“I’ll what?”
“You’ll volunteer there. Hollis tells me you’re good with your hands, and we have repairs that need seeing to in the building before we can open for business. You’ll pull your weight here, Luther.”
Pull my weight. Shit. When’s the last time this old man pulled any weight outside of lifting a teacup? Seemed the same shit Luther had left behind in Tulsa — moneyed colored folk acting like their money gave them the right to order you around. And this old fool acting like he could see inside Luther, talking about evil like he’d know it if it sat down beside him and bought him a drink. Man was probably a step or two away from whipping out a Bible. But he reminded himself of the pledge he’d made in the train car to create the New Luther, the better Luther, and promised he would give it time before he made up his mind about Isaiah Giddreaux. This man worked with W.E.B. Du Bois, and Du Bois was one of only two men in this country that Luther felt worthy of his admiration. The other, of course, was Jack Johnson. Jack didn’t take shit from no one, black or white.
“I know of a white family that needs a houseman. Could you handle that work?”
“Can’t see why not.”
“They are good people as far as whites can be.” He spread his hands. “There is one caveat — the household in question is headed by a police captain. If you were to attempt an alias, I suspect he would ferret it out.”
“No need,” Luther said. “Trick is to never mention Tulsa. I’m just Luther Laurence, late of Columbus.” Luther wished he could feel something beyond his own weariness. Spots had started popping in the air between him and Isaiah. “Thank you, sir.”
Isaiah nodded. “Let’s get you upstairs. We’ll wake you for dinner.”
Luther dreamed of playing baseball in floodwaters. Of outfielders washed away in the tide. Of trying to hit above the waterline and men laughing every time his bat head slapped off the muddy water that rose above his waist, up over his ribs, while Babe Ruth and Cully flew past in a crop duster, dropping grenades that failed to explode.
He woke to an older woman pouring hot water into the wash pot on his dresser. She looked back over her shoulder at him, and for a moment he thought she was his mother. They were the same height and had the same light skin speckled with dark freckles over the cheekbones. But this woman’s hair was gray and she was thinner than his mother. Same warmth, though, same kindliness living in the body, like the soul was too good to be kept covered.
“You must be Luther.”
Luther sat up. “I am, ma’am.”
“That’s good. Be a frightful thing if some other man stole up here and took your place.” She lay a straight razor, tub of shaving cream, brush and bowl by the pot. “Mr. Giddreaux expects a man to come to the dinner table clean-shaven, and dinner’s almost served. We’ll work on cleaning up the rest of you afterward. Sound right?”
Luther swung his legs off the bed and suppressed a yawn. “Yes, ma’am.”
She held out a delicate hand, so small it could have been a doll’s. “I’m Yvette Giddreaux, Luther. Welcome to my home.”
While they waited for Isaiah to hear back from the police captain, Luther accompanied Yvette Giddreaux to the proposed NAACP offices on Shawmut Avenue. The building was Second Empire style, a baroque monster of chocolate stone skin with a mansard roof. First time Luther’d seen the style outside of a book. He stepped in close and looked up as he walked along the sidewalk. The lines of the building were straight, no bowing, no humps, either. The structure had shifted with the weight of itself, but no more so than would be expected from a building Luther guessed dated back to the 1830s or so. He took a good look at the tilt of the corners and decided the foundation hadn’t racked, so the shell was in good shape. He stepped off the sidewalk and walked along the edge of the street, looking up at the roof.
“Mrs. Giddreaux?”
“Yes, Luther.”
“Seem to be a piece of this roof missing.”
He looked over at her. She held her purse tight in front of her and gave him a look of such innocence it could only be a front.
She said, “I believe I heard something to that effect, yes.”
Luther continued moving his gaze from the point on the ridgeline where he’d spotted the gap, and he found a dip exactly where he was hoping he wouldn’t — in the center of the spine. Mrs. Giddreaux was still giving him that wide-eyed innocence, and he placed his hand softly under her elbow as he led her inside.
Most of the first-floor ceiling was gone. What remained leaked. The staircase just to his right was black. The walls were missing their plaster in half a dozen places, the lathes and studs exposed, and scorched black in half a dozen more. The floor was so eaten away by fire and water that even the subflooring was damaged. All the windows were boarded.
Luther whistled. “You buy this place at auction?”
“About so,” she said. “What do you think?”
“Any way you can get your money back?”
She slapped his elbow. The first time, but he was sure it wouldn’t be the last. He resisted the urge to hug her to him, the way he’d done with his mother and sister, loving that they’d always fought him, that it had always cost him a shot to the ribs or the hip.
“Let me guess,” Luther said, “George Washington never slept here, but his footman did?”
She bared her teeth at him, little fists placed to little hips. “Can you fix it?”
Luther laughed and heard the echo bounce through the dripping building. “No.”
She looked up at him. Her face was stony. Her eyes were gay. “But of what usefulness does that speak, Luther?”
“Can’t nobody fix this. I’m just amazed the city didn’t condemn it.”
“They tried.”
Luther looked at her and let out a long sigh. “You know how much money it’ll take to make this livable?”
“Don’t you worry about money. Can you fix it?”
“I honestly don’t know.” He whistled again, taking it all in, the months, if not years, of work. “Don’t suppose I’ll be getting much in the way of help?”
“We’ll round up some volunteers every now and then, and when you need something, you just make a list. I can’t promise we’ll get you everything you need or that any of it will arrive in the time you need it, but we’ll try.”
Luther nodded and looked down into her kind face. “You understand, ma’am, that the effort this will take will be biblical?”
Another slap on the elbow. “You best set to it then.”
Luther sighed. “Yes, ma’am.”
Captain Thomas Coughlin opened the door to his study and gave Luther a wide, warm smile. “You must be Mr. Laurence.”
“Yes, sir, Captain Coughlin.”
“Nora, that’ll be all for now.”
“Yes, sir,” the Irish girl Luther’d just met said. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Laurence.”
“You, too, Miss O’Shea.”
She bowed and took her leave.
“Come in, come in.” Captain Coughlin swung the door wide, and Luther entered a study that smelled of good tobacco, a recent fire in the hearth, and the dying autumn. Captain Coughlin led him to a leather chair and went around the other side of a large mahogany desk and took his seat by the window.
“Isaiah Giddreaux said you’re from Ohio.”
“Yes, suh.”
“I heard you say ‘sir.’”
“Suh?”
“Just a moment ago. When we met.” His light blue eyes glittered. “You said ‘sir,’ not ‘suh.’ Which will it be, son?”
“Which do you prefer, Captain?”