The man walked over to the side of the store and slid open the door of an ancient cooler. The floor was worn and wavy with years of footsteps. Cans of goods on the shelf were sparse, but the sacks, trays, and cartons of perishables and semiperishables were plentiful. The man pulled a bottle of red liquid from the cooler and wiped it dry on his apron before handing it to Milkman.
“A nickel if you drink it here. Seven cents if you don’t.”
“I’ll drink it here.”
“Just get in?”
“Yeah. Car broke down. Is there a garage nearby?”
“Naw. Five miles yonder is one, though.”
“Five miles?”
“Yep. What’s the trouble? Mebbe one a us can fix it. Where you headed?”
“Shalimar.”
“You standin in it.”
“Right here? This is Shalimar?”
“Yes, suh. Shalimar.” The man pronounced it
“Good thing I broke down. I would have missed it for sure.” Milkman laughed.
“Your friend almost missed it too.”
“My friend? What friend?”
“The one lookin for you. Drove in here early this mornin and axed for ya.”
“Asked for me by name?”
“No. He never mentioned your name.”
“Then how do you know he was looking for me?”
“Said he was lookin for his friend in a three-piece beige suit. Like that.” He pointed to Milkman’s chest.
“What’d he look like?”
“Dark-skinned man. ‘Bout your complexion. Tall. Thin. What’s a matter? Y’all get your wires crossed?”
“Yeah. No. I mean … what was his name?”
“Didn’t say. Just asked for you. He come a long way to meet you, though. I know that. Drove a Ford with Michigan tags.”
“Michigan? You sure Michigan?”
“Sure I’m sure. Was he supposed to meet you in Roanoke?”
When Milkman looked wild-eyed, the man said, “I seen your tags.”
Milkman sighed with relief. And then said, “I wasn’t sure where we were going to meet up. And he didn’t say his name?”
“Naw. Just said to give you some good-luck message if I was to see you. Lemme see…”
“Good luck?”
“Yeah. Said to tell you your day was sure coming or your day…something like that…your day is here. But I know it had a day in it. But I ain’t sure if he said it was comin or was already here.” He chuckled. “Wish mine was here. Been waitin fifty-seven years and it ain’t come yet.”
The other men in the store laughed congenially, while Milkman stood frozen, everything in him quiet but his heart. There was no mistaking the message. Or the messenger. Guitar was looking for him, was following him, and for professional reasons. Unless … Would Guitar joke about that phrase? That special secret word the Seven Days whispered to their victims?
“The drink abuse you?” Mr. Solomon was looking at him. “Sweet soda water don’t agree with me.”
Milkman shook his head and swallowed the rest hurriedly. “No,” he said. “I’m just…car weary. I think I’ll sit outside awhile.” He started toward the door.
“You want me to see ‘bout your car for you?” Mr. Solomon sounded slightly offended.
“In a minute. I’ll be right back.”
Milkman pushed the screen door and stepped outside on the porch. The sun was blazing. He took off his jacket and held it on his forefinger over his shoulder. He gazed up and down the dusty road. Shotgun houses with wide spaces between them, a few dogs, chickens, children, and the women with nothing in their hands. They sat on porches, and walked in the road swaying their hips under cotton dresses, bare-legged, their unstraightened hair braided or pulled straight back into a ball. He wanted one of them bad. To curl up in a cot in that one’s arms, or that one, or that. That’s the way Pilate must have looked as a girl, looked even now, but out of place in the big northern city she had come to. Wide sleepy eyes that tilted up at the corners, high cheekbones, full lips blacker than their skin, berry-stained, and long long necks. There must be a lot of intermarriage in this place, he thought. All the women looked alike, and except for some light-skinned red-headed men (like Mr. Solomon), the men looked very much like the women. Visitors to Shalimar must be rare, and new blood that settled here nonexistent.
Milkman stepped off the porch, scattering the hens, and walked down the road toward a clump of trees near a building that looked like a church or clubhouse of some sort. Children were playing behind the trees. Spreading his jacket on the burnt grass, he sat down and lit a cigarette.
