Jack (Gilead #4)(37)






He had to think this through. She had known where to look for him because he had mentioned that bridge. She had brought a book for him. He thought he could let himself believe this. So that he could knock on her door and say, I believe this is yours, Miss Miles? Or there was a note in it, or something circled or underlined. He wished he had seen just the title of the book. It was slender, mossy green, worn-looking. It might have been poetry, something someone had read again and again. She had come looking for him on a Sunday morning, which meant she knew now he wasn’t the churchgoing type. It meant also that she might not be on time even for the last service at her own church. She had come a long way just to let him know that things were all right somehow, whatever “things” were, whatever “all right” could be. Since they could hardly manage a few words together. She would know he felt grief—that is what it was—at her disillusionment, since nothing less than grief would have made her come so far. To comfort him. That’s what it amounted to. If there had been a note in the book that said, You are a despicable fraud, or words to that effect, even that would mean he had not ceased to exist for her when the idea she had of him perished. This was simply remarkable. Then she found him dozing on a bench like any bum, rumpled and disheveled, and she looked at his face so calmly, which in the circumstances meant kindly, and offered her apology and left her book. It was incredible that she would feel the need to apologize, but thank God she did, because what other pretext would have brought her there. Was it a pretext? Sweet Jesus, how he loved the thought.

What should happen next? Next. This was the language of consequence, lovely to him in this particular moment, because it meant there was an actual thread of connection between them. Knowing her in the particular way he did, he would also know how to answer her. What should he do next? This would take time, and thought, so he believed, but an answer began pressing itself on him immediately, because he had imagined something like it any number of times. He would ask her out to dinner. He had a dishwashing, floor-sweeping kind of familiarity with certain establishments, where mainly black people but a fair scattering of white people came for the fried chicken or the pork chops, and maybe for the piano player. Any of them might seem rambunctious to a Methodist lady. But she wouldn’t mind! He knew that about her!

When he had once again collected Teddy’s money and put himself in order, and the weather permitted, he went to a street near Della’s house and loitered there, waiting for her to come home from school. When he saw her, he crossed the street and fell into step beside her. She only glanced at him, but she was smiling. He said, “Miss Miles, I’d like to take you out to dinner.”

She laughed. “Well, there’s a thought.”

“Seriously. I know a place. There’s always a mixed crowd. You might not go there for the food, particularly. But it could be, you know, a nice evening.”

She shook her head.

He said, “I understand.”

“You probably don’t.”

“I meant to say all right. No hard feelings.”

She stopped and looked at him. “I’d meet you there. You shouldn’t come here again. You’ll have me on the train to Memphis if my family gets word.”

“Yes,” he said, “yes, I thought we should meet there. So I made a sort of map.” He took the folded paper out of his pocket. “You see, on this side, all the streets, clearly marked. And on the other side”—he turned it over—“the place itself. From across the street.” She laughed. “There are a few inaccuracies. I was mostly working from memory.”

“I take it you added the angels.”

“Angels, trumpets, harps. They are universal symbols of exceptional happiness. So I tossed them in. You can keep that if you like. Even if you don’t accept.”

She shook her head. “How can I say no?”

“A week night? Not so noisy as the weekend.”

“All right. Thursday.”

“Eight?”

“Seven. It’s a school night.”

“Fine. Till then.”

“Yes. Go away now. If I’m not there, there’s some reason why I can’t be.”

“Understood.” He tipped his hat and walked on. It all went as he had hoped, knowing that his hopes, in the circumstances, had to allow for a certain reluctance, some caution. He thought, very briefly, about the risk to her they were always aware of, and then he put the thought aside. No doubt he would fall down a manhole or get hit by a streetcar before Thursday, before this unimaginable evening, fate intervening for her sake.





* * *





But there he was, Thursday evening, loitering a few doors away from the restaurant, watching the street. And then there she was, and wearing quite a pretty hat, considering that she was a Methodist and a schoolteacher, and very uneasy about drawing attention to herself.

He said, “Miss Miles,” and she stopped and smiled, and he opened the door for her. The waiter, a black man, knew him, raised his eyebrows, but showed them to a table with a mock formality that was pleasant enough.

“Out on the town tonight, I guess. With a lovely lady, too. You better take good care of this nice lady.” Jack tried to remember if this man had ever seen him sober. He hadn’t given this aspect of things enough thought. The waiter laughed. “Don’t mind me. I’m just here to say I hope you like pork chops, because tonight that’s what we’ve got.”

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