Sunday.?
?Sorry, Miss Prine,? Milton said. But he was thinking about Socrates then, casting sidelong glances at the man.
By then they were headed north on Highland up toward Barhum. The car
feel like a boat to Socrates. It almost floated on the streets of L.A., banking instead of turning, never jolting at a stop.
?Where'd you hear that about Saint Augustine?? Luvia Prine asked. Socrates was expecting the question but not from her.
?I got that at the Capricorn Bookstore. I used to go there before it got burnt down in the riots.?
?You knew the Minettes?? Luvia asked.
?Enough to eat at their apartment over here offa Forty-seventh Street.?
In the rearview mirror Socrates could see his words register on Luvia. He felt a childish glee that she had something close to respect for him if only just for a moment or two.
?I never heard'a that place,? Milton said.
?It was a black bookstore where anybody could go an' read and talk,? Socrates said. ?They had art shows and poetry readin's but I didn't go in too much for that. I liked to read about all the history that we got an' we don't even know about. About alla the lies we tell each other but here we go thinkin' we tellin' the truth.?
?What's that supposed to mean?? Milton wanted to know.
?Like Luvia.?
?What you mean like me?? the landlady said angrily.
?You didn't know that Augustine was African and you in church every minute you can find. Maybe your minister don't know it. All kinda stuff they teach us and then we go passin' it around like it was gospel. All up and down the street you got people believin' lies about each other and tellin' them lies like they was the Lord themselves.?
?I didn't tell you that I didn't know Augustine was an African,? Luvia said. ?And why should I believe you anyway??
?Oscar Minette was the one told me, Miss Prine. But that's okay. I didn't mean to insult you. I was just sayin'.?
The car went quiet after that. The gold Lincoln climbed up Forest Lawn Drive toward the cemetery.
They had to walk up a hill to get to the grave site. Luvia found it hard going. Socrates put his hand under her elbow for support. She almost balked but then she relaxed into the strength of his hand.
It was just a plaque of granite lying flat in the grass. EUGENE BURKE, 1923-1997. No poetry or catchy remembrances.
?Looks like a dinner plate,? Socrates said. ?Seems like Right deserved something better.?
?He left all his wealth behind him,? Luvia said. ?A bronze coffin and a fancy headstone won't get you into the Kingdom.?
?You sure cain't take it with ya,? Socrates agreed.
Luvia put down her injured flowers. Socrates took a crystal teardrop, the kind used in chandeliers, from his pocket and placed it next to the poor bouquet.
?What's that piece of glass supposed to be?? Luvia asked.
?Darryl give it to me to leave. It's his favorite thing. When I told him that I was gonna try an' find Right's grave he gimme that to leave.?
At first Socrates thought that Luvia was nodding, somehow agreeing that leaving the crystal was the right thing to do. And maybe that's how it began. But somewhere along the way the nod became crying. The quiet, tearless crying of a woman who had given up everything and never looked back.
