But she was still a woman. And from time to time, amid the students, there’d be a man. A professor maybe, or one of the preachers. They’d pass through her parlor, and the fire in their eyes would match the burning in her heart. Their righteous anger could become, temporarily, a safe harbor for her. She’d never love someone the way she loved Myron, but she didn’t mind taking someone to bed once in a while. Then, five years ago, she’d had August. Hazel hadn’t told August’s father. He’d been one of the more charismatic leaders she’d met in the movement, but he had started going ’round the country by the time she realized she was pregnant, and she didn’t feel any need for him to be anything more than he was for now: a conduit for this new little girl, for Miriam to have a sister. When August asked who her daddy was, Hazel would tell her the truth, that he was off doing God’s work and that all her family was already here: she and Miriam. Miss Dawn, Miss Jade, and all the women in their neighborhood. Hazel wasn’t opposed to revealing August’s father someday, but she wouldn’t force it before then. It would happen in God’s time.
Hazel’s gloved hand held her list: cornmeal, two pounds of perch, two pounds of whiting, two pounds of catfish, green onions for the spaghetti. She scanned the shelves for the cornmeal.
“Hand me your list, and I’ll get it for you, Mrs. North.”
Stanley had come from the back meat freezer. His long white fingers brushed off a bit of something slaughtered from the front of his apron.
“How’s that clone of yours?”
“All A’s and one B last six weeks.” Hazel smiled and handed over the grocery list.
Stanley frowned. “What was the B in?”
“Geometry.”
Stanley’s face grew severe. His German accent became dominant. “That won’t do. I’ll talk to her.”
Hazel laughed. “You harder on her than I am. You and Miss Dawn. Miss Jade. All y’all.”
Stanley shrugged in fake outrage. “Miss Miriam’s our jewel,” he said.
Hazel shook her head. “That jewel got you wrapped around her finger.”
“And how is little August? She still following Miriam around like a shadow?”
“Sometimes even closer than that, Mr. Koplo. They’ll both be running Memphis before long,” Hazel said.
Stanley threw up his hands as if swiping at a fly. “This is a fact, I know,” and then, coy smile on his face, he said, “And I’ve got something for them.”
Hazel saw delight in Stanley’s face, a sparkle in his eye. “Oh God, now, Mr. Koplo. What did you get the children now?”
“Just some plum preserves. Throwing in a jar.” Stanley held up a finger. “Just one. Don’t look at me like that; I know Miss Miriam likes them. For all her A’s. But not that B. Tell her not that B. That won’t do.” He added the small jar covered with a red cloth to Hazel’s basket.
Hazel put her gloved hands on her hips and continued to shake her head. “I’ll send you back a plate of this fish,” she offered.
Stanley shook his head, went back to collecting her groceries. After a moment he said, “But I’ll take one of your lemon meringues.”
Hazel cut her eye. “Go ahead and throw in some lemons into my order, you crafty old man.”
The television above the door, which had been showing an orchestra rehearsing Bach, cut suddenly to a rainbow of colors, made a screech, went black, then cut to a white newscaster.
Both Hazel and Stanley turned their heads toward the TV.
It was Hazel’s turn to frown. “I could’ve sworn he comes on later?” She posed this as a question.