back of the house and paced the small yard. After a few minutes, Rose came out.
“You want something to eat?” she asked.
“No, thank you,” he said.
“My mama in there a boo-hooing like the day she was born.”
In the moonlight Rose’s skin looked like liquid caramel.
“You ought to have some lemonade, at least, ’fore you go back,” she said.
She took his hand and led him into the main room. The porch light shined in through the window. Rose sat close to him on the low sofa. Six could smell the clean clothes smell of her skin. She kissed him. Her lips were dry and pillowy. Six pursed his mouth stiffly as if blowing on a spoonful of hot soup. He put one hand on her shoulder and the other on the back of the sofa. He was awkward. She leaned into him and parted her lips and breathed into his mouth. “Just be easy,” she said. He thought of her as he’d first seen her, with her wet yellow dress slick against her thighs. He reached under her skirt. Her skin was soft as spring sunlight. The muscles in her legs shifted under his fingers as she took off her dress and straddled him.
Earlier that day, Six had overheard the preachers talking about an assistant pastorship opening in the town. He would offer to fill it, and they would have to take him because the people would believe in him after word got around that he’d healed Rose’s mother. He would stay in that little town and he would preach on Sundays, and the congregation would say God had anointed him to heal. He would be what they wanted him to be, whether his gift was real or not. Maybe it didn’t matter if Six found the Lord. It was like Reverend Grist had said, “They come for whatever reason, and then it’s the Lord that occupies Himself with their souls.”
“Reverend Six,” Rose whispered, stretching alongside him on the sofa, her body damp with sweat and glistening in the light from the porch. “Reverend Six, Reverend Six, Reverend Six.”
Ruthie
----
1951
L AWRENCE HAD JUST GIVEN the last of his money to the numbers man when Hattie called him from a public telephone a few blocks from her house on Wayne Street. Her voice was just audible over the street traffic and the baby’s high wail. “It’s Hattie,” she said, as though he would not recognize her voice. And then, “Ruthie and I left home.” Lawrence thought for a moment that she meant she had a free hour unexpectedly, and he might come and meet them at the park where they usually saw one another.
“No,” she’d said. “I packed my things. We can’t … we’re not going back.”
They met an hour later at a diner on Germantown Avenue. The lunch rush was over, and Hattie was the lone customer. She sat with Ruthie propped in her lap, a menu closed on the table in front of her. Hattie did not look up as Lawrence approached. He had the impression that she saw him walk in and had turned her head so as not to appear that she’d been looking for him. A cloth satchel sat on the floor next to her: embroidered, somber hued, faded. A bit of white fabric stuck up through the latch. He felt a rush of tenderness at the sight of the bag flopping on the linoleum.
Lawrence lifted the satchel onto the seat as he slid into the booth. He reached across and tickled Ruthie’s cheek with his finger. He and Hattie had never discussed a future seriously. Oh, there had been plenty of sighs and wishes in the afternoon hours after they’d made love: they had invented an entire life out of what-ifs and wouldn’t-it-be-nices. He looked at her now and realized their daydreams were more real to him than he’d allowed himself to believe.
Lawrence wasn’t a man that got hung up on ideals or lofty sentiment; he had lived pragmatically as far as his emotions were concerned. He had a car and nice suits, and he had only infrequently worked for white men. He left his family behind in Baltimore when he was sixteen, and he had built himself up from nothing without any help from anyone. And if he had not
“You want something to eat?” she asked.
“No, thank you,” he said.
“My mama in there a boo-hooing like the day she was born.”
In the moonlight Rose’s skin looked like liquid caramel.
“You ought to have some lemonade, at least, ’fore you go back,” she said.
She took his hand and led him into the main room. The porch light shined in through the window. Rose sat close to him on the low sofa. Six could smell the clean clothes smell of her skin. She kissed him. Her lips were dry and pillowy. Six pursed his mouth stiffly as if blowing on a spoonful of hot soup. He put one hand on her shoulder and the other on the back of the sofa. He was awkward. She leaned into him and parted her lips and breathed into his mouth. “Just be easy,” she said. He thought of her as he’d first seen her, with her wet yellow dress slick against her thighs. He reached under her skirt. Her skin was soft as spring sunlight. The muscles in her legs shifted under his fingers as she took off her dress and straddled him.
Earlier that day, Six had overheard the preachers talking about an assistant pastorship opening in the town. He would offer to fill it, and they would have to take him because the people would believe in him after word got around that he’d healed Rose’s mother. He would stay in that little town and he would preach on Sundays, and the congregation would say God had anointed him to heal. He would be what they wanted him to be, whether his gift was real or not. Maybe it didn’t matter if Six found the Lord. It was like Reverend Grist had said, “They come for whatever reason, and then it’s the Lord that occupies Himself with their souls.”
“Reverend Six,” Rose whispered, stretching alongside him on the sofa, her body damp with sweat and glistening in the light from the porch. “Reverend Six, Reverend Six, Reverend Six.”
Ruthie
----
1951
L AWRENCE HAD JUST GIVEN the last of his money to the numbers man when Hattie called him from a public telephone a few blocks from her house on Wayne Street. Her voice was just audible over the street traffic and the baby’s high wail. “It’s Hattie,” she said, as though he would not recognize her voice. And then, “Ruthie and I left home.” Lawrence thought for a moment that she meant she had a free hour unexpectedly, and he might come and meet them at the park where they usually saw one another.
“No,” she’d said. “I packed my things. We can’t … we’re not going back.”
They met an hour later at a diner on Germantown Avenue. The lunch rush was over, and Hattie was the lone customer. She sat with Ruthie propped in her lap, a menu closed on the table in front of her. Hattie did not look up as Lawrence approached. He had the impression that she saw him walk in and had turned her head so as not to appear that she’d been looking for him. A cloth satchel sat on the floor next to her: embroidered, somber hued, faded. A bit of white fabric stuck up through the latch. He felt a rush of tenderness at the sight of the bag flopping on the linoleum.
Lawrence lifted the satchel onto the seat as he slid into the booth. He reached across and tickled Ruthie’s cheek with his finger. He and Hattie had never discussed a future seriously. Oh, there had been plenty of sighs and wishes in the afternoon hours after they’d made love: they had invented an entire life out of what-ifs and wouldn’t-it-be-nices. He looked at her now and realized their daydreams were more real to him than he’d allowed himself to believe.
Lawrence wasn’t a man that got hung up on ideals or lofty sentiment; he had lived pragmatically as far as his emotions were concerned. He had a car and nice suits, and he had only infrequently worked for white men. He left his family behind in Baltimore when he was sixteen, and he had built himself up from nothing without any help from anyone. And if he had not
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