Returning to his car at last, Rodney paused amid afternoon traffic to purchase a copy of Muhammad Speaks from a conservatively dressed, cocoa-brown Muslim on a street corner. Rodney tried to be very conspicuous about the transaction, doing his absolute best to engage the fellow in conversation while the homebound cars, full of black and white workers, passed them. “What made you join?” he asked the Muslim, a striking fellow who still retained the red eyes of an alcoholic or drug addict.

“Come to see us and find out for yourself,” said the fellow, his eyes not on Rodney but on the moving traffic lest he should miss the possibility of a sale.

“Are you happy being a Muslim?” asked Rodney.

“Come to our mosque, brother, and find out.”

“I should think you’d get tired of selling papers all the time.”

The Muslim, not wanting to insult Rodney and lose a possible conversion and at the same time more than slightly irritated, struck a compromise with himself, hitched his papers under his arms and moved out into the street between the two lanes of traffic. “Come to our mosque, brother, and gain all knowledge from the lips of the Messenger,” he called back to Rodney. Rodney turned away and walked to his car. It was safe; the residents had not found it yet. Still, he inspected the doors and windows and keyholes for jimmy marks, just to feel secure.

II

“WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?” Lynn asked as he opened the door to his apartment. She was sitting on the floor, her legs crossed, her panties showing—her favorite position, which always embarrassed Rodney when they relaxed with other people. He suspected that she did it on purpose. He had developed the habit of glancing at all the other fellows in a room, whenever she did it, until they saw him watching them discovering her and directed their eyes elsewhere in silent respect for his unexpressed wish. This always made Rodney feel superior and polished.

“Put your legs down,” he told her.

“For what?” she said.

“You’ll catch cold.”

“Nobody’s looking. Where you been?”

Rodney stood over her and looked down. He looked severe. He could not stand irritation at home too. “Go sit on the sofa,” he ordered her. “Only white girls expose themselves in public.”

“You prude,” she said. “This isn’t public.” But she got up anyway and reclined on the sofa.

“That’s better,” said Rodney, pulling off his coat. “If sitting like that is your thing, you should put it in a separate bag and bury it someplace.”

“What do you know about my thing?” Lynn said.

Rodney did not answer her.

“Where you been, bay-bee?”

Rodney said nothing. He hated her when she called him that in private.

“We’re going to be late for dinner, bay-bee,” she said again.

“I’ve been out studying,” Rodney finally said.

“What?”

“Things.”

“Today’s Saturday.”

“So? God made Saturdays for students.”