Silence followed Socrates' declaration. A police helicopter passed overhead but it could not have suspected the conversation unfolding below. And even if the policemen knew what was about to be said they wouldn't have wondered or worried about mere words.
Wh-wh-what do you mean, Mr. Fortlow? Nelson asked after the loud rush of the helicopter passed on. I mean we all know what's been done to us that's wrong. We all know what we got to do to make our lives better.
We do? Socrates stared hard at the middle-class mortician. We don't all look the same. We don't all talk alike. We ain't related. The only things we got in common is what's on the TV an' in the papers. And ain't nuthin' like that made from black hands or minds.
But we know, young Mr. Spellman said.
What is it you know? Cynthia Lott asked the boy.
I know I'm a black man in a white world that had me as a slave; that keeps me from my history and my birthright. Leon spoke proudly and loud.
Tiny Cynthia waggled her dangling feet angrily. First off you ain't a man you're a boy. You wasn't never a slave. And as far as any birthright you live wit' your momma and play at like you tryin' to go to school. As far as I see it you ain't got nuthin' to complain about at all. I mean if you cain't make somethin' outta yourself with all that you got then all they could blame is you.
Cynthia sucked a tooth and looked away from the young man.
Leon was trying to think of something to say but he was trembling, too furious to put words together.
But I didn't ask if he could blame somebody, Cyn, Socrates said. I asked if we got the right to be mad. All of us is mad. Almost every black man, woman or child you meet is mad. Damn mad. Every day we talk about what some white man did or what some black man actin' like a white man did. Even if you blame Leon for his problems you still sayin' that there's somethin' wrong. Ain't you?
Only thing wrong is that these here men you got today ain't worth shit. Cynthia curled her lip, revealing a sharp white tooth. Black men puffin' up an' blamin' anybody they can. He say, I cain't get a job 'cause'a the white man, or I cain't stay home 'cause Mr. Charlie on my butt. But the woman is home. The woman got a job and a child and a pain in her heart that don't ever stop. I don't know why I wanna be mad at no white man when I got a black man willin' to burn me down to the ground and then stomp on my ashes.
Cynthia's high-pitched voice always made Socrates wince. He swallowed once and then prepared to speak.
But before he could start Leon opened up again. I don't know why you wanna be like that, Miss Lott. Some man musta hurt you. But I'm doin' what I can. I am. I got a job .
What kinda job you got? Cynthia demanded.
I work at the drugstore on Kinkaid on the weekends.
That's a child's job, the tiny woman shrilled. Come talk to me when you doin' man's work.
Come on now, Cyn, Veronica Ashanti chided. You know Leon's a good boy and he tryin'. And you know ain't no man start out perfect. No woman neither. I know a lotta black women out here mess up just as quick as a man. Quicker sometimes.
Yeah, Chip Lowe said. Leave Leon alone. I got a job and a family. I live at home with my wife and my daughters. I work hard. Harder'n any white man do the same job. That's why I got the right to be mad. I come in early an' leave late and they still pass me over for some lazy motherfucker don't know how to tie his shoelaces.
No need to curse, Chip, Topper said. But you are right. We all have difficulties that are incurred by our skins. We all know that we have to work harder and longer hours to be recognized. We have to be extra careful and honest not to be fired or even arrested. And if one black man commits a crime then we are all seen as criminals. All of us share that legacy.
But do you have the right to be mad? Cynthia Lott asked. It was rare that Cynthia would dare to question Topper and she seemed to take pleasure in the grilling.
Certainly, Saint-Paul said. We are held back not because of worth but because of prejudice and racism. That is reason enough.
Socrates looked at his friends with harsh satisfaction. He had been thinking about the question for months. It had been on his mind for years. Every time he saw a white man he'd get mad. Sometimes he had to leave the room so as not to yell or even attack some man who was just standing there. His ire was as natural as the sunrise. It was more like an instinct than like the higher faculty of reason that supposedly separates people from other creatures.
Socrates had long wanted to ask the question but he couldn't get out the words in the Saint-Paul Mortuary. He was afraid of the big room and the many doors all around. Somebody might be listening; he knew that it wasn't true and even if it was that it didn't matter. But Socrates' throat was clamped shut. So he had decided to invite the group to his new home in King Malone's backyard, next to the sweet-smelling lemon bush. If anyone came around, the two-legged dog Killer would bark.
In the nearly empty rooms of Socrates' home he felt his heart beating and the air coming into his lungs. There he could believe that he was the master.
He had made lemonade and ham sandwiches, bought two fifths of Barbancourt Haitian rum. He had put the small bounty on his folding table and set up chairs for his friends as they arrived at the door. But even with all of that he could barely get the words out. When he started to put his question into words his face had flushed with fever and the room seemed to shake.
But I know what you mean, Miss Lott, Leon said in a voice that was devoid of feeling. 'cause when it come to tearin' down a black man it's a black woman the first one on line. Like when I come here to talk. You always be ridin' me even though I ain't never done nuthin' to you. Even though I give you a ride home every week an' you never say thank you or offer me somethin' like a drink of water or maybe a dollar for all that gas. There's a white woman work at the pharmacy speaks nice to me every day. She treat me better than half the black women I ever meet.
Well if you so hurt then why you come here? Cynthia Lott said. Her voice was less angry than it was strained. Why you give me a ride? I don't ever ask you. I don't ever ask you for nuthin'. I don't ever ask no man for nuthin'.
There were tears in Leon's eyes but he didn't seem to notice. The muscle and bone at the hinges of his jaw bulged out. I come here 'cause I wanna be around black people who talk about stuff other than just complainin' or lyin'. I want to be somebody other just some nigger or gangbanger.
Cynthia almost said something but then she held back. Socrates thought that this silence was an answer to the boy's hurt feelings but that he would never know it.
My aunt Bellandra, Socrates began, used to tell me a story
.
Everybody in the room seemed to understand immediately that this was the real beginning of the Wednesday night talk, that everything up until then was just like an introduction.
It was a story, Socrates continued, about slaves that were set free by a freak storm down on a Louisiana sugar plantation a long time before the Civil War. She said that it was a big wind