many candles. And the men that encircled them, arms casual across the backs of their chairs, Dagmar remembers them, too. Their slick hair, their silk shirts, their diamond rings, and the smell of spice and tobacco. They reminded her of pirates.
    She still remembers every detail of those mornings. The way the dawn smelled, the heady mix of salt air and dew. The way people spoke in whispers. But most of all she remembers her mama, Annie. Her hair was the color of peaches, just like Dagmar’s, as was her skin. The lack of sleep always made her voice smoky. “Give us a kiss, sugar,” she’d growl and pull Dagmar into her tired arms, give her a little squeeze. “You okay, darling?”
    And Dagmar would nod, even if she wasn’t okay, and hold her mother’s face in her small hands like one does a firefly—amazed at the light, not wanting to let go, but knowing you had to.
    Her mother had always talked about leaving, about going to a real town like Chicago: a town with something to do, something other than watch each other grow old and die. “Florida is heaven’s waiting room,” she’d say. “And God’s not ready for the likes of us yet.”
    Sometimes Dagmar would come home from school and find her mother passed out on the couch, smelling of strawberry wine and cigarettes.
General Hospital
blaring on the television. Jimmy Ray would usually stop by around suppertime and bring dinner.
    â€œMama needs her rest,” he’d say, and he and Dagmar would sit on the steps of the trailer and gnaw at the bones of BBQ, or fried chicken.
    â€œWe’re going caveman today, gal.”
    And they’d talk about anything and everything, except Annie.
    The last time she saw her mother was at Saturday breakfast. Dagmar was just fourteen years old but knew there was something wrong. Annie seemed nervous. Wouldn’t look her in the eye. Kissed her too hard. And when the coffee was being poured, she stood up and said, “My baby’s learning French.” Which was true, but everybody stopped talking and stared. Breakfast wasn’t a situation usually given to announcements and her mother’s voice was pulled taut.
    â€œThat’s my girl,” Annie creaked. “Citizen of the world.” Her eyes were filled with tears.
    Most at the table just nodded and went back to their conversations. But Jimmy Ray leaned over to Dagmar and said, “You know, I know some French. Learned in New Orleans. That’s a town where they know how to
vo-lay-vo
.” And then he winked.
    Everyone laughed, but not her mother. Annie leaned into Jimmy Ray and