II
Frieda Lead lived in a small range house with a big picture window, like all the others extending along both sides of the street. Lincoln stood for a moment where her lawn began, observing the house, sun falling hot and bright on his face. Only then did he come to note that his skin had completely tanned. Several quick steps carried him forward. Walked up three short brick steps and pressed the doorbell, then stood waiting in the cool shade of the porch. His damp shirt set him to worrying, kicked up that rare emotion, fear. What if I stink? He waited a few more seconds, pressed the buzzer again.
Who is it?
Mrs. Lead? Mrs. Frieda Lead?
Yes?
Sorry to disturb you, ma’am. But I’m here on urgent business.
Who?
I need to talk to you about your husband.
What?
I am the General.
What?
I’m here on urgent business relating to your husband.
No response.
Mrs. Lead? He heard fingers at the peephole on the other side of the door. Ma’am?
Yes?
I must talk with you about your husband.
Are you a reporter?
No, ma’am. A friend.
There followed a long moment of silence.
Ma’am? He heard her fingers turning the locks. She opened the door, the chain still on, and stuck her face in the crack. What’s this about?
I think I should speak to you inside, ma’am, in private. He looked around as if he were being followed. No other presence, nothing but the light, glare.
Another moment of silence, of watching and waiting.
My husband?
Yes, ma’am.
You’re the author?
Yes, ma’am. If you’ll allow me to explain. He placed the wedding photograph her husband had sent him where she could see it.
She shut the door, released the chain, then threw the door wide open. Please come in.
Thank you, ma’am. Inside it was cool and dark. I’m sorry if I upset you.
She took him by the elbow and led him to the couch. They both sat down. She took the photograph.
He wrote something on the back of it, ma’am.
She flipped it over and read the letter, then looked casually at Lincoln.
Yes, ma’am. He sent it to me.
I’ll always recognize his handwriting. Emmanuel dotted his t’s. She was silent for a moment, studying the letter. Good Lord, I’m forgetting my manners. Can I get you some breakfast?
No, thank you, ma’am. But I will take a glass of water. The new and dimmer setting had yet to cool his skin.
I’ll get you a glass. She placed the photograph on the coffee table in front of them.
Thank you, ma’am. Eyes still aching from the glare outside, he was unable to see clearly — Frieda a blur that rose from the couch and left the room — having only enough vision to take in and admire her healthy behind. He noticed a copy of the wedding picture framed in oak on the table. He continued to look about, could just make out the face of a white Jesus on the wall. That much certain.
Holy Father, Lincoln began, are you interested in my salvation?
What’s that?
Lincoln hadn’t heard her enter. She set the glass of water on the table before him and sat down at one end of the sofa, he at the other, but it was a small sofa, and they were sitting close.
I was speaking to the Holy Father, ma’am.
Praise Jesus, she said.
Praise Jesus, Lincoln said. He looked at the framed photograph. You have my condolences. He drank the water in two rhythmic gulps. It was cool and clean.
Would you like another glass?
If it’s not a bother, ma’am.
No bother.
He watched the rough movements of her hips as she rose, her behind round and fat the way he liked. She returned with another glass.
We read all your books. She motioned to a bookcase in the corner. Every one. More than once.
My deepest thanks for the support.
Your ability to move people with words. Your feeling and understanding.
Nothing special. The rewards of hard work.
You are blessed. Jesus got his eye on you. Frieda went over to the case and removed a book, a hard-spined copy of the General’s last novel, Hard in Heaven, which she held before Lincoln’s face, opened to the title page, like a waiter at an upscale restaurant proudly presenting the menu.
I would be honored, ma’am. Lincoln removed a pen from his pants pocket, took the book from her, and autographed it: To my true friend Frieda, with love and admiration. The General. He wrote the exact date under the signature and returned the book to her.
She took a moment to read the inscription. You are so kind, she said. She met his eyes — hers round and puffy — and turned away.
My pleasure, ma’am.
She placed the book on the table, before the wedding photograph, then returned to her seat on the couch next to Lincoln. You look much younger than we imagined.
Lincoln smoothed the fold in his trousers. I keep in shape. But I suppose it’s in the genes.
Her face was ordinary except for overly round cheeks that pulled her mouth into a permanent smile. And her eyes, swollen with grief, shone like black reflectors. She wore a short dress that fit tight across her firm outstanding breasts. Lincoln had to admit, Emmanuel had lived well. Oh yes. She placed her hands across her bare knees like napkins and picked up the photograph. He was a credit to the race and all good Christians, ma’am.
Thank you. She ran a hand down her face as if clearing her eyes of water. A knife of sunlight slashed through the space where the draperies met.
I’m sorry that I didn’t know him better.
You knew Emmanuel?
Yes, ma’am.
He never told me.
We were part of an association, Lincoln said. Such lies were routine, in accordance with the dictates of his methods and plans, as he had a store of talk for each of his women. An association created by and for black veterans. A mutual-aid society.
Oh, the association. Emmanuel never told me that you were a member.
We keep our membership secret. But here — he reached into his pocket — I have this for you. He gave her a check for one hundred dollars.
Frieda took the check. What’s this?
I’ll bring one by every Monday.
But why?
It’s our way of taking care of our own, ma’am. I’m here to assist you in any way I can.