The child’s hair was an odd two-inch length all over, but her face was composed and engaged. “Hi,” she said.

Acy looked down at her. “Hi what?”

She shrugged. “Hi hi?”

“Madeline, you can call me Daddy now.”

“This lady said my daddy’s in heaven.”

He gave his wife an uneasy glance. “Yes, and I’ve replaced him. I’m your new daddy. And you shouldn’t call Willa ‘this lady.’ You can call her Mother.”

The girl looked away and bit her top lip.

Willa sat down. “Can you call me Mother?” She made a face full of mock deference that the child saw through at once, narrowing her eyes and remaining silent. “Well, it’ll come in time.” She flipped a starched napkin across her lap.

The kitchen door flew open and Vessy swung into the room carrying two plates of food. She didn’t look at the child, even as her arm passed around the little head.

“Madeline, can you remember this gal’s name?” Acy asked.

The child picked up her fork and then looked at Vessy’s face, smiling slightly. “Miss Vessy,” she said.

Acy wiped his mouth and took a swallow of tea. “Just Vessy is sufficient,” he said.

“What’s ‘sufficient’?” The girl picked up a noodle with her fingers and dangled it like a fishing worm.

“It means good enough,” Acy told her. “You don’t put ‘Miss’ in front of a hillbilly girl’s name.”

The child watched as Vessy refilled the man’s glass of tea and silently left the room, her face artfully turned away from them.

AFTER LUNCH the girl was left in the upstairs nursery with the maid, and Willa came down to share an after-dinner drink with her husband. From a decanter kept out of sight in a side table, she poured herself three fingers of bourbon in two fingers of water.

Acy lit a cigar and leaned back into a velvet chair. “What did you tell Vessy?”

“The same.”

“What, exactly? I’ve got to keep tabs on all this explaining.”

Willa took a long sip and wiped her lips with a lace handkerchief. “That Madeline came from an orphanage in Cincinnati. Her head was shaved for sanitary reasons by the orphanage, and her parents were killed in a railroad accident of some sort, just recently.”

He puffed steadily, slowly exhausting the smoke. “Good,” he said. “Are you still happy?”

Willa’s face brightened. “Yes. She’s everything I could have wished for. Smart as a whip and pretty as can be.”

He looked out of the window down the hill. They had tried to have a baby for ten years, but something was wrong, and their physical enjoyment only mocked them. As more time passed, Willa’s longing for a child was something she couldn’t put out of her mind, and the barren years had nearly driven her crazy. They’d visited orphanages in several states, but even when they would find a bright-cheeked child, clever and healthy, Willa always saw something in the hopeful face that made it impossible to claim.

She poured herself another splash and took it down like a soft drink. “What are you thinking?”

“I don’t know. I’m glad we found Madeline. Glad she’s not an orphan.”

“Oh.” She remembered the trips, the smells of want, the expressions on small faces taught by being passed over for the smarter child, the blue-eyed child. These visits drove home that all orphans were unlucky, and she realized she wanted something else-a child fortunate enough to be currently loved. Perhaps she felt herself incapable of raising a child to whom she could give love. She didn’t really understand the feeling and was mystified by her husband’s powerful devotion.

Across town the sawmill whistle blew the get-ready signal to bring the workers off their lunch break, and Acy stood up, just a little dizzy from his toddy, and went to retrieve his straw hat from the hook. He moved to where his wife was sitting on an embroidered dining-room chair and gave her a kiss on the softest part of her cheek, next to the mouth, where a drop of bourbon burned his lips.

Chapter Seven

THE NEW ORLEANS papers advertised that the Ambassador would operate one dance trip at eight p.m. as a break-in for her new season. Sam boarded the boat that morning and went up to his cabin on the Texas deck, where his third mate’s uniform was laid out on the bunk, a blue jacket with a gold stripe on the sleeve and a billed officer’s cap, on its front a gold wreath encircling the name of the boat. He put it on and felt silly at first, but stepping out on deck and climbing upstairs to the Texas roof, he looked the glossy boat over fore and aft, and the cloth began to claim him. The outfit made him part of another trade as surely as did a railroader’s overalls or his fine floorwalker’s suits. Captain Stewart was standing next to the steps leading up to the pilothouse, surrounded by men also in uniform. He spoke curtly to one young man, who turned away and ran to a stairway, his shoes clattering down toward the water. To the next he said, “Well, tell him we want squirrel-nut coal. With the current so stiff we can’t use that damned Birmingham slag he’s so hot to sell us.” Another man peeled out of the group, and the captain turned to the third. “If the concession man doesn’t like our Negro band, tell him to put on blinders. They’ll save us twenty dollars a day in wages, and the dancers like their music better anyway.” To the next he said, “Look at the sky, man. It’s going to be hot, so run all the ceiling fans and put more steam to our generator engine. It don’t take a genius to figger that out.”

The last man, very old, short, wearing a neatly ironed uniform and bow tie, looked down as the captain put an arm over his shoulders and said, “Look, she’s a crackerjack pilot and she’s caught up on all the channel between here and St. Louis. She’s good up to Cincinnati as well.”

The old man shook his head. “She’s a lady, and I don’t know if she can think like a pilot’s got to think.”

“Her husband was Denk Benton.”

“I know who she is, all right.”

“She took a contract for a little more than half what you make,” the captain said, his voice more respectful. “Rafe, she worked on the Blazer with oil barges up the Ouachita.”

“She could handle the Blazer on that drainpipe of a river?”

“Yep.”

The little man shrugged off the captain’s arm. “Well, it’s all right with me if you want to risk turning your dance boat into five hundred tons of stovewood.”

“That’s the ticket, Rafe.” And the captain looked back at the stern, where a man was coming on carrying a big Stillson wrench. He glanced at Sam. “Now, who are you?”

“Sam Simoneaux.” He pointed to his hat. “Third mate.”

Captain Stewart stared at him, deadpan. “Remind me, son.”

“Elsie Weller asked you to hire me.”

He nodded. “Yes, that’s right. Walk the boat and meet everyone. Every last man. Keep your hat clean and drink your coffee.” He turned away when the smudged fellow carrying the wrench walked up and began complaining about his salary.

Since he was already on the roof he stepped up into the gingerbread wheelhouse, curious to meet this lady pilot. He was surprised to see Nellie Benton, the woman he’d delivered the horses to in town, standing behind the steering tillers wearing a navy polka-dot dress, a whorl of gray hair flowing from under a pilot’s cap.

“Well,” she said, “it’s the wagon master.”

He swallowed hard and knew he must be showing his surprise. “Hello, ma’am.”

“Hello yourself. I saw you wandering around down there. You ever see a lady pilot?”

“No, ma’am, I guess not.”

“Well, now that your curiosity’s settled, get on down to the engine room and ask Bit Benton-that’s the engineer on watch now-if he’s finished working on the steering engine. If he is, tell him to let me know through the speaking tube.”