Rails Under My Back (52 page)

Wait a minute, Abu says.

What?

This an elevator?

Yeah.

It hold all these peoples?

Yes.

Why it going so fast?

The cables grip your guts. You bleed icy sweat. Surrender to the will of your body. Your bowels fill with an explosion of loose brown mud.

What happened?

Nothing.

What’s wrong?

I had an accident.

Don’t worry, Abu says. His head is covered with thickly woven coal-mine cobwebs. You can wear my draws.

THE SADDLE LIFTS YOU HIGH. The horse warm underneath you. You smell its sweat. The horse snorts like a dope fiend. Tail swipes at hot summer mosquitoes. Its motion helps you to think. But riding requires effort. You can’t sit and let the horse take you where it wants. You must direct it with iron, muscular force.

Wait a minute, Abu says. How many stories is this? My horse is too tall.

That ain’t no horse. It’s a pony.

I’m gon fall off.

Just hold on to the reins. These horses are trained. He’s walked this path a thousand times.

How do you stop it? It’s walkin too fast.

It’s not walking. It’s trotting.

I can’t hold on. Abu bounces in the saddle.

It’s actually easier to hold on when the horse is galloping. That’s why jockeys can ride so easy. I’ll show you.

Your heels stab the horse’s ribs.
Can’t break them, no matter how hard you kick.
The rapid light beat of hard hooves on packed earth. A run of space. You sail. Your flying feet never touch the ground. The road flows under the horse’s flicking hooves.

FAMILIAR MOVING BODIES, jangling colors, wandering fragments.

Sound off!

One two.

Sound off!

Three four.

Change count.

One two three four one-two, three-four.

Line it up. The troop can never hike in formation. They blow like lost sails behind you. The concrete road vibrates in your boots. Small red trees line it on both sides. Taller ones behind. And vines like twisted snakes.

The troop cuts the fool and bends the forest with their voices.

Simmer down, Mr. Baron says. Let me hear the sound of your feet.

Abu taps your shoulder. Hatch, give me a swallow of water. I’m sweatin. His sweat runs red—he drank a canteen full of well water—then silver, then red again.

No, Mr. Baron says. Horses sweat, men perspire, and women glow.

AUTUMN FILLS THE GRAY-BROWN EMPTINESS between summer and winter. The world aglow with color as trees shed gusts of dead yellow leaves. A breeze holds up their fragrance. The woods stand tall and black—
Ah, the woods, where you could take a long swig of the dead-black wine and make your way out of this world
—sun in the treetops, sun on the branches, sun hazing the lake. You and Abu race through a yellow field bleached with rabbits. Race down the Hill—a steep crust of land, an upturned nose that grows steeper every month, wind in your legs, the speed and pull of gravity. The challenge is to stop before you reach the bottom; if you don’t, your legs will hurricane you into the muscular lake where water moves like paper in the wind. (Abu can’t swim.) Jump into the water, silent to your own splash. Break the wave’s skin with ease. Knife downward, then float back to the surface, buoyant in weightless sleep. With sharp, clean strokes, swim the thick blind muddy lake.
Uncle John tosses you and Jesus into the live currents of the Kankakee River. The bank wafts sharp odors of gunpowder, worm, and fish. The two of you barely have time to draw breath before being sucked beneath the surface. Uncle John jumps in to pull you two back to the water’s surface only after the water has filled the cups of your skulls. On the next fishing expedition, he tosses you two into the muddy water again. Lesson learned, you resurface at the same moment, trying to hurt each other with playful kicks. Flip over onto your backs. Eyes pinned to the sky, you swim the thick blind pond. With mud-black fingers, crawl out of the water. Sun sponges you dry. See, Uncle John says. See, now you know how to swim.

Race done, fish.

You catch more fish than Abu, using your bait of locusts and wild honey, as Uncle John had instructed you on the banks of the Kankakee River. Uncle John prepared his reel, fishhook in his mouth, silver-shining like a new dime.

WITH FULL LUNGS, you blow on the covered pile of ashes. High clean flames lap up the spring chill and fill the air with fresh smoke.

They look like they ready, Abu says. Are they ready yet?

The meat lies on the grill.

I don’t think so.

Maybe you should put some mo lighter fluid on the charcoal.

You aim the fluid and squeeze. The meat flies up from the grill and descends on you two, talons curled.

Damn!

Watch out.

Hey, Uncle John says, what yall tryin to do, burn up Gracie’s yard?

Nawl.

He steps down from the back door, Dave behind him. He walks over and adjusts his eyeglasses. Examines the grill. Dab on some of that barbecue sauce.

You aim. Splatter red. The bird flutters sideways, shrivels and falls to the nest/grill.

Now take them off. They ready.

You take it off.

Man, Dave says, in the old days nobody used to buy ribs, cause the stockyard used to give away rib tips.

Yeah, and you used to be down there every day all day lookin fo a handout.

Fuck you, John. Dave sucks his Canary.

Uncle John looks directly at you. Don’t they teach you nothing bout cookin in those Boy Scouts?

Nawl. We never cook on no grill.

Shit. You want Gracie to start complainin? Uncle John grits his teeth.

Abu’s spit sizzles to the grass.

You spittin in my yard? Uncle John says.

Sorry.

Man, that’s some nasty shit. Around where we eatin.

Sorry.

Uncle John, you say, you know I don’t eat no pork.

You mean to tell me you ain’t gon eat none of them ribs, the way you like barbecue. And I
know
you like ribs.

You say nothing.

That’s what I thought.

This barbecue sauce smell like it got honey in it.

It does.

Uh, that’s nasty. I don’t eat honey. Bee’s vomit.

Uncle John sticks his finger in the barbecue sauce. Pokes his sauce-covered finger between his closed lips, lollipop-like. Taste good to me, vomit and all. His eyes blink behind his glasses. So you an Eagle Scout now?

That’s what they say.

How does it feel?

I don’t feel it. Besides, I’m through with the Boy Scouts.

Me too, Abu says.

I thought you liked it. The camping part at least.

Man, forget that. Sleeping in that cold cabin. No toilet. If you got to take a shit, you gotta get out of yo warm sleeping bag and go out into the cold forest. Man, fuck that.

Yeah. Fuck that, Abu says.

Abu, you ain’t gon get your eagle?

Why should I?

He ain’t finished, you say. He courtin this honey. Cards, flowers, money—everything. Courtin. Tryin to earn him a Pussy Merit Badge. You salute Abu, two fingers formed in a razor-sharp angle at the forehead.

What? Uncle John says. He faces Abu. Courtin?

That’s right.

Bout time, Dave says. Abu, you better get you some pussy before you turn eighteen or you’ll go crazy. And that ain’t no lie. Is it, John? Serious, Dave sucks his Canary, breathes it like oxygen.

Shut up, Dave, Uncle John says. Talks to Abu: Why you look all sad?

I ain’t sad.

That bitch got you singin the blues?

Don’t let the sun find you cryin, Dave says. Sings:

She ain’t got no hair, you say.

Uncle John and Dave stir the heavy air with their laughter. Wide-eyed, Abu looks for somewhere to hide.

What’s her name? Uncle John asks him.

Elizabeth Chew, you answer.

Hey, I was askin him. Air closes over the words. Uncle John studies you for a moment—long enough to snap you shut—then turns back to Abu. So what’s the deal?

Nothing, Abu says. Hatch jus talkin shit.

Yo mamma.

Ah fuck—

Hey, it’s okay. Uncle John circles Abu’s back with his arm. You watch Uncle John and Abu, still, together, frozen, in the same instant of time. Listen—Uncle John speaks softly, heart to whispering heart—forget all that courtin stuff. You don’t sweep a bitch off her feet. You knock her off. He squeezes Abu closer, an inch deeper. His glasses reflect two clear walls that shut him and Abu off from the rest of the world. Remember, you treat a woman like a queen. But she got to realize, you a goddamn king.

SEE YOU, I wouldn’t want to be you. Hatch opened the door to the absolute strength of streetlights.

Later. Abu stood, the scrim of the black doorway behind him. Garden leaves cut the wind to singing.

Hey, remember to practice that beat. Hatch hummed the tune to himself.

I will.

I’m serious.

Abu rubbed his chin.

Listen with your heart.

That’s jus the problem. Abu’s voice spun in the late spring night. I do listen with my
heart
.

Hatch thought and heard. Night birds pushed beyond the limits of their wings.

Sure you don’t want to sleep here tonight?

Why should I? Hatch said. Then I gotta go all the way home in the morning and change clothes.

That’s true. Well, you should take a cab home. It’s rough out there.

Who got money for that? I ain’t scared. I’ll meet you back here tomorrow.

Okay.

Early. Seven o’clock.

Okay.

Seven o’clock. Cause the ticket window open at eight.

Bet.

Early. You better be ready. Don’t you be sleepin or I’m gon slap yo ass awake.

Nigga, you the one who forgot to buy the tickets yesterday. Abu placed his hand on the doorknob, tugging it behind him.

I already explained that.

No problem. We good.

Ah, right. Later.

Oh, Abu said, I almost forgot. T-Bone said he want to see you.

The words held the door open. T-Bone?

Yeah.

Where’d you see him?

In Union Station, where he always is.

We gotta pass through there tomorrow. Man, that nigga can talk yo ear off.

He says it’s serious.

Serious? What he want?

I don’t know.

Nigga, he says it’s serious and you almost forgot?

Sorry.

Damn … Well, what he say?

Something about Uncle John and Jesus.

Uncle John and Jesus?

Yeah. And Lucifer too.

Anything else you forget?

No.

You sure?

He ain’t say nothing else. Cept he got to see you. It’s serious.

CLOUDS CREATED PURE LIGHT. Lucifer stared out the small window and sifted through the white dark. Still heat—he could feel it through the glass—frozen smoke. A stalactite forced its hot point into his open mouth. He drank cold liquid that curdled in his hot stomach. Coughed. Covered the window with his white insides. He vowed, I’ll never let a plane fly me again, fly me again. Live or die by these words.

The plane descended. White fanned out. Clouds thinned. Objects formed, stained with shadow colors. Ah yes, there was the sun, still. The plane sank through yellow-waved light. Features of landscape took position in Lucifer’s mind. The city began to appear small, wavering, but distinct, a photograph quickening to sight, taking on text and texture in the fluid of development.

Wrong in transit, Lucifer entered the hollow ringing city. Changed. A trembling at the edge of cool awakening. The other world still warm in his mind. He felt like a man who sees a house he knew as a child: how much smaller it seems, the vast spaces of memory narrowed to the present reality.

SHEILA STOOD IN A SEGMENT OF LIGHT framed by the door. Home. He stepped into his own self-portrait. He had spent months digging a place for her inside himself.

He pulled her close. Her kiss measured to deliver the remembered warmth and wetness.

You’re back, she said. She spoke into his shoulder.

Yes, he said. I’m back.

Lucifer rose at the first breath of sun and scrubbed his body until his skin sparkled. The old dark self floated in the white tub, jellyfish-fashion, dirty tentacles seeking what they’d lost. He pulled the rubber stopper. The old self lengthened and fought. Thinned. Lost its battle against centripetal motion (force) and circled down the drain. He ammonia-cleaned the tub twice so nothing was left. He had changed change. He was home now and could resume his life, leave the old Lucifer behind. But he would spend his remaining days
fearing
that he might change. Pain in his neck looking over his shoulder, watching for the old wet self that would slip him back into the world he’d left.

LUCIFER FINISHED LOADING THE LUGGAGE on the plane, returned the trolley, and loaded up for another run. Ben, the new supervisor, was leaning into a stack of luggage, a salt-covered radish in hand. He held up his other, radishfree hand. Lucifer stopped the trolley.

Hey, Ben said. He was twice Lucifer’s age but half his height, his small head heavy under a high patch of steel wool.

Yes, sir, Lucifer said.

Try to load those bags a little faster. Ben bit a plug out of the radish.

The directive held in Lucifer’s easy attention. Yes, sir. He put his shoulder to the wheel. No more hesitation and procrastination. He would perform well—the need smashed him in the chest—show Ben that he could pull his weight. Besides, he would be off work soon, go home. Sheila would stroke his tired back to life.