Walkers

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At ten o'clock on the eleventh of June the party at the Marina Village was hitting its stride. Colored spotlights played over the dancers while a driving disco record boomed from four huge speakers placed around the tile recreation deck. In the clumps of shrubbery that were scattered throughout the courtyard of the apartment complex, young couples sat together away from the music and talked softly about sweet private things. The long table where the food had been was a ruin of bent paper plates, crumpled napkins, chicken bones, chewed ribs, bits of salads, Frito crumbs, toothpicks, and bowls with just traces of dip remaining in the bottoms. Tubs of crushed ice contained cans of Michelob and jugs of Carlo Rossi burgundy. Beyond the dancers an empty, oversized swimming pool glittered a bright-lighted turquoise.

Joana Raitt danced easily and naturally to the thumping music. Her soft brown hair bounced at the nape of her neck, her hazel eyes were bright and alive under the stars. She looked good tonight in her clinging T-shirt and tight white jeans, and in a completely unaffected way she knew it.

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