Rails Under My Back (24 page)

Sister Jones, he said, set these Scriptures before every door of your house.

Gracie took the pages. Yes, sir.

Now, I should warn you, the power of the Word can only be compelled with the necessary spiritual energy. That’s why I asked you about John.

Yes, sir.

Once home, she made floor mats of the pages, to wipe clean the souls of all who entered. The babies defecated on them.

Gracie went to see Reverend Tower.

Sister Jones, we’ll mission. I’ll bring the congregation by to pray.

No, Father. Her heart ran away from the words. Terrified, she saw what she could not speak.
Face flapping in delight, the baby lunges, striking from near the ground with the sharpened bone of his hand. The reverend falls.
I got my own prayers.

DAY IN AND DAY OUT, all around her come and go, turn and turn, trot along beside her, a snowflake variety of babies, old and young, small and large, fat and skinny, homely or cute. One rainy day, a baby came crashing through the front door, whirling its yellow-and-black spiral legs, bringing in wild rain like a whale spouting sea. That was as far as it got, dissolving into the wet wood fragments.

Shit! John was pissed about having to buy a new window. Lucifer, Dave, Dallas, and Spokesman spent spare moments helping him improve the house. Added more tile, and wood floors, cabinets, storm windows, stairways, a garage, a new fireplace, doors, rooms, stoops, and had even raised the roof for a third floor. All this while John struggled to meet the monthly mortgage. Fuck! You know how much this gon cost me?

It wasn’t my fault. A baby. She got the dustpan, he got a broom. He helped her sweep up the mess, the broom straws, a yellow blur.

EXCEPT FOR THE ODOR OF HER BEDCLOTHES, the house was absent of human presence. Sunlight swept across the room, wiping out the last of the morning shadows. Clean bare silence. John. Her voice carried in the small music of the morning. John. She liked this window, for it afforded her a full view of the city. Thousands of pigeons wavered in the fish belly-colored sky above a wide plain of rooftops. Stooped gargoyles guarded the streets. Pointed houses like tents in the distance. Yes, this place up North is not in God’s world.
Checkerboard city, John calls it. You make yo move, then hop along to the next trick.
Tar Lake. The waveless lake chose a direction and flowed like a great river from one end of the horizon to the other. She could watch wool-capped sailors grab her unborn, spear them, then anchor-toss them into the water, toss them to a time remote and dim. She could study each event moving across the surface of her life. God’s eye sees through all souls, Reverend Tower used to say. Can God see the ghosts of her unborn infants inside her, circling and circling, arms reaching out? See the infants outside, hidden there in the trees? John’s departure ten years ago—like his departure this very morning, moments earlier—held like a shipwreck in her memory where no thoughts could flow past. And this memory that was almost memory that was almost thought that was almost reality that was almost memory spilled over her days.

If she could pull language into her mind then the memories would follow. If she said everything twice, once to get it out, then the second time for remembering, she could draw it all back to her bosom. Reel in a half-century of words. But time refused to move, this stranded horizon ship, so far off that no details reached the eye. She tried to picture its features, but her imagination did not extend to the unseen.

She knew what she must do. Pin down its shape. Rediscover time with the pulsing of its own blood. Like the raw fact of the rocking chair that fit the curve of her body. It might be the horizon itself—each rock a shift, a change, chair, horizon, chair, horizon—or possibly the water.
Wood, water, wood, water, rock, water.
She liked the chair, its sound, its unpillowed hardness.

How could she tell him that the past she had put away, that the other thing remained, though no longer with the staying fragrance of flowers? That now she knew, Jesus, her womb’s second survivor, had ripped open the layers of petrified sorrow, that he—invisible to their knowledge of him, blind to sight and mind—had kept his fists tight on the reins of her umbilical cord, steering her destiny, that this son had fashioned them this new house, this bludgeon which had shattered their common life. But the old line could reach the new life. Their nights together formed memories underneath their pillows, Tooth Fairy’s gifts. Their breathing remained unbroken, dawn to dawn, sunset giving away to stars, and stars to morning clouds, wheeling across day and night. All the past pounding had forged, beneath the sheets, a place remote and calm as stars laid across night sky.

She locked her eyes on him and looked inside. She pulled the inside of him out, wiped it clean, and set it before the sun, where it would receive warmth and light. His sins were now the forgotten shadows of his past, as the moment of salvation is a blinding light.

Still sun grew on green water. In the vast spread of this house, she sometimes felt she cast breaths inside a live belly. A region without light. Walls of sensitive skin. The hum of ocean. The acrid fragrance of fish. And she spent her life waiting for the whale to cut the surface of green water—a cracking of trees in the front yard—and spit her writhing from its mouth onto the shore—a thud on the front lawn.

The swinging trees rustled in a shot of unexpected wind. The sun wet her face. Her breath went short. The ache in her throat ran deep into her chest. The air’s pure scent spoke of fresh rain to come. All the old will slip away like clothes shed after her deliveries. Life having been breathed into the lungs of the dead must be taken away again before death can be returned to. As the lightning cometh out of the east. Long-winged angels lift from the brow of God. She could see them from her perpetual rocking chair. Feel the wind to come.

She rose from the rocking chair and pushed her keys deep in her purse.

THE RECTANGULAR WINDOW afforded Hatch little to look at, the walls of the tunnel like two long black brushstrokes. The train took a curve with industrious roar. The ceiling bulbs buzzed and flickered, and the cab went from light to dark, dark to light.

The concert was a month old yet so ancient that it made him cough. The almost ancient feelings reinstated themselves. Sensation lingered on his fingers. He had never told anyone what had happened that night.
And I never will.
Concealed like his dogtags. He and Uncle John would share this secret to the grave.

The train fast-flowed, rushing water from a hose. The city blurred past. Hatch drifted. Think of Uncle John’s spectacles, two glass river rafts. Floating down some highway. Floating over your face. And the eyes themselves, round color. Brown balls of tobacco. Or two clean circles of fire when liquor had burned away the color. Think. Think.

The train squeezed to a stop at Union Station, vast, blazing. The car emptied and filled. Continued. The car’s tubular insides mirrored the saxophone curve of Elsa’s neck. The car’s bounce, the float of her breasts.

How’s your Mexican girlfriend? Porsha said.

Puerto Rican. I told you, she Puerto Rican mixed wit
—

Whatever. How come you didn’t invite her to Christmas dinner?

Well
—

He hidin her, Uncle John said. In the doghouse.

He planned to meet Elsa today after his visit to Inez’s.

Why don’t you come over, Elsa said, her voice small and inviting inside the phone.

I’m sposed to spend the day wit my grandmother.

She needs the whole day?

It’s just that I don’t get to see her but once a month.

You know, Dad will be at the parlor.

I know. He’s there every day. People never stop dyin.

A soft laugh bounced from Elsa’s lips. He pictured them. It gets better, she said. Mamma will be there too.

Is that right?

She has to vacuum out the coffins, comb hair, apply makeup, paint fingernails, dress the clients, flower arrangements, that kind of stuff. Help Dad out.

I see.

So I’ll be all alone, nobody here but me and Raoul.

Raoul?

My cat.

But that would be later, much later. He had a long ride to Inez’s house in Morgan Park, the southernmost part of Central. A long ride. Elsa was hours and miles away. He flipped his book,
Man and Mestizo,
open. As he read, he began to feel a comfortable place inside himself where he could peek out and judge safe from penetration. Two half-pint hoodlums snatched the book from his hand, Kleenex out of a box, and frog-jumped onto the platform. They boldly flashed him their sign, thumb and index fingers curled ino a C, then blazed an escape, feet drumming across the platform fast and heavy as rainfall, nylon jackets billowing behind them as if the policing wind were clutching and tugging at their backs.

Slow-moving silence. Hatch stirred in his seat. He could feel the eyes of the other passengers on him. His tongue dry and stiff in his mouth, a dead rat. A bad way to start the day.

He closed his eyes and invented his own darkness. And he roamed in this private space while the train pushed like a diver through tubular black. It rose—he saw it and felt it—and tilted him out of his thoughts. The morning pushed hot through the moving window. Opened him. The train sped. Distance changed kind. He tried to ignore the melting of familiar landscapes: crowded streets, a river lake-still and lake-steady to cast reflection, and the sun-catching skyscrapers and flag-decked buildings at the city’s heart.

The train spat him onto a wooden El platform. He spiraled down three flights of stairs to earth. The light was slower here in Morgan Park. The sun sprayed lazy light in banks of red discs. Through the hot grit of day, he took deep-reaching steps for the bus stand.

AHHHHHHHHHH

Shut up.

Ahhhhhhhhhh

Shut up. I’m tellin you.

Ahhhhhhhhhh

Wait til we get home. I’m gon whip yo butt. You won’t be hollerin tomorrow, no sir.

Ahhhhhhhhhhh

What you cryin for? Talk. I don’t understand what you sayin.

Ahhhhhhhhhhhh

Ahhhhhhhhhhhh. I can holler too. Ahhhhhhhhhhhh

Ahhhhhhhhhhhh

No sir, won’t be hollerin tomorrow. I’m gon tear yo butt up … Don’t stop now. Might as well finish cryin. We got only three more blocks.

The toddler resumed crying.

Shut that baby up, Hatch said. In floating bus space, he rocked slightly in his seat.

What? You come up here and make me, punk.

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

Jus get the fuck off.

You make me, punk. Bitchass nigga.

She exited the bus. Stood on the sidewalk, hand on hip, and screamed at him, head jerking to the words. Still not satisfied, she hoisted the toddler above her head, champion weight lifter, then ran toward the bus, as if she would throw the toddler through the window. The bus pulled away.

Dumb bitch. He said it to himself. Fuckin hood rat. His seat offered no comfort. Inez live too damn far away. Too damn far. A long train ride, then a long bus ride. Shit. A flow of streets unfurled behind him. Sunlight angled across the river. The sprawl of the city and the sun like its glowing heart. With sniper-sensitive sight, he followed birds through the bus window, black images through blue sky, flying well and very low, with a calm, favorable wind. To his left (in the distance), the Central River pulled its drying legs together. To his right (near), Tar Lake stirred under a slow flood of sun. Formless substances afloat, each separate from the other, but each also kin to water, the element which will, in time perhaps, dissolve them into a new solid identity. A ship sailed for some unknown destination.
I know everything about that ship.
By simply stretching out his hand he could touch it. Ship lights bubble up and bob on night water. Anchors and chains ring, cowbells. Awaken you as Uncle John slips in silence through Gracie’s front door. Moves like a bat in the dark, as he navigates the steps to Gracie’s bedroom. Dallas’s drunken ghost knocks and bumps against the stairs behind him. He peeps into the room where you and Jesus sleep, the hall light glowing behind him, and Dallas’s ghost too, his eyes fired and twisted.

Gracie’s house was completely surrounded by Tar Lake. Though the lake was but a short walk from the house, Uncle John would pack his fishing gear in the trunk of his yellow cab—well, back in the day he drove a red Eldorado, then the green Cadillac, then the gold Park Avenue—park Hatch and Jesus in the back seat, and drive the few blocks to the lake.
We don’t wanna walk. We like to ride.
Hatch, Jesus, and Uncle John would play their favorite game, hide-and-seek. The boys would race down the hill toward the water, arms windmilling, and dive down into the tall grass. Uncle John would sneak up on them without a sound. Then Jesus would snag a black worm onto a rusty hook. Cast his bait. Motionless rod and motionless line in the current. Hatch would relax with a book and cast his thoughts into the black water. His fingers could handle the toughest guitar strings, but not twisting, slippery worms. Uncle John would ready his rod, clean the horsehair line—
stronger than wire,
he said—polish the gold-colored hook with his silk handkerchief, then tug on the bait, a red-snapping fiddler crab. Patient—
Patience catches a fish,
he said—he might spin a tale or two.
I remember this one time. This time, once, when this guy got shot. The bullet made his clothes catch fire. The weirdest shit. The bullet hit him in the thigh. A flesh wound. But his clothes caught fire. And the fire burned him crisp.
He would catch small, green, finger-thick catfish.
Be careful of them whiskers. Cut you like a razor.
He would clean his catches right there at the lake, nail a hammer through a head and pull off the skin in a clean stroke, easy as removing a sock.
Now, if yall really wanna catch something, we gotta drive down to the Kankakee River.
One night, Uncle John bought Gracie a bowl of goldfish, which she placed on the fireplace mantel next to Cookie’s photograph, commanding a watery view of the living room.
Uncle John, why they call them gold? Ain’t they orange?
She gave Hatch a few sparkling fish to take home with him. One jumped like a pole vaulter out of the bowl he had carried all the way from Lula Mae’s lil house in West Memphis. He stood and watched it. Felt sea spray in his belly with each flop of the fish’s tail. Felt his heart jump inside his ribs. For hours he watched it, beating out its rhythm.