The Messenger of Magnolia Street Read Online Free Page A

words. Then he pauses long enough to look over at Nehemiah and say, “Hey.” Nehemiah grins. It’s not his usual Washington smile but a grin from way back when.
    â€œWe come to see you,” Billy says.
    â€œWell, get on out then.” (A man must speak his native language when the natives are about.)
    Now you know these two have come a long way. You can see it, can’t you? Those tired eyes, bunched-up muscles. Voices hoarse from yelling at one another over the wind and road noise. And now that they are standing here disheveled, in the midst of so many city lights, they feel just a little foolish, just a little country rumpled. And more than a little hungry.
    â€œIs everything all right?” Nehemiah motions to the front door.
    â€œDo we look all right?” Trice has a streak of anger. It’s been building for a few years now and she tries to tame it as she speaks, tries to stroke it, to push it back into place like a lock of her unruly hair. “Hello, Nehemiah. It’s been a long time.”
    And then I watch Nehemiah behold her. Beholding is better than a long look. Beholding is better than most things. And I watch Nehemiah remember her. But this isn’t the Trice he left behind. This Trice is all grown up. This Trice rattles his nerves. Nehemiah breaks his eyes away, says, “It has been a long time, Trice,” without apology and begins to walk up the steps. He’s keeping his facts straight. He’s keeping his mind made up.
    The three of them settle in at Nehemiah’s kitchen table, which doesn’t in the least way resemble anything from Shibboleth. It’s metropolitan by design. It’s amazing how many excellent soul-warming meals have been laid out with little more than an iron skillet, a bowl, and a baking pan. (And, if I might add, the company of angels.) But in spite of all his culinary accoutrements, not because of them, Nehemiah is a surprisingly good cook, so he makes steak and eggs (one of his brother’s favorites). And for the second time in a very long day, Billy sits down to breakfast.
    This is where they make small talk about the trip, about the people they know, about the precision of Yahoo maps. Then Billyand Trice ask about Senator Honeywell and Nehemiah’s work, because it’s the polite thing to do. They dance around this man a little with their words. He is not exactly the same person Billy and Trice remember him to be. They keep trying to look at him through old glasses, trying to see the boy of their youth. The one he was right up to the moment he left them. But now, in some ways he is a stranger. They both steal glances when they think he isn’t looking. Suddenly, they are compatriots, all their fussing falls by the wayside. After all, they’ve been together almost every day he’s been away. They’ve held their feet fast to Shibboleth while he has run away. At least that’s what they say. But they don’t use those words in front of him. Instead they ask, “How is your work?” And what can Nehemiah really tell them that they will understand? Or at least that will not bore them as they smile and nod. He won’t waste their time. Won’t torture them with the details, for which they have no reference points. He says, “It’s just the way you think it is. Takes a lot of paperwork. Every day the same. Every day different.” He doesn’t mention the closed-door maneuverings that stalk his steps on a daily basis. And they don’t pry.
    They do ask about the general well-being of Senator Honeywell, one of the South’s most prestigious poor boys who’s “done good for himself.” In their heart of hearts, his constituents believe Senator Honeywell is still one of them, hasn’t been eaten up by capitol decay, and they continue to trust him to look out for their better interests. For the most part, this is a mantle that the senator wears responsibly.
    All