Mary closed her eyes and put her head on Bill’s shoulder. She still picked at her sandwich and none of them had any inclination to get up and go back into the kitchen even though it was well past two.
“I didn’t do nothing either,” Bill said, continuing their conversation. “They trapped me and railroaded me into copping a plea. See. Injustice is blind.”
“We gonna have a color fight now?” Mary asked.
“Naw,” Henry Lee said. “We all the same at this table.”
“Are we?” Bill asked Bea.
Bea didn’t answer.
“Well, are we?” he asked again after a moment.
Bea had heard Bill the first time but she didn’t want to answer. She was old school, and in her mind, no, they weren’t all the same. It was different for Bill because he was white. That meant, in her mind, he could go anywhere he wanted, do anything he wanted. He didn’t have to look over his shoulder to see if the cops were coming after him just cause they felt like it.
“Love them little white boys,” she said. “Love the way they smell, the way they feel, the way they…”
“Don’t need to hear no more,” Henry Lee said interrupting her. But it was apparent she didn’t want to respond to what the real question was.
That real question was real. They all knew it was real just as they all knew they were better off not talking about it and just accepting the fact that God had brought them together, that God had brought Bill into their world for whatever reason He had done so. No one knew the reason. No one knew why of all the people in the City Hall Annex that day Bill had walked in, seen Robert in his workhouse blues and offered him a cigarette. No one knew why Bailey, the PO, had hooked them up, why it was Bill and not a different probationer who needed a job, and no one knew that Robert would recognize Bill as the kid who’d offered him a smoke and then take him under wing as if he were family.
Kismet!
“Don’t matter,” Henry Lee said. “I get tired of this crap.”
“What crap?” Bea asked.
“The color crap. You ain’t done so bad. And you ain’t complaining when he down there doing what you want him to. In fact, you old hussy, you like him doing that, don’t you?”
“That’s beside the point.”
“That is the point. Either you like him or you don’t.”
“You ain’t got to say nothing Bea,” Mary said. “Henry Lee right. We need to drop this discussion cause it don’t lead to no good. And don’t blame the boy for giving me drugs. Last time I looked, I’m almost old enough to be his mother. I got a boy who ain’t that far from his age, who calls him ‘cracker’ to me at home and to him in his face when they working together. That’s the end result of this goddamn conversation, and the more we keep that up the worse it is for everyone.” She nudged Bill and told him let her up.
Bill slid out of the booth. It seemed clear to him, or kind of clear, that something had happened there at the table, something no one had expected or anticipated. He carried his lunch dishes with him into the kitchen and left them over by the dish machine. Mary followed behind him and did the same.
Mr. Jim had put everything on the stove that Mary would need for the evening meal. When Bill came around, just before he busted down the steam table, Mr. Jim told him all he had to do was wash baked potatoes and set them in the convection oven as usual. Bill acknowledged and then went to bust down the steam table and clean up the line.
Bea and Henry Lee lingered out in the dining room a bit longer. Mr. Jim, at two-forty-five, said good night. Just before he left, he told Bill to make sure he took care of Mary. Bill promised he would.
