to the downbeat of the other. Guitar spoke first.
“My man.”
Milkman ignored the greeting. “Why, Guitar? Just tell me why.”
“You took the gold.”
“What gold? There wasn’t any gold.”
“You took the gold.”
“The cave was empty, man. I got down on my stomach and looked in that pit. I put my hands—”
“You took the gold.”
“You’re crazy, Guitar.”
“Angry. Never crazy.”
“There wasn’t any gold!” Milkman tried hard not to shout.
“I saw you, motherfucker.”
“Saw me what?”
“Take the gold.”
“Where?”
“In Danville.”
“You saw me with gold in Danville?”
“I saw you with gold in Danville.”
“You’ve got to be kidding. What was I doing with it?”
“Shipping it.”
“Shipping it?”
“Yeah. Why the game, man? You just greedy, like your old man? Or what?” Guitar’s eyes rested on the last butter cookie in Milkman’s hand. He frowned and began to breathe through his lips.
“Guitar, I didn’t ship no gold. There wasn’t any gold to ship. You couldn’t have seen me.”
“I saw you, baby. I was in the station.”
“What fuckin station?”
“The freight station in Danville.”
Milkman remembered then, going to look for Reverend Cooper, looking all over for him. Then going into the station house to see if he’d gone, and there helping a man lift a huge crate onto the weighing platform. He started to laugh. “Oh, shit. Guitar, that wasn’t no gold. I was just helping that man lift a crate. He asked me to help him. Help him lift a big old crate. I did and then I split.”
Guitar looked at the cookie again, then back into Milkman’s eyes. Nothing changed in his face. Milkman knew it sounded lame. It was the truth, but it sounded like a lie. A weak lie too. He also knew that in all his life, Guitar had never seen Milkman give anybody a hand, especially a stranger; he also knew that they’d even discussed it, starting with Milkman’s not coming to his mother’s rescue in a dream he had. Guitar had accused him of selfishness and indifference; told him he wasn’t serious, and didn’t have any fellow feeling—none whatsoever. Now he was standing there saying that he willingly, spontaneously, had helped an old white man lift a huge, heavy crate. But it was true. It was true. And he’d prove it.
“Guitar, why am I here? If I was shipping gold back home, why am I here dressed like this? Would I be roaming around in the country like a fool with a crate of gold off somewhere? Would I? What the fuck would I do that for and then come here?”
“Maybe you shipped the gold
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“I looked! I saw it! You hear me? I drove down there, followed you there, because I had a funny feeling that you were pulling a fast one. I wasn’t sure, but I felt it. If I was wrong, I’d help you get it. But I wasn’t wrong. I got into Danville that afternoon. I drove right past the freight depot and there you were in your little beige suit. I parked and followed you into the station. When I got there I saw you shipping it. Giving it to the man. I waited until you left, and I went back in and asked the cracker if my friend”—he slurred the word—“had shipped a crate to Michigan. The man said no. Just one crate on the load, he said. Just one crate. And when I asked him where it was going, all he could remember was Virginia.” Guitar smiled. “The bus you caught wasn’t headed for Michigan. It was headed for Virginia. And here you are.”
Milkman felt whipped. There was nothing to do but let it play.
“Was my name on the crate?”
“I didn’t look.”
“Would I send a crate of gold to Virginia—
“You might. You did.”
“Is that why you tried to kill me?”
“Yes.”
“Because I ripped you off?”
