him, but the part that was clear was enough to keep him alert and jittery all the way.
The Byrd house sat on a neat lawn separated by a white picket fence from the field grass on either side of the property. A child’s swing dangled from a cedar tree; four little steps painted blue led up to the porch, and from the window, between fluttering curtains, came the smell of gingerbread baking.
A woman who looked to be about his mother’s age answered the door.
“Miss Byrd?” Milkman asked her.
“Yes?”
“How are you? My name is, uh, Macon, and I’m visiting here for a few days. I’m from Michigan and I think some of my people lived here a long time ago. I was hoping you’d be able to help me.”
“Help you what?” She sounded arch and Milkman had the distinct impression that this lady did not like the color of his skin.
“Find them. I mean find out about them. We’re all split up, my family, and some folks in town thought you might know some of them.”
“Who’s that, Susan?” Another woman’s voice came from behind her.
“Somebody to see
“Well, why don’t you ask him in? Don’t make him state his business on the steps.”
Miss Byrd sighed. “Please come in, Mr. Macon.”
Milkman followed her into a pleasant living room full up with sunshine. “Excuse me,” she said. “I didn’t mean to be rude. Please have a seat.” She motioned to a gray velvet wing-back chair. A woman in a two-piece print dress came into the room, clutching a paper napkin in her hand and chewing on something.
“Who’d you say?” She addressed her question to Miss Byrd, but ran inquisitive eyes over Milkman.
Miss Byrd held out a hand. “This is a friend of mine—Miss Long. Grace Long—Mr….”
“How do you do?” Grace held out her hand to him.
“Fine, thank you.”
“Mr. Macon, is it?”
“Yes.”
“Susan, perhaps Mr. Macon would like some refreshment.” Miss Long smiled and sat on the sofa facing the gray chair.
“Well, he just stepped foot in the door, Grace. Give me time.” Miss Byrd turned to Milkman. “Would you like a cup of coffee or some tea?”
“Sure. Thanks.”
“Which one?”
“Coffee’s all right.”
“You’ve got butter cookies, Susan. Give him some of those butter cookies.”
Miss Byrd gave her friend a tired frown. “I’ll just be a minute,” she said to Milkman, and left the room.
“Yes, well. Did I hear you say you were visiting in these parts? We don’t see too many visitors.” Grace crossed her ankles. Like Susan Byrd, she wore black laced shoes and cotton stockings. As she made herself comfortable, she inched her dress up a little.
“Yes, visiting.”
“You in the service?”
“Ma’am? Oh, no. I was hunting last night. Some friends lent me these.” He smoothed the seam Sweet had made in the fatigues.
“Hunting? Oh, Lord, don’t tell me you’re one of them. I can’t stand those hunting people. They make me sick, always prowling round other people’s property. Day and night they’re shooting up the world. I tell my students—I’m a schoolteacher, you know, I teach over at the normal school. Have you seen it yet?”
“No, not yet.”
“Well, there’s nothing to see, really. Just a school, like any other. But you’re welcome to stop by. We’d be pleased to have you. Where you from again?”
“Michigan.”
“I thought so. Susan!” She turned around. “He’s from up North.” Then back to Milkman: “Where are you staying?”
“Well, nowhere yet. I just met a few people in town and…”
Susan Byrd came in with a tray of coffee cups and a plate of wide pale cookies.
“He’s from Michigan,” said Grace.
“I heard him. How do you take your coffee?”
“Black.”
“Black? No cream or sugar at all?” asked Grace. “Wish I could do that; maybe I could get back into a twelve. But it’s never going to happen now.” She pressed one hand on her hip and smiled at Milkman.
