The Waking (45 page)

“
Slow day,” he says, counting some change in his hand. “Ain’t rainin’ no more, ain’t dark enough. They can tell.”

I slip him a five-dollar-bill. “How long have you been in The Life?”

He pockets the money with the glimmer of a smile. “Long. You in it, too?”

“
Not anymore. I found the cure.”

The man coughs. “So did I. A couple of times. Still lookin’ for dimes, though.” He paws at my cross tattoo with a hand as dry and hard as leather. “Tried that cure, too. Got religion from Black Jesus.” He looks around us. “He used to come down here all the time, preachin’ to the wind.” He looks up. “‘Nother train comin’ in, gotta go.”

“
Stay strong.”

He stands. “Jes’ stayin’ is enough for me.”

I watch him go back to begging and feel a sadness in the pit of my stomach. That could have been me.

Still could be.

Yeah.

Is he why we stopped?

I’m not sure.

Can’t tell. Old. Like time just sucked him dry.

Are we just gonna sit here?

I stand and leave the station, passing between a fountain and a place called Underground Atlanta, which has dozens of shops all in a row. I wander around until I see a store called African Pride wedged between Claire’s Boutique and Social Expressions. My eyes light up, and I walk in.

When are you gonna get tired of this African stuff?

Never, I hope.

I browse around inside, looking mainly at the wooden sculptures of giraffes, lions, and zebras, of warriors and women. Moses’ warriors would sell well here. I marvel at all the carvings from Africa, from Nigeria and Swaziland and Senegal and Mali and Zaire and Kenya and the Ivory Coast, rolling “Ashanti” and “Yoruba” and “Benin” around in my head, the very words filling me with wonder. I pick up a walking stick, a lion’s head carved into the handle, but the price makes me put it back. I’m down to seventeen dollars and some change. I can always find a stick in the Georgia woods, and if I had a knife, I could carve me a—

“
Need any help?”

I turn and see a short chocolate brown woman wearing a brightly-colored kente outfit and sandals. “You have a wonderful store.”

“
Thank you. What are you looking for today? A mask perhaps?”

I’m tired of masks, the invisible kind. “Uh, no, but may I show you something?”

Her eyes narrow. “Are you trying to sell
me
something in my own store?”

“
Uh, no.” I unzip the backpack and take out the three wooden sculptures and the bowl. I hand the small warrior to her.

Her eyes shine. “Who did all these?”

“
A man down near Trimble named Moses Green.”

“
Moses Green did these?” She hands the small warrior back and runs her fingers over the sculpture of the children.

“
Yes ma’am.”

“
Moses Green?”

“
Yes.”

“
The
Moses Green?”

She must be hard of hearing.

Shh.

“
Yes ma’am.”

She folds her arms. “I don’t believe you.”

“
He gave them to me just yesterday.”

She shakes her head. “He couldn’t have.”

If she tells you it’s cuz Moses Green is dead, I’m outta here.

So am I.

“
But he did. He carved them for me on his front porch.” I hold out the mighty warrior. “This one he did fifty years ago.”

She rolls her eyes. “Where’d you get them really?”

“
From Moses Green.”

She sighs deeply. “Look, I don’t have time for this. Moses Green is a myth. He doesn’t really exist. Come here.” She leads me to a table full of warriors. “See these? The guy who sold them to me told me that Moses Green did them all.”

I lift one up, but it’s too light. “He didn’t do these. They’re too light. He uses a heavier wood.”

She opens her mouth a couple of times and sighs again. “Look, they’re nice pieces, and I’ll give you … fifty bucks for all of them, but that’s as high as I’m going.”

They’re worth five or six times that!

They’re priceless.

I return them to the backpack. “They’re not for sale. The bowl is for my Auntie June, the children are for my fiancée, the tall warrior is for my son, and the small warrior is for Thaddeus Mosley.”

She laughs. “What?”

“
Moses said to give the small warrior to Thaddeus Mosley when I get back to Pittsburgh to let Mr. Mosley know that Moses is still alive.”

Well-said. You kept your Mosley and your Moses in order.

Thank you.

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.

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.”