1.
Time always moved slowest when I wanted something. I wanted to know why Isaiah had invited me to talk.
He didn’t say what was on his mind, but I knew it was about what I did on the porch in that moment of poor judgment all those years ago. It had been the pit of my shame ever since. I knew the day would come when we’d have to talk about it. I just didn’t think it would be today.
I sighed and fell back against the wooden shelves. It was nearing the end of my shift and the time showed 4:54 p.m.—only six more minutes until I was free.
Free from brushing mud out of shoelaces, polishing church shoes, and attaching straps to slingbacks.
Warm air blew through the room’s window—the only breeze I had in this place. It was always hot in here, on account of Mr. Wallace’s protest against air-conditioning. “The world don’t need more machines,” he said. “More machines means more toxins. More toxins means shorter lives, for all humankind.”
Mr. Wallace was a shoe-shiner but make no mistake—he was whip-smart. I never would’ve connected air-conditioning to doomsday, but it made sense I guess.
I wiped sweat from my forehead as the floor creaked beyond the door. Mr. Wallace was approaching the backroom from the parlor.
I quickly closed my pocket watch to sort the remaining shoes into boxes, but then Mr. Wallace opened the door and the watch slipped from my fingers, rolling across the carpet and stopping at his shoe.
He reached one of his long arms down over his belly and picked up my clock, eyebrows tensed as he handed it back to me. “You dropped something,” he said.
“Thank you, sir.” I took the watch and tucked it into my shirt pocket.
My mentor looked around at the mess. “How long does it take to box a few shoes, young man?” he asked, his tone carrying a sting of judgment.
“Sorry, Mr. Wallace,” I said. “I got distracted.”
By all my memories with Isaiah, I didn’t add.The fact we’re growing different, like a sweet gum and a black gum, each in its own swamp.
Mr. Wallace looked at me like he knew something was wrong. “What’s on your mind, son?”
What would I say?Friendship meltdowns?
I could talk to him about some things. More than I could talk about with Pa—that’s for sure. But I knew what was between meand Isaiah was for us to work out.
Mr. Wallace sat on a stool with fatigue. He’d worked for generations. His shop was a staple of the community. It had outlasted every business that popped up and called it quits soon after.
“If it’s about your father,” Mr. Wallace said, “you know what I’m going to say, Nick.”
Ah, there was a change of topic that felt daunting, but somehow more approachable. He’d advised me on my issues with Pa before. Like a rooster in the morning, he told me to forgive him—forgive him!Cock-a-doodle-doo.
“With respect, sir, I can’t forgive somebody for something they ain’t sorry for,” I said, before he got around to saying it.
“You stay waiting on people to apologize to you, all them grudges gon’ crush you like a ripe grape!” he said. “Doyouwant to win, or do you want your grudge to win?”
“I suppose I want to win,” I mumbled.
He leaned back with righteousness. “So... ask yourself what your father’s choice in denying you apprenticeship is teaching you about your ownsovereignty. Take the lesson, leave the pain.”
“Sovereignty, sir? Like power?”
“Not quite.” Mr. Wallace pulled a dictionary out from a drawer under the shelves. “That would be theAdefinition. I, myself, prefer theBdefinition.”
He looked like an explorer in his loose canvas pants, spouting out knowledge. “Freedom from external control, or autonomy,” he read from the dictionary, while looking at me over his glasses. “Your sovereignty is your choice. It’s what leads you in life. If youintend to be a writer, it shall be that you become one, whether you have your father’s blessing or not.” He closed the dictionary and placed it back in the drawer.
“See, we don’t need apprentices and masters,” he went on. “It’s the structure of things, not by necessity, but because each of us makes a choice to uphold this order. In reality, each of us needs only the discernment to guide ourselves.”
It’s funny. I knew I could do things and be someone without my father’s blessing, but I so desperately wanted it. He was my blood. All I had since Mama passed and Daisy moved away.
I began sorting polish into the pockets of a wooden case. “Papa thinks I don’t got enough brains to write forThe Star,” I said. “So, if I do end up writing, it would have to be for someone else.”
