by H. M. Mann
She smiles. “You’re not pulling my leg, are you?”
“No ma’am. I was really at Moses Green’s house yesterday. I did his dishes. He, uh, likes to drink out of jelly jars. Not sure what he’s drinking, but—”
“And he lives in Trimble?”
“Just north of Trimble off of Highway Twenty-nine. I slept in his shed where he keeps a whole army of warriors, some three or four feet high.”
Now she looks extremely confused. “And why are you telling me all this?”
“He said I’d send another.”
She blinks. “Another what?”
“Another … person, I guess. To empty his house. I thought it would be you.”
She ain’t the one. Let’s go. She still don’t believe you.
But why won’t she? She’s seen the sculptures.
“So I’m just supposed to get in my car and drive to Trimble right now.”
I put my backpack on my shoulder. “No ma’am. You’re just supposed to stand here doubting me.” I look at a wall filled with masks. “Maybe you’ve sold too many masks for you to see the truth.”
Manny! Get deep!
I’m almost to the door when I feel a tug at my arm. “Wait,” she says. I turn to her. “This is for real?”
“Yes ma’am.”
“On Highway Twenty-nine north of Trimble you say?”
“Yes.”
Tell her about the mail.
“Oh, and get his mail for him before you walk up. He uses a walker and can’t get around very well.”
She leans against the door. “I’ve been looking for Moses Green for years, you know. My daddy met him once, and he gave him this heavy wooden sculpture of a woman dancing. It’s sitting in my living room.” She looks out the door. “He also told my daddy that he’d meet the woman in the sculpture one day.” She smiles. “And that woman turned out to be my mama. It looks exactly like her.”
“He says the wood talks to him.”
She wipes a … tear? “It does. Mama and I talk every day.” She turns back to me. “She passed a few summers ago.”
I touch her elbow. “So you’ll go?”
She nods. “I’ll go.”
“Today? Moses said it’d be sunny all day, a good day to travel.”
She looks around the store. “It sure would be, except I have a store to run.”
“Can you call someone in?”
“I could …” She nods. “Or I could close early. Today’s been pretty slow.”
That’s the second person to say that to you today.
See what happens when you make haste slowly?
She smiles. “That’s what I’ll do. Thank you, uh …”
“Emmanuel Mann.” I turn to go. “Oh, and tell Moses the second apple came in handy.”
“The second apple?”
“Yeah. He’ll know what I mean.”
I walk out into the sunshine, staring up at the tall buildings. Now which way do I go?
That was so touching.
It was, wasn’t it?
I was being sarcastic.
And then I walk straight down Martin Luther King, Junior, Boulevard, and it’s like I’ve stepped into heaven. I see brothers in suits with briefcases and cell phones and little computers, their clothes ironed, their shoes shined, getting out of nice cars or getting into cabs that actually stop for them, and going into modern office buildings, hustling, serious, moving, full of hope, power, determination, life. And the women are just as inspiring, each with a different hairstyle, each a different shade, no two alike, wielding cell phones like swords and wearing business suits and satchels. And the street is like a bazaar, a free market full of barter, where you can buy just about everything from fruit to soda to purses, jewelry, and name-brand clothes.
Too bad you only got seventeen bucks. There’s some nice stuff here, and you could really use some nicer gear than what you’re wearing.
Why are you so interested in my appearance all of a sudden?
Manny, you’re gonna be with Mary soon. You can’t go up to her wearing what you’re wearing. We need you to be styling and profiling.
She’ll just have to love me for what I am.
It’s getting thick now.
I watch one particular guy on the sidewalk selling clothing, mostly FUBU shirts and shorts. There’s something about this guy, I can’t explain it. Light-skinned with bulging eyes and a thin moustache, he is a true salesman with a silky-smooth delivery and a different pitch for each potential customer. “My brother!” he shouts. “What up, dawg?” he croons. “Hey cuz!” he says with a gleaming smile. “Direct from New York City!” he announces. Some of the folks apparently know him and call him “Jeff,” “J-Dog,” and “Jeffrey.” I stand on the edge of the crowd watching him sell completely out in less than thirty minutes. He even sells an eye-ripping red and neon yellow Hawaiian shirt that I thought no one on earth would ever buy.
The crowd parts leaving him with empty boxes. “What you lookin’ for, bro?” he asks me.
I wave a hand. “No money.”
He looks hard at my boots. “You need you some boots, man.”
I flex my toes. “They’ve held up all right.”
“I got some on my truck.”
“Like I said, no money.”
He stacks a few boxes. “What you got in the bag? Maybe we can trade.”
Don’t let him have the sculptures.
I won’t.
I reach in and pull out the blanket so I can find the small warrior.
“Oh, Cuz, that’s phat!”
Jeff steps closer, and I hand him the blanket. “I got it in Africatown.”
“Where?”
“Africatown, north of Mobile.”
“Alabama? They make these in Alabama?”
A woman hurrying by stops in her tracks. “You sellin’ that?”
Jeff spins around with the blanket. “How much would you pay for this, my sister?”
She runs her hand over the fabric. “I don’t know if I have enough. Is this real silk?”
Jeff turns to me.
“Oh, uh, yes, real silk,” I say. I think.
It’s probably just cotton.
I know. But it’s fine cotton.
She digs in her purse. “I’ll give you … forty.”
Jeff blinks his eyes at me. “No sale.” He stuffs it into the backpack and rushes to collect his empty boxes.
“What?” The women waves two twenties in front of my eyes. “This ain’t enough?”
“Sorry, sister,” Jeff says, and he takes my arm, dragging me down the street and through the crowd. We don’t stop until we get to a semi in a parking lot I have no idea where.
“Whew,” he says when we get there, and he lets me go.
“Um, Jeff, right?”
“Yeah.” He walks to the back of the semi that has “Southeastern Freight Lines” painted across the trailer, unlocking the doors and tossing in the empty boxes.
“Did you drag me down here for a reason?” I ask.
“Wait a sec.” He jumps up into the trailer and comes back with two shoeboxes. “What size you wear?”
“Ten.”
He tosses one of the boxes away and hands me the remaining box. I open it and see a pair of brand new Timberlands.
Nice. And they’re both the same color. At least your feet will be styling and profiling.
“Trade you those for the blanket,” Jeff says, sitting on the bumper. “Those are a hundred-fifty dollar shoes, man. Top-of-the-line. I can’t take them out on the street or there’d be a riot.”
I look past Jeff into the cavernous trailer. It’s mostly empty except for a couple dozen shoe boxes.
Take the trade, Manny! You’re ripping him off!
Who would I give it to if I didn’t trade it? Maybe I can wrap my son in it. Yeah.
“Sorry,” I say. “No trade.”
Jeff scrunches up his nose. “You’re kiddin’! This is a deal, man.”
“It’s Manny, and I
can’t let you have it.”
He smiles. “It’s already for someone special, huh?”
I nod. “My son.” I think. Maybe even for Mary. Or for her mama? Hmm.
“Lucky boy.” He closes the trailer doors. “Where you from?”
“Pittsburgh.”
“No kiddin’? I’m goin’ to Pittsburgh day after tomorrow, and I always get lost down there. You goin’ to or comin’ from?”
“Going to.”
He rubs his chin with his hand. “How you plan on gettin’ there?”
“Walking.”
He squints. “You’re gonna walk up to Pittsburgh?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s at least seven hundred and fifty miles, Manny.”
I shrug.
Try to look pitiful so we can get us a ride.
I already look pitiful.
Jeff takes a deep breath and exhales. “You ain’t some religious freak, are you?”
“No.”
Yes he is! He’s got me believing in coincidences. He hears voices! He—
Hush.
“Tell you what.” He puts his arm across my shoulders. “You tell me where you got that blanket and how I can get some more … at a discount, of course … and I’ll take you to Pittsburgh.”
“All you want is some information?”
“Information means money, Manny. You saw how that sister acted when she saw that blanket. You see her eyes pop? Man, she would have paid a hundred or more if she had it.” He lowers his voice. “And if I could get ‘em for, oh, say, twenty-five, thirty each … See what I’m sayin’?”
“I don’t know if they sell them.”
“Who’s they?”
“My relatives.”
He jumps back, his eyes popping out even more. “Your people make these?”
“Yeah.”
“Get in the truck, cuz.”
I hesitate. “You sure?”
“Heck yeah. You can get us a family discount, now come on!”
I walk around the cab to the passenger side and climb in, putting my backpack on the floor in front of me. “Thanks.”
He starts up the engine, and the cab quivers and shakes. “Don’t thank me. If this works out, I’ll be the one thankin’ you. I could sell twenty of them blankets a week easy and make a sixteen-hundred-dollar profit.”
I do the math in my head. “But that would mean—”
“C’mon, I know you can get them for me for twenty. They’re your people, right?”
“Yeah.” They’re my people, but would they want to go into business like that?
He pulls out of the parking lot, and we lumber along Martin Luther King, Junior, Boulevard, past City Hall and the State Capitol building, taking I-85 north past Georgia Tech. The traffic thins out as we drive in the far right lane barely going fifty miles an hour.
“How long have you been driving a truck?” I ask.
“A couple years.”
“Selling FUBU?”
“Nah. That’s just somethin’ I do on the side, and today was really slow for some reason. Probably the weather.”
That’s three people in a row who’ve had slow days. What’s up with Atlanta?
“Yeah, I drop a load of whatever for Southeastern, and I always pick up somethin’ wherever I go. I got most of those shoes in the back from an outlet in South Carolina on the way down, and I’ll sell ‘em up in Roanoke tomorrow.” He turns up the heat. “Sorry about keepin’ the heater on. I get cold easily.”
It has to be ninety degrees outside, and it’s pushing a hundred in here. “What’s in Roanoke?”
“Not much.” He laughs. “Nah, it’s where I’m from up in Virginia. We’ll get in there tonight, hang out all day tomorrow, then get up to Pittsburgh on Thursday. That okay?”
“Sure. You, uh, make much money from this little, um, racket of yours?”
“Yeah, it’s a racket, but it’s a good one. Makes me three, four hundred dollars a week over what Southeastern pays me. Cash money, no taxes.” He smiles. “I have better days than others, especially on the holidays.”
A driver cuts in front of us, and Jeff has to slam on the brakes. “Stupid Georgia drivers!” he shouts. “They are the worst. They all think they’re NASCAR drivers or somethin’.”
“Worse than New York City drivers?”
“Much worse. Folks in New York drive fast, but they drive safe. They have to cuz auto insurance there is higher than high.”
So we make haste slowly through north Georgia, past fields of organized yellow wild flowers in between roads, into South Carolina. I look behind my seat and see a book lying there. I pick it up, and it’s called Granddaddy’s Dirt by Brian Egeston.
“Some dude just handed that to me when I was down in Atlanta a few months ago. I was just sittin’ at a traffic light, and he walked up and gave it to me. He said something like it was a story of generational burdens or somethin’ like that. Can you believe that? How can a guy make money with a book he just … gives away?”
Maybe he’s repaid in other ways. I flip to the beginning of the book and read the dedication:
This book is written with warmth to heal the pain of your loss. Please find peace in knowing that the existence of your ancestors inspired these words.
This is spooky.
You’re telling me.
No, I mean all this. Three folks in a row have slow days, this book is talking directly to you, and it’s a hundred and ten degrees in this truck and you’re not complaining.
Yet.
“How long has this been lying back here?”
“Since … January, I think.”
And it just happens to be here now, huh?
Yeah.
I open to the first chapter, which happens to be titled “While on the Way Home.”
You’re going to read this book, right?
I have to.
I hold the book up under the windshield so I can see better. Jeff flips on an overhead light. “Knock yourself out,” he says. “Let me know if it’s worth what I paid for it.” He laughs.
And I start reading …
In the deepest bowels of Hell’s cauldron, the temperature often reached—flame broil. On the longest stretch of Highway 257 leading to Albany, Georgia, the temperature was known to reach—combustible obliteration.
And here I am sweating like a dog with the heater going full blast. “Can I roll down a window or something?”
“Just a crack,” Jeff says.
I crack my window and feel the beginnings of a breeze through my hair. It won’t be enough to keep me cool, but it will have to do. I read on, but the heat and humidity get to me before I can get past the first page, and I doze off.
“Would you look at that!” Jeff shouts, waking me a little while later.
“What?”
“Thunderstorm. Big one. I hate thunderstorms.”
I don’t. I sit up and stare into one big black cloud hovering over the highway ahead of us like a huge dark hand pressing down on everything it touches. “How long have I been asleep?”
“Almost two hours, man.” Huge raindrops begin lashing the windshield. “We’re pullin’ off. I ain’t drivin’ in this mess.”
We pull into a Burger King near the North Carolina border where we are served by a Vietnamese girl with a southern accent.
While I’m savoring the salt on my fries and gulping a Coke, Jeff watches the skies. “I wanted to get to Roanoke before it got dark.”
“How much further?”
“About two hundred miles.”
Which means four more hours in the slow-moving sauna that is Jeff’s rig. “What time is it?”
“A little after six.” He shakes his head. “I hate drivin’ at night.”
He hates driving in the rain, and he hates driving at night. Why is he a truck driver, then? “I’d, uh, offer to drive, but I don’t have a license.”
“No kiddin’?”
“No.”
“Hard to get one in Pennsylvania?
”
“Wouldn’t know.” I take a bite of my burger.
“You never even tried to get your license?”
I shake my head.
“That’s messed up. What are you, twenty-two, twenty-three?”
I am getting younger. “I’m twenty-nine.”
“Get out of here!”
“Yeah.”
“Your people must age well. Mine …” He seems to shudder. “We get all wrinkly and lose our hair before we hit forty.”
After refilling our cups, we dash through the rain to the truck. Jeff turns on his flashers before we even leave the parking lot, and we’re back out on I-85 in a traffic jam of epic proportions. Jeff doesn’t seem to mind, though. In fact, he seems more relaxed.
“Too much road construction on this road,” he says. “They got bridges bein’ repaired from here to Virginia.”
Thank God for that. Folks like me need them to hold us up when we jump.
“And folks don’t know how to drive on this road or any other, let me tell you. They should all be slowing down, not speeding up. I mean, look at that fool rollin’ up a lane that’s gonna be closed in less than a thousand feet, like he got a more important place to be than the rest of us. C’mon, y’all, I want to get home, too.”
So do I, I think, drowsing to the sound of Jeff’s voice. So do I …
21: Roanoke
Six hours later, we roll into Roanoke and drop off the truck. The storm had followed us all the way, and Plantation Road is covered with six inches of running water that Jeff’s Hyundai barely clears as we hit Orange Avenue.
“They was gonna rename this road after Martin Luther King,” he tells me, “but the businesses on this road said it would cost too much to change their addresses.” He shakes his head. “Triflin’, ain’t it?”
We splash down Orange until it becomes Melrose, cut past some projects, and end up in a neighborhood full of ranch-style and split-level houses.
“You live here?”
He pulls to the curb in front of a ranch that has several cars in the driveway. “Sometimes. When my girl and I are fightin’.” He frowns. “Which is most of the time. You might get to meet her tomorrow at the reunion.”
“Huh?”