?What's your name?? Yolanda asked.
?Socrates Fortlow.?
?He was a bad boy, Mr. Fortlow. I loved him but he was bad, crazy bad. It was just like havin' a wild animal right up there in the house wit' you. It was like when a old man forgets who his family is. Like when he don't remember his wife or daughter. When I looked at Ronnie I didn't even know him.? Yolanda's hands were wet and so was her face. Socrates concentrated on keeping his grip from crushing her hands.
?That's enough now, Yoyo,? Roxanne said. She moved in to disengage the convict and his victim but they wouldn't let go.
?He loved you, Mrs. Logan. He prob'ly just forgot up in jail how to show it.?
?Who are you?? Roxanne asked.
?I'm Socrates. I been in jail. I know how it hurts you and the ones you love too.?
?Bless you,? Yolanda said. ?Did you know my son??
?No, ma'am, I didn't. But you be strong now.?
Roxanne pulled on her daughter's hands until finally she broke the bond. Socrates watched them climb into Topper's black Cadillac, which then drove off behind the hearse.
A policeman was standing in front of Socrates' gate when he got home from work the next day. Albert Biggers had on a blue suit and buff shoes. Socrates thought that he looked ridiculous in those colors.
?Officer,? Socrates hailed.
?Where you been, Socrates??
?Nowhere. I ain't been nowhere. And I sure am tired so if you wanna arrest me please do it or let me pass.?
?Why would I want to arrest you, Socrates? Have you done something wrong??
That's when Socrates realized that some time in the last week the violence had drained out of his hands. He didn't want to hurt anybody. He didn't care that Biggers stood there in that silly suit trying to act like he was going to trick Socrates into a confession. A confession to anything.
?Let me pass, man,? was all Socrates had to say.
that smell
A
man cain't be a man if he don't make the money, honey,? Leon Spellman said to Veronica Ashanti at the Saint- Paul Mortuary on a Wednesday night in June.
?An' here I thought you young men believed it was t'other way around.? Veronica blew out a sweet smelling cloud of smoke from her short cigar.
?What you mean by that, Veronica?? Chip Lowe, the neighborhood watch captain, asked.
?I thought these male chirren believed that you cain't get no honey,? Veronica paused for a beat between words, ? 'less you let up on some money.?
The older men, including Socrates, laughed at the joke. Leon glowered but even he smiled.
?All I'm sayin' is that a man has got to be responsible if he wants a woman to stand by'im,? Leon said. ?I mean a black man has got to be the bread winner. He's got to be a father and he's got to make a home where his wife an' family are safe. A black man has got to guide his people.?
?And ain't that a man talkin',? Cynthia Lott chimed in. She was a tiny woman with a shrill voice that made Socrates' neck muscles tighten whenever he heard it.
?No need to attack the boy, Cindy,? Nelson Saint-Paul said.
?You men always think I'm attackin' you,? Cynthia said. ?But I'm just sayin' what I hear. Leon wanna be the breadwinner, the father and the hunter all rolled up into one. What about the woman??
?He didn't say that the woman couldn't help,? Chip said.
?Help?? Cynthia cried opening her eyes as wide as possible. ?Black women the ones
