Toni Morrison - Song of Solomon

“Can I walk it?” he asked.

“Most folks could, I reckon,” said Omar. “But after last night I don’t recommend it for you.” He laughed.

“Can you drive a car through?”

“Part of the way you can. But the road is narrow and messy back up in there,” said Vernell. “Horse, maybe, but not no car.”

“I’ll make it. Might take me a week, but I’ll make it,” said Milkman.

“Just don’t carry no guns”—Calvin cooled his coffee in his saucer—“and you’ll be all right.” They all laughed again.

Milkman thought about that. Guitar was out there someplace, and since he seemed to know everything Milkman was doing or getting ready to do, he’d also know he was going out to some ridge. He touched his swollen neck. He didn’t want to go anywhere alone without a gun.

“You ought to have a rest before you go trottin off anywhere,” Omar said, looking at him. “There’s a nice lady up the road a ways. She’d be proud to take you in.” The look in his eyes was unmistakable. “Pretty woman too. Real pretty.” Vernell grunted and Milkman smiled. Hope she’s got a gun, he thought.

She didn’t, but she had indoor plumbing and her smile was just like her name, Sweet, as she nodded her head to Milkman’s query about whether he could take a bath. The tub was the newest feature in the tiny shotgun house and Milkman sank gratefully into the steaming water. Sweet brought him soap and a boar’s-bristle brush and knelt to bathe him. What she did for his sore feet, his cut face, his back, his neck, his thighs, and the palms of his hands was so delicious he couldn’t imagine that the lovemaking to follow would be anything but anticlimactic. If this bath and this woman, he thought, are all that come out of this trip, I will rest easy and do my duty to God, country, and the Brotherhood of Elks for the rest of my life. I will walk hot coals with a quart of kerosene in my hand for this. I will walk every railroad tie from here to Cheyenne and back for this. But when the lovemaking came, he decided he would crawl.

Afterward he offered to bathe her. She said he couldn’t because the tank was small and there wasn’t enough water for another hot bath.

“Then let me give you a cool one,” he said. He soaped and rubbed her until her skin squeaked and glistened like onyx. She put salve on his face. He washed her hair. She sprinkled talcum on his feet. He straddled her behind and massaged her back. She put witch hazel on his swollen neck. He made up the bed. She gave him gumbo to eat. He washed the dishes. She washed his clothes and hung them out to dry. He scoured her tub. She ironed his shirt and pants. He gave her fifty dollars. She kissed his mouth. He touched her face. She said please come back. He said I’ll see you tonight.

Chapter 12

At four o’clock he knocked on the door of the only house back of the ridge with a brick front. Fresh and shining in the army fatigues Sweet had washed and pressed, he had tramped along feeling ready for anything. But he didn’t think Guitar would jump him in the daytime on a winding path (which they called a road) that cut through hilly land that was nevertheless tilled and had a smattering of houses and people. If he did confront him (with anything other than a gun) Milkman was sure he could take him, but it would be best to get back before nightfall. He didn’t know what was on Guitar’s mind, but he knew it had something to do with the gold. If he knows I’m here and where I have been and what I did in each place, then he must know that I’m trying to get it, doing just what I said I would do. Why would he try to kill me before I got it or even found out what happened to it? Most of it was a total mystery to him, but the part that was clear was enough to keep him alert and jittery all the way.

The Byrd house sat on a neat lawn separated by a white picket fence from the field grass on either side of the property. A child’s swing dangled from a cedar tree; four little steps painted blue led up to the porch, and from the window, between fluttering curtains, came the smell of gingerbread baking.

A woman who looked to be about his mother’s age answered the door.

“Miss Byrd?” Milkman asked her.

“Yes?”

“How are you? My name is, uh, Macon, and I’m visiting here for a few days. I’m from Michigan and I think some of my people lived here a long time ago. I was hoping you’d be able to help me.”

“Help you what?” She sounded arch and Milkman had the distinct impression that this lady did not like the color of his skin.

“Find them. I mean find out about them. We’re all split up, my family, and some folks in town thought you might know some of them.”

“Who’s that, Susan?” Another woman’s voice came from behind her.

“Somebody to see me, Grace.”

“Well, why don’t you ask him in? Don’t make him state his business on the steps.”

Miss Byrd sighed. “Please come in, Mr. Macon.”

Milkman followed her into a pleasant living room full up with sunshine. “Excuse me,” she said. “I didn’t mean to be rude. Please have a seat.” She motioned to a gray velvet wing-back chair. A woman in a two-piece print dress came into the room, clutching a paper napkin in her hand and chewing on something.

“Who’d you say?” She addressed her question to Miss Byrd, but ran inquisitive eyes over Milkman.

Miss Byrd held out a hand. “This is a friend of mine—Miss Long. Grace Long—Mr….”

“How do you do?” Grace held out her hand to him.

“Fine, thank you.”

“Mr. Macon, is it?”

“Yes.”

“Susan, perhaps Mr. Macon would like some refreshment.” Miss Long smiled and sat on the sofa facing the gray chair.

“Well, he just stepped foot in the door, Grace. Give me time.” Miss Byrd turned to Milkman. “Would you like a cup of coffee or some tea?”

“Sure. Thanks.”

“Which one?”

“Coffee’s all right.”

“You’ve got butter cookies, Susan. Give him some of those butter cookies.”

Miss Byrd gave her friend a tired frown. “I’ll just be a minute,” she said to Milkman, and left the room.

“Yes, well. Did I hear you say you were visiting in these parts? We don’t see too many visitors.” Grace crossed her ankles. Like Susan Byrd, she wore black laced shoes and cotton stockings. As she made herself comfortable, she inched her dress up a little.

“Yes, visiting.”

“You in the service?”

“Ma’am? Oh, no. I was hunting last night. Some friends lent me these.” He smoothed the seam Sweet had made in the fatigues.

“Hunting? Oh, Lord, don’t tell me you’re one of them. I can’t stand those hunting people. They make me sick, always prowling round other people’s property. Day and night they’re shooting up the world. I tell my students—I’m a schoolteacher, you know, I teach over at the normal school. Have you seen it yet?”

“No, not yet.”

“Well, there’s nothing to see, really. Just a school, like any other. But you’re welcome to stop by. We’d be pleased to have you. Where you from again?”

“Michigan.”

“I thought so. Susan!” She turned around. “He’s from up North.” Then back to Milkman: “Where are you staying?”

“Well, nowhere yet. I just met a few people in town and…”

Susan Byrd came in with a tray of coffee cups and a plate of wide pale cookies.

“He’s from Michigan,” said Grace.

“I heard him. How do you take your coffee?”

“Black.”

“Black? No cream or sugar at all?” asked Grace. “Wish I could do that; maybe I could get back into a twelve. But it’s never going to happen now.” She pressed one hand on her hip and smiled at Milkman.

“What did you want to see me about?” Susan Byrd placed a mild but clear stress on the word “me.”