I sat down in the booth, sighing. “Well, Mr. Harris, I should go soon—”
“And so, how are you doing?”
“Me? I’m doing great!” I scrunched up my mouth in what I hoped was a perky manner. I flicked a glance over at his food. There was a pool of melted margarine in the middle of his cheese grits. Mr. Harris made humming noises in between bites. I heard his foot tapping under the table, like a baby tasting his first solid food.
“This is so delicious, Ailey. You should eat.”
“I just came to pick up something.”
I patted the top of my plastic bag. I hoped he caught my drift, but Mr. Harris began to talk about the past, when my father and he had worked for the movement. My mother was young then, and so beautiful. And although she was a new mother, she had volunteered in the early days, before the center had become a clinic. Boy, she sure could cook! Mr. Harris never tasted food so good before or since. He’d looked for a woman like that his whole life, but never could find one. God broke the mold when He made Belle Garfield. That was a good woman, right there.
“Your father was my brother, Ailey. And I love you and your sisters like you were my nieces.”
“And we appreciate you, too, Mr. Harris.” I tried not to sound impatient.
“You don’t understand. Your father brought your sister to me when things got bad. I was supposed to look out for her, but I failed my brother, Ailey. I failed your mama, too, and she doesn’t even know it.”
He put his fork down. Turned his head briefly, recomposing.
“Mr. Harris, it’s all right. You did your best.”
“No, it’s not. But I’m not going to fail your parents again. Ailey, it’s been months now, and you haven’t packed up that apartment. I’m giving you another week, and then, I’m changing the locks—”
“But Mr. Harris—”
“And it’s not about the rent, either. I don’t need that money. I got plenty, but Ailey, this neighborhood is not a good place for you. And I don’t want to see you leave like your sister. Lydia was a sweet girl. A good girl. She was just caught in a bad situation.” He reached into his back pocket, lifting his hips. When he put the money in my hand, I saw the top of Benjamin Franklin’s head peeking out. I tried to give it back, but he pushed my hand away. “Go on, now. You take that. And if you ever need anything else, anything at all, you got my number. And the same goes for your mama. You tell Belle I’m always here.”
Mr. Harris picked up his fork and dug back in. He had a blob of grits on his chin, and it moved up and down as he chewed. I sat back and thought of the cold food I didn’t want to eat anymore.
When I walked over to Lydia’s apartment, I don’t believe I wanted to die. I only was tired of not sleeping, lying in the dark cuddled against the old childhood comforter that no longer fit. I just wanted to close my eyes and have it count.
But I did take the switchblade Mama had given me out of my pocketbook. She’d wanted me to have it when I started volunteering at the clinic. Just in case, she’d said. Uncle Root had given it to her long ago, back when she was in college. I lined the tub with towels I’d found in Lydia’s corner armoire and took two codeines saved from the last prescription my father had written me for my period. I pulled the bedspread off my sister’s bed and dragged it to the living room. When the high kicked in, that would be my signal to head to the bathroom. To start.
On the TV, a daytime talk show. There was a debate between Ms. Talk Show Host and Today’s Guest, one of those paramilitary types who wore a jacket with epaulets on each shoulder. He insisted that we were under siege from illegal outsiders. If deported, they would return to the U.S.A., so the government should capture them. Relocate them to less populated areas of the country. That way, the jobs they were stealing, picking lettuce and tomatoes and other sandwich fixings, would be freed up for real Americans.
Ms. Host had on the red silk-linen suit I’d seen on sale at Worthie’s. Or, it looked exactly like it, marked down from fifteen hundred dollars to two hundred ninety-nine. Had Ms. Host bought her suit off the rack? Wealthy as she was, did she shop for sales?
“The American government has planned this sort of endeavor before, but they tabled that proposition,” Today’s Guest said. “Now it’s time to reconsider.”
Ms. Host was silent, raising her eyebrows in her customary I’m listening expression.
Today’s Guest took out a laser pointer, aiming the red dot at the large map that appeared in the space behind the couch. The dot settled on what seemed to be Montana.