“Oh,” Jeremy replied as casually as he could, “just some greens and fatback in pot likker. And there's some cornbread that should be just about ready by now. And a big pot of Maxwell House, of course. It's already on the table.”
Mrs. Wilkins turned and stared hard at him, as if she'd just spotted some strange animal and was trying her best to decide what exactly it was.
Catherine was working very hard to keep a straight face. She gave her nose a good rub, said, “Won't you ladies come in and sit down?”
Jeremy waited until the two visitors were seated, said to Catherine, “If you won't be needin' me for a while, Miz Case, I do believe I'll go out and stretch my legs. Scrubbin' them floors was right hard on my po' old bones.”
“Why don't you do that, Jeremy,” she replied, bending over the steaming pot, a warning in her voice. “It might not be too healthy around here.”
Jeremy walked back to his room, heard Catherine set a couple of plates down on the table, go back and return with silverware. “Y'all just go ahead and start,” she invited. “Please help yourselves to the coffee. I'll just see to the cornbread and be right with you.”
“My, but don't that stew smell nice,” Mrs. Wilkins said.
“Wait'll you taste it,” Catherine replied, opening the oven door and sliding out a tray. “Jeremy seasons it with a touch of Jack Daniels and a hot sauce he makes from scratch.”
A fork clattered. There was a moment's silence, then, “Can he hear us?”
“Ah, I believe he was going out,” Catherine replied.
The voice lowered, said, “Honey, where on earth did a white man learn to cook like that?”
“From his wife,” Catherine replied, a smile clear in her voice. “Here, try this cornbread. Jem roasts an ear of corn and puts the kernels in the batter. He mixes in âbout a half cup of fresh cream and two tablespoons of molasses.”
There was another pause, then, “This his wife's recipe too?”
“That's right.”
Mrs. Wilkins became even quieter. “Was she black?”
Catherine laughed outright, scraped another chair back from the table, said, “No, she wasn't black. She was just a fine woman. One of the finest people I've ever met. A real country saint.”
Very quietly, Jem closed the door to his room. When he had changed clothes, he tiptoed down the corridor, eased the front door open, and let himself out.
The door reopened behind him and a voice said, “Mind if I come along?”
He turned around, saw it was Anna, Mrs. Wilkins' niece. She stood on the narrow ledge, clearly not willing to move or let her face show any expression whatsoever until he declared himself.
“I was just goin' out for a walk,” he said.
“Where to?”
He pointed in a vague direction, said, “Still tryin' to get a feel for the neighborhood.”
“Have you been down to Adams-Morgan yet?”
“Not so I'd notice,” Jeremy replied. “âCourse, half the time I don't even know where I'm at once I get there.”
Her eyes flickered a spark of humor. “Looking for anything in particular?”
Jeremy decided on honesty. “Now that's a right interesting question. Sometimes I feel like I'm being led around by the hand, but I can't for the life of me figure out what I'm supposed to be seeing.”
“Maybe I can help,” she offered.
Jeremy decided he liked her voice. It had a deep honeyish quality to it, with a tiny spice of burr. “You think your aunt can get along without you?”
“Those two'll be in there for hours. Aunty Rose won't let go till she's squeezed that lady dry.”
“Then I'd be right obliged to have you join me.”
She walked down the steps and pointed with a languid hand. “Let's head down that way.”
He matched her long stride, said, “I don't believe I caught your last name.”
She ignored the question, said, “While you were in the back my aunt asked Catherine why she was living in a white man's museum.” She drew out the final three words with a broad black twang. “Know what Catherine said?”
“I can imagine.”
“She said it was on account of how you were giving it to her and her husband, what's his name? Some initials, right?”
“TJ.”
“Yeah, that's right, TJ Case. She said your home back in North Carolina was as spartan as a prison cell. Said you'd never learned how to give anybody anything but the best you could afford. Said if she had to fault you on anything it was on how you sometimes let your generosity run away with you.”
“That lady does like to talk,” Jeremy replied, and changed the subject. “How come you talk like that?”
“Like what?”
“I don't know as I can describe it. You don't have any accent. Maybe a little, but surely not like your aunt.”
“I went to school up north,” Anna replied, pleased by the question. “Columbia. I guess whatever accent I had I lost.”
“What'd you study?”
“Biology undergrad, then a master's in nursing and public health.”
They stopped at Connecticut Avenue to wait for the light. Jeremy glanced her way. At close inspection the dark skin was lit with a healthy luster. She was a big girl, standing almost as tall as he and holding herself proudly erect. Her hair was cropped short, shorter than he'd ever recalled seeing on a woman. Jeremy decided he liked it on her. He guessed her age at mid-twenties. The strength he felt radiating from her would have better suited a person twice her age.
He asked her, “Where'd you get that earring?”
She fingered the large silver object that dangled from one ear. “It was a gift from a Nigerian woman I know. She lives in the area we're walking toward.”
“It looks good on you,” he said, and meant it.
She thanked him politely, still holding back. Jeremy decided the reserve was not just pretense. She was a calm, intelligent woman who had a strong grip on who she was and where she was going. Jeremy decided he liked her, thought there could not be two people more different than Anna and her aunt.
The light changed, they crossed and continued down beside the Hilton on Florida Avenue. Jeremy followed her lead and enjoyed being able to gawk without worrying over where he was or how he'd find his way back.
“What did you mean back there,” she asked him, “about maybe being led around by the hand?”
“I dunno,” he said, jamming his hands into his pockets and lowering his head. “I know I'm needed up here right now. TJ's gotta have somebody else besides his wife who he can trust with this work of his.”
“What business is he in?”
Jeremy hesitated, decided on, “The power and light business.”
“Didn't I hear he was doing something with the government?”
“That too,” he agreed, and hurried on. “The problem is, I just don't have enough to keep me occupied. Back home, I was pretty much on fourteen-hour days, six days a week. Now that Catherine's here, my housecleaning's gonna be about as welcome as a third batch of kitties. The lady's nice as she can be, but she wants a home to run. I just keep feelin' like there oughta be somethin' else I'm supposed to be doin'.”
Within the space of four blocks, the world was transformed. The crisp winter air still sparkled, but the buildings became increasingly tired, the stores decrepit, the people tattered. Two blocks later they passed an abandoned storefront where four middle-aged blacks sat huddled together against the cold. They shared a filthy blanket laid across their legs; ragged scarfs were wrapped around their ears. A Styrofoam cup sat forlornly on the sidewalk before them. The men's eyes did not even bother to lift to the people passing by, as though they had long since accepted their plight as hopeless. Jeremy bent and slipped a bill into the cup, met the one pair of eyes that raised to meet his, saw that his gesture was truly meaningless.
He straightened and walked to where Anna stood waiting. He searched her face, could find nothing evident behind the stone mask and blank eyes.
Knowing he was going to sound extremely ignorant, he asked, “Are those crack victims?”
She shook her head, said, “Victims, but not of crack. Lack of hope, yes. Jobless, homeless, hopeless.”
They walked on, respecting the other's silence, and with every step Jeremy watched the city deteriorate around him. Liquor stores multiplied rapidly, as did ruined structures with bricked-up windows and signs forbidding entry. The sidewalk was a jumbled mass of crumbling stone, the street little better. Eyes that looked his way scarcely seemed to see him. They were too clouded with ancient rage.
Anna pointed across the street, said in a voice that seemed to mirror his own dull sadness, “There's your crack victim.”
Jeremy's first thought was, he looks like those pictures of concentration camp victims. The man was so thin it hurt Jeremy to look at him. He walked down the street on feet that seemed to search gingerly for a foothold, as though afraid if they were set down too hard the body they carried would shatter.
He wore a shiny black suit and a dirty T-shirt, and seemed totally unaware of the cold. Numb to the cold, blind to the stares, oblivious to everything but some screaming inner drive.
It was hard to believe that anyone could be that thin and still live. The skin was stretched taut over his skull, and the clothes draped shabbily on his scrawny frame did nothing to hide the lack of flesh on his bones. His hands were skeletal, his limbs without strength, his eyes blank holes in his face. He seemed to float on the breeze, lacking the power or the interest to chart a course for himself.
Jeremy watched him drift around the corner, realized he'd been holding his breath. He said shakily, “I don't believe I've ever seen Death that close up before.”
“The legion of the lost,” Anna said quietly.
They moved on slowly, Jeremy praying for the young-old man, saying the words in his mind, his heart knowing nothing but pain. Anna led him down another block, turned right, and stopped.
“There's something in here I'd like to show you,” she said.
Jeremy inspected the building, saw nothing to distinguish it from its poverty-stricken neighbors save a tiny sign that read, “Community of Hope.” Anna took his silence for agreement, and led him up the walk.
As they approached the front door, an ancient black woman walked out and broke into a delighted smile when she recognized Anna. “How you doin', chile?”
“Just fine, Mrs. Timmons,” Anna said, as cultivated as ever, as warm as she could be. “How's your back?”
“Oh, them new pills is just what I needed.” The old lady was clearly eager to hold her there. “I don't hardly feel a thing once I've made it outta bed.”
“That's fine,” Anna said, “but don't you forget to use that heating pad at night.”
Rheumy eyes sparkled as a wrinkled hand reached out to grasp Anna's. The woman turned to Jeremy, said, “Ain't she just a little angel?”
“She is indeed,” Jeremy replied solemnly.
“Mr. Hughes, this is Mrs. Timmons. She injured her back a few weeks ago, but she's much better now, aren't you?”
“Thanks to my little angel here,” she said, giving the hand another squeeze. “Y'all goin' up to see Tom?”
“Is he there?”
“I believe I saw him up there.” The old lady cackled. “Gettin' so I can hardly remember my own name, but I still get around okay.”
“You take care, now,” Anna told her. “And be sure to let me know if you need anything.” The smiles they exchanged warmed the winter air.
Jeremy and Anna went inside and passed a receptionist crammed against one side of the narrow hall. The black lady looked up from her wheelchair, smiled at Anna as she continued to talk on the telephone, nodded to Jeremy, motioned them through. A woman even older than Mrs. Timmons sat in front of the desk leaning on her cane as she watched the receptionist ask someone for money. She did not glance up as Jeremy and Anna passed.
The hall smelled of age and industrial-strength cleaner. Strips of worn linoleum plastered to the floor alternated with freshly sawed planks. Light came from old frosted globes high overhead. The walls were plain and gray, save for a brightly colored collection of children's drawings.
Anna led Jeremy to narrow stairs leading to the floors above. Jeremy heard voices murmur and laugh as he mounted steps that alternated between ancient warped wood and new boards. He looked over the banister, spotted the remains of what had once been a mosaic-tile design set in the ground-floor landing. He wondered how old this building really was.
The secretary occupying the second-floor landing lit up at the sight of Anna. “Girl, what you doin' here on your day off?”
Anna smiled, said, “Guess I must be hooked.”
The black lady laughed, a rich sound. “Hooked or crazy, take your pick.” Her gaze, open and very friendly, rested on Jeremy. “How you doin'?”
Jeremy basked in the lady's warmth, said, “Just fine, ma'am, thank you.”
She lifted her eyes to Anna. “A real gentleman. Ain't that nice.”
Anna laughed, asked, “Is Tom around?”
“Partly.” The woman appeared to Jeremy to be smiling even when her face was serious. “His body's in his office. His mind's flittin' in and out like a hummingbird. You want me to tell him you're here?”
“Please.” Anna said to Jeremy, “Come on in here, I want to show you something.” She led him into a small, crowded hallway now occupied by a desk, two sorry-looking filing cabinets and a secretary.
The secretary's scruffy desk was piled high with what clearly were government forms. She said to Anna, “There's about three hundred calls for you. I gave them to Tom.”
“This is Jeremy Hughes,” Anna said. “Rachel is the glue that holds this shaky house together.”
The woman laughed from the heart, said, “Honey, you better look for something stronger than me, if you want to come back tomorrow and find it still standing.”