appeared in the window of the frosted-glass door. He knocked softly and stuck his head in. Mr. Hamilton nodded almost imperceptibly, and the man withdrew without speaking.
“Is tomorrow too soon to move in?” I asked, conscious ofnot keeping him from his duties, whatever they might be.
“Tomorrow is fine.”
He didn't seem to be worried about time, but we had finished our business and our coffees. It was time for me to head back to my hotel. This had been a long day, and I was meeting Beth at her house for breakfast at seven thirty in the morning. I stood up.
“I don't want to keep you,” I said, getting up to go. “How hard is it to get a cab out front?”
Blue stood up immediately. “Not impossible, but I'm on my way downtown. Can I drop you somewhere?”
“I'm staying at Paschal's over on Northside Drive,” I said.
Paschal's Motel is an Atlanta institution, legendary for their famous fried chicken and for their frequent feeding ofbroke civil rights workers during the sixties as a way to support the movement without ruffling anybody's feathers. They had recently moved to an expanded facility and I wondered suddenly if Paschal's was in the no men acting a fool zone that Aretha had been talking about.
“Paschal's is right on the way,” he said, reaching for his coat on a hook near the door.
We climbed into the back of the black Lincoln for the ten-minute ride, and, in the dim confines of the car, his eyes glowed like sapphires. I wonder how long it takes to get used to having a friend with eyes like that. Not that we're friends, but if we were, could I sit beside him and not notice those eyes? I mean, don't Shaquille O'Neal's friends eventually get used to how tall he is?
“You're quite a negotiator,” he said. “You're not a lawyer, are you?”
“I'm a journalist.”
He raised his eyebrows slightly like he might want to reconsider renting me a place after all.
“I'm working as a consultant to a project at Morehouse,” I said quickly. “They're naming a building after Son Davis, and they need some help pulling it all together.”
“He deserves it.”
“Did you know him?”
“I respected his work.”
“That's nice to hear,” I said. “We were friends.”
“Then he's lucky.”
“Why is that?”
“Because you can be sure they tell his story the way he'd want it to be told.”
Spoken like a man who didn't know Beth Davis. The way she wants it to be told.
“That's my job,” I said.
Paschal's was coming up on the right. I congratulated myself for not commenting on his eyes, or falling into them, during the brief ride.
“I do appreciate the lift, Mr. Hamilton,” I said.
“My pleasure, and please call me Blue.” He smiled.
I smiled back. “Blue.”
The Lincoln glided to a stop in front of the hotel, and the driver stepped out to get the door.
“I'll be out of town on a fishing trip for the next couple of days,” he said, “but Aretha always knows where to reach me. I hope you will feel free to contact me if I can be of any assistance.”
“You're going fishing dressed like that?” I said, sliding toward the open door.
“Always,” he said, with another slow smile. “Let's the fish know I mean business.”
8
B ETH'S HOUSE WAS AT THE END of a leafy cul-de-sac in an Atlanta suburb whose distinguishing characteristic is the presence of Stone Mountain, a granite monolith bearing the carved images of four Confederate generals on horseback. They were presumably riding off in defense of slavery and Scarlett O'Hara, but they now preside over an integrated community of working people who want to be close to the city, but not too close.
The formerly all-white community had flexed enough to accommodate the initial incursions of black folks and several waves of immigrants and the place was certainly more diverse than it used to be. The only thing that hadn't changed was the economic status of the residents. Polls show middle-class people tend to want the same things
“Is tomorrow too soon to move in?” I asked, conscious ofnot keeping him from his duties, whatever they might be.
“Tomorrow is fine.”
He didn't seem to be worried about time, but we had finished our business and our coffees. It was time for me to head back to my hotel. This had been a long day, and I was meeting Beth at her house for breakfast at seven thirty in the morning. I stood up.
“I don't want to keep you,” I said, getting up to go. “How hard is it to get a cab out front?”
Blue stood up immediately. “Not impossible, but I'm on my way downtown. Can I drop you somewhere?”
“I'm staying at Paschal's over on Northside Drive,” I said.
Paschal's Motel is an Atlanta institution, legendary for their famous fried chicken and for their frequent feeding ofbroke civil rights workers during the sixties as a way to support the movement without ruffling anybody's feathers. They had recently moved to an expanded facility and I wondered suddenly if Paschal's was in the no men acting a fool zone that Aretha had been talking about.
“Paschal's is right on the way,” he said, reaching for his coat on a hook near the door.
We climbed into the back of the black Lincoln for the ten-minute ride, and, in the dim confines of the car, his eyes glowed like sapphires. I wonder how long it takes to get used to having a friend with eyes like that. Not that we're friends, but if we were, could I sit beside him and not notice those eyes? I mean, don't Shaquille O'Neal's friends eventually get used to how tall he is?
“You're quite a negotiator,” he said. “You're not a lawyer, are you?”
“I'm a journalist.”
He raised his eyebrows slightly like he might want to reconsider renting me a place after all.
“I'm working as a consultant to a project at Morehouse,” I said quickly. “They're naming a building after Son Davis, and they need some help pulling it all together.”
“He deserves it.”
“Did you know him?”
“I respected his work.”
“That's nice to hear,” I said. “We were friends.”
“Then he's lucky.”
“Why is that?”
“Because you can be sure they tell his story the way he'd want it to be told.”
Spoken like a man who didn't know Beth Davis. The way she wants it to be told.
“That's my job,” I said.
Paschal's was coming up on the right. I congratulated myself for not commenting on his eyes, or falling into them, during the brief ride.
“I do appreciate the lift, Mr. Hamilton,” I said.
“My pleasure, and please call me Blue.” He smiled.
I smiled back. “Blue.”
The Lincoln glided to a stop in front of the hotel, and the driver stepped out to get the door.
“I'll be out of town on a fishing trip for the next couple of days,” he said, “but Aretha always knows where to reach me. I hope you will feel free to contact me if I can be of any assistance.”
“You're going fishing dressed like that?” I said, sliding toward the open door.
“Always,” he said, with another slow smile. “Let's the fish know I mean business.”
8
B ETH'S HOUSE WAS AT THE END of a leafy cul-de-sac in an Atlanta suburb whose distinguishing characteristic is the presence of Stone Mountain, a granite monolith bearing the carved images of four Confederate generals on horseback. They were presumably riding off in defense of slavery and Scarlett O'Hara, but they now preside over an integrated community of working people who want to be close to the city, but not too close.
The formerly all-white community had flexed enough to accommodate the initial incursions of black folks and several waves of immigrants and the place was certainly more diverse than it used to be. The only thing that hadn't changed was the economic status of the residents. Polls show middle-class people tend to want the same things
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