Oh yeah that was real love there. Even before she proved it I knew that Cherry loved that man. You know he couldn't leave his wife. All them kids and the grandkids kept comin'. Nobody would'a had no sympathy for him so they kept it quiet. Cherry didn't care though. She used to make his lunches and send 'em through me.She knit him sweaters, never complained as far as I knew. And when he got sick with the heart disease and he couldn't even get up outta the bed Cherry used to bring me little notes that I'd take up to his house on Fridays an' show'im. And every time he'd tell me to tell her that he loved her and that when he was better that he'd leave Sophie and come be her husband.
Socrates noted the heaviness in Milton's voice.
You know I don't think that they never knew each other at all, Milton said. I mean they was in love but the worlds they lived in was so different. It was just somethin' about the way she ate her lunch and the way that man loved her even though he had a whole world someplace else.
Did they ever get married? Socrates asked.
Naw, Milton replied. He got weaker an' weaker. Finally he just died. I took Cherry to the funeral actin' like she was my girlfriend. But I think Sophie musta known sumpin' wit' the way that Cherry carried on. You know I don't think that there was a black woman ever lived would cry so hard for me as Cherry did for that fat old Jewish man.
Milton bit his lip and shook his head. He took the schnapps bottle out of his pocket but it was empty.
Socrates got down on the grass and stretched out. He put his hands behind his head and let his eyes wander with the big white clouds.
They all gone, said the man who was named after a poet.
Who?
Yo' friend. My friend. Cherry's alive but she ain't here no more. It's just all like a dream.
What happened to Moses Junior?
I got him a job as a mail carrier. You know I tried to help Cherry out after Mo was gone. But I wasn't in on all that love.
Those were the last words Socrates heard for a while. He fell asleep with blades of grass waving in the breeze, tickling his bare arms.
An hour or so later he woke up. Milton was still sitting on the bench, watching the boats.
They rode home in amiable silence. When Milton let Socrates off at his alley door he said, See you in a month, Mr. Fortlow?
I hope so, Socrates said.
Did you go to Mr. Burke's grave? Darryl asked Socrates early the next morning at Bounty.
Uh-huh. He was using the big floor buffer to strip the wax from aisle seven two hours before the doors to Bounty were due to open. Darryl had been given extra hours to help Socrates. He did that often so he could talk to the older man.
Was you sad?
Sad?
Uh-huh.
Socrates lost himself for a few minutes in the pivot from right to left as he let the big, rotating, steel wool brush grind away the yellowing wax. Darryl followed with his squeegee pushing the extra water along behind the big chromium machine.
About half the way through Socrates stopped and pushed the red button between the handlebars. The motor died and the brush slowed, making the sound of a snake through the dead grasses of summer.
No, I wasn't sad, Socrates said. Uh-uh. I mean it was sad to see that nameplate on the ground. But you know Right made up his own mind. He took them pills.
They were the only people in the store. Both man and boy liked the solitude and freedom of their early morning jobs.
I put your crystal down there. Luvia thought it was real nice'a you. But I wasn't sad, Socrates said again. No, uh-uh. I went to the park with this man name'a Milton. We went to MacArthur Park downtown and he said about a man he knew that died. They was friends kinda like me an' Burke.
Did you have some wine? Darryl asked.
He had somethin', Socrates said. But I didn't. You know you don't always have to be high to have a good time.
Uh-huh, I know. I just asked is all.
It was real pretty yesterday, Socrates said. And it was strange too.
What you mean?
You ever see one'a them big mural paintin's that they put up on the wall? The kinds about a whole big place with lots and lotsa people? The kind where nobody is special but they just doin' what they do? Sittin' on a park bench or throwin' a Frisbee.
Yeah I seen 'em.
And the pictures of the people ain't real good like no photograph. You know. Maybe somebody's head is just a circle or sumpin' but you know what it means, you know that it's a man or woman.
Yeah.
When I closed my eyes I could see all the people in the park just like in one'a them murals. I mean they were still in my mind. But it was like Right was there too and also this Jewish man that Milton was talkin' 'bout. There was some girl he mentioned too. You know what I mean?
Uh-uh, Darryl uttered, shaking his head to accent his confusion.
It's like you take somebody with you even if they ain't there, even if they dead. It's like Martin Luther King. I can see him in my mind but I ain't never met him. Or like when I saw the boats they had on the pond there. I thought about you and how you'd like to get in one'a them and row around.
So? That just mean you thinkin' 'bout somebody.
Yeah. I was thinkin' an' I wasn't sad or mad. I was just thinkin' and everything was fine. Even though there was all this bad stuff and sad stuff in my mind everything was still fine. Yeah.
the mugger
H
ey you! Yeah you, mothahfuckah! The man was young, not more than twenty, but built for power. He swaggered as he walked and his eyes had as much murder in them as Socrates had ever seen.
It was just sunset and Socrates had taken a shortcut down one alley that led to the alley that he lived on. He had just come from Tri-X Check Cashing on Central and had his full week's salary in an envelope in his pocket.
There was nobody else in sight. And even if there had been Socrates doubted if they would have interfered with the trouble about to come down.
Stop right there, mothahfuckah! the big man commanded.
But Socrates had already stopped. He spread his legs wide enough to give him both stability and power as the young giant approached. Close up he looked impossible with muscle and rage. Those murderous eyes were squashed down, murky things that searched out weak spots and gazed down long corridors of pain.
Gimme the money an' you might get off with a ass-whippin', the man said.
Socrates noted the smallness of the mugger's head in comparison to his hard, prison-built shoulders. He wasn't a man but a killing machine built on the body of a boy who had been sent off to jail and forgotten.
Or you could try'n stop me. The young man reached for Socrates' neck. Socrates tried to block the hand but he was slapped down to the ground. Slapped down. The boy didn't even use a fist to knock Socrates to his knees.
The older ex-convict rose up delivering a powerful uppercut to the mugger's abdomen but he might as well have socked an oak tree or a granite rock. The mugger's next blow was a fist that sprawled Socrates out on the floor of the alley. Two kicks followed in quick succession. Then Socrates felt himself being lifted from the ground. He hadn't felt a sensation like that since he was a child. But this time it wasn't his mother taking him out from harm's way.
Even that powerhouse couldn't lift Socrates from his feet. There was more than two hundred and fifty pounds to the Indiana ex-con. He let his full weight hang dead and the mugger was forced to drop him.