Shaken from his jocular mood, Leroy very seriously asked, “Really, Cypress? I could have told you what? When was the last time you met a rich little colored boy?”

“Why last month I had a taxi driver from Nigeria who was to inherit oil and a noble title!”

“No, I’m not kidding, Cypress. What do you think would happen to me, if everybody knew?”

“Why, nothing. A lot of people care about you.”

Towbin and Mahlon were leaving; hugs and kisses, promises to stay in touch interrupted Leroy’s thoughts. He had to find a way to tell Cypress that he had to be as full a man as his father had been. He worked like he did because he knew that somehow white folks had seen to it that his father and mother just died, just left here. He didn’t want pity; he didn’t even want blood, not the blood out of living bodies. Not the kind of blood white folks understand when they shoot a deaf black man to death, because there are no deer. Not that blood, that you could starve and maim. Leroy wanted the blood of the culture, the songs folks sing, how they move, what they look at, the rhythms of their speech; that was the blood Leroy was after. Blackening up America.

Cypress was blowing kisses to him from across the table, now that they were alone. “I thought you said we had to turn in early.”

Leroy slid his tongue to the corner of his mouth so Cypress could barely see it, but would.

“Want some more champagne, ’fore we go home?” she murmured.

Leroy pointed to her crotch. “No, I think there’s plenty of champagne up there.”

Cypress feigned indignation. “Why sir, that’s not very American of you.”

Leroy leaned toward her, looking directly into her eyes.

“I’m not a very American guy.”

Chapter 17

Cypress,

I can’t actually tell you why your daddy went to sea. It’s real clear there wasn’t much work for a skilled Negro carpenter in Charleston, but I figure he never felt at home here on the mainland anyhow. Geechees from the islands don’t take to being called foreigners, or made fun of because they have accents.

They weren’t the only ones brought from Africa, as you well know, but mainlanders would like to believe that. And years ago folks were much harder on darker members of the race. I suppose he went to sea so he could get away from all that. But don’t you go stirring round dry bones, girl. He’s laid to rest and peaceable by all accounts. Let it alone.

Leastways, the stories your daddy told you were a world different from anything your little friends heard, and he loved you girls with all his heart. More than that I can’t say, because as his wife, I knew him in another way, a private way.

Love,
Mama