Toni Morrison - Song of Solomon

Maybe Guitar was right—partly. His life was pointless, aimless, and it was true that he didn’t concern himself an awful lot about other people. There was nothing he wanted bad enough to risk anything for, inconvenience himself for. Still, what right had Guitar to talk? He didn’t live in Montgomery either; all he did was work at that automobile factory and sneak off places—nobody knew where—and hang around Tommy’s Barbershop. He never kept a woman more than a few months—the time span that he said was average before she began to make “permanent-arrangement-type noises.”

He ought to get married, Milkman thought. Maybe I should too. Who? There were lots of women around and he was very much the eligible bachelor to the Honoré crowd. Maybe he’d pick one—the redhead. Get a nice house. His father would help him find one. Go into a real partnership with his father and…And what? There had to be something better to look forward to. He couldn’t get interested in money. No one had ever denied him any, so it had no exotic attraction. Politics—at least barbershop politics and Guitar’s brand—put him to sleep. He was bored. Everybody bored him. The city was boring. The racial problems that consumed Guitar were the most boring of all. He wondered what they would do if they didn’t have black and white problems to talk about. Who would they be if they couldn’t describe the insults, violence, and oppression that their lives (and the television news) were made up of? If they didn’t have Kennedy or Elijah to quarrel about? They excused themselves for everything. Every job of work undone, every bill unpaid, every illness, every death was The Man’s fault. And Guitar was becoming just like them—except he made no excuses for himself—just agreed, it seemed to Milkman, with every grievance he heard.

Milkman went into the bathroom, which served also as a pantry, and plugged in the hot plate to make himself some instant coffee. While he was there, he heard a rapid tapping on the windowpane. He stepped back into the office and saw Freddie’s eyes through the lettering. Milkman unlocked the door.

“Hey, Freddie. What’s up?”

“Looking for a warm spot. They got me runnin tonight. Christmas comin and all, all I do is run up and down the street.” Freddie’s janitor duties at the department store were supplemented by his function as a messenger and package deliverer.

“They give you a new truck yet?” Milkman asked him.

“You crazy? The engine have to fall out on the ground before they give me a decent one.”

“I put some coffee water on. Have a cup?”

“Just what I’m lookin for. Saw your lights and thought there’s got to be a hot cup a coffee in there. You wouldn’t happen to have a little taste to go in it, would ya?”

“Just so happens I do.”

“Atta boy.”

Milkman went into the bathroom, lifted the lid from the toilet tank, and took out the half-pint bottle he kept hidden from Macon, who wouldn’t have alcohol on the premises. He brought the bottle into the office, put it on the desk, and went back to make up two cups of coffee. When he reentered, Freddie was trying to look as though he hadn’t already turned the pint up to his mouth. They laced their coffee and Milkman looked around for his cigarettes.

“Hard times, boy,” Freddie said absently, after his first sip. “Hard times.” Then, as though he noticed something missing, he asked, “Where’s your buddy?”

“You mean Guitar?”

“Yeah. Guitar. Where’s he?”

“Haven’t seen him in a few days. You know Guitar. He’ll disappear on you in a minute.” Milkman noticed how white Freddie’s hair was.

“How old are you, Freddie?”

“Who knows? They made dirt in the morning and me that afternoon.” He giggled. “But I been around a long long time.”

“You born her?”

“Naw. Down south. Jacksonville, Florida. Bad country, boy. Bad, bad country. You know they ain’t even got an orphanage in Jacksonville where colored babies can go? They have to put ’em in jail. I tell people that talk about them sit-ins I was raised in jail, and it don’t scare me none.”

“I didn’t know you were an orphan.”

“Well, not a regular orphan. I had people and all, but my mama died and nobody would take me in. It was on account of the way she died that nobody would take me.”

“How’d she die?”

“Ghosts.”

“Ghosts?”

“You don’t believe in ghosts?”

“Well”—Milkman smiled—“I’m willing to, I guess.”

“You better believe, boy. They’re here.”

“Here?” Milkman didn’t glance around the office, but he wanted to. The wind howled outside in the blackness and Freddie, looking like a gnome, flashed his gold teeth. “I don’t mean in this room necessarily. Although they could be.” He cocked his head and listened. “No. I mean they in the world.”

“You’ve seen some?”

“Plenty. Plenty. Ghosts killed my mother. I didn’t see that, of course, but I seen ’em since.”

“Tell me about them.”

“No I ain’t. I don’t do no talkin ‘bout the ghosts I seen. They don’t like that.”

“Well, tell me about the one you didn’t see. The one killed your mother.”

“Oh. Well. That one. She was walking cross the yard with this neighbor friend of hers and they both looked up and saw a woman comin down the road. They stopped and waited to see who she was. When the woman got near, the neighbor called out howdy and soon’s she said the word, the woman turned into a white bull. Right before their eyes. My mama fell down on the ground in labor pain right then and there. When I was born and they showed me to her, she screamed and passed out. Never did come to. My father died two months before I was born, and they couldn’t get none of my people and nobody else to take a baby brought here by a white bull.”

Milkman started laughing. He didn’t mean to hurt Freddie’s feelings, but he couldn’t stop the laughter, and the more he tried, the more it came.

Freddie looked more surprised than hurt. “You don’t believe me, do you?”

Milkman couldn’t answer, he was laughing so hard.

“Okay,” Freddie said, and threw up his hands. “Okay, laugh on. But they’s a lot of strange things you don’t know nothin about, boy. You’ll learn. Lot of strange things. Strange stuff goin on right in this here town.”

Milkman’s laughter was under control now. “What? What strange stuff is happening in this town? I haven’t seen any white bulls lately.”

“Open your eyes. Ask your buddy. He knows.”

“What buddy?”

“Your buddy Guitar. Ask him what strange stuff been happenin. Ask him how come he runnin round with Empire State all of a sudden.”

“Empire State?”

“That’s right. Empire State.”

“Nobody runs around with Empire State. He’s a nut. He just stands around with a broom, dribbling spit. He can’t even talk.”

“He don’t talk. That don’t mean he can’t. Only reason he don’t is cause he found his wife in bed with another man long time ago, and ain’t found nothing to say since then.”

“Well, what’s Guitar doing with him?”

“Good question. Police would like to know the answer to that too.”

“How’d you get from Empire State to the police?”

“You ain’t heard? People say the police is lookin for a colored man what killed that white boy in the schoolyard.”

“I know that. Everybody knows that.”

“Well, the description fits State. And Guitar been takin him places. Hidin him, I believe.”

“What’s so strange about that? You know Guitar is like that. He’ll hide anybody the law is looking for. He hates white people, especially cops, and anybody they’re after can count on him for help.”