need to say much because everybody else was alive with words.
?Yeah,? Cynthia said. ?Rascals. That's just like a man. So busy fightin' that he gets killed and his woman and child go back into slavery.?
?But what is the storm?? Topper asked Socrates. ?What does it mean??
?Why's it got to mean anything?? Cynthia screeched. ?It's just what happened.?
?No,? Topper disagreed. ?No. Every story, everything that happens has a meaning. A purpose. That's why Mr. Fortlow asked that question and then told his auntie's story. The story is the answer. The answer to his question.?
?Is that right?? Veronica asked. ?Is what Topper say true??
Socrates looked at the beautiful, black, pear-shaped woman. It was the first time he ever heard her ask something without the twist of sex in her tone.
?I'm not sure,? Socrates said. ?I mean I been thinkin' about bein' mad at white folks lately. I mean I'm always mad. But bein' mad don't help. Even if I say somethin' or get in a fight, I'm still mad when it's all over. One day I realized that I couldn't stop bein' mad. Bein' mad was like havin' a extra finger. I don't like it, everybody always make fun of it but I cain't get rid of it. It's mine just like my blood.
?But I didn't remember Bellandra's story until we were already talkin'. It just came to me and I said it. And now that Topper says that the answer is in the story I think he might be right. Maybe not the whole answer but there's somethin' there. Somethin'.?
?But why you wanna ask the question?? Chip Lowe asked.
?Because I'm tired'a bein' mad, man. Tired. I see all these white people walkin' 'round and I'm pissed off just that they're there. And they don't care. They ain't worried. They thinkin' 'bout what they saw on TV last night. They thinkin' about some joke they heard. An' here I am 'bout to bust a gut.?
?Maybe they should have left the cane fields,? Leon said. ?Maybe they should have forgotten all about all that fear and guilt.?
?Yeah,? Cynthia added in an almost sweet voice. ?And they sure shouldn't'a killed those black folks that was too scared to run with 'em. Sure shouldn't.?
?Uh-huh,? Veronica agreed. ?And Alfred should have taken Rose and gone north or south or west. If he ain't had a home to go back to he should have made a new home rather than stayed in the cane fields with them mosquitoes and alligators.?
?Maybe that's what Mr. Fortlow's aunt was saying,? Nelson Saint-Paul said. ?Maybe they couldn't leave the plantation. Maybe they were stuck with those white folks that put'em in chains and the blacks who stayed slaves.?
?This sure is some good rum, Socrates,? Cynthia Lott exclaimed. She had taken a small paper cup and filled it. ?That's just about the best liquor I ever tasted.?
?Made from sugarcane by black hands in the Caribbean sun,? Socrates said.
Everyone had a drink and then they all had another.
Socrates felt secure in his secluded home with his black friends and smooth liquor. They ate the ham sandwiches and talked about white people and how they felt about them.
?But do we have the right?? Socrates asked Nelson Saint-Paul.
?We got reasons,? Nelson answered. ?We got reasons. But reasons and rights ain't the same thing.?
?I don't know what it means really,? Cynthia Lott crooned, her voice calmed by smooth rum. ?I mean so what if you don't have the right? You still gonna be mad.?
Socrates smiled and rested his big hands on his knees. He stood up saying, ?Well we can't figure all that out in one night anyway. It was just a question been on my mind.?
?Oh my it's midnight,? Veronica said. ?I better be gettin'.?
?Damn,? Chip Lowe said. ?We usually out by ten. That rum loosen up the tongue.?
The Wednesday night group gathered themselves up quickly and left Socrates' home. He wondered if Leon drove Cynthia and what it might feel like to kiss Veronica's big lips.
