No sign of the van? Frenchie asks. He looks down at his suit and, distressed, returns the tips of his shirt collar to the outside of his jacket, where they sit like the wings of a shiny red bird.
Should be here any minute, Dave says.
They are joined in the parking lot by a lithe young woman who is clearly not from around here; it is in her walk, a rapid skitter that places her from New York City. J. has found himself trying to slow down ever since he arrived at Yeager Airport, to get into the groove and pace of the state as a sign of openness to a different culture. The woman looks down the driveway and lights a cigarette. Waiting, like them, but no reporter. J. and his fellow jun-keteers are in Talcott (or just outside it, he doesnt know) because they have committed to a lifestyle: their lifestyle pays air freight and they board planes. But why is she here? She wears faded jeans, a yellow blouse with a flower embroidered over her heart. She shifts in her boots, stamps out half a cigarette and lights another while the junketeers shoot the shit and catch up.
Its not here yet? Lawrence fumes, emerging from the office with a cell phone limp in his hand, no doubt making comparisons between the publicity apparatus here and in New York and L.A. They dont know how to do things here. The van was supposed to be here ten minutes ago.
Patience, Lawrence, Dave says.
Lawrence presses a few numbers into his phone, to beeps.
We used to read the story of John Henry in kindergarten, Tiny says. The school board told the teachers they couldnt teach Little Black Sambo anymore, so they switched over to this picture book of John Henrys competition. Positive imagery.
You sound disappointed, J. says, glancing quickly at the woman for her reaction.
I was, a little. I dont mean to be un-p.c, Tiny says. He is the kind of man who says, I dont mean to be un-p.c. a lot. But I liked Little Black Sambo. My mother used to read me Little Black Sambo when she tucked me into bed at night. Its a cute story underneath.
You were undisturbed by the eyeholes cut out of the pillow you lay your little head on.
They were different times, J.
Did you hear I got a new job?
What?
Its at the department of no one gives a shit and youre my first client.
Here it comes now, Frenchie says.
The battered blue van pulls up, New River Gorge Taxi stenciled on its side. It looks like it has been tossed by tornadoes. Workhorse of the robust fleet, J. says to himself. The driver, a ruddy-faced chap from the nabe, rolls down the window and asks, You all going to the Millhouse Inn? His brown, glinting hair is tucked precariously behind his tiny ears.
All hacks in the back, Tiny says, already steering his body into the back row. Frenchie climbs in next to him, makes a joke about there not being enough room in the seat for him. J. is pressed between Dave and the young woman. Shes coming with them. Now he isnt the only black person. J. is grateful. If anything goes down in this cannibal region, he thinks, she will send word, and the story of J.s martyrdom will live on in black fable.
Youre not coming? Dave asks Lawrence, his hand on the door.
I have my own car, he says.
Big shot, Tiny mumbles as the van starts.
The chatter of the junketeers fills the van. They talk about who showed up at the party at the Fashion Café two weeks before and not one among them can remember what movie it promoted; about the night they attended the book party for the hot new memoir, something about a rough childhood, how they swooped down on the stack of review copies and the next day all ran into each other at the Strand bookstore, laughing at the coincidence, as they sold the review copies for cash. Tiny gloats over the money he gets for selling the cookbooks that arrive every day in his mailbox: The Art of Southern Indian Cuisine, Tuscany Delight, The Master Crepe. Tiny says, you cant eat recipes.
The womans arm digs into J.s side. She smiles an apology but does not speak. Maybe hell talk to her at the dinner, so what brings you down here from the big city? How did I know? I could tell. J. closes his eyes to gather himself for the next few hours. Shut down for a bit before whatever god awful festivities are ahead of him. His stomach chews on itself loudly and he hopes that no one else hears it. Then he hears honking and the van lurches to the side. Peering through the windshield he sees the vehicle trying to run them off the road, the red pickup truck of his nightmares. So much depends upon a red pickup truck, filled with crackers. The pickup swerves in the lane parallel to them, dipping and zigging. The man in the passenger seat waves his pink fist out the window at them. Both drivers pounding their horns feverishly. What the fuck is this! What the fuck is this! Dave yells. They are being run off the road. Here it comes, J. thinks, this is how it goes down. The van capsized in a ditch. Open the door, I said open the damn door. What chew all doin ridin with nigruhs? We dont abide no consortin with nigruhs in Summers County. Get out the car. Maybe one of his comrades puts up a little resistance against the taking of J. and the young lady. Then the ropes, the guns, the fire. The South will kill you.