Toni Morrison - Song of Solomon

Milkman opened the parcel Grace had fixed for him and took out a cookie. A little piece of paper fluttered to the ground. He picked it up and read: “Grace Long 40 Route 2 three houses down from the Normal School.” He smiled. That’s why it took her so long to wrap up four cookies. He bit into one of them and sauntered along, crumpling the napkins and Grace’s invitation into a wad. The questions about his family still knocked around in his head like billiard balls. If his grandfather, this Jake, was born in the same place his wife was, in Shalimar, why did he tell the Yankee he was born in Macon, thereby providing him with the raw material for the misnaming? And if he and his wife were born in the same place, why did Pilate and his father and Circe all say they “met” on that wagon? And why did the ghost tell Pilate to sing? Milkman chuckled to himself. That wasn’t what he was telling her at all; maybe the ghost was just repeating his wife’s name, Sing, and Pilate didn’t know it because she never knew her mother’s name. After she died Macon Dead wouldn’t let anybody say it aloud. That was funny. He wouldn’t speak it after she died, and after he died that’s all he ever said—her name.

Jesus! Here he was walking around in the middle of the twentieth century trying to explain what a ghost had done. But why not? he thought. One fact was certain: Pilate did not have a navel. Since that was true, anything could be, and why not ghosts as well?

He was near the road leading to the town now, and it was getting dark. He lifted his wrist to look at his watch and remembered that Grace had not given it back to him. “Damn,” he murmured aloud. “I’m losing everything.” He stood still, trying to make up his mind whether to go back for it now or later. If he went now, he’d be forced to return in deep darkness. Totally defenseless before a hit from Guitar. But it would be a real bother to have to come all the way back here—where no car could make it—tomorrow when he was going to leave. But Guitar might be—

“I can’t let him direct and determine what I do, where I go or when. If I do that now I’ll do it all my life and he’ll run me off the earth.”

He didn’t know what to do, but decided finally that a watch was not worth worrying about. All it could do was tell him the time of day and he really wasn’t interested. Wiping cookie crumbs from his mustache, he turned into the main road, and there, outlined in cobalt blue, stood Guitar. Leaned, rather, against a persimmon tree. Milkman stopped, surprised at the calm, steady beat of his heart—the complete absence of fear. But then, Guitar was cleaning his fingernails with a harmless match stick. Any weapon he had would have to be hidden in his denim jacket or pants.

They looked at each other for a minute. No, less. Just long enough for the heart of each man to adjust its throb to the downbeat of the other. Guitar spoke first.

“My man.”

Milkman ignored the greeting. “Why, Guitar? Just tell me why.”

“You took the gold.”

“What gold? There wasn’t any gold.”

“You took the gold.”

“The cave was empty, man. I got down on my stomach and looked in that pit. I put my hands—”

“You took the gold.”

“You’re crazy, Guitar.”

“Angry. Never crazy.”

“There wasn’t any gold!” Milkman tried hard not to shout.

“I saw you, motherfucker.”

“Saw me what?”

“Take the gold.”

“Where?”

“In Danville.”

“You saw me with gold in Danville?”

“I saw you with gold in Danville.”

“You’ve got to be kidding. What was I doing with it?”

“Shipping it.”

“Shipping it?”

“Yeah. Why the game, man? You just greedy, like your old man? Or what?” Guitar’s eyes rested on the last butter cookie in Milkman’s hand. He frowned and began to breathe through his lips.

“Guitar, I didn’t ship no gold. There wasn’t any gold to ship. You couldn’t have seen me.”

“I saw you, baby. I was in the station.”

“What fuckin station?”

“The freight station in Danville.”

Milkman remembered then, going to look for Reverend Cooper, looking all over for him. Then going into the station house to see if he’d gone, and there helping a man lift a huge crate onto the weighing platform. He started to laugh. “Oh, shit. Guitar, that wasn’t no gold. I was just helping that man lift a crate. He asked me to help him. Help him lift a big old crate. I did and then I split.”

Guitar looked at the cookie again, then back into Milkman’s eyes. Nothing changed in his face. Milkman knew it sounded lame. It was the truth, but it sounded like a lie. A weak lie too. He also knew that in all his life, Guitar had never seen Milkman give anybody a hand, especially a stranger; he also knew that they’d even discussed it, starting with Milkman’s not coming to his mother’s rescue in a dream he had. Guitar had accused him of selfishness and indifference; told him he wasn’t serious, and didn’t have any fellow feeling—none whatsoever. Now he was standing there saying that he willingly, spontaneously, had helped an old white man lift a huge, heavy crate. But it was true. It was true. And he’d prove it.

“Guitar, why am I here? If I was shipping gold back home, why am I here dressed like this? Would I be roaming around in the country like a fool with a crate of gold off somewhere? Would I? What the fuck would I do that for and then come here?”

“Maybe you shipped the gold here, you jive-ass.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“I looked! I saw it! You hear me? I drove down there, followed you there, because I had a funny feeling that you were pulling a fast one. I wasn’t sure, but I felt it. If I was wrong, I’d help you get it. But I wasn’t wrong. I got into Danville that afternoon. I drove right past the freight depot and there you were in your little beige suit. I parked and followed you into the station. When I got there I saw you shipping it. Giving it to the man. I waited until you left, and I went back in and asked the cracker if my friend”—he slurred the word—“had shipped a crate to Michigan. The man said no. Just one crate on the load, he said. Just one crate. And when I asked him where it was going, all he could remember was Virginia.” Guitar smiled. “The bus you caught wasn’t headed for Michigan. It was headed for Virginia. And here you are.”

Milkman felt whipped. There was nothing to do but let it play.

“Was my name on the crate?”

“I didn’t look.”

“Would I send a crate of gold to Virginia— gold , man.”

“You might. You did.”

“Is that why you tried to kill me?”

“Yes.”

“Because I ripped you off?”

“Because you ripped us off! You are fuckin with our work!”

“You’re wrong. Dead wrong.”

“The ‘dead’ part is you.”

Milkman looked down at the cookie in his hand. It looked foolish and he started to throw it away, but changed his mind. “So my Day has come?”

“Your Day has come, but on my schedule. And believe it: I will run you as long as there is ground. Your name is Macon, but you ain’t dead yet.”

“Tell me something. When you saw me in the station, with the crate, why did you back off and hide? Why didn’t you just walk up to me? It could have been settled there.”

“I told you. I had this funny funny feeling.”

“That I was going to cut you out?”

“Cut us out. Yes.”

“And you believe I did?”

“Yes.”

“Back there in the woods you were angry.”

“Yes.”

“Now you’re going to wait till the gold comes.”

“Yes.”

“And I pick it up.”

“You won’t be able to pick it up.”