We enter him/me as that fateful exchange unfolds on a shining spring day in Atlanta-Standard. He/I, sitting and reading as mother and child are strolling palely past. They are hand in hand; he/I, alone but for his/my books.
The child speaks and alters their destiny: “Look, Mama,” he says through skinny lips, “a bad peoples!”
HG lowers his book to look back. His fury is instant and complete. Or so he thinks. The mother speaks, and HG understands his mistake.
“No, see? He’s a good one. He’s reading a book.”
HG closes his book. Its title is Hermes Trismagistus and His Acolytes. He places it atop another volume, whose cover reads How to Kill. Around his wrist gleams a quicksilvery bracelet whose sudden warmth rivals that of HG’s rage-flushed face. He knows, no matter how long it takes, he must show her all the myriad ways she is mistaken.
Already, HG thinks of what he intends to visit upon this woman as a Creole lesson. And he suspects its teaching will gain him an acolyte all his own.
Do you see?
Yes, I see.