Song of Solomon

The September heat blasted him as soon as he got outside, and wiped out the pleasant effects of his bath. Macon had taken the Buick—age forced him to walk less—so Milkman went on foot to Guitar’s house. As he rounded the corner, he noticed a familiar-looking gray Oldsmobile, a jagged crack in the rear window, parked in front of the house. Several men were inside and two were standing outside: Guitar and Railroad Tommy. Milkman slowed his steps. Tommy was talking, while Guitar nodded his head. Then the two men shook hands—a handshake Milkman had never seen before: first Tommy held Guitar’s hand in both his own, then Guitar held Tommy’s hand in his two. Tommy got in the car and Guitar dashed around the house to the side stairs that led to his room. The Oldsmobile —Milkman figured it was a 1953 or 1954 model—made a tight U-turn and headed toward him. When it passed by, all the occupants looked straight ahead. Porter was driving, with Empire State in the middle and Railroad Tommy on the far side, and in the back seat was Hospital Tommy and a man named Nero. Milkman didn’t know the other man.

That must be them, he thought. His heart beat wildly. Six men, one of them Porter, and Guitar. Those are the Days. And that car. That was the car that let Corinthians off near the house sometimes. Milkman had first assumed his sister had an occasional lift home from her job. Later, since she never mentioned it, and also because she seemed quieter and rounder lately, he decided she was seeing some man on the sly. He thought it funny, sweet and a little sad. But now he knew that whoever she was seeing belonged to that car and belonged to the Seven Days. Foolish woman, he thought. Of all the people to pick. She was so silly. So silly. Jesus!

He wasn’t up to Guitar now. He would see him later.

People behaved much better, were more polite, more understanding when Milkman was drunk. The alcohol didn’t change him at all, but it had a tremendous impact on whomever he saw while he was under its influence. They looked better, never spoke above a whisper, and when they touched him, even to throw him out of the house party because he had peed in the kitchen sink, or when they picked his pockets as he dozed on a bench at the bus station, they were gentle, loving.

He stayed that way, swaying from light buzz to stoned, for two days and a night, and would have extended it to at least another day but for a sobering conversation with Magdalene called Lena, to whom he had not said more than four consecutive sentences since he was in the ninth grade.

She was waiting for him at the top of the stairs when he came home early one morning. Wrapped in a rayon robe and without her glasses, she looked unreal yet kind, like the man who had picked his pocket a short while ago.

“Come here. I want to show you something. Can you come in here for a minute?” She was whispering.

“Can’t it wait?” He was kind too; and he was proud of the civility in his voice, considering how tired he was.

“No,” she said. “No. You have to see it now. Today. Just look at it.”

“Lena, I’m really beat out…” he began in sweet reasonableness.

“It won’t take more’n a minute. It’s important.”

He sighed and followed her down the hall into her bedroom. She walked to the window and pointed. “Look down there.”

In what seemed to him like elegant if slow motion, Milkman went to the window, parted the curtain, and followed her pointing finger with his eyes. All he saw was the lawn at the side of the house. Not a thing was moving there, but in the light of early day he thought he might have missed it.

“What?”

“That little maple. Right there.” She pointed to a tiny maple tree about four feet high. “The leaves should be turning red now. September is almost over. But they’re not; they’re just shriveling and falling down green.”

He turned to her and smiled. “You said it was important.” He was not angry, not even irritated, and he enjoyed his equanimity.

“It is important. Very important.” Her voice was soft; she kept on staring at the tree.

“Then tell me. I’ve got to go to work in a few minutes.”

“I know. But you can spare me a minute, can’t you?”

“Not to stare at a dead bush, I can’t.”

“It’s not dead yet. But it will be soon. The leaves aren’t turning this year.”

“Lena, you been in the sherry?”

“Don’t make fun of me,” she said, and there was a hint of steel in her voice.

“But you have, haven’t you?”

“You’re not paying any attention to me.”

“I am. I’m standing here listening to you tell me the news of the day—that a bush is dying.”

“You don’t remember it, do you?”

“Remember it?”

“You peed on it.”

“I what?”

“You peed on it.”

“Lena, maybe we can discuss this later….”

“And on me.”

“Uh…Lena, I have done some things in my life. Some things I don’t feel too good about. But I swear to God I never peed on you.”