Henry was always hangin' 'round us. He used to always say how if I didn't marry Geraldine he would have. She liked him and I worked the night shift. Lotta times I'd come home and he'd be there watchin' TV or eatin'. I even liked it that he looked in on her. So you see, Lydell said like some kind of law student, it really was my fault in a way. You cain't be havin' no man comin' up in your house lookin' after your woman. Man starts to feel like he own a woman he's protectin'. She cain't help but to take on his scent too.
How many years? Socrates asked when he realized that there was nothing he could tell Lydell.
Sentenced to twelve but I got out in eight.
Socrates figured that his drinking partner was mid-thirties, not much more. How long you been out?
Six years, seven months, five days, Lydell answered. I went in when I was nineteen. My mother died the next year.
You done did all right, man, Socrates said. I mean you run that carpentry business, right?
What you mean when you say it ain't over till it's over? Lydell asked.
Huh?
That's what you said in the park this weekend.
I'idn't mean nuthin'. Socrates was trying to remember exactly what he had said and why. That was just some talk.
You said what would you do if you could go back. That's what you said to Willie Ryan. You said it like you was givin' him a chance, like there was somethin' he could do right now.
Chico came with more beer. Socrates nodded and made a sign to keep them coming.
What you askin' me, Lydell? Socrates asked. What you really wanna know?
They told me about you bein' in prison, man. The carpenter rubbed his face pushing his jaw impossibly far to the right. They said that you was all hard and mean when you got out but then you started doin' stuff. You know. How you help people and talk about what's right an' what's wrong. They said it was like you learned some-thin'. Like, like you I don't know. Like you know you wrong and you figured out how to be right anyway.
That's just some talk, man. I ain't got nuthin' on nobody. You know. Shoot. I got a job as a boxboy an' my head don't feel right less I'm sleepin' or drunk. The words came easily. They were all true but he was barely aware of a truth that lay just under their meaning.
Lydell felt that truth too.
I don't sleep at all. Not really. The thin black man started rocking gently in the chair. I close my eyes. But you know you cain't block out that shit. It get worser every day. Every day that I'm up here an' Henry's in the ground. I try not to think about how it was my fault. And then I try an' do what you said to Willie. I try an' go back. In my mind I go back there tellin' myself that I set Henry up for that shit. I tell myself that he didn't deserve to die. Lydell looked at Socrates with those ruined, heartbroken eyes.
Chico came around with two more beers. The ex-cons waited for the bartender to leave.
but when I get there, Lydell continued, an' I hear that noise she makes. I tell myself, You could just hit him, but then the knife is in my hand again. Here I am tryin' to make it better in my mind but I just kill'im again. Kill'im again.
Socrates jerked his head back because he felt something strange at his mouth. But when he looked it was just the forgotten beer glass in his hand grazing his lower lip. Again he wondered where he'd been.
It's like I done killed ten thousand Henrys, Lydell Samuels said. You asked Little Willie what he'd do? Well I could tell ya: the same thing. That's what he'd do. No matter what you showed him or how hard he tried he'd'a been on the same killin' floor. 'Cause even though Willie don't want you to kill'im he still want that girl and that wallet.
Socrates remembered the conversation clearly then. The domino game where they had argued over right and wrong. He could see that Lydell had turned it over in his mind again and again over and over until it was like a worn page in a condemned man's bible.
You got to let it go, man, Socrates said.
Willie don't even want to do right except that he's scared, Lydell said as if he hadn't heard. Here I want it but I cain't help it but to do wrong.
He's dead, Lydell. He only died one time. It was wrong. All of it. Your wife, you, and him too. But it's over an' you got to let it go. I don't mean forget it. I don't mean you got to smile like they baptized your sin away.
Lydell looked up at Socrates with fever glazing his eyes. He was jittery like Willie had been on the weekend but he wasn't afraid.
I try to do right, man, Lydell said. I try but they don't let me.
Who?
I try to do right. I try to do like you told Willie.
I said that to Willie 'cause he ain't been on that floor yet. He just dreamin' 'bout another man's wallet and another man's wife. Socrates felt, again, like he was back in prison, trapped in his own mistakes. You'n me been there. You'n me got to take all we've seen and make somethin' new about it. It's not what would you do for men like us. It's what
will
you do that we have to worry about. For us it ain't no game. We got to see past bein' guilty. We already been there.
Like you mean we still got some place to go? Lydell asked.
This is life, Lydell. Life. What's done is done. You still responsible, you cain't never make it up, but you got to try.
Lydell smiled again. This time the smile lingered. There was a question in his face and then a certainty. He nodded and grinned and ordered another drink.
Two weeks passed before Detective Biggers, the black cop assigned to keep tabs on Socrates, dropped by for one of his irregular visits. Socrates knew the policeman's knock and took his time getting to the door. Sometimes when Detective Biggers came by Socrates didn't even answer. Sometimes he'd just sit on his foldout bed reading the newspaper until he heard the gate to his yard open and close again.
But that day Socrates wanted company. He pulled the door open and said, Afternoon, Albert.
The burly cop always paused a moment in silent protest when Socrates used his first name. But he couldn't complain when he didn't have a warrant or a pressing reason to be at Socrates' door.
You know a man named Samuels? Biggers asked.
Just that quickly Socrates wanted to be alone again. He didn't want to answer any questionsor ask any.
Do you?
What you want, man? I ain't had dinner yet.
Geraldine Samuels said that you and her husband had been friendly lately. She said that you and he were regulars over at Bebe's bar. She said that Lydell had been saying how you were so smart and wise and that you were helping him to figure out how he could live with what he had done. Albert Biggers seemed to know that his questions would hurt Socrates, that the hurt would linger and blossom over time. He was like you, you know, a murderer.
Did you say Geraldine? Socrates asked.
His wife, Biggers said, nodding. Didn't you know he was married?
Uh-uh. He never said a thing about that. I mean he said that he was married before, that he killed his wife's boyfriend. Her name was Geraldine too.
Same. Biggers smiled. She got sick after he went to prison. I guess she was pretty bad off when he got out. Some kind of nerve disorder. She's the one that found him. They slept separately. Cut his own throat in his own bed. I don't think Geraldine liked him much but he did pay the rent. Cut his own throat. You know that takes guts.
Killer, the two-legged dog, jumped up buoyed by the harness attached to the line strung across Socrates' small yard. The dog padded his way to the door and pressed his snout against the ex-con's hand.