“Oh I got out all right. I got them Union men to thank I spect, same as you. Thing is, it wasn’t like they was happy what they was doing. It didn’t have nothing to do with me. Those soldiers, I never met a one didn’t hate niggers as much as the next man.”

“Maybe not all of them.”

He looked at her and shrugged. “I spect not for you.”

“You no different than anybody you talking about. Everything lined up according to how much you high color or low.”

“I ain’t stupid.”

“You and me be as wrong about people as any white person. You know that’s true.”

“I never met a decent white person till I got to New York.”

“You met one there or every one?”

He walked beside her awhile. Then said, “Sure is a lot of snow up here.”

“I like the snow. I like that weather.”

“That man of yours. He treat you good?”

“He’s the best person I know.”

“Uh-huh.” Walked side by side, almost touching for a bit, Jamie out before them, ranging like a tethered wild thing. The man said, “You look like you done good.”

She deflected. “I worked hard.”

They’d come all the way around to the dirt track. The drivers had the standardbreds out, circling the course in loose clumps at a slow trot, warming the horses, the sulkies small low-seated benches over hard rubber wheels. The drivers with legs stretched out along the shafts, boots against braces. The horses straining, held in. Time to time one or another driver or horse, impossible to tell which, would break loose from the clump and surge a brief spate before cooling back to the pack. The races would be at sunset, cool for the horses with enough light for the crowd. Jamie was up on the white board fence, holding the top, his ankles stretched down for the bottom board. When he heard them behind him he came down off the fence and turned away from the horses to watch them come as if he were interested only in his mother and the man.

They stopped there. The horses long-legged, beautiful. She put her hands on the top board and held it. She said, “You got somebody down there in Brooklyn New York?”

“No.” Not telling the truth for the same reason he wouldn’t reveal his real name. Not for any reason but his own.

“That’s too bad,” she said. “You deserve someone there.”

“Time comes.

“Why you keep fighting these white men?”

He watched a horse and driver. Rubbed his hand over his pate. Weary now of this northern country colored woman. Sighed. “It makes me the money. And it’s what they want.”

“What you want too.”