The Last Days of Ptolemy Grey - By Walter Mosley Page 0,78
’bout nine weeks ago. Killed him on Denker when he was sittin’ out in front’a the house of a friend’a his.”
Thompkins frowned and Arnold rubbed his fingertips together.
“Listen,” Robyn said. “Melinda do dope. I’ont know her boyfriend but he prob’ly a dopehead too. My uncle’s a old man. He ain’t in no gang. He ain’t runnin’ down no dopehead, beatin’ him on the street. That’s just stupid.”
“And what about you?” Officer Arnold asked.
“What about me?”
“She said that a young woman beat her with an electric fan.”
“So? She tell you that she the Virgin Mary when she get enough dope in her blood.”
“How old are you?” Thompkins asked.
“Eighteen.”
“Are you in school?”
“Got my GED and I’m gonna start LACC in the fall.”
Ptolemy could see Robyn’s chest heaving.
The policemen stared a minute, but neither Ptolemy nor Robyn crumbled under the scrutiny.
Then the policemen looked at each other, nodded, and stood as one.
“We may have more questions later,” Officer Arnold said.
“We always here, Your Honor,” Ptolemy told him. “At ninety-one, with dope fiends all ovah the street, I don’t get out too much.”
You bettah call Billy Strong an’ tell him not to come by here for a while,” Robyn said after the cops were gone.
“I almost lost my mind when them bull was at that do’,” Ptolemy said.
“What you mean?”
They were sitting at the kitchen table, drinking ice water from purple plastic tumblers.
“I saw them uniforms an’ my mind went blank. It didn’t mattah that the cops was both colored, not one bit. It was like, was like I was feebleminded again. If you aksed me my name I wouldn’t been able to say.”
“But you talked to them, Papa Grey. You talked good too.”
“But I could feel it, honey. It’s like black curtains comin’ down on me. Like a shroud.”
They reached across the table at the same time, entwining their fingers. Ptolemy smiled and Robyn understood him.
“Come on ovah to the closet, baby,” he said. “It’s time I gave you my treasure.”
In the night Coy came to him.
“You finally done did sumpin’, huh, boy? What took you so long?”
“I was scared,” a full-grown Ptolemy Grey said to the man Coy McCann.
“Scared? What you got to be scared about? Here you got a nice apartment, wit’ two girlfriends, money comin’ in every week, an’ a treasure too.”
“There’s blood on that gold, Coydog.”
“My blood. You know, for every grain of gold dust that make up that treasure a black mother have cried and a black son done shed sweat or blood, maybe even life itself. That man was a slave master, only he didn’t have to feed his slaves.”
“You stole,” Ptolemy said.
“An’ they stoled an’ they murdered. So who gonna be in front’a who on the line?”
Ptolemy smiled then. His fever was raging but he didn’t know it. He was with Coydog again, having a brand-new conversation like they did in the old days before fire and blood flooded the chambers of the child’s mind.
“You right, Coy,” he said in his delirium. “You sure is. I showed Robyn the treasure an’ told her what to do an’ how to do it. She gonna be your heir. She gonna take that gold an’ see my blood outta down here. They all gonna go to college or rest easy in they final days.”
Coy stood there for a long time at the foot of the bed. The sun was rising behind him, and Africa, from two thousand years before, loomed in those first rays of light.
Ptolemy remembered the stories Coy told him about Africa; about a land before the gods of the North descended; about kings and crazy men; about wars waged and done with and not a drop of blood drawn or even a bruise suffered by a single warrior.
How you know all that, Coy?” the boy, Li’l Pea, had asked. “You said that the white man’s history books lie about us all the time.”
“They do.”
“Then how you know about how it was before the white man? No niggah know all that.”
“Oh yeah, boy,” Coy McCann said. “We from there. Some of us remembah with our minds. But even more got them stories jammed up in they hearts an’ spirits. They tell white men’s stories but changes ’em. They talkin’ about things they know an’ don’t remembah. I listens an’ tease out the truth that lay underneath.”
Coy stood at the foot of the bed with the sun rising and the secret memory of Africa emerging out of memories that were forgotten but not lost.