When they married, if Blanch's father had been disappointed in Jasper's lack of formal education and background, Jasper's color and manners more than made up for it.

After he married, Jasper worked hard; and while Artis was spending his money on clothes and women, Jasper was staying in the cold, rat-infested dormitories that the company provided for porters when they were out of town. He saved until he and Blanch could go down to the piano company and buy one for cash. A piano in the home meant something. He gave ten percent to the church and started a savings account for the children's college education at the all-black Penny Saving Bank. He'd never touched a drop of whiskey, never borrowed a dime, and never been in debt. He had been one of the first blacks in Birmingham to move into white Enon Ridge, later known as Dynamite Hill. After the Klan had blown up Jasper's and several of his neighbors' red brick homes, some had left, but he had stayed. He had endured years of "Hey, Sambo," "Hey, boy," "Hey, George," emptied cuspidors, cleaned bathrooms, shined shoes, and lifted so much luggage that be couldn't sleep from the pain in his back and shoulders. He had often cried in humiliation when something was stolen and the railroad officials searched the pullman porters' lockers first.

He had "yes sirred" and "yes ma'amed" and smiled and brought loud-mouthed salesmen liquor in the middle of the night, had taken abuse from arrogant white women and been called nigger by children, had been treated like dirt by some of the white conductors, and had had his tips stolen by other porters. He had cleaned up after sick strangers and passed through Cullman County a hundred times, with the sign that warned, NIGGER . . . DON’T LET THE SUN SET ON YOUR HEAD.

He had endured all this. But . . .

The burial policy for his family was paid off, he had sent all four of his children through college, and not one of them would ever have to live off tips. That was the one thought that had kept him going all the long, hard, back-breaking years.

That, and trains. If his brother Artis had been in love with a town, Jasper was in love with trains. Trains, with dark, polished, mahogany wood-paneled club cars and plush, red velvet seats. Trains, with the poetry of their names . . . The Sunset Limited . . . The Royal Palm . . . The City of New Orleans . . The Dixie Flyer. . . The Fire Fly . . . The Twilight Limited . . .The Palmetto . . . The Black Diamond . . . The Southern Belle . . . The Silver Star . . .

And tonight, he was riding on The Great Silver Comet, as slender and streamlined as a silver tube ... from New Orleans to New York and back, one of the last of the great ones still running. He had mourned each of those great trains as, one by one, they were pulled off the lines and left to rust in some yard, like old aristocrats, fading away; antique relics of times gone by. And tonight he felt like one of the old trains . . . off the track . . . out of date . . . past the prime . . . useless.

Just yesterday, he overheard his grandson Mohammed Abdul Peavey telling his mother that he didn't want to go anywhere with his grandaddy because he was embarrassed by the way he bowed and scraped to white people and the way he acted in church, still singing that old coon-shine, ragtime gospel music of his.

It was clear to Jasper that his time was over now, just like his old friends rusting out in the yards. He wished it could have been different; he had gotten through the only way he had known how. But he had gotten through.

DECEMBER 23, 1965

Smokey was across the street from the boarded-up terminal L N station downtown, in a hotel room that may have been up to the minute thirty-five years ago but now consisted only of a bed, a chair, and a forty-watt light bulb on a string. The room was pitch black, except for the pale yellow light that spilled through the glass transom at the top of the tall, thickly enameled, brown door.

Smokey Lonesome sat alone, smoking his cigarette and looking out the window onto the cold wet street below, thinking back to a time when there had been little stars in the ring around the moon and all the rivers and the whiskey had been sweet. When he had been able to take a breath of fresh air without coughing his guts up. When Idgie and Ruth and Stump still lived in the back of the cafe, and all the trains were still running. That time, special time, so long ago . . . just an instant away in his mind . . .

Those memories were still there, and tonight, he sat searching for them, just like always, grabbing at moonbeams. Every once in a while he would catch one and take a ride, and it was like magic. An old song played over and over in his head:

Smoke rings

Where do they go?

Those smoke rings I blow?

Those circles of blue, that

Keep reminding me of you . . .

SEPTEMBER 22, 1986

When Evelyn Couch came into the lounge, Mrs. Threadgoode was asleep, and suddenly looked her age. Evelyn realized how old her friend really was, and it scared her. She shook her.

"Mrs. Threadgoode!"

Mrs. Threadgoode opened her eyes and patted her hair, and began talking at once. "Oh Evelyn. Have you been here long?"

"No, I Just got here."

"Well, don't you ever let me sleep through visitors' day. You promise?"

Evelyn sat down and handed her friend a paper plate with a barbecue sandwich and a piece of lemon icebox pie, a fork and napkin.

"Oh Evelyn!" Mrs. Threadgoode sat up. "Where'd you get this? Over at the cafe?"

"No. I made it especially for you."

"You did? Well, bless your heart."

Evelyn had noticed that for the past couple of months, her friend seemed to be getting more and more mixed up about time, past and present, and sometimes called her Cleo. Sometimes she would catch herself and laugh; but more and more, lately, she didn't.

"Sorry I drifted off like that. But it's not only me; everybody out here is exhausted."

"Why, can't you sleep at night?"

"Honey, nobody's been able to sleep out here for weeks. Vesta Adcock has taken to making phone calls all night long. She calls everybody, from the president to the mayor. She called the queen of England to complain about something the other night. She gets herself all fussed up like an old cat and carries on all night long."

"Why in the world doesn't she close her door?"

"She does."

"Well, why don't they take the phone out of her room?"

"Honey, they did, only she don't know it, she just keeps on making calls."

"My God! Is she . . . crazy?"

"Well, let's put it this way," Mrs. Threadgoode said kindly. "She's of this world, but not in it."

"Yes. I think you're right."

"Honey, I sure would love a cold drink to go with my pie. You think you could get me one? I'd go, but I cain't see well enough to find the slot."

"Oh, of course. I'm sorry, I should have asked."

"Here's my nickel."

"Oh Mrs. Threadgoode, now don't be silly. Let me buy you a drink. My heavens."

Mrs. Threadgoode said, "No. Now Evelyn, you take this money . . . you don't need to be spending your cash on me," she insisted. "I won't drink it if you don't let me pay for it."

Finally, Evelyn took the nickel and bought the seventy-five-cent drink with it, as she always did.

"Thank you, honey . . . Evelyn, did I ever tell you I hated brussels sprouts?"

"No. Why don't you like brussels sprouts?"

"I cain't say. I just don't. But I love anything else in the vegetable family. I don't like them frozen, though, or in a can. I like fresh, sweet corn, lima beans, and good ol’ black-eyed peas, and fried green tomatoes . . ."