It was black, polished like a pair of Sunday shoes, moving faster than any bus, faster even than the truck Mister Leland had seen yesterday with its wheels straddling the broken white line, its back heaped with salt. The car was traveling so fast Mister Leland could not adjust his eyes to its speed; it seemed always blurred. There was silver all over it, like a chariot in a movie, and its back looked to him like that of a rocket ship. There was a light-skinned Negro driving (his skin looked green behind the glass) and someone sat in back. He could not be seen too well until the car stopped in front of the porch and he rolled down the window and stuck his head out. Then Mister Leland saw he was a Negro, just as black as the car, and almost as shiny, with long hair almost obscuring his ears and bundled at the back of his neck like an ancient warrior, black sprinkled gray like ashes. He was dressed in black, and wore a pair of blue sunglasses with gold rims. Attached to a gold chain that looped down and into a buttonhole in his vest, was a golden cross with Jesus Christ nailed to it, so big you could see the nails in His hands. He looked at no one, spoke only to Mister Leland. “God bless and protect you, young man.”

He talks like Mister Harper, who Papa says learned to talk up North. So he must come from up North too. No wonder them nig-Negroes is going North; Negroes in the North must live like kings. He was a bit flabbergasted but managed to squeeze out: “How do…sir.” Sitting on the edge of the porch, he could see the inside roof of the car. It’s all out-a soft cloth. It’s all over everywhere.

“How do.” His father spoke from high above him, his knees just behind Mister Leland’s head. But the Negro did not avert his gaze, continued to stare at the boy.

“Are you Mister Leland?”

“Yes, sir.”

As if this in itself was worthy of reward, the Negro reached out of the car pushing his index and middle fingers toward the boy. Pinched between them was a five dollar bill. Mister Leland took it timidly, wondering why the money had been bestowed, a slow fear beginning deep within him because now the Negro’s face had taken on an almost savage expression, as if just by being Mister Leland was not only worthy of reward but at the same time evil.

“I’ve been led to believe, Mister Leland, that you were well acquainted with a Negro, Tucker Caliban. Is that true?”