more. Her face was devastated and beautiful; far more lovely, Ptolemy thought, than Robyn. But he still liked Robyn better. He liked her way around him. She knew how to speak when he needed her.
Nina rose up and put her arms around Ptolemy. Again he felt lost in a soft hug. It was like sinking into a warm tub at the end of a hard day.
“He loved you so much, Mr. Grey,” Nina said. She smelled sweet from perfume. Too sweet.
“What happened to him?” the old man asked, pulling away as he spoke.
When Nina fell back on the bed the toddler whined and Arthur put his hand on her cheek. She embraced her brother’s fingers with her head and shoulder. This gentle show of affection seemed to make the room clearer to Ptolemy. It was as if he was seeing something the way that minister had, in front of his white church so long before.
“They shot him down,” Nina said.
“Who shot him?”
“Drive-by.”
“Who’s that?”
“Nobody knows,” Robyn said. “Somebody jes’ shot him when he was sittin’ on a porch of a friend’a his.”
“But they say his name was Drivebee.”
“No. The men drove by in their car and jes’ shot him.”
The little girl was crying. Arthur lay down behind her and put his arms around her shoulders.
“Why?” Ptolemy asked.
“Nobody knows.”
Ptolemy squinted, trying to see with his mind’s eye the reasoning behind Reggie’s murder. He remembered his hidden box and a promise he’d made Coydog before the old man was dragged off and killed like some wild animal. It was something that happened to colored men and boys ever since they left the land of Ptolemy, father of Cleopatra.
There came the sound of heavy feet down the hall.
“Nina?” a man’s voice called from outside the room.
Ptolemy turned just in time to see a man come through the door. It was a freckle-faced, strawberry-brown man with straightened, combed-back hair. He was handsome but had a wild look to him as if there were something or someone right behind him, ready to strike. The man was tall and wore a purple shirt that was open down to the bottom of his chest. He wore a thick gold chain that held a pendant which formed the name
Reggie’s wife rose from the bed like a creature coming up out of the water. Her movements were fluid, graceful. The idea of dancing came into Ptolemy’s wandering mind.
“Alfred,” she said.
They grabbed each other, kissed on the lips, and then pressed their cheeks and bodies together.
“Who’s that, Mama?” Arthur asked.
“Who’s this?” Alfred asked, looking at Ptolemy.
“This is ...” Nina began saying but she had forgotten the name.
“Mr. Ptolemy Grey,” Robyn said, snipping her words to their shortest possible length. “Reggie’s great- uncle.”
“Who’s that, Mama?” Arthur asked again.
“Oh,” Alfred said. “Hey, Mr. Grey. I’m sorry for your loss.”
“If your name is Alfred, how come you got a sign sayin’ Georgie hangin’ from your neck?”
A flash of anger crossed the haunted man’s face.
“He don’t mean nuthin’, Alfred,” Robyn said. “It’s just a question.”
“Georgie was my brother,” Alfred said angrily. “They shot him down.”
“They shoot your brother too?”
“What?” Alfred said, jutting his head toward Ptolemy.
Robyn moved between the men.
“He’s a old man, Alfred,” she said. “He sit all day in his house listenin’ to German music and readin’ old papers.”
“He bettah get some news, then,” Alfred said threateningly.
Nina went to Alfred’s side and took his arm.
“We bettah get outta here, Alfie,” the grieving widow and mother said.
But Alfred was not finished staring at the old man.
Ptolemy thought it was funny that a fool like that would try and intimidate him. He wasn’t afraid. He wasn’t afraid hardly at all.
“Yeah,” Alfred said. “I come to take you and the kids back to your house.”
