all meant。 He had e to terms with his blackness — happy
terms。 He was up past sixty and thank God； he was cruising。
Was he going to chance the end of that — the end of him — for three white people
he didn't even know？
But that was a lie； wasn't it？
He knew the boy。 They had shared each other the way good friends can't even
after forty years of it。 He knew the boy and the boy knew him； because they each
had a kind of searchlight in their heads； something they hadn't asked for；
something that had just been given。
（Naw； you got a flashlight； he the one with the searchlight。）
And sometimes that light； that shine； seemed like a pretty nice thing。 You
could pick the horses； or like the boy had said； you could tell your daddy where
his trunk was when it turned up missing。 But that was only dressing； the sauce
on the salad； and down below there was as much bitter vetch in that salad as
there was cool cucumber。 You could taste pain and death and tears。 And now the
boy was stuck in that place； and he would go。 For the boy。 Because； speaking to
the boy； they had only been different colors when they used their mouths。 So he
would go。 He would do what he could； because if he didn't； the boy was going to
die right inside his head。
But because he was human he could not help a bitter wish that the cup had
never been passed his way。
* * *
（She had started to get out and e after him。）
He had been dumping a change of clothes into an overnight bag when the thought
came to him； freezing him with the power of the memory as it always did when he
thought of it。 He tried to think of it as seldom as possible。
The mai