yet,” Bill said. “The semester’s just getting started good.”
“Stop being cynical,” I said. “He just got here!”
“Thank you,” Nate said. “If I wanted to be cynical, I could have stayed in Detroit.”
“That’s no challenge,” Bill said. “It’s easy being cynical in a place like Detroit. Up here, it takes a much greater effort.”
Nate laughed, a sound not unlike the rumble of thunder. “But it’s not required, right?”
“Not only is it not required,” Sister said. “On this particular night, it’s absolutely forbidden!”
“Amen!” I chimed in.
Bill turned to Nate with a rueful grin. “See what happens when you get two or more women together in one place? They start outlawing things!”
“Our dispositions improve dramatically when we’re well fed,” I said, feeling a little light-headed after two margaritas on an almost empty stomach and the unanticipated rush of adrenaline Nate’s appearance had precipitated.
“Then I have only one more thing to say.” Bill stood up and looked at his watch.
We all looked at him expectantly.
“Dinner is served!”
NINE
another kind of test
IF YOU COUNT THE mangoes, Nate was my second surprise in as many days. He was smart and funny and he had opinions without being overbearing. Conversation at dinner ranged from the plans for our anti-Super Bowl party to his stint as a Detroit cop, to my recent misadventures in the hallowed halls of government, to Bill’s poem-in-progress and Sister’s hope to do an Idlewild oral history before too many more of her members made their transitions and took their stories with them.
By the time we moved back into the living room with coffee and Sister’s homemade apple pie, we were talking like old friends, and I had almost gotten used to the way he towered over the rest of us, even when we were sitting down.
“Aren’t you afraid you’ll get bored in a little town like this?” I said to Nate, taking the seat next to him on the couch.
“That’s sort of the whole point, isn’t it?” he said.
“Boredom?” Sister sounded surprised, curling up like a cat in her favorite chair.
“No,” Nate said, watching Bill add another log to the fire. “The fact that it’s a little town. You can still make a real difference in a place this size. That means a lot to me.”
Bill sat down on the arm of Sister’s chair. “Don’t start romanticizing, brother. It ain’t Detroit, but it ain’t Nirvana either.”
Nate smiled. “I don’t know as much as you all do about Idlewild yet, but I can tell you this. The big cities are gone and most of the middle-size towns are already touch and go. If we can’t figure out how to fix what’s broke in a little bitty place like this, we might as well just throw in the towel.”
“That’s not an option,” Sister said, always the optimist.
“It’s never a conscious choice,” Nate said slowly, looking into the fire and choosing his words carefully. “The jobs dry up and the businesses move elsewhere and the trash doesn’t get collected anymore and the jails are too crowded and there’s crack everywhere. . . .”
That sure sounded like Detroit. Last time I drove down with Sister, I stopped at a traffic light and every person that passed in front of my car had that gray, frantic, too skinny to be alive much longer look that is all the identification crackheads require.
“But it doesn’t happen all on the same day.” Nate was looking at me, and I looked right back. “It happens little by little and you accommodate it like that, little by little, until one day, you look up and you’re living in a war zone.”
He turned back to Sister. “When I was a cop we always dreaded Halloween because that’s when the young brothers collectively lose their minds. They rob the trick-or-treaters. They do home invasions when people open their front doors to give outcandy. They throw concrete blocks off the freeway overpasses, and they set lots of fires.”
I knew
“Stop being cynical,” I said. “He just got here!”
“Thank you,” Nate said. “If I wanted to be cynical, I could have stayed in Detroit.”
“That’s no challenge,” Bill said. “It’s easy being cynical in a place like Detroit. Up here, it takes a much greater effort.”
Nate laughed, a sound not unlike the rumble of thunder. “But it’s not required, right?”
“Not only is it not required,” Sister said. “On this particular night, it’s absolutely forbidden!”
“Amen!” I chimed in.
Bill turned to Nate with a rueful grin. “See what happens when you get two or more women together in one place? They start outlawing things!”
“Our dispositions improve dramatically when we’re well fed,” I said, feeling a little light-headed after two margaritas on an almost empty stomach and the unanticipated rush of adrenaline Nate’s appearance had precipitated.
“Then I have only one more thing to say.” Bill stood up and looked at his watch.
We all looked at him expectantly.
“Dinner is served!”
NINE
another kind of test
IF YOU COUNT THE mangoes, Nate was my second surprise in as many days. He was smart and funny and he had opinions without being overbearing. Conversation at dinner ranged from the plans for our anti-Super Bowl party to his stint as a Detroit cop, to my recent misadventures in the hallowed halls of government, to Bill’s poem-in-progress and Sister’s hope to do an Idlewild oral history before too many more of her members made their transitions and took their stories with them.
By the time we moved back into the living room with coffee and Sister’s homemade apple pie, we were talking like old friends, and I had almost gotten used to the way he towered over the rest of us, even when we were sitting down.
“Aren’t you afraid you’ll get bored in a little town like this?” I said to Nate, taking the seat next to him on the couch.
“That’s sort of the whole point, isn’t it?” he said.
“Boredom?” Sister sounded surprised, curling up like a cat in her favorite chair.
“No,” Nate said, watching Bill add another log to the fire. “The fact that it’s a little town. You can still make a real difference in a place this size. That means a lot to me.”
Bill sat down on the arm of Sister’s chair. “Don’t start romanticizing, brother. It ain’t Detroit, but it ain’t Nirvana either.”
Nate smiled. “I don’t know as much as you all do about Idlewild yet, but I can tell you this. The big cities are gone and most of the middle-size towns are already touch and go. If we can’t figure out how to fix what’s broke in a little bitty place like this, we might as well just throw in the towel.”
“That’s not an option,” Sister said, always the optimist.
“It’s never a conscious choice,” Nate said slowly, looking into the fire and choosing his words carefully. “The jobs dry up and the businesses move elsewhere and the trash doesn’t get collected anymore and the jails are too crowded and there’s crack everywhere. . . .”
That sure sounded like Detroit. Last time I drove down with Sister, I stopped at a traffic light and every person that passed in front of my car had that gray, frantic, too skinny to be alive much longer look that is all the identification crackheads require.
“But it doesn’t happen all on the same day.” Nate was looking at me, and I looked right back. “It happens little by little and you accommodate it like that, little by little, until one day, you look up and you’re living in a war zone.”
He turned back to Sister. “When I was a cop we always dreaded Halloween because that’s when the young brothers collectively lose their minds. They rob the trick-or-treaters. They do home invasions when people open their front doors to give outcandy. They throw concrete blocks off the freeway overpasses, and they set lots of fires.”
I knew
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