the tractor to take their pumpkins to market the next day, but she couldn’t think of a way to warn him about the trick they were going to play on him.
The next day Piretta peeked in the barn door, and the tractor coughed and sneezed and refused to run. Her daddy cursed a little and then hitched the market wagon to the Cadillac, and only Piretta could hear that proud car howling in outrage.
Some boys bustled past down the alleyway, loud and bellicose, and Ornetta rotated two stones like TV knobs until the boys passed. Jack Liffey noticed how heartbreakingly delicate the girl’s wrists were, as if you might snap them off accidentally with a touch.
The farmer drove off to market with the Cadillac towing a trailer of pumpkins and then came back more and more, all day long.
“That night the Cadillac dirty and bumpy and so tired it can’t keep it headlights on. And Piretta waiting for it in the barn, and she go, ‘You sure Mr. Smarty now, ain’t you, Mr. Cadillac? And you gone stay dirty, too, till you learn how to say thank you.’”
Jack Liffey laughed and clapped, genuinely delighted. “That’s a wonderful story.” He poked around gently, trying to figure out if she’d read it somewhere, but like any good magician she wouldn’t reveal her tricks.
“Ornetta, I have to go soon, but before I do, can I ask you something about your Uncle Amilcar?”
She breathed deeply and her grin faded away. Then she nodded solemnly.
“Do you remember the last time he came home from college?”
She nodded again, looking down at the stone pattern, as if whatever he needed to know might be found there.
“Did he tell you anything? Was there some trouble about Umoja?”
She shook her head. “Uh-uh.”
“How about with his friends? Did they have a fight?”
Again she shook her head.
“Do you know any reason somebody would be mad at him? It might help me find him.”
She moved several stones around, and finally she was satisfied with the arrangement. “Everybody always ax about Ami,” she said. “Nobody ax about Sherry and she people.”
SEVEN
Unacceptable Offerings
“So you wait there, look at the pictures, you hear wh’m sayin’?”
The Umoja headquarters was several old storefronts on Manchester, tied together above the windows by a black-green-red tricolor stripe of fresh paint. To one side, like a bookend, there was an appliance repair shop, and at the other a derelict eatery with a fading YOU-BUY-WE-FRY sign.
Just inside the baking hot entry room, a young man in a colorful pillbox cap frowned at him from a little desk, like a dedicated postal clerk stuck with a troublesome patron. What the young man had waved Jack Liffey over to look at while he waited was a gallery of old photos, so he looked at the old photos.
There was Marcus Garvey, waving to a crowd from an open car. Then a number of other black men in similar crowds, mostly prewar, judging from the cars and clothing. He read the captions.
Marcus Garvey, United Negro Improvement Association, Harlem.
Father Divine, Peace Mission, Harlem: Sitting on a big throne that jutted above the backseat of a touring car that was surrounded by a cheering throng.
Grover Cleveland Redding, Abyssinian Movement, Chicago.
Noble Drew Ali, Moorish American Science Temple, Chicago . This one bearded and in a fez, amongst many other blacks in fezzes.
W.D. Fard, Muslim Temple Number One, Detroit.
Elijah Muhammad, Muslim Temple Number Two, Chicago.
Malcolm X, Organization of African American Unity, Harlem.
Mwalimu wa Weusi, Umoja, Los Angeles.
There really were separate cultures, Jack Liffey thought. He hadn’t even heard of some of these leaders. One black nationalist was conspicuously missing. Jack Liffey turned back to the receptionist, “Where’s Ron Karenga and US?”
The young man furrowed up his eyebrows even more, “Check it out, you go to a Ford dealer, you expect a lot of pictures of Chevys?”
“Point taken.”
There was a framed multicolor motto
The next day Piretta peeked in the barn door, and the tractor coughed and sneezed and refused to run. Her daddy cursed a little and then hitched the market wagon to the Cadillac, and only Piretta could hear that proud car howling in outrage.
Some boys bustled past down the alleyway, loud and bellicose, and Ornetta rotated two stones like TV knobs until the boys passed. Jack Liffey noticed how heartbreakingly delicate the girl’s wrists were, as if you might snap them off accidentally with a touch.
The farmer drove off to market with the Cadillac towing a trailer of pumpkins and then came back more and more, all day long.
“That night the Cadillac dirty and bumpy and so tired it can’t keep it headlights on. And Piretta waiting for it in the barn, and she go, ‘You sure Mr. Smarty now, ain’t you, Mr. Cadillac? And you gone stay dirty, too, till you learn how to say thank you.’”
Jack Liffey laughed and clapped, genuinely delighted. “That’s a wonderful story.” He poked around gently, trying to figure out if she’d read it somewhere, but like any good magician she wouldn’t reveal her tricks.
“Ornetta, I have to go soon, but before I do, can I ask you something about your Uncle Amilcar?”
She breathed deeply and her grin faded away. Then she nodded solemnly.
“Do you remember the last time he came home from college?”
She nodded again, looking down at the stone pattern, as if whatever he needed to know might be found there.
“Did he tell you anything? Was there some trouble about Umoja?”
She shook her head. “Uh-uh.”
“How about with his friends? Did they have a fight?”
Again she shook her head.
“Do you know any reason somebody would be mad at him? It might help me find him.”
She moved several stones around, and finally she was satisfied with the arrangement. “Everybody always ax about Ami,” she said. “Nobody ax about Sherry and she people.”
SEVEN
Unacceptable Offerings
“So you wait there, look at the pictures, you hear wh’m sayin’?”
The Umoja headquarters was several old storefronts on Manchester, tied together above the windows by a black-green-red tricolor stripe of fresh paint. To one side, like a bookend, there was an appliance repair shop, and at the other a derelict eatery with a fading YOU-BUY-WE-FRY sign.
Just inside the baking hot entry room, a young man in a colorful pillbox cap frowned at him from a little desk, like a dedicated postal clerk stuck with a troublesome patron. What the young man had waved Jack Liffey over to look at while he waited was a gallery of old photos, so he looked at the old photos.
There was Marcus Garvey, waving to a crowd from an open car. Then a number of other black men in similar crowds, mostly prewar, judging from the cars and clothing. He read the captions.
Marcus Garvey, United Negro Improvement Association, Harlem.
Father Divine, Peace Mission, Harlem: Sitting on a big throne that jutted above the backseat of a touring car that was surrounded by a cheering throng.
Grover Cleveland Redding, Abyssinian Movement, Chicago.
Noble Drew Ali, Moorish American Science Temple, Chicago . This one bearded and in a fez, amongst many other blacks in fezzes.
W.D. Fard, Muslim Temple Number One, Detroit.
Elijah Muhammad, Muslim Temple Number Two, Chicago.
Malcolm X, Organization of African American Unity, Harlem.
Mwalimu wa Weusi, Umoja, Los Angeles.
There really were separate cultures, Jack Liffey thought. He hadn’t even heard of some of these leaders. One black nationalist was conspicuously missing. Jack Liffey turned back to the receptionist, “Where’s Ron Karenga and US?”
The young man furrowed up his eyebrows even more, “Check it out, you go to a Ford dealer, you expect a lot of pictures of Chevys?”
“Point taken.”
There was a framed multicolor motto
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