Rails Under My Back (47 page)

Did I say that?

That’s it, you can’t keep yo man?

I don’t know if I want to keep him.

Why not?

He ain’t called. We was sposed to get together last night and I ain’t heard from him.

Um huh, missing in action. I never did like Deathrow.

You never told me that. Porsha could recall only one complaint. She had told Nia about screwing Deathrow in Circle Park. Yall did it in the park? Nia said. You crazy. Even I wouldn’t do it in the park, and at night too? A couple got shot there two nights ago.

He’s not a man. He’s a pair of pants.

You said you liked him.

Nia scrunched up her face. He’s jus like Virgil.

Virgil?

You heard me.

Several months ago, Nia had phoned her, excited. Bring Deathrow over for dinner Sunday. We celebrating.

Celebrating what?

I found him.

Found who?

Virgil. He the best man ever wore shoes.

Aren’t you lucky.

Sure. I need that dick.

Go slow.

I gotta have it. I’ll retrieve it if he cut it off and toss it away. Like a dog fetching a stick.

Virgil was a yellow, snake-hipped man. Nia took his arm and put it about her waist. Porsha sighed inside. Recalled Uncle John’s injunction against
pretty men.
They sat down to eat. Nia cooked a good meal—rabbit and snails, a recipe she’d picked up in Spain—though a bit spicy. (She cooked everything with hot peppers, even using the heat-containing seeds.)

What do you do, Virgil?

Nia answered for him. He’s a preacher.

I also repair TVs, Virgil said. That’s my van out there. Have a look.

Porsha parted the chintz curtains. A plain black van waited on the street.

I’m a journeyman repairman. Certified.

Nia crossed her knife and fork. Everybody ready for dessert?

Sure.

Nia served Trinidadian black cake.

Honey, can I make you a drink?

Thank you, baby.

Whiskey?

Why don’t you know preachers don’t drink whiskey? They drink gin.

Drinks in hand, the men retired to the living room to watch the basketball game. Virgil responded to Deathrow’s every glowing comment about Flight Lesson with a routine, Yeah.
Virgil, Deathrow said, he kinda quiet.
The women spied on them from the kitchen, cleaning, looking, and talking. Porsha did most of the cleaning and Nia the talking. You shoulda seen it, scented rose petals floating around us. Red memory flickered in Nia’s eyes. That was some bath.

Sounds like fun.

Fun ain’t the word. I love Virgil. He makes me leave my body. And I think I make him leave his.

Porsha thought about it. Good in bed?

Heavens yes. He got sex organs everywhere. Like they say, You can’t keep a good preacher down.

Porsha excused herself and went into the bathroom. She got down on her knees there on the bathroom floor—Portuguese cobblestone—and prayed that yellow Virgil wouldn’t be the skinny straw to break the fat camel’s back.

NIA RECRUITED PORSHA to help give some life to Virgil’s apartment. Bare walls. Bare floors. Bare rooms. It would take longer to tell what was not in the house than what was in.

NIA AND VIRGIL vacationed in Mexico.

I had a wonderful time at Mardi Gras, Nia said. The men put the dog on this blanket and bounced it into the air.

That’s cruel, Porsha said.

No it’s not. Damn funny.

Cruel. Even though I can’t stand pets.

Virgil didn’t warm up to the country.
Never have liked Mexican food too much, Virgil said. Beans give me gas.
He didn’t swim; he discovered that he was allergic to salt water. (It left him blind for hours at a time.) He refused to have his portrait painted.
Isn’t it enough to be obliged to drag around the face God gave me?
And no photo contained the couple in the same frame.

Baby, Virgil said, I really like you. But could you move out the way. I really want to get a picture of that church.

NIA BUTTERFLIED HER WAY from wonder to wonder, but when she gave a man the boot, her decision was decisive, like running water, like rising light.

You crossed the line, Nia said. You better haul yo freight.

Why? Virgil said. You gon make me? I know you big. I know you look like a man, but you ain’t a man.

NIA RECOUNTED THE WHOLE SAD STORY to Mamma.

Girl, Mamma said, what’d you expect? Preachers don’t like yo type. Any gal can make a preacher lay his Bible down. But it takes a long, lean gal to keep him from picking it up again.

NIA AND PORSHA packed wine, cheese, and luau that Nia had prepared in a Spanish picnic basket, rented a little boat, and spent the entire day on Tar Lake alone—water slapping the sides of the boat, the boat moving not at all—watching the clouds and listening to the rippling of the waves, silent and listless.

Girl, Porsha said, I didn’t know you knew how to sail.

SO WHAT YOU THINK?

Porsha faced the mirror. Her reflection bounced back. Girl, you know you can do some hair.

Good. You owe me.

What?

I’m going to the Silver Slipper soon as I freshen up. I want you to come with.

Porsha shook her head. I’m tired.

Why don’t you jus come and have a good time.

Another time.

When either of them broke up with a man, Nia would take Porsha to the Silver Slipper, a dyke bar where they could dance freely without men hitting on them. Let the bull daggers flatter them and buy them drinks.

Let me see your hands.

Porsha extended her hands like a criminal awaiting the cop’s cuffs.

Um huh, just as I suspected. You need to wear gloves. If you get the slightest nick—

My career will be over.

Sit down at my desk.

Porsha did as instructed.

Nia fetched her instruments from a Chinese Chippendale stand and carried them over to her desk. She pressed Porsha’s fingers into two bowls—blue Chinese porcelain—of water to soak. An exquisite scent of detergent, olives, oil, and juice rose from the water. Nia removed one hand from the water, rested it on a cushion—light, a bird on a branch—and went to work.

I don’t know why you won’t take better care of your nails.

That’s why I’m here.

Nia worked the file across Porsha’s nails, bow to violin.

So, you gon start dating other people?

I don’t know.

Why not?

I don’t know.

Admit you wrong. You can’t save yo face and yo ass too.

Porsha coughed a laugh or two.

What about that photographer?

Which one?

The cute one I met at that party.

Owl?

Uh huh.

Please.

He ain’t your type?

Maybe he’s yours.

Nia chuckled. I’d break that lil man. Look, next week I’m going to Angria. Why don’t you—

You know I don’t travel overseas.

That’s why you turned down that job in France?

Yes, she had turned down the job, her first film offer, a chance to put her still body into hot motion. In fact, she had turned down all foreign assignments.

Girl, your taste buds broke. You lost the flavor of money.

No I haven’t. I got expenses.

To win big, you got to take some chances. I learned that from the Jews. They are the last word in the game of smartness. Nia rose from the table and walked to her desk. She always had such advice. She kept a stack of Porsha’s business cards on file at the shop and pitched Porsha to each and every client.

Forget Deathrow and take a trip with me.

I don’t know.

Using all her might, Nia spun the ancient globe. So, girlfriend, where you want to go? The earth blurred in rapid motion. Nia let her finger ride lightly upon the whirling surface. Nia girdled the earth so fast she was everywhere at once. She always made double reservations on the slight chance that Porsha would travel with her. Nia would call her from some country and talk for hours on end about its wonders. (Nia was crazy like that.) She never sounded like herself, a stranger from another world. How about Toledo?

Ohio?

Not Ohio, Spain.

The globe slowed to a stop. Ah, Brazil.

That’s not Brazil. There’s no Brazil on that old globe. Porsha knew every country’s size and shape.

Let’s pretend. Wait till you seen those men in Brazil.

Only once in her life had Porsha pondered travel to Brazil. Porsha had looked up Brazil in her fourth-grade atlas of the Encyclopaedia Britannica. Six thousand miles from home and three time zones. She could walk there in fifty-four days if she didn’t stop to eat or sleep. If she swam or walked across the ocean.

Uncle John, teach me how to swim.

Sure, girl. Bout time you learned. Seen those babies swimming over there in Russia?

I ain’t swimming there.

Where you gon swim?

To Brazil.

You said half of them are fags.

No, I said bi. Gay or bi, they’ll make you forget Deathrow.

You need to stop. Nia used every pretext to get Porsha out of the country.

Don’t you need vaccinations?

Shots? Girl, you ain’t going to the rain forest. Come on. Go with. Dare to know.

Not overseas.

Okay, where then?

She loved New York. Whenever she worked there, she took a room in the tallest hotel in midtown where she could watch the shadow-covered water towers. Night edges of the buildings. Lights. (Yes, the lights.) And off in the distance, the lit pyramid of the Chrysler Building. The Empire State like a steel ice-cream cone. Central Park, the city’s green heart. Two rivers and an ocean, the water all one color until the light struck it.

Only a po rat got one hole to crawl in.

Are you going to do my nails or what?

Nia studied her for a moment. A sigh expanded her heavy breasts. She carried a deep wide bowl over to Porsha’s chair and sat it before Porsha’s feet. Then she seated herself on a low stool and put Porsha’s feet in the water. Bursts of quivering ran up Porsha’s legs.

NIA PAINTED PORSHA’S FINGERNAILS AND TOENAILS with garlic-laced polish. Okay, put them in the machine.

On bulrush sandals Porsha skied over to the machine (from South Korea). Placed her hands and feet in what looked like two bread boxes joined at precise distance, hands to feet, by a lamp pole. The machine dried her nails instantly. She checked the results. Her fingers and toes flashed like ten red moons. Thanks, she said.

Don’t mention it. Nia freshened her drink and looked out the window. You gon go all the way back home?

I’ll get a cab.

Ain’t you had enough for one day? I’m telling, not asking. Nia’s profile was full of authority.

Porsha admitted it to herself. Yes.

Here, lie down. Nia motioned to the office’s chaise longue.

Minute-scarred, Porsha reclined on the cool leather.

Nia lowered the blinds. Closed them. Killed the lights. Filled the room with black.

I need some light.

Nia put the lights on, dim. She floated up and placed herself before Porsha, direct and uncompromising. Here. Behind black bars of fluted light, Nia held out a cup to her.

She took the warm cup.

It’ll help you sleep.

Thanks. She sipped the tea. Concentrated on it, the heat flowing down her throat, the sweetness of the sugar.

Well, I’ll see you in the morning. Smoke-black, Nia swayed above her, suspended, sustained.

Don’t stay out too late.

You know me. Nia turned to leave the room.

You still going Sunday?

Nia stopped as if Porsha had hit her. Sunday?

You know, the Great Awakening.

Nia said nothing.

You won’t even have to drive. The Arkmobile would pick them up—Porsha, Nia (and Deathrow?)—advance paid.

I’ll let you know. Nia quit the room, tossing her body.

Porsha tried to rise but fatigue had nailed her to the chaise longue. Thick shadows warmed her blanket-like.

Moonlight struggled through the closed blinds. The blinds formed a net that caught all of the night’s light. A luminous raft, the chaise longue floated. The moon dripped away in blood. If night held its course, stretched long and quiet, she would rest. Forget all her body’s deeds.

She kicked off her leather sandals and felt the warm sand on the soles of her feet. A sailboat rocked close to the coast. They walked along the sand with buckets, gathering treasures left by silvered waves on wet sand: coral, shells, starfish, bits of polished wood. The beach’s curve wound from the open sea to the bay’s half-moon, dotted with slow sails. And the sea itself, still and vast, a green plain.

The yacht moved slowly out of the bay. He watched her from the cabin’s depths. The motor kicked loud and waves opened before them in divided crests of spray. She looked across the yacht’s rail. The distant coast made a shimmering reflection of itself in the heat waves above it. He pointed. There, down there. She leaned over the rail. The coral waves of a sunken galleon swam into focus. Tonight, she would offer him her experienced hands and mouth.

HOW ELSA DOING?

I was sposed to see her yesterday.

You didn’t?

Hatch shook his head.

So why didn’t you?

Hatch sucked the missile, let fumes crowd his mouth.

So what’s up?

Nothing. Let the smoke seep into his chest. Guided the hot missile into Abu’s hands. Abu sucked deep. Left gray jet trails in his mother’s night-darkened living room.

Ain’t she gon go to the concert with us on Sunday?

I don’t know.

So when will I get to meet her?

Hatch fanned his hands, propelling smoke through the open window. Soon.

Soon?

Soon.

She that ugly? Bowwow?

Man, just bust that tape.

Abu clicked in Spin’s new tape,
Hip Hoptaplomeres.
Shadows trembled, greyhounds awaiting release. Sound gradually filled the hollow speakers, water in a tub.

I really meant to pick up those tickets yesterday, Hatch said, but, like I said, I got tied up at my grandmother’s house.

Why didn’t you get them today?