Song of Solomon

“Can if the winner is Reba,” Hagar said. “The only reason they got a second was cause she was the first. And the only reason they gave it to her was because of them cameras.”

“Tell ’em why you was in Sears, Reba.”

“Looking for a toilet.” Reba threw her head back to let the laughter escape. Her hands were stained with blackberry juice, and when she wiped the tears from her eyes she streaked the purple from her nose to her cheekbone. Much lighter than Pilate or Hagar, Reba had the simple eyes of an infant. All of them had a guileless look about them, but complication and something more lurked behind Pilate’s and Hagar’s faces. Only Reba, with her light pimply skin and deferential manner, looked as though her simplicity might also be vacuousness.

“Ain’t but two toilets downtown they let colored in: Mayflower Restaurant and Sears. Sears was closer. Good thing nature wasn’t in a hurry. They kept me there fifteen minutes gettin my name and address to send the diamond over to me. But I wouldn’t let ’em send it to me. I kept asking them, Is this a real contest? I don’t believe you.”

“It was worth a diamond ring to get you out of there. Drawing a crowd and getting ready to draw flies,” said Hagar.

“What’re you going to do with the ring?” Milkman asked her.

“Wear it. Seldom I win something I like.”

“Everything she win, she give away,” Hagar said.

“To a man,” said Pilate.

“She don’t never keep none of it….”

“That’s what she want to win—a man….”

“Worse’n Santa Claus….”

“Funny kind of luck ain’t no luck at all….”

“He comes just once a year….”

Hagar and Pilate pulled the conversation apart, each yanking out some thread of comment more to herself than to Milkman or Guitar—or even Reba, who had dropped her ring back inside her dress and was smiling sweetly, and deftly separating the royal-purple berries from their twigs.

Milkman was five feet seven then but it was the first time in his life that he remembered being completely happy. He was with his friend, an older boy—wise and kind and fearless. He was sitting comfortably in the notorious wine house; he was surrounded by women who seemed to enjoy him and who laughed out loud. And he was in love. No wonder his father was afraid of them.

“When will this wine be ready?” he asked.

“This batch? Few weeks,” Pilate said.

“You gonna let us have some?” Guitar smiled.

“Sure. You want some now? Plenty wine in the cellar.”

“I don’t want that. I want some of this. Some of the wine I made.”

“You think you made this?” Pilate laughed at him. “You think this all there is to it? Picking a few berries?”

“Oh.” Guitar scratched his head. “I forgot. We got to mash them in our bare feet.”

“Feet? Feet?” Pilate was outraged. “Who makes wine with they feet?”

“Might taste good, Mama,” said Hagar.

“Couldn’t taste no worse,” Reba said.

“Your wine any good, Pilate?” asked Guitar.

“Couldn’t tell you.”

“Why not?”

“Never tasted it.”

Milkman laughed. “’t even taste?”

“Folks don’t buy it for the taste. Buy it to get drunk.”

Reba nodded. “Used to anyway. Ain’t buying nothing now.”

“Don’t nobody want no cheap home brew. The Depression’s over,” Hagar said. “Everybody got work now. They can afford to buy Four Roses.”

“Plenty still buy,” Pilate told her.

“Where you get the sugar for it?” Guitar asked.

“Black market,” said Reba.

“What ‘plenty’? Tell the truth, Mama. If Reba hadn’t won that hundred pounds of groceries, we’d have starved last winter.”

“Would not.” Pilate put a fresh piece of twig in her mouth.

“We would have.”

“Hagar, don’t contradict your mama,” Reba whispered.

“Who was gonna feed us?” Hagar was insistent. “Mama can go for months without food. Like a lizard.”