NYU Black Renaissance Noire Winter 2014 - Page 123

“Yes, yes, yes, I remember now. In fact, Jeff and I talked about the store the very first time he and Myra came to our door with an apple pie. Yeah, sixty years ago, Jeff’s father served black folks just like he would serve anyone else, invited them to walk right in through the side door, if not the front, helped them out when they needed credit, helped some folks find a place when Camp Peary displaced so many,” I said, holding Janice close and tasting her delicious neck. “I’ll listen to the rest of your Virginia history lesson, while you prepare our breakfast, professor. Remember, no cheese on my omelette,” said Janice, smiling mischievously and unwrapping my arms from around her waist and padding leisurely down the hall. I didn’t start breakfast right away but sat rolling a an emerald green bottle of Prexylin back and forth on the kitchen table and thought about my long ago conversation with Jeff. Even then I had marveled at my own restraint. At the end of the conversation he’d said something like, “All people are human and we stay human by remembering that about each other and that’s that.” After all these years, did Jeff still believe his own words? “Man, it comes out in strange ways, almost like a burp. That trap? I’d call that straight-up racism. That was your yard, man. He had no right! Don’t forget, they sold your kind straight off the boat not too far from here!” Stew laughed at his own joke. “That might be more about your own paranoia than reality, the trap, I mean. Jeff and I have been neighbors and friends for close to twenty-five years. The man’s a hundred years old, if he’s a day. We’ve even done the Kingsmill River course, although lately we sit in the restaurant and talk about golf. You know Janice and I are thinking about adding a couple of rooms to our Cape Cod and getting a summer pla 6P