almost makes me want to start.”
What Martin also didn’t say was that now the leather held some of Henry’s molecules too, along with those of the animal who had oncelived inside it, all blending into the years of being cupped in Martin’s hands. He rolled a cigarette for later, making sure to leave some flakes of tobacco inside the pouch, as if by mistake, yet specific as treasure. So that it never emptied.
They sat for a few moments without either one knowing where to look except out the window, which faced onto a parking lot; mirrored sunlight flashed every time a car pulled in or out. Martin ordered coffee while Henry excused himself to use the bathroom. The coffee was black and bitter but stimulating, reminding him of the way Midge liked to brew her own. By the time Henry came back to the table, their food was arriving.
“First time eating with an Indian?” Martin said with a straight face, letting Henry decide if it was a joke.
Imagining Sophie had to want it this way, Henry chose to keep it light. “My family showed up right before the Pilgrims,” he said. “Or so I’ve been told.”
“Okay,” Martin chewed and nodded, then allowed himself a quiet laugh. “We’re okay.”
H IS GRANDMOTHER ALWAYS said, “You can’t push the river.” It was a direct translation from Mohawk, and for once Martin liked the way it sounded in American too. Annie said that Martin was stubborn, that he got it from his father; she also said that Martin’s poetry came from her. “A good combination,” she claimed, although that still left him pondering the elusive inheritance from his long-gone mother. Every once in a while, Martin tried to aim a question sideways at Robert regarding the ghost of Martine, but the sounds ricocheted against a tightly sealed wall.
You’re both of them and neither one , he told himself. You’re you .
Could that be true of everyone, he wondered, including people like Henry?
Of course they knew each other’s full names, Longboats and Van Curlers already sharing an uncomfortable history for so long. Martin could see Henry’s genetics as if spelled out in neon for all the town to see, and maybe Henry saw the same thing from his own side. Sitting across from each other in that booth at the diner, Martin had felt his skin turn a few shades darker by contrast, wondered whether white people paid as much attention to the variations on their own color. Sophie’s was probably what most people would call olive, he thought, while Henry’s was more like the inside of an apple. There were black men he worked alongside at the plant, and he’d heard them saying “brother” to himsometimes, the young ones at least, the ones whose skin was even darker than his own.
His older cousin Isaiah had been employed as a welder for the Company, working a full year before convincing Martin to get an assembly-line job there too. “Would you rather dig ditches all summer?” Isaiah asked him.
“Come on,” Martin said, for once testing out the role of an optimist. He’d been the only one in the family singled out by the statewide motivational programs, targeting “underachievers” who could be rescued by extra math and science classes. “You know as well as I do that Sputnik changed a few things.”
“Yeah, you might get a diploma from the white school,” Isaiah said. “That doesn’t mean you can actually use it to get anywhere.” He slapped Martin on the shoulder as if to wake him up. “There’s always hauling trash, selling shoes. Enlisting .”
As an experiment for the summer, Martin took his cousin’s advice. Now they nodded when they passed, holding their time cards for punching in and out. The thwack of the machine stamp and the nearly relentless din of the factory were the cancellation of every sound Martin loved and reminded him that the collar and leash he never used for Bear were on his own neck now, jangling with an ominous prediction of the rest of his life.
Men his age who were
What Martin also didn’t say was that now the leather held some of Henry’s molecules too, along with those of the animal who had oncelived inside it, all blending into the years of being cupped in Martin’s hands. He rolled a cigarette for later, making sure to leave some flakes of tobacco inside the pouch, as if by mistake, yet specific as treasure. So that it never emptied.
They sat for a few moments without either one knowing where to look except out the window, which faced onto a parking lot; mirrored sunlight flashed every time a car pulled in or out. Martin ordered coffee while Henry excused himself to use the bathroom. The coffee was black and bitter but stimulating, reminding him of the way Midge liked to brew her own. By the time Henry came back to the table, their food was arriving.
“First time eating with an Indian?” Martin said with a straight face, letting Henry decide if it was a joke.
Imagining Sophie had to want it this way, Henry chose to keep it light. “My family showed up right before the Pilgrims,” he said. “Or so I’ve been told.”
“Okay,” Martin chewed and nodded, then allowed himself a quiet laugh. “We’re okay.”
H IS GRANDMOTHER ALWAYS said, “You can’t push the river.” It was a direct translation from Mohawk, and for once Martin liked the way it sounded in American too. Annie said that Martin was stubborn, that he got it from his father; she also said that Martin’s poetry came from her. “A good combination,” she claimed, although that still left him pondering the elusive inheritance from his long-gone mother. Every once in a while, Martin tried to aim a question sideways at Robert regarding the ghost of Martine, but the sounds ricocheted against a tightly sealed wall.
You’re both of them and neither one , he told himself. You’re you .
Could that be true of everyone, he wondered, including people like Henry?
Of course they knew each other’s full names, Longboats and Van Curlers already sharing an uncomfortable history for so long. Martin could see Henry’s genetics as if spelled out in neon for all the town to see, and maybe Henry saw the same thing from his own side. Sitting across from each other in that booth at the diner, Martin had felt his skin turn a few shades darker by contrast, wondered whether white people paid as much attention to the variations on their own color. Sophie’s was probably what most people would call olive, he thought, while Henry’s was more like the inside of an apple. There were black men he worked alongside at the plant, and he’d heard them saying “brother” to himsometimes, the young ones at least, the ones whose skin was even darker than his own.
His older cousin Isaiah had been employed as a welder for the Company, working a full year before convincing Martin to get an assembly-line job there too. “Would you rather dig ditches all summer?” Isaiah asked him.
“Come on,” Martin said, for once testing out the role of an optimist. He’d been the only one in the family singled out by the statewide motivational programs, targeting “underachievers” who could be rescued by extra math and science classes. “You know as well as I do that Sputnik changed a few things.”
“Yeah, you might get a diploma from the white school,” Isaiah said. “That doesn’t mean you can actually use it to get anywhere.” He slapped Martin on the shoulder as if to wake him up. “There’s always hauling trash, selling shoes. Enlisting .”
As an experiment for the summer, Martin took his cousin’s advice. Now they nodded when they passed, holding their time cards for punching in and out. The thwack of the machine stamp and the nearly relentless din of the factory were the cancellation of every sound Martin loved and reminded him that the collar and leash he never used for Bear were on his own neck now, jangling with an ominous prediction of the rest of his life.
Men his age who were
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