Toni Morrison - Song of Solomon

Milkman was gazing at Guitar with the wide steady eyes of a man trying to look sober.

“So I know how you felt when you saw your father hit your mother. It’s like that doe. A man shouldn’t do that. You couldn’t help what you felt.”

Milkman nodded his head, but it was clear to Guitar that nothing he had said had made any difference. Chances were Milkman didn’t even know what a doe was, and whatever it was, it wasn’t his mother. Guitar ran his finger around the rim of his glass.

“What’d she do, Milk?”

“Nothin. Smiled. He didn’t like her smile.”

“You’re not making sense. Talk sense. And slow down. You know you can’t hold liquor.”

“What you mean, I can’t hold liquor?”

“’Scuse me. Help yourself.”

“I’m trying to have a serious conversation and you talking shit, Guitar.”

“I’m listening.”

“And I’m talking.”

“Yes, you talking, but what are you saying? Your papa clips your mama cause she smiles at him. You clip him cause he clipped her. Now, is that the way you all spend the evening in your house or is there something else you’re trying to say?”

“Came up to talk to me afterwards.”

“Who?”

“My old man.”

“What’d he say?”

“Said I had to be a whole man and know the whole thing.”

“Go on.”

“He was gonna buy the Erie Lackawanna, but my mother wouldn’t let him.”

“Oh, yeah? Maybe she needs beatin.”

“That’s very funny, man.”

“Why ain’t you laughing, then?”

“I am laughing. Inside.”

“Milk?”

“Yeah?”

“Your daddy slapped your mama, right?”

“Right. Right.”

“You hit him, right?”

“Right.”

“Nobody appreciates what you did. Right?”

“Hey, Guitar. You right again.”

“Not your mother, not your sisters, and your daddy appreciates it least of all.”

“Least of all. Right.”

“So he bawls you out.”

“Yep. No. No. He…”

“He talks quiet to you?”

“Right!”

“Explains things to you.”

“Yeah.”

“About why he hit her.”

“Uh huh.”

“And it’s all about something that happened a long time ago? Before you were born?”

“You got it! You are a very smart little colored boy. And I am going to tell Oxford University about you.”

“And you wish he’d kept it to himself because it don’t concern you and you can’t do nothin about it anyway.”

“You have just passed the course. Guitar Bains, Ph.D.”

“But it bothers you just the same?”

“Let me think.” Milkman closed his eyes and tried to prop his chin on his hand, but it was too difficult. He was trying to get as drunk as possible as rapidly as possible. “Yes. Well, it did bother me. Before I came in here it did. I don’t know, Guitar.” He became serious and his face had the still and steady look of a grown man trying not to vomit…or cry.

“Forget it, Milk. Whatever it is, forget it. It ain’t nothin. Whatever he told you, forget it.”

“I hope I can. I sure hope I can.”

“Listen, baby, people do funny things. Specially us. The cards are stacked against us and just trying to stay in the game, stay alive and in the game, makes us do funny things. Things we can’t help. Things that make us hurt one another. We don’t even know why. But look here, don’t carry it inside and don’t give it to nobody else. Try to understand it, but if you can’t, just forget it and keep yourself strong, man.”

“I don’t know, Guitar. Things seem to be getting to me, you know?”

“Don’t let ’em. Unless you got a plan. Look at Till. They got to him too. Now he’s just an item on WJR’s evening news.”

“He was crazy.”

“No. Not crazy. Young, but not crazy.”

“Who cares if he fucks a white girl? Anybody can do that. What’s he bragging for? Who cares?”

“Crackers care.”

“Then they’re crazier’n he is.”

“Of course. But they’re alive and crazy.”

“Yeah, well, fuck Till. I’m the one in trouble.”

“Did I hear you right, brother?”

“All right. I didn’t mean that. I…”

“What’s your trouble? You don’t like your name?”

“No.” Milkman let his head fall to the back of the booth. “No, I don’t like my name.”

“Let me tell you somethin, baby. Niggers get their names the way they get everything else—the best way they can. The best way they can.”

Milkman’s eyes were blurred now and so were his words. “Why can’t we get our stuff the right way?”

“The best way is the right way. Come on. I’ll take you home.”

“No, I can’t go back there.”

“No? Where then?”

“Let me stay in your pad.”

“Oh, man, you know my situation. One of us’ll have to sleep on the floor. Besides…”

“I’ll sleep on the floor.”

“Besides, I may have company.”

“No shit?”

“No shit. Come on, let’s go.”

“I ain’t going home, Guitar. Hear me?”

“Want me to take you over to Hagar’s?” Guitar motioned to the waitress for the check.

“Hagar’s. Yeah. Sweet Hagar. Wonder what her name is.”

“You just said it.”

“I mean her last name. Her daddy’s name.”

“Ask Reba.” Guitar paid their bar bill and helped Milkman negotiate to the door. The wind had risen and cooled. Guitar flapped his elbows against the cold.

“Ask anybody but Reba,” said Milkman. “Reba don’t know her own last name.”

“Ask Pilate.”

“Yeah. I’ll ask Pilate. Pilate knows. It’s in that dumb-ass box hanging from her ear. Her own name and everybody else’s. Bet mine’s in there too. I’m gonna ask her what my name is. Say, you know how my old man’s daddy got his name?”

“Uh uh. How?”

“Cracker gave it to him.”

“Sho’nough?”

“Yep. And he took it. Like a fuckin sheep. Somebody should have shot him.”

“What for? He was already Dead.”

Chapter 4

Once again he did his Christmas shopping in a Rexall drugstore. It was late, the day before Christmas Eve, and he hadn’t had the spirit or energy or presence of mind to do it earlier or thoughtfully. Boredom, which had begun as a mild infection, now took him over completely. No activity seemed worth the doing, no conversation worth having. The fluttery preparations at home seemed fake and dingy. His mother was going on as she did every year about the incredible price of trees and butter. As though their tree would be anything other than it had always been: the huge shadowy thing in a corner burdened with decorations she had had since she was a girl. As if her fruitcakes were edible, or her turkey done all the way to the bone. His father gave them all envelopes of varying amounts of money, never thinking that just once they might like something he actually went into a department store and selected.

The gifts Milkman had to buy were few and easily chosen in a drugstore. Cologne and dusting powder for Magdalene called Lena; a compact for Corinthians; a five-pound box of chocolates for his mother. And some shaving equipment for his father. In fifteen minutes he was done. The only problem gift was Hagar’s. It was hard to select something hurriedly for her since she liked everything but preferred nothing. More important, he wasn’t sure he wanted to keep it up. Keep up the whole business of “going with” Hagar. He seldom took her anywhere except to the movies and he never took her to parties where people of his own set danced and laughed and developed intrigues among themselves. Everybody who knew him knew about Hagar, but she was considered his private honey pot, not a real or legitimate girl friend—not someone he might marry. And only one or two of the various women he dated “seriously” ever put up a fight about her since they believed she was less than a rival.