he left the Terry and entered the white part of Augusta. Buildings stopped having that bombed-out look. They started having new coats of paint. The streets stopped being minefields of potholes. The stripes between lanes were fresh and white. Hell, there
were
stripes between lanes. On most of the streets in the Terry, nobody’d ever bothered painting them.
A cop pointed his nightstick at Scipio. “Passbook,” he said importantly.
“Yes, suh.” Scipio could talk like an educated white man. If he didn’t—and most of the time he didn’t dare—he used the thick dialect of the Congaree River swampland where he’d been born.
The gray-uniformed policeman peered at the passbook through bifocals. “How the hell you say your name?” he demanded, frowning.
“It’s Xerxes, suh,” Scipio answered. He’d had the alias for a third of his life now. He took it more for granted than the name his mama gave him. After escaping the ruin of the Red Congaree Socialist Republic, keeping that real name would have been suicidally dangerous.
“Xerxes,” the cop repeated. He looked Scipio up and down. “Reckon you wait tables?”
“Yes, suh. Huntsman’s Lodge. Mistuh Dover, he vouch fo’ me.”
“All right. Get going. You’re too goddamn old to land in a whole lot of trouble anyways.”
Scipio wanted to do something right there to prove the policeman wrong. He didn’t, which went some way toward proving the man right. He did go on up the street to the Huntsman’s Lodge. Sometimes no one bothered him on the way. Sometimes he got endless harassment. Today, in the middle, was about par for the course.
He went into the kitchen and said hello to the cooks as soon as he got to the restaurant. If they were happy with you, your orders got done quickly. That meant you had a better chance for a good tip. If you got on their bad side, you took your chances.
Jerry Dover was going through the kitchens, too. The manager was making sure who was there and who wasn’t, and that they had enough supplies to cover the day’s likely orders. All the cooks except the head chef were black. Dover himself, of course, was white. A Negro manager would have been unimaginable anywhere in the CSA except a place that not only had exclusively colored workers but also an exclusively colored clientele.
“Afternoon, Xerxes,” Dover said.
“Afternoon, Mistuh Dover,” Scipio answered. “How you is?”
“Tolerable. I’m just about tolerable,” the manager said. He didn’t ask how Scipio was. He wouldn’t, unless he saw some obvious sign of trouble. As white men in the Confederate States went, he wasn’t bad in his dealings with blacks . . . but Confederate whites had a long way to go.
“People comin’ in like they ought to?” Scipio asked.
“Yeah. Doesn’t look like we’ll be shorthanded tonight,” Dover said. “But we may lose some fellas down the line, you know.”
“War plant work, you mean?” Scipio asked, and the other man nodded. Jerry Dover was thin and wiry and burned with energy. From the owners’ point of view, the Huntsman’s Lodge couldn’t have had a better manager. Scipio had to respect him, even if he didn’t always like him. He said, “I seen dat de las’ war.”
“Where’d you see it?” Dover asked. Scipio didn’t answer right away. After a moment, the white man waved the question aside. “Never mind. Forget I asked you that. It was a long time ago, and you weren’t here. Whatever you did, I don’t want to know about it.”
Thanks to Anne Colleton, he already knew more than Scipio wished he did. No help for that, though, not unless Scipio wanted to get out of Augusta altogether. The way police and stalwarts checked passbooks these days, that was neither easy nor safe.
Then Dover said something that rocked Scipio back on his heels: “This place is liable to be losing me down the line, too.”
“You, suh?” Scipio said. “Wouldn’t hardly be no Huntsman’s Lodge without you, suh.” The
were
stripes between lanes. On most of the streets in the Terry, nobody’d ever bothered painting them.
A cop pointed his nightstick at Scipio. “Passbook,” he said importantly.
“Yes, suh.” Scipio could talk like an educated white man. If he didn’t—and most of the time he didn’t dare—he used the thick dialect of the Congaree River swampland where he’d been born.
The gray-uniformed policeman peered at the passbook through bifocals. “How the hell you say your name?” he demanded, frowning.
“It’s Xerxes, suh,” Scipio answered. He’d had the alias for a third of his life now. He took it more for granted than the name his mama gave him. After escaping the ruin of the Red Congaree Socialist Republic, keeping that real name would have been suicidally dangerous.
“Xerxes,” the cop repeated. He looked Scipio up and down. “Reckon you wait tables?”
“Yes, suh. Huntsman’s Lodge. Mistuh Dover, he vouch fo’ me.”
“All right. Get going. You’re too goddamn old to land in a whole lot of trouble anyways.”
Scipio wanted to do something right there to prove the policeman wrong. He didn’t, which went some way toward proving the man right. He did go on up the street to the Huntsman’s Lodge. Sometimes no one bothered him on the way. Sometimes he got endless harassment. Today, in the middle, was about par for the course.
He went into the kitchen and said hello to the cooks as soon as he got to the restaurant. If they were happy with you, your orders got done quickly. That meant you had a better chance for a good tip. If you got on their bad side, you took your chances.
Jerry Dover was going through the kitchens, too. The manager was making sure who was there and who wasn’t, and that they had enough supplies to cover the day’s likely orders. All the cooks except the head chef were black. Dover himself, of course, was white. A Negro manager would have been unimaginable anywhere in the CSA except a place that not only had exclusively colored workers but also an exclusively colored clientele.
“Afternoon, Xerxes,” Dover said.
“Afternoon, Mistuh Dover,” Scipio answered. “How you is?”
“Tolerable. I’m just about tolerable,” the manager said. He didn’t ask how Scipio was. He wouldn’t, unless he saw some obvious sign of trouble. As white men in the Confederate States went, he wasn’t bad in his dealings with blacks . . . but Confederate whites had a long way to go.
“People comin’ in like they ought to?” Scipio asked.
“Yeah. Doesn’t look like we’ll be shorthanded tonight,” Dover said. “But we may lose some fellas down the line, you know.”
“War plant work, you mean?” Scipio asked, and the other man nodded. Jerry Dover was thin and wiry and burned with energy. From the owners’ point of view, the Huntsman’s Lodge couldn’t have had a better manager. Scipio had to respect him, even if he didn’t always like him. He said, “I seen dat de las’ war.”
“Where’d you see it?” Dover asked. Scipio didn’t answer right away. After a moment, the white man waved the question aside. “Never mind. Forget I asked you that. It was a long time ago, and you weren’t here. Whatever you did, I don’t want to know about it.”
Thanks to Anne Colleton, he already knew more than Scipio wished he did. No help for that, though, not unless Scipio wanted to get out of Augusta altogether. The way police and stalwarts checked passbooks these days, that was neither easy nor safe.
Then Dover said something that rocked Scipio back on his heels: “This place is liable to be losing me down the line, too.”
“You, suh?” Scipio said. “Wouldn’t hardly be no Huntsman’s Lodge without you, suh.” The
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