“Oh no, not all night, not with them,” she thought. “Enter the Black Bourgeoisie, the Talented Tenth and all that,” turning to Leroy to save her. But Leroy was obviously excited to see these two. Everybody was glad to see everyone. Cypress was the loner. Leroy stood, to kiss the woman on her cheek.

“Cypress, this is Mahlon Burbridge, and Towbin Owens; old classmates of mine.”

Cypress could tell from the way Mahlon shook hands that the girl hadn’t been raised properly. There was no force to the grip, no energy. Lord help women who shook hands like dead fish. Don’t they know their handshakes are a sign of the verity of their word; if you can’t shake hands, you can’t be trusted. “No backbone,” she could hear her mama say. But Mahlon smiled warmly, so Cypress did her best to put off making a judgment so early in the evening.

Now, Towbin Owens was a different matter. His handshake held authority, as did his voice. Everything about Towbin Owens was all right with Cypress. She looked back and forth from Leroy to Tobin, because they were so alike in a way, yet so different. While Leroy was the more refined of the two—even with his dreadlocks and casual attire—Tobin’s irrepressible enthusiasm complemented his formal demeanor.

Once they were all seated, Cypress and Mahlon fell into conversation.

“So Towbin tells me you’re an artist, too.”

“Yes, a dancer.”

“I’ve always wanted to be an artist, but I guess I don’t have any talents, that way.”

Cypress had been waiting for this. The moment when the nice girl who did what mama had told her to do would begin to wish and want that she had not done what her mama told her. Cypress asked quite genuinely:

“Well, what did you end up doing with the talents you do have?”

“I’m a stockbroker.”

Cypress didn’t know what to say. She couldn’t say, “Oh that’s too bad, you Capitalist Pig,” because this was Leroy’s friend. “Do you deal in napalm after six?” would be too caustic, and, “Tell me, does money actually burn up in niggahs’ hands?” would be too familiar. So Cypress didn’t say anything but “How nice for you.”

Cypress was giving Leroy the “rescue-me” eye, when her food arrived. Duck baked in black cherries with brandy, wild rice, string beans with almonds. Leroy was having poached salmon with garnished potatoes; Mahlon and Towbin were sharing a rack of lamb, medium rare. “Thank God,” Cypress sighed to herself, now Leroy could handle the repartee. Cypress didn’t want to talk to Mahlon alone any more; she wanted this duck, and more cherry sauce.