Let the Fire Fall

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ON the Ohio River at the curve where Cincinnati, the Queen City, was allowed to sprawl up and down hills, and more specifically, on the Kentucky side, where Covington snaked along the one highway up the steep hill flanked by two-storied frame buildings with dirty windows and heterogeneous shops that ran together and merged: Whiskey by the drink; cleaners—while u wait; juvenile furniture; drugs and sundries; cafeteria; fish sandwiches; this is where it started.

There was Florence Waters, no more than a child, with the immense belly of one about to give birth. She had gained forty-two pounds, and her mother was having her weekly cry over the sin of the daughter. Florence had sneaked from the home for unwed mothers in order to take the bus across the bridge to spend the day with her mother because she was not allowed in the house when her father was there.

The father of the unborn bastard, Obie Cox, the Adonis of Covington, was at the same time trying his damnedest to knock up yet another of the town’s young ladies. Nineteen, still described by the middle-aged women as a beautiful child, he had light blue eyes, and gorgeous silver blond hair that was too long, but which couldn’t be faulted because it was such lovely hair, with just enough wave, a new curly beard that hid his acne scars, and teeth that were slightly out of line, so that those who might otherwise have been hostile to him because of his good looks were instead sympathetic. Obie was still the prize catch for the girls under eighteen. Older than that, they were starting to look for other things than a beautiful body, things like stability and a solid future and a less fickle disposition, but those under eighteen were properly dazzled by his appearance.

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