Socrates had lost his sense of humor. Luvia, from his experience, never had one to begin with. Socrates was wondering how far he'd have to go to look for a smile when a long, gold-colored Lincoln drove up behind him.
Damn you, Socrates Fortlow, Luvia said. Come on.
Luvia Prine whisked past the big ex-con and he turned around to see a dapper man standing at the open door of his car. He was about Socrates' age with a mustache and no beard. He was wearing a light brown sports jacket and dark brown pants but his red, yellow and green shirt was an African cut, as was his brimless and beaded hat.
Luvia, the man said. When he smiled Socrates could see that one of his bottom teeth was gold.
This here is Socrates Fortlow, Milton, Luvia said. If you have any room he wants to go out and pay his respects, I guess.
Hey, my man, Milton said extending a hand. All I got is room in this boat. Ride on up front with me. You know Miss Prine always take the backseat.
With that Milton pulled open the back door for Luvia. Socrates made his way around to the passenger's side and let himself in.
Strap yourself down, brother, Milton said as he turned the ignition key.
Say what?
Milton, who was the color of coffee mixed in with an equal amount of cream, turned and smiled brightly at Socrates. Between alcohol and cigarettes, guns and blunt objects, between high blood pressure and low test scores in these piss-poor schools they
Milton! Luvia cried.
Sorry about the language, Miss Prine, Milton said and then he continued, caught in between all that I'm as cautious as butterfly in a hurricane.
Socrates buckled his belt feeling a little foolish and not knowing exactly why.
They drove down Central for a long while, cruising, stopping at every third traffic light. Every now and then Milton would beep his horn at someone making their way to early service. He seemed to know a lot of people.
Car's in good shape, Socrates said. He knew that the compliment would get the driver to smile.
Bought it new twenty-five years ago when I was a letter carrier with nuthin' but a room, a bed and this here car. I hate to let anything go. This the fourth engine on this sucker but you know I'd really be sad if I ever had to give'er up.
Socrates turned away and looked out of his window. Luvia had moved to the seat behind him. She was staring out at the same street that Socrates was watching but he still wondered what it was that she saw. He knew that Luvia lived in a completely different world than he did. Maybe the world she saw had different colors; maybe there were truths revealed to her scrutiny that Socrates missed.
You just like me, eh, my man? Milton words were wrapped in the rhythms of sixties jazz.
What you mean?
The name. Some old dead white man wrote a book an' our mommas hoped the name'd rub off on us. They didn't think that a famous black man is usually dead before his time. The driver's laughter sounded hollow to Socrates.
I don't know 'bout all that, Socrates said.
All what?
How you know that somebody's a white man? I mean Augustine was a African. Socrates come up around the Mediterranean, you know that's spittin' distance from the Arab world. Maybe your name is really a black man's name too.
Will you please keep it down, Luvia said. This
is
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
did
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.
Socrates watched her clutching her gloved hands and shaking like someone suffering from palsy. He reached out but she put up a tremulous hand.
I don't need your help, she said. Just let me have my cry alone.
Socrates walked down to the car where Milton waited leaning up against the hood. He was smoking a cigarette and staring peacefully at the wispy clouds snaking their way through the blues skies.
Hey, Milton said.
Socrates nodded.
She usually spends a while up there. And when she comes down she's all quiet and smaller, you know? Like she got the weight of the whole world on'er.