“Ah. Of course.”

“We’ve sent the reply,” Norwood said, almost defiantly.

“What do you want me to say, John—that everything’s going to be fine?”

“I don’t expect anything but fairness, Harry.”

Calabash shook his head. “Listen to him, Sam. Fairness, that’s all he wants. What city has he been living in?”

“Shouldn’t you be getting on home?” Sam said to Harry. Harry was drunk, and he didn’t want Norwood talking him into anything.

Norwood said, “You never come around anymore, Harry. You never talk to us anymore.”

“Can’t be helped,” Harry said. “I’m not a free agent, you know—I work for a man.”

“And your friend?”

Sam Jenks looked insolent and wary.

Harry said, “Look—”

“Forget it. Forget you ever saw me. I’ll go back to my people and you go back to yours.”

“Aw, don’t be that way.”

“What way should I be? I’m part of this government. I’m an elected official. White people voted for me, too.”

“I know. I was one of them.”

“Then write the truth for a change, Harry. You know how it is. Write it that way.”

“John, John. You’ve been in politics long enough to know. Somewhere between my typewriter and the front page, the truth changes.”

“And you take no responsibility?”

“I work for a man.”

“So it’s not your fault? Is that what you mean?”

“These days, John, most things are my fault. Good night.”

Harry turned and went on his way, Sam beside him. The sky was clear and full of stars. Sam looked up and picked out the Big Dipper. He had never seen a sky so big. He could almost feel the earth rolling under his feet.

Norwood stood and watched them until they were just shadows, no longer in the shapes of men. He felt the starlight on his skin. The sky was a map of old journeys running deep in his blood. The Big Dipper, pointing toward the North Star—in the old days, the slaves had followed it north to freedom. “The drinking gourd,” he whispered to himself. “Follow the drinking gourd.”

Part IV: The Coup

P A R T   IV

T H E   C O U P

Chapter Sixteen

No trade at Wilmington. Spirits of turpentine—nothing doing. Rosin—nothing doing. Crude turpentine—nothing doing.

C H A P T E R   S I X T E E N

Thursday, November 10

SAFFRON WAS STILL ASLEEP in Miz Gabrielle’s sewing room. The headless dressmaker’s dummy stood in the corner, draped with folds of fine satin for Gray Ellen Jenks’s evening gown.

Bessie King busied herself in the kitchen.

David hadn’t come back last night. Bessie didn’t know exactly where he was. If there was trouble, that boy would find it, though he was a good boy at heart. Everybody said so. But he didn’t think too clear. He was the kind of boy things happened to, never the right things.