we in de grave, six feets under de ground.'
His boss shook his head. 'White folks ain't that stupid. We dead an' buried, who gwine do their for work them? You answer me dat, an then I'll worry 'bout this here Freedom Party.'
'Huh,' Scipio said. He thought for a little while, then laughed a bit sheepishly. 'Mebbe you's right. Cain't you jus' see de po' buckra out in de cotton fields, wid de overseer yellin' an' cursin' at they to move they lazy white backsides?'
'Lawd have mercy, I wish to Jesus I could see me that,' Erasmus said. 'I pay money to see that. But it ain't gwine happen. White folks ain't about to get their soft hands all blistered an' dirty, an' we's safe enough because o' that.' A Negro in overalls came in and sat down at one of the half dozen rickety little tables in front of the counter where fish lay on ice. Erasmus pointed. 'Never mind this stupid stuff we can't do nothin' about anyways. Get yourself over there an' see what Pythagoras wants to eat.'
'Fried catfish an' cornbread,' the customer said as Scipio came up to him. 'Lemonade on the side.'
'I gets it for you,' Scipio answered. He turned to see whether Erasmus had heard the order or he'd have to relay it. His boss had already plucked a catfish from the ice; an empty spot showed where it had been. A moment later, hot lard sizzled as the fish, after a quick dip into egg batter, went into the frying pan.
Scipio poured lemonade and cut a chunk from the pan of moist, yellow cornbread Erasmus had baked that morning. He took the lemonade over to Pythagoras. By the time he got back, Erasmus had slapped the fried catfish onto the plate with the cornbread. He also dipped up a ladleful of greens from a cast-iron pot on the back of the stove and plopped them down alongside the fish.
'He don't ask for no greens,' Scipio said quietly.
'Once he sees 'em, he decide he wants 'em,' Erasmus said. 'He been comin' in here better'n ten years. You reckon I don't know what he wants?'
Without another word, Scipio took the plate over to Pythagoras. He had spent years learning to anticipate Anne Colleton's needs and to minister to them even before she knew she had them. If Erasmus had done the same with his regular customers, how could Scipio argue with him?
And, sure enough, Pythagoras waved to Erasmus and ate the greens with every sign of enjoyment. He ordered a slab of peach pie for dessert. Only after he'd polished that off did he turn a wary eye on Scipio and ask, 'What's all that come to?'
'Thirty-fi' dollars,' Scipio answered, and waited for the sky to fall.
Pythagoras only shrugged, sighed, and pulled a fat wad of banknotes from a hip pocket. He peeled off two twenties and set them on the table. 'Don' fret yourself none about no change,' he said as he stood up. 'Foe the war, I don't reckon I never had thirty-five dollars, not all at the same time. Money come easy now, but Lord! it sure do go easy, too.' He lifted his cloth cap in salute to Erasmus, then went back out onto the street.
'Do Jesus!' Scipio said. 'He sure enough right about dat.' Erasmus was paying him $500 a week after his latest raise, and feeding him dinner every day besides. Despite what would have looked like spectacular wealth in 1914, Scipio remained just one more poor Negro in the Terry.
Erasmus said, 'It ain't all bad. Couple weeks ago, I done took me a thousand dollars down to the bank so I could pay off the note on my house. Should have seen them white bankers fuss an' flop-jus' like a catfish on a hook, they was.' His reminiscent grin showed a couple of missing front teeth. 'Wasn't nothin' they could do about it, though. Money's money, ain't that right?' He laughed.
So did Scipio. 'Money's money,' he agreed, and laughed again. These days, the Confederate dollar would scarcely buy what a penny had bought before the war. For anyone in debt, cheap money was a godsend. For those who weren't, it was a disaster, or at best a challenge to make last week's salary pay for this week's groceries.
The eatery got more sit-down trade as afternoon darkened into evening. More women, though, threw down brown banknotes for fish they carried away wrapped in newspaper to fry for their husbands and brothers and children. Scipio watched Erasmus throw the story about the Freedom Party around a fat catfish that a fat woman with a bandanna on her head took off under her arm like a loaf of bread.
He wasn't sorry to see the story go. He wished somebody- God, perhaps-would use the Freedom Party itself to wrap fish. Whatever else you said about the skinny man who spoke for the party, he'd been terribly earnest. He'd believed every word of what he was saying. If that didn't make him all the more frightening, Scipio didn't know what would.
At last, Erasmus said, 'Might as well go on home, Xerxes. Don't reckon we's gwine get much more trade tonight. I see you inthemornin''
'All right.' Scipio left the little market and cafe and headed back to his roominghouse. He kept an eye open as he hurried along. The street lights in the Terry were few and far between; the white men who ran Augusta didn't waste a lot of money on the colored part of town. If anybody was thinking of equalizing the wealth in an altogether un-Marxist way, Scipio wanted to see him before being seen.
No one troubled him on the way to the roominghouse. No one troubled him when he got there, either. 'Evenin', Xerxes,' the landlady said when he walked up the stairs and into the front hall. 'Not so hot like it has been, is it?'
'No, ma'am,' Scipio said. He'd been paying the rent regularly for some time now. He was working steady hours, too, which made him a good bet to be able to go on paying the rent. Under those circumstances, no wonder the landlady sounded friendly.
He went on up to his neat little third-floor room, got out of his white shirt and black pants, and threw on a cheap, flimsy cotton robe over his drawers. Then, barefoot, he padded down to the bathroom at the end of the hall. Being butler at Marshlands had left him as fastidious about his person as he was about his surroundings, which meant he bathed more often than most of the people who shared the roominghouse with him.
But when he tried the bathroom door, it was locked. A startled splash came from within, and a woman's voice: 'Who's there?'
Scipio's ears heated. Had he been white, he would have blushed. 'It's Xerxes, Miss Bathsheba, from up the hall,' he said. 'Fs right sorry to 'sturb you.'
'Don't fret yourself none,' she said. 'I'm just about done.' More splashes: he judged she was getting out of the cramped tin tub. He smiled a little, letting his imagination peek through the closed door.
In a couple of minutes, that door opened. Out came Bathsheba, a pleasant-looking woman in her early thirties. Scipio thought she had a little white blood in her, though not enough to be called a mulatto. She wore a robe with a gaudy print, of the same cheap cotton cloth as his. She didn't hold it closed as well as she might have. At Marshlands, Scipio had mastered the art of looking without seeming to. He got himself a discreet eyeful now.
'See you later, Xerxes,' Bathsheba said, and headed up the hall past him. He turned his head to watch her go. She looked back at him over her shoulder. Her eyes sparkled.
'Well, well,' Scipio murmured. He hurried into the bathroom, ran the tub half full, and bathed as fast as he could. He would have bathed in a hurry anyhow; sitting down in a tub of cold water was a long way from a sensual delight. Now, though, he had an extra incentive, or hoped he did.
He went back to his room almost at a trot, and put on a fresh shirt and a pair of trousers. Have to take the laundry out soon, he thought. He started out the door again, then checked himself. When he did leave, he was carrying a flat pint bottle of whiskey. He didn't do a lot of drinking, but there were times… He knocked on the door to Bathsheba's room.
'That you, Xerxes?' she asked. When he admitted it, she opened the door, then shut it after him. She was still wearing that robe, and still not bothering to hold it closed very well. She pointed at the whiskey bottle. 'What you got there?' Her voice was arch; she knew perfectly well what he had-and why, too.
'Wonder if you wants to take a nip with me,' Scipio said.
By way of reply, Bathsheba got a couple of mismatched glasses and sat down at one end of a ratty sofa. When Scipio sat down, too, close beside her, he contrived-or maybe she did-to brush his leg against hers. She didn't pull away. He poured a healthy shot of whiskey into each glass.
They drank and talked, neither one of them in a hurry. After a while, Scipio slipped his arm around her. She leaned her head on his shoulder. He set down his glass, turned toward her, and tilted her face up for a kiss. Then his free hand slid inside her robe. He rapidly discovered she was naked under it.
Bathsheba laughed at what must have been his startled expression. 'I was hopin' you might stop by,' she said.
