widens his stance so that he’s eye to eye with Slim. “What yellow boy?” he demands.
“I don’t know his name. I’ve seen him around.”
Wren corners Slim’s eyes into looking straight at him. “You can find him for me, though, can’t you?”
The big man’s face is right in front of Slim’s; his breath is heavy with onions and some foul kind of fish that white people eat for breakfast. He’s nothing like a wren—more like a bear without all the fur, and a skritchy voice like a fox. Slim adds two random numbers in his head to calm himself: 3,586 + 4,567 = 8,153. “I don’t know if I can,” Slim says. “I’ll be working most all the time.”
“I’ll see about your job,” Wren tells him. “Don’t worry about that.”
Don’t get mixed up in white folkses’ business, Slim Lane. Don’t you do it. Your mama would slap you across the room. He tries to say something, but his mouth won’t work.
“If you can get me his name in a day, there’ll be something extra in it for you.”
Slim sees an opening and dodges his eyes left. “I don’t know.”
Wren places a hand against the wall right beside Slim’s face. His nostrils open up like caves, and Slim imagines running up into one and hiding. He begins to burst into laughter, and pretends to have a coughing fit. Wren waits for him to finish. “Let me put it to you this way, son. You like your job at the hotel, don’t you?”
“Yessir.”
“Good, I thought so. The manager’s a good friend of mine. So’s the owner. I do favors for them. You do this favor for me and they’d be mighty pleased. I’m going to speak to both of them about it directly. You take the afternoon off and start hunting for that boy, and when you find him you come running to my office and don’t stop for anything until you talk to me. You understand?”
Slim nods, glancing briefly into Wren’s sharp eyes. Don’t get messed up in no business, he tells himself. But suddenly Wren is gone, and Slim is messed up in the very business he wanted not to get messed up in. And not a thing he can do about it.
Tommie and Mr. Evans leave on Wednesday morning, hoping to get home in time for dinner. They make a stop at the Trace crossroads store; the eastbound stagecoach has just arrived, carrying, among other things, mail, freight, and Richmond newspapers. But nothing from Tuesday yet. They head out in the carriage again.
It’s warmer out today than it has been. The rank, fecund odors of skunk cabbage and newly plowed earth mingle in the air, and the faint buds of dogwoods are wedding lace along the roadside. The grinding carriage wheels suggest a rhythm. Tommie opens his mouth and begins singing: “Ching-a-ring-a-ring ching ching, ho-a-ding-a-ding kum larkee …” He whistles awhile.
Mr. Evans looks up from his paper, inhales the scents of spring, and absently takes up the verse: “Brothers gather ’round, listen to this story ’bout the promised land.”
Then together they go. “You don’t need to fear if you have no money, you don’t need none there to buy you milk and honey.” Lustier now, “There you’ll ride in style, coach with four white horses, there the evenin’ meal has one two three four courses.”
Mr. Evans compliments Tommie on his singing and tells him a story about minstrels traveling through King and Queen when he was a boy. “The best music I ever heard. The grown-ups were a little less appreciative—I didn’t understand it at the time. They were free coloreds—in the company of a white manager—but folks were afraid it would give the slaves ideas. Of course, we had free negroes in King and Queen, so I don’t know why they were worried.” Tommie is reminded of his first trip to Richmond. His father took him on the train and showed him the burned-out Spottswood Hotel where he’d seen Jefferson Davis, and when they walked across Capitol Square two old negroes were singing and strumming a banjo. A policeman told them not to disturb the
“I don’t know his name. I’ve seen him around.”
Wren corners Slim’s eyes into looking straight at him. “You can find him for me, though, can’t you?”
The big man’s face is right in front of Slim’s; his breath is heavy with onions and some foul kind of fish that white people eat for breakfast. He’s nothing like a wren—more like a bear without all the fur, and a skritchy voice like a fox. Slim adds two random numbers in his head to calm himself: 3,586 + 4,567 = 8,153. “I don’t know if I can,” Slim says. “I’ll be working most all the time.”
“I’ll see about your job,” Wren tells him. “Don’t worry about that.”
Don’t get mixed up in white folkses’ business, Slim Lane. Don’t you do it. Your mama would slap you across the room. He tries to say something, but his mouth won’t work.
“If you can get me his name in a day, there’ll be something extra in it for you.”
Slim sees an opening and dodges his eyes left. “I don’t know.”
Wren places a hand against the wall right beside Slim’s face. His nostrils open up like caves, and Slim imagines running up into one and hiding. He begins to burst into laughter, and pretends to have a coughing fit. Wren waits for him to finish. “Let me put it to you this way, son. You like your job at the hotel, don’t you?”
“Yessir.”
“Good, I thought so. The manager’s a good friend of mine. So’s the owner. I do favors for them. You do this favor for me and they’d be mighty pleased. I’m going to speak to both of them about it directly. You take the afternoon off and start hunting for that boy, and when you find him you come running to my office and don’t stop for anything until you talk to me. You understand?”
Slim nods, glancing briefly into Wren’s sharp eyes. Don’t get messed up in no business, he tells himself. But suddenly Wren is gone, and Slim is messed up in the very business he wanted not to get messed up in. And not a thing he can do about it.
Tommie and Mr. Evans leave on Wednesday morning, hoping to get home in time for dinner. They make a stop at the Trace crossroads store; the eastbound stagecoach has just arrived, carrying, among other things, mail, freight, and Richmond newspapers. But nothing from Tuesday yet. They head out in the carriage again.
It’s warmer out today than it has been. The rank, fecund odors of skunk cabbage and newly plowed earth mingle in the air, and the faint buds of dogwoods are wedding lace along the roadside. The grinding carriage wheels suggest a rhythm. Tommie opens his mouth and begins singing: “Ching-a-ring-a-ring ching ching, ho-a-ding-a-ding kum larkee …” He whistles awhile.
Mr. Evans looks up from his paper, inhales the scents of spring, and absently takes up the verse: “Brothers gather ’round, listen to this story ’bout the promised land.”
Then together they go. “You don’t need to fear if you have no money, you don’t need none there to buy you milk and honey.” Lustier now, “There you’ll ride in style, coach with four white horses, there the evenin’ meal has one two three four courses.”
Mr. Evans compliments Tommie on his singing and tells him a story about minstrels traveling through King and Queen when he was a boy. “The best music I ever heard. The grown-ups were a little less appreciative—I didn’t understand it at the time. They were free coloreds—in the company of a white manager—but folks were afraid it would give the slaves ideas. Of course, we had free negroes in King and Queen, so I don’t know why they were worried.” Tommie is reminded of his first trip to Richmond. His father took him on the train and showed him the burned-out Spottswood Hotel where he’d seen Jefferson Davis, and when they walked across Capitol Square two old negroes were singing and strumming a banjo. A policeman told them not to disturb the
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