The Waking (44 page)

“
You don’t think they’re too … militant?”

I look again into the warrior’s eyes. “No. They’re proud. Strong and proud.” And mighty. My son could get up mighty every morning if he looked at this. And for some reason, I really want this sculpture.

But you just told him folks would pay thirty-five for ones like this, fool! You ain’t got but twenty-two dollars and your magic coins!

I return the warrior to its space, turning him so his face is in the sun.

“
I’ll sell you that one for fifty,” Moses says.

I turn and shrug my shoulders. “If I had fifty, I’d give it to you.” I hold the blanket it front of me. “We could trade.”

Moses smiles. “That blanket is for another. It’s not for me.”

I want to ask “Who?” but I’d rather be surprised. I tuck the blanket into the backpack. “I wish I had the money.”

Moses looks down. “Don’t you?”

What is he looking at? I look down. Why is he staring at— I have fifty cents in my boots. “You’d take fifty
cents
for it?”

“
Yes. It has traveled a long way, which makes it more valuable.” He straightens up and clunks his walker toward me, taking two small steps. “Those coins are full of faith.”

“
How’d you know I had fifty cents in my boot?” I had even slept with my boots on.

He’s gonna tell you that the wood told him.

“
The wood told me.”

What’d I tell you? The man has splinters in his brain.

He points at the sculpture on the floor. “
That
wood told me about fifty years ago to offer it for fifty cents to someone. I’ve been waitin’ for that someone, and here you are.”

Whoa.

“
Take it,” Moses says.

I pick up the sculpture and put it in my backpack, and despite all I have in the backpack, it fits perfectly. I crouch down and remove my boot, spilling the coins into my hand.

At least wipe them off first.

I shine them on my shirt and hand them to Moses. He takes them and puts them in his shirt pocket.

“
Gonna be sunny all day today,” Moses says. “Good day to travel. Got two apples on the porch for you for your journey.”

I follow him back to the porch and take two green apples from a dark brown wooden bowl, dancing figures carved around the rim. “You carve this, too?”

“
Hmm. You’re to take it.”

“
Are you sure?”

He returns to his chair and starts whittling. “She’ll like it. It’ll go nice on top of her TV.”

For Auntie June. “Thank you.”

“
Hmm.”

The bowl and one of the apples barely fit in the backpack, and I definitely feel the weight on my shoulders. I bite into the other apple, and it is so sweet. “Maybe I’ll be back this way some day, with my family.”

Moses looks up. “Hmm. I expect you will, but you’ll send another before that.” He smiles. “To empty my house.”

“
Thank you for your hospitality.”

“
Thank you for finally showin’ up. Fifty years is a long time to wait for somethin’ to happen.”

Something’s happening, all right. I don’t know what it is, but I like it.

Well, I don’t.

Who asked you?

I leave Moses to his whittling and walk out to 29, eating an apple and liking the weight of my heavy load. It kind of balances me out as I walk, and after a few miles, I don’t feel it on my back anymore, though the sweat trickles down my back just the same. I cross under I-85 several times through St. Charles and Moreland, and when I get to Newnan, I walk past a man playing the blues on a guitar. He wears a flat hat, dark Ray Bans, and a Lake Wobegon T-shirt, and he is jamming. I must be getting closer to Atlanta. I slow down so I can do a little dancing as I walk, and he tips his hat.

And the signs flow past. Madras. McCollum. Entering Fulton County. Palmetto. I see a park a couple of blocks over.

Don’t leave 29, Manny.

Now who’s superstitious?

It ain’t that I’m superstitious. I just want us to get to Atlanta.

So you can tempt me?

Maybe.

Maybe? Just maybe?

Yeah. I can be mysterious, too, right? I can keep you in suspense.

Whatever.

I leave 29 and walk over to Palmetto City Park where I see a light-skinned black man smoking on a bench. He wears unlaced high-tops and an old blue suit with a black tie, a set of crutches beside him. As I get closer, I see how thin he is, his face merely a skull with some tight skin on it.

“
How ya doin’?” I say in my best Southern accent. I like the way it slides off my tongue.

“
Can’t complain,” he says.

“
Care if I join you?”

He nods at the space beside him. “You smoke?”

“
No.”

He stubs out his cigarette on the bench and tosses it into a garbage can, withdrawing another cigarette from a crumpled pack. He flicks a lighter several times, but it won’t light.

Give him the lighter.

I’m getting it. Be patient.

I reach into my backpack and pull out my lighter. “Here. You can have it.”

He takes it and lights his cigarette, blowing smoke over his head. “Been walkin’ long?”

I look down at my pants and see dust almost up to my beltline. “Yeah. Just came up from somewhere north of Trimble.”

“
That’s a long walk.”

“
Yeah.” I take out the second apple and shine it on my shirt.

Give him the apple. Look how he’s looking at it. The man is hungry.

I turn the apple in my hand. “Want it?”

He nods.

I hand him the apple, but he doesn’t bite into it right away. “Why you out walkin’?”

“
Because I can, I guess.” I look over at his crutches. “Oh, sorry.”

He laughs. “That’s a good one. Because I can.” He takes a bite of the apple and sticks out a hand. “My name is Louis Armstrong Fulton, but you can call me Lou.”

“
I’m Manny.” I take out the canteen and drink some more of Moses Green’s good well water. “Want some?”

“
Nah, I’m all right.” He wipes some juice from his lips. “Walkin’ like that in the sun would have me spinnin’. You need a lift somewhere? I’m waitin’ on a ride.”

“
Where to?”

“
Downtown Atlanta.” He pats his legs. “Gotta do my rehab.”

Shh.

“
What happened to you?” I ask.

“
Shrapnel from Desert Storm.”

But that was back in 1991. “You still got shrapnel in your legs?”

He shakes his head. “Nah, they got it all out. I’m jes’ havin’ trouble cuz of the chemicals or somethin’ over there. They still ain’t sure what I got, but I got to go to rehab every Thursday just the same. Some fellas from my old unit will be comin’ by here shortly. They go up to Atlanta for one reason or other, and they give me a ride to Grady Memorial.”

“
Will there be enough room for me?”

“
Sure.” He takes another bite of the apple. “Ever been to Atlanta?”

“
No.”

“
You gonna like it. Where they drop me off is just a couple blocks over from Martin Luther King, Junior, Boulevard. You want to see Atlanta properly, you gotta go down there.”

I am tired. I could use a break.

“
Here they come,” Lou says, and a flatbed Chevy pickup full of white men rolls up beside us, a rebel flag in the back window.

I don’t like the looks of this, Manny. Hanging onto a train I can handle. Sleeping in a cop’s house I can handle. But riding in the back of a good ol’ boy’s truck in Georgia just doesn’t sit well with me.

I hear you.

“
Got room for one more?” Lou asks.

The driver, a beast of a white man with long red hair and an American flag tattooed to his arm, nods.

Lou struggles to his feet, and I hand him his crutches. “Uh, Lou,” I whisper, “you get a ride with
them?
”

“
Yeah. Every Thursday.” He leans in. “They’re some good ol’ boys, let me tell you.”

I help Lou into the back where he props himself up against the tailgate, and I find a place near the hump over the left wheel.

Two equally shaggy white men nod at me, one of them asking, “What unit you in?”

The truck takes off in a U-turn back to 29. “I’m not in the military.”

He points at my tattoos. “Looks like it.”

Tell them you’re an African warrior.

Shh.

Tell them you hear voices in your head then. Tell them you’re crazy.

Why?

Cuz I bet every one of them hears voices, too. You could be in their support group.

Hush up, and hang on.

The journey into downtown Atlanta is, to say the least, quick. The driver weaves in and out of traffic like a madman, never uses his turn signal, and generally drives twenty miles over the speed limit. Yet he’s still getting passed.

I slide next to Lou. “Is he always in this much of a hurry?”

“
Nah. He’s takin’ his time today.”

I have no idea how we get to Decatur Street and Grady Memorial. We must have turned twenty times, and I’m feeling dizzy. As I’m helping Lou off the truck, I look across the street.

At the Atlanta Police Department Building.

Oh, this is good.

Whoa.

They’ll never be looking for you here, Manny.

Lou settles his arms on his crutches. “Shoulda warned you about that, huh?”

The truck roars off. “Uh, I think I’ll be okay.”

“
Two blocks up, two blocks over, and you’ll be on Martin Luther King.” He reaches out a hand, and I shake it. “Enjoy your visit. And thanks for the apple.”

“
Take care.”

You just gonna stand here and let the police get a good look at you or what?

I’m going, I’m going.

I first walk past the edge of the Georgia State campus, and I almost look like a student with my backpack. The students strolling by look so confident, their eyes wide open, and a few even acknowledge me with smiles and “How ya doin’?”

Like you’ll ever go to college.

I might. I could take classes at Pitt.

You don’t even have a high school diploma.

I’ll get one.

When? When are you gonna find time in your busy traveling schedule?

Shut up.

I was just saying. I’ll keep my mouth shut.

Good.

I stand at the corner of Washington Street and Decatur, but I don’t feel pulled in that direction.

He said two blocks up, and two blocks over. This is two blocks.

I know.

I look further up the street and keep walking on Decatur.

You’re gonna get us lost.

Probably.

When I get to the corner of Decatur and Central Avenue, I don’t feel a thing.

What are you waiting for? A sign from God?

Something like that.

I continue on, and when I get to Pryor Street, the wind blows lightly on my face. “The wind never lies,” I say, and I cross Decatur, taking Pryor until I see a visitor information center.

That was luck. It had nothing to do with the wind. That was probably some bus exhaust anyway.

I thought you were going to be quiet.

I lied.

But I don’t feel like stopping at the information center either. I step into the coolness of the Five Points MARTA station, finding space on a bench.

What are we doing here?

Resting. Watching.

Are we ever gonna get back to the Hill?

There’s no clock here.

Sure there is. Right over there on the wall.

I’m making haste slowly.

You’re wasting time is what it is.

But it’s my time to waste.

I watch a dark black man wearing white shoes, white socks, white shorts, and a white T-shirt scouring the ground for change, the scars on his arms screaming out that he’s a junkie. He circles passengers either going to or coming through the turnstiles, asking, “Got any change for an old man?” Some stop and give him some while others just keep walking. He sees me and walks directly to the bench, turning and sitting beside me.