Delvin hadn’t known exactly what he was talking about, or maybe he did. In his eyes the real mournfulness under the professional one. Off to the side most folks had a little sparkle, most folks he knew. Some little graced and heroic frolic. But not Mr. O. He had never criticized Delvin for getting into trouble with the white boys (or the no-trouble). But he knew without being told that he had been the heir apparent and was no longer. This hurt him and at the same time he felt relieved to be free. He had never wanted to run a funeral home. Now there was little Casey. Twelve years old — not ten as he’d thought — and quiet-minded, an able boy who liked to do what he was told, seemed to get satisfaction out of it. The boy already smelled faintly of formaldehyde (always the smell around here, even in the kitchen where Mrs. Parker kept some in a mix for cleaning — except on Mr. Oliver, who was obsessive about cleanliness and well-perfumed — except on him, who had bathed readily out in the stable, washing at the pump).
He smiled, nodding in the old way, got up and asked if there was anything he could get his benefactor.
“The sight of you is enough,” Oliver said. The old man — he was not so old, but there was a look in his eyes now, something abashed and wavering. He raised his hand and his hand, wide and furrowed down the back, trembled. They both saw this and Delvin wanted to take the hand and kiss it, press it hard to his heart, but he didn’t, he pretended he didn’t see the tremor, didn’t see the vexed look in Oliver’s eyes, only squeezed the hand, softly, like a promise, instead of with the jocosely competitive pressure they had used since he was a little boy. He didn’t want to hurt him and he didn’t want to let go. From somewhere off in the dark an owl called. The call was followed by the hesitant, falling cry of a widow bird, answering, or commenting, it wasn’t clear.
In the late dark of early morning Delvin slipped out the back door. He walked through the quiet streets to the rail yards. The westbound freight was finishing its assembly. A long string of red and yellow boxcars, flatcars and a hook of four black gondolas, all with their big bellies empty, clanked as they were coupled to the big red freight engine. Southern Railroad, Piedmont portion: Bitter Biscuit Line, the breezers called it. Delvin watched from the long grassy hillside above Wainwright Avenue. Two men, one short, the other tall, in striped overalls, carried small suitcases to the dull red caboose and climbed the three steps to the back porch. He wished he was riding in the caboose. From the cupola the brakemen were supposed to watch for jumpers, but they didn’t always do anything if they spotted them. Yard bulls were always a problem, but they too were off somewhere else this morning. A few dozen stampers sat around in the greasy yellow grass waiting for time to board. It was a wonder hawkers didn’t work the crowd. In a way they did. There was Little Simp, a middle-aged hoop chiseler from Georgia, offering tiny handmade dolls for sale. He made them out of gunnysacks stuffed with cotton and colored-in their faces with paints he made himself. There were women in the crowd too, bo-ettes, burlap sisters, zooks, shanty queens, blisters and hay bags they were called by the hobo crowd, janes looking for lost husbands or lovers, mop marys and buzzers. A little boy sold strips of sugar cane. Other men sold whatever anyone wanted to buy, personwise. Most of the shifters it looked like this trip were young, white and colored, boys mostly, looking for work — he overheard a young white boy talking about a big box factory opening in Memphis — and the rest members of the increasing crowd of the out-of-work, troubled or desperate or worn out or knocked to their knees, or slaphappy tourists, workers or lazers or bindlestiffs and beefers, dousers and cons, boys eager to make a start, posseshes joyriding into their cranky destinies. He had written about these travelers in his notebook. Truth was, you could find just about anybody on the road these days.
