“I’ll tell you what gives me hemorrhoids,” said Terrence, turning from the Royal and taking off his glasses. “That fucking shoeshine boy who does his little dance there for Professor Bleeker and gets a dime for his trouble. That boy, just a-grinning and a-hoping for a handout from the nice white gentleman, that’s shit. That kid is standing in for the whole Negro race.”

Jonathan looked perplexed. “That scene isn’t making a race statement, it’s just to show that Bleeker has a kind heart.”

Terrence gazed upward. “‘Why, thankee, massa, thankee.’”

“Don’t look at me. I didn’t write it.”

“But you didn’t notice it either,” said Terrence. “Before I met Roxanne, I never used to go to the movies much, but the more I see, the more I think Leon Greene is absolutely right. Movies are powerful. They don’t just reflect, they shape. Leon wants movies to save America from the Reds. I want movies to save America from ourselves.” He turned back as though he were about to type again, but changed his mind. “I’m telling you, every Negro who coughs up the price of admission for Singin’ in the Rain, for Magnificent Obsession, that person is crying out”—Terrence looked to heaven—“‘Erase me, O Lord, from America itself! Make me even more invisible, Lord! I been erased from history, and now, I beg you, erase me from the myth as well!’”

“What about Carmen Jones?” asked Jonathan. “That picture had a lot of colored people.”

Terrence looked suddenly tired. “That picture was just as segregated as any other, and offered itself like a vacation destination with voodoo. That’s not what I’m talking about. Movies ought to help America grow up. That’s going to be my column this week.”

“Please don’t say Leon, or this movie in particular, honey,” I said. “If they think you’ve read Fly Me to the Moon, people will wonder how you saw the script.”

“Don’t worry, Liza Jane. Here’s what I’m going to write: Why doesn’t someone make a movie of Up from Slavery? You remember that scene, Liza, where Booker T.’s mother somehow finds a chicken, cooks it, and wakes her children in the middle of the night so they can eat it on the spot? That’s pretty goddamn dramatic.”

“What’s Up from Slavery?” asked Jonathan.

“Just what it sounds like,” I said before Terrence could say something sharp. “Booker T. Washington was born a slave and went on to do great things.”

“Oh,” Jonathan said, waving his cigarette in the air, “a movie like that wouldn’t make any money.”

“Maybe what needs to change,” I said, “is the audience, what people are willing to pay to see.”