Читать книгу The Book of Harlan - Bernice L. McFadden - Страница 39

Chapter 31

Sam and Emma waited all day for the bus—taking turns leaning out the window, standing on the stoop, walking from one corner of the block to the next, and pacing the parlor floor like parents awaiting the birth of their first child.

“You see anything?”

“Nope, not yet.”

It was nearly eight o’clock when the bus finally arrived. They nearly tripped over one another getting through the door and down the steps to greet their son.

When Harlan stepped off the bus, Emma stalled. Even in the fading summer light, she saw in Harlan what she had seen in Lucille the first time she’d gone away and come back. “Oh,” she mumbled miserably, “he’s pissing straight now.”

Not only that—Harlan was taller and heavier, and there was a shadow of dark hair above his upper lip. Gone was the carefree, arm-swinging gait, replaced now by a confident swagger historically hitched to men who frequented pool halls and whorehouses, drank whiskey before noon, and kept a lit cigarette dangling from the knotted corners of their mouths. Those men carried switchblades in their coat pockets, pistols stuffed behind the waistbands of their trousers. They smoked dope, had women in every city and children they would never claim. Those men worshipped jewelry, money, and pussy. They lived fast and died young.

Harlan opened his arms. “Hey, Mama, Daddy,” he called sluggishly.

Sam took his hand and pumped it exuberantly. “Welcome home, son. Welcome home.”

Emma folded her arms across her chest. “Hello, Harlan,” she offered coolly.

Oblivious to the chill, Harlan leaned in and planted a wet kiss on her cheek. “Did you miss me?”

Emma turned her face away from his alcohol-soaked breath. “Um-hum.”

Harlan chuckled, kissed her again, and started up the steps. Sam followed close behind, happily lugging his son’s suitcase.

Later, over a hefty plate of boiled potatoes, pig tails, and black-eyed peas, Harlan regaled them with stories from the road. He went on and on about the venues, the audiences, sleeping on the bus, pissing and shitting in the woods, and that time the bus broke down beneath a big sky. Lucille had spat on the ground and called that place the “middle of nowhere,” but it was beautiful and green and quiet in a way Harlan didn’t know the world could be. He left out the blue-eyed black woman and all the other ladies who followed, and the reefer.

Emma listened quietly, suspiciously. Sam, however, was so enthralled that he forgot about his food, leaning over his plate, lapping up every word that tumbled out of Harlan’s mouth. When Sam finally scooped a potato into his mouth, it was cold.

Harlan dropped his fork into the center of the plate, fell back into the chair, and slapped his gut like an old, sated man. “That was good, Mama, thanks,” he yawned.

“Yeah, baby, that was good,” Sam chimed, smacking his lips.

Emma nodded, rose from her chair, and silently cleared the table.

Harlan cocked his eyebrow. “You okay, Mama?”

“Yeah, you okay?” Sam echoed.

“I’m just fine,” Emma responded tersely, evidence that she was not fine, not fine at all.

Father and son exchanged a cautious glance. When Emma was out of earshot, Sam scooted his chair closer to Harlan. “So, tell me ’bout the gals.”