When Mann sank back into the chair, Griffin turned to Epstein. “We didn’t get a chance to visit earlier. Are you on staff in the department?”
Epstein’s smile was dry and partially masked behind the thick walrus mustache—naturally curly black hair spilled over his collar. “Maybe in a year or two. I’m working toward the grad program.”
Griffin cooled. Patterson needed to start separating the worker bees from the faculty.
“Mike will be taking some of Bill’s load,” explained Patterson.
What load? thought Griffin. He said, “Well, at least I’m senior to one of the assistants.” It came out wrong.
Epstein’s smile was no longer touching his eyes. “I think lowly assistant captures the connotation more clearly, don’t you?”
Anna cleared her throat and backed out of the room.
Griffin looked at Patterson’s expression and grimaced. “I’m sorry. My mouth has been getting the better—”
Mann bent over to pick up his shoes. Maybe having the extra blood flow to his brain helped, but for whatever the reason, he chose that moment to recover something from his memory. He straightened and pointed his right penny loafer at Griffin. “I know who you are. You’re the surfer.”
“Surfer?” queried Epstein.
“Uh-huh,” Mann frowned, struggling to bring a fuzzy picture into focus. “Monday morning . . . you were in here passed out on the floor.”
Griffin turned down an offer from a small college in South Dakota to come to Texas; now he was having second thoughts about the wisdom of his choice.
The thought of the pompous new teacher passed out on Patterson’s floor struck Epstein as funny. “You showed up for work bombed?”
The would-be professor turned on Epstein. “Look, friend, I don’t have to put up—”
Patterson made the “T” sign with his hands. “Time-out, gentlemen.”
Griffin, Epstein, and a more alert Mann looked at their boss.
“Mike,” Patterson ordered, “you take Bill home in his car. I’ll follow in a minute or two and bring you back to the campus.”
He pointed at the chair vacated by Mann and told Griffin, “Grab a seat.”
Mann and Epstein were out of the office in seconds.
When they reached the downstairs vestibule, Mann propped himself against the wall to slip into his loafers. A couple forced to detour around him stopped, and the guy looked back.
The man was big; the girl with him was attractive and aloof.
“You’re Bill Mann,” said the man.
“That’s right.” Mann studied the man’s face, searching his memory. “I overdid it on some pain pills . . . either yesterday or maybe the day before . . . do I know you?”
The speaker was about six-three and probably weighed two hundred and twenty pounds. He put out his hand. “Homero Gonzales . . . San Antone.”
“I remember you.” A smile spread across Mann’s face and he shook Gonzales’s hand. “You played a good game.”
“Thanks. You didn’t do too bad yourself.”
“Can we do this later, Homer?” Mann pointed down the hall. “I gotta make a stop in the little boys’ room pretty quick. I’ll see you around the campus.”
“Sure.” Gonzales watched him limp away and said, “I’ll buy you a beer.”
When Mann went into the restroom, Gonzales turned and looked down at Epstein. He took in the long hair, mustache, and glasses. “You a friend of his?” He sounded skeptical.
“We work together.” Epstein offered his hand. “Mike Epstein.”
Gonzales shook his hand and introduced the girl. She wasn’t interested in men shorter than six-three; Epstein missed her mark by at least five inches.
Epstein was curious. “How’d you know who he was?”
“Process of elimination. Not many black kids up here. None like him.”
“He’s different?”
“A little.” Gonzales had a voice like a prophet—deep and clear. “I played against him in the high school all-star game two summers ago. He’s tougher than he looks.”
Epstein looked back toward where the sleepy guy disappeared. “That guy right there?”
“That’s the man.” The big guy followed Epstein’s gaze and spoke matter-of-factly, “I was a pretty-well-thought-of running back—bigger and faster than most. He was a skinny unknown that played in the North’s secondary.”
Gonzales paused, remembering.
“And?” prompted Epstein.
The former football star stabbed his finger slowly in the direction Mann took and winked. “And the South lost.”
Epstein was a pacifist. He shrugged. “I probably won’t try to pick a fight with him then.”
“Neither will anybody else around here, if they’re smart,” spoke the prophet. The girl turned away and Homero followed. “See you around, Ep.”
When they were in the car, Mann leaned his back against the seat. “Do you know where Pilot Hill is, Super Jew?”
“I can find it.”
“That’s the promised land,” said Mann as he closed his eyes. “Take me there, then wake me up.”
“I was thinking,” said the driver, “what with me being Jewish and you being black, we might ought to form our own Anti-Defamation League.”
“An Anti-Defamation League for Jewish people and blacks?”
“More selective than that . . . for one black boy and a left-handed Jew.”
“You’ve been dipping into my pain pills, haven’t you?”
“You don’t like the idea.”
“I don’t like being awake. Put a lid on it and take me to my house.”
“You got it. And if I’m going to be your chauffeur you can call me Supe.”
“Whatever you say, Supe.”
“Sounds good.” Epstein smiled. “And I’ll call you . . .” He thought for a second. “I’ll call you Coon.”
Mann didn’t bother to open his eyes. “Not if you want to live long enough to eat supper.”
Epstein chuckled. “How about Rastus?”
Mann pointed his face toward Epstein and forced one eye open. “How about less talking and more driving?”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Mann woke up when they passed through Pilot Hill. He was inclined to stop at Nettie’s for a cup of coffee, but he wasn’t ready to listen to the lecture.
They were a mile from town and going farther into the country when Epstein asked, “Your folks got a farm out here?”
“It’s just me and my granddad. Five acres, no farm.”
“Lots of big trees.” Epstein was enjoying watching the countryside roll by. “Did you grow up out here?”
“Chi-Town . . . I’m a Yankee,” said Mann.
“Where’s your granddad from?”
“All over.” Mann thought about the recent warnings out of Mississippi and turned the conversation. “How about you?”
“I was brought up in University Park. We moved to Denton a few years ago.”
“We?”
Epstein slowed to let a squirrel cross the road. “My sister’s five years older than me. We moved up here when our parents died—a money thing.”
The two talked about University Park until Mann’s house came in sight.
When he turned in the long driveway, Epstein said, “Well, bro, it’s not like I’m into poetry and trees, but if I was choosing between University Park, Chicago, and this place, I’d pick this.”
“Thanks. We like it.”
Mose was sitting in one of the rockers; Dawg had taken up his station by the driveway.
“Pull up right there by Poppa’s truck.” Mann pointed. “Go slow . . . and watch out for the dog; he’s getting old.”
The black man on the porch stood up. He was wearing starched khakis and carrying a long stick; he wasn’t smiling.
Epstein watched the man with the stick move toward the steps and said, “Uh . . . your granddad doesn’t look too happy.”
“He usually doesn’t start dancing till
folks get out of their cars.”
Epstein looked to see if Mann was serious. “I mean . . . I haven’t been around all that many old black guys . . . uh . . . practically none. Does he like Jews?”
“I guess,” Mann sighed. “He cooked the last two and ate ’em.”
Epstein wasn’t comforted by the humor. When the car stopped, the dog moved up to stand just outside his door.
Epstein eased the door open and the hound drew close enough to sniff at his ankles. When he didn’t register the expected scent, Dawg backed slightly and leveled an unblinking stare at the stranger.
“This dog looks like he doesn’t like me.”
“For cryin’ out loud, Epstein. Is this some kind of all-new decision to have a persecution complex?”
“I mean it. Does he bite?”
“Only morons.” Mann got his door open and used it to help him stand. “Get out of the car or I’ll clue him in on your IQ.”
The dog heard Mann’s voice and trotted to the other side of the car. Mann bent over carefully and rubbed his ears. “Hey there, big boy. Miss me?”
The dog leaned against his boy’s leg and moaned.
The black man with the stick was at the bottom of the porch steps. He said, “Afternoon, gentlemen. Come an’ set.”
Mann straightened. “Poppa, this is Mike Epstein. Mike, my grandfather, Moses Mann.”
“Mr. Epstein.” Mose inclined his head. “I’m pleased to meet you.”
Epstein put out his hand and used his new name. “My friends call me Supe.”
“Sho’ ’nuff?”
“Yes, sir . . . short for Super Jew.”
“Mm-hmm. One of the chosen people.”
The absence of humor Epstein imagined in the old man’s countenance wasn’t a hint at the presence of anger; it was dignity. Before Epstein could comment, Mann headed off any talk about God’s chosen people. “Supe’s the new guy Pat was talking about hiring.”
“Mm-hmm. So . . . you reckon you gonna be a philosopher, boy?”
“Yes, sir, that’s the plan.” Mose took his time going up the steps. Epstein followed. “Another year of college, then graduate school.”
The old man said, “Move that cat an’ sit in that chair by me.”
Epstein put the cat on the floor.
Mose took the other rocker; Mann managed to take a seat in the swing without capsizing. The cat wandered down the steps and sat under the nearest tree to wash her face.
While Mose and Epstein were getting acquainted, the dog was using his nose to examine the area around the swing.
“What’re you doing?” Mann asked him.
Mose chuckled. “He ran out of cake yesterday . . . an’ you didn’t bring none.”
Mann watched as the dog whuffed and left the porch. “I guess I made him mad.”
“No-no,” said Mose, “he hears somethin’.”
The dog was standing out by the driveway again, wagging his tail.
A few seconds later Pat Patterson’s car came around the curve below the house. He pulled in and parked behind Mann’s car; the dog greeted him warmly. Patterson took a cardboard box out of the backseat, and the dog escorted him to the porch.
The professor brought the box up the steps and said, “I forgot to give this to Bill.”
“I’ll take it.” Mann pushed himself out of the swing. “Have we got coffee going, Poppa?”
“No, but the water’s on the stove.”
Mann hefted the box and looked at the three men. “Who wants some?”
Mose and Patterson did. Epstein looked his question at Patterson, who answered, “Chocolate cake.”
“Me, please,” said Epstein. “You need any help?”
“Keep your seat,” said Patterson. “I know my way around.”
Epstein watched Patterson follow Mann into the house and wondered at the relaxed friendship between the head of a university philosophy department, a black office boy who referred to his boss by his first name, and an old black gentleman. He sat back in the chair and thought, Maybe it’s more amazing they’d include me.
A mockingbird took offense at the cat’s close proximity to her nest and perched on a lower limb to complain. The cat continued her bath. The first mockingbird was joined by two more and a redbird.
Epstein said, “I used to live close to Mockingbird Lane in Dallas, and we wouldn’t see three mockingbirds in a whole month.”
“That right?”
One of the mockingbirds left its perch and swooped low over the cat.
“Wow!” Epstein exclaimed. “That was close.”
“Mm-hmm.” Mose nodded. “An’ that cat’s been known to be mighty quick.”
A second bird joined the attack.
While the two men watched the air show, the dog came over and put his head on Epstein’s knee.
“Well, now,” declared Mose, “I wish you’d look at that. He don’t take to just anybody.”
Epstein winked at the old man. “Maybe he thinks I’m special.”
“Well, he’d be right about that, boy.” Mose nodded somberly. “Dead right.”
“I think he’s mistaken this time, Mr. Mann.” Epstein massaged the dog’s ears gently and grinned. “I’m just a twenty-year-old kid who stopped in for free chocolate cake. There’s nothing special about that.”
“You a Israelite, boy; folks don’t hardly get no more special than that.”
The first mockingbird was gaining altitude to make another bomb run on the cat. Epstein was watching without seeing.
“You know,” he said, “that’s what my granddaddy used to tell me.”
Mann was back on the porch ten minutes later carrying two slices of cake, one thin, one not. He found Mose apparently dozing in his chair. The mockingbirds and their friends had reclaimed the ground out under the trees. The dog was resting his head on Epstein’s knee. The Jewish kid who stopped in for free chocolate cake was holding an open Bible in his lap. Epstein’s finger was resting on the print, but he was leaning back in the chair, his eyes fixed on something in the distance.
Mann said, “Your cake’s here.”
Epstein’s mind was busy elsewhere.
Patterson came through the door saying, “Hot coffee,” and the spell was broken.
Epstein looked at the men with the food and tapped the page. “This is the book of Isaiah, chapter fifty-three.”
Mose’s eyes came open. Mann and Patterson waited.
Epstein looked at Mose then let his eyes drop to the Bible. “This was written by a Jewish prophet seven hundred years before Jesus was born”—he paused to take a breath—“and it describes His crucifixion in detail.”
No one said anything.
Epstein looked at Patterson. “Did you know this?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Did you?” he asked Mann.
Mann handed him the larger slice of cake. “Probably.”
The rank indifference in the response stopped Epstein. He studied Mann’s face then asked, “Why don’t you care?”
“It’s a long story.” Mann went back to get his own cake and coffee.
Epstein was baffled. “What did I say?”
“You didn’t do nothin’ wrong, boy.” Mose took his coffee from Patterson. “It goes back a long ways, an’ it’s ’tween him an’ God.”
“He only has two years of college left.” Patterson was looking at the empty doorway. “I wonder about when he’ll turn around.”
Mose pictured Mann’s frequent attempts to set a new speed record on the curve below their house. He said, “You try to git things goin’ too fast, an’ you end up in the ditch, boy. If I was sayin’ what I think, I’d say that boy’s got a far piece to go, but the wide, wicked world is gonna know it when he gets there. God says me an’ you been picked to stand by his side an’ wait.”
“Yes, sir. You’re right . . . as usual.”
Epstein stopped petting his new friend and looked up. It wasn’t the choice of words; it was Patterson’s tone. The learned chairma
n of the university’s philosophy department was content to defer to the wisdom of the old black gentleman.
Patterson and Epstein were heading for Pilot Hill when Epstein asked, “Do you know much about Jesus?”
“Some. What’s your question?”
“I’m not sure.” Riding was better than driving, and he watched the landscape pass for a minute or two. “How about if you just tell me what you know?”
“How about if we go to the source,” suggested Patterson. “You find yourself a Bible, and we’ll spend a couple of lunch breaks looking at what it says.”
When they drove past the square in Pilot Hill, a black man was standing at the curb in front of Nettie’s Café. He was relaxed— one hand in his pocket, the other wielding a toothpick. They didn’t notice him, but he recognized Patterson’s car.
Mann was inside the house continuing his all-day nap. Mose was at his station on the porch when the dog stood and murmured deep in his chest.
Mose couldn’t see anything moving, and compared to the dog he was deaf. “What’s got you up, boy?”
Without answering, the dog trotted down the steps and moved off across the yard at a fast lope.
Mose shrugged and followed. The dog got to the road and turned north; in seconds he was beyond a small rise and out of sight. By the time Mose reached the road, the dog was on his way back; he topped the rise escorting Clark Roberts’s three-year-old daughter— or she him.
The old man smiled as the two drew near. “Afternoon, Miss Trudy. You out for yo’ evenin’ constitutional?”
“No, I’m walking by myself.”
“Seems like you quite a ways from home.”
“I am. I never walked this far by myself before.” For her pilgrimage ensemble the girl chose blue jeans, lime-green flip-flops, and a sleeveless pink blouse with white buttons.
“Well, I have to say you doin’ a right fine job of it.”
“Is this your dog?” She squatted by the dog to pat him on the back.
“Kinda. He stays here with me an’ my grandson, but I don’t rightly know as he’s mine.”
And If I Die Page 21