Rails Under My Back (54 page)

We were poor but my wife always kept the children clean. There’s no excuse for not keeping yourself clean.

The preacher’s voice strapped Lucifer in tightening circles of anger. Would you like something to drink? I could go to the dining car and—

No, thanks. I got something right here. For the third time, the preacher leaned into his open suitcase. Leaned back into his seat with a mason jar full of tea dark as the old leather suitcase. Buoyant cubes chimed against the glass. The preacher unscrewed the lid. And when we could, my wife made each child their favorite dish. The preacher tilted his head back. Drank slow and deep, his long throat working the liquid. He screwed the lid back on the jar. Things were bad. The preacher folded the tinfoil into neat squares. We had five kids to clothe and feed. Returned the squares and the mason jar to his suitcase. We had two girls in college. And the bill collectors threatened to throw me in jail. The water was up to here—the preacher held the edge of his hand before his nose—but God didn’t let me drown.

OUTSIDE THE WINDOW, the slums of West Philly, rows of two-flat brick houses—two symmetrical windows on each floor, a small porch, wooden rails—twins of the flat brick houses in South Lincoln. Light made the houses transparent. Lucifer could see women with perfect breasts, men with penises naturally contoured, whiskey brawlings, bare vineyards, branching trees of crystal, tall limbs bending overhead, triangular groves, white grass, fat speckled fish, and violets he could not reach. The train shook the window up and down; images swam, paperweight objects gravity-free. And just as suddenly, green forestry, the Philly river, through the window opposite the aisle downtown Philly, its colonial spires, its arcades like a giant’s stiff legs, arching cupolas and rooftops, and highways of blackened stone. The sun faded in a tunnel. The train shoved out the other side and pulled into a city of iron lace. A bridge curved black in blue air, both ends invisible. (Bridge cables?) Thirtieth Street station. The train pulled to a stop. Whistling trains punctuated the distance (silence). Some passengers exited. Others hurried on.

This must be a switching point, the reverend said.

I see.

We should be moving shortly.

Good.

The train started to move, in reverse direction.

Hey, Lucifer said. We’re going in the wrong direction.

Relax, the reverend said. It always does that.

I’M GHOST.

I know. Ain’t seen or heard.

I been busy.

Ain’t we all?

So you found me.

Didn’t think you’d come. Didn’t homeboy—T-Bone aimed his bald head at Abu—smother word?

Yeah, Hatch said. Damn. It’s seven-thirty now. How soon’d you want to get here?

T-Bone looked straight into Hatch’s eyes, an iron path. His bald head gleamed like a chess pawn. He bit down on his toothpick. Held his barking bulldog tattoos in check with the leashes of his shirtsleeves.

Fast as I could get here.

T-Bone continued to iron-watch Hatch. He bit ridges into his toothpick. Tasted it. Savored it. Cool, he said. Held out his hand, a long black line between his thumb and forefinger. Hatch gripped the black scar with everything he had.

Good to see you, T-Bone said. T-Bone squeezed fire into Hatch’s hand.

Same, Hatch said, pain beneath the word.

Abu. T-Bone extinguished the fire. Gripped Abu’s palm. Squeezed Abu’s fat thin for a moment.

What’s up, T-Bone?

Kickin it.

How’s life treatin you?

The same. See a lot. Hear a lot.

Damn, Hatch said. Is that a motor?

T-Bone studied Hatch’s face, eyes unmoving. Stretched straight before him in a gleaming wheelchair. Silver spokes, silver hubs, and the wheels themselves, coated with black rubber. The motor tucked under the seat, small and black, neat as a gift, strong as a lunchbox.

That
is
a motor, Hatch said. Automatic. A first for T-Bone. Years of manual motion had molded muscle, and you would see him, see his bulldog arms dogsledding him all over the city.

So what. I don’t really need it. I
want
it. Earned it.

Uh oh, you slippin.

Yeah, Abu said. You slippin.

Nawl. Earned it. Deserve it. A nigga gotta move up, that’s all. I’m still me. You never grow out of being yourself. T-Bone thumped his leather chest.

The boom rocked Hatch, powerful waves. He steadied himself. So you found me. So I’m here. So what’s up?

Same ole same.

Got to be more than that, Hatch said.

Yeah, Abu said. Tell us. I’m all ears.

T-Bone ran his eyes slowly over Hatch’s face. That bitch still troublin you?

Hatch nodded.

What’s her name again?

Elsa.

Spanish, right?

Puerto Rican.

Let me educate you. Cause you know I used to be out there. Race don’t matter. If a bitch won’t give—

That’s why you brought me here? That’s why you want me? You kickin word? You jus want to bust the hype? I thought it was something serious? Abu said you said that it was serious.

Yeah, Abu said. That’s what you said.

T-Bone shot a glance at Abu, then returned his demanding eyes to Hatch’s face.

Hatch caught his drift. Abu, Hatch said, I check you later.

What?

Why don’t you go get the tickets. I’ll meet you there in a few. Better yet, I’ll pick them up. Meet you back at the house later.

I thought we was going together?

I changed my mind.

Why?

I jus did, that’s all.

Abu looked at Hatch for a long balancing minute. Emotion bled from his face. Understanding set him in motion. Okay. Aw ight. Check you later.

Maintain, T-Bone called after him.

Abu said nothing. Went swinging along and alone.

He’s gone, Hatch said. Abu’s gone. So tell me.

I think you hurt his feelings.

You can’t hurt Abu, Hatch said. He too fat.

That’s yo homeboy. Learn how to be subtle.

He’ll get over it. So tell me.

T-Bone’s bulldog biceps bounced and leaped at invisible possums.

Come on, T-Bone. Tell me.

T-Bone smiled, showing toothpick between teeth.

He said it was serious. Something about Uncle John and Jesus.

How yo family doing? T-Bone spoke with night hush in his voice.

Damn, T-Bone. Hatch kept his voice calm. Held his anger and anticipation in check. No easy task. Skin hot, he wanted to scream. Damn. Why you holdin back?

Chill.

I am chill.

Ain’t you never heard, patience makes virtue.

Patience is a virtue.

I said it right the first time. T-Bone’s bright bald head threw Hatch’s glances back at him.

Okay, Hatch said. You’re right. I am chill. I really am. Chill.

Good. T-Bone spit out his toothpick; it arched and dropped, missilelike. John stole a bird.

Uncle John did what?

You heard me.

Come on, T-Bone. Come on.

T-Bone worked a new toothpick into his mouth. John stole a bird.

Damn, T-Bone. Damn. Why you playin?

You know I don’t play.

Then somebody—

And Lucifer helped. Aiding and abetting.

Lucifer?

Yes, Lucifer. Aiding and abetting.

Lucifer? Hatch chuckled. No. That can’t be right. Who—

I
saw it, T-Bone said. Saw it with my own eyes.

Hatch’s head traveled in a rotating pattern. Damn. Damn. You don’t dispute fact, Hatch thought. Fact working through T-Bone. Eyes surprised into witness. Damn, Hatch said, his voice wavering. Damn. Whose bird did he steal?

Freeze.

Hatch felt something wet in his chest. Freeze?

T-Bone nodded.

From Stonewall?

You know another?

Uncle John don’t even know Freeze.

T-Bone’s toothpick curved limp and white, wet and heavy from spit and words. T-Bone tugged at it.

How?

Does it matter?

Hatch said nothing. His voice was buried deep inside. If he attempted speech, surely no sound would emerge.

Long as
you
know. Long as you know Freeze know. And long as you know that Freeze let
Jesus
know.

Jesus?

Jesus. T-Bone smiled again, less teeth this time. He read words in Hatch’s face. Jesus? Why Jesus? Ask yourself.

Hatch looked outside of himself, like a passenger in a car. Yes, he thought. Yes. Jesus. No one else. It made perfect sense.

I just thought you should know.

There, Hatch thought. There. He had it all, the hard lump of truth. He could feel T-Bone’s eyes on him like hands, shaking him, demanding response.

THE TRAIN SPENT THE GREATEST PART OF THE JOURNEY standing still. Stillness etherized the passengers. Jackals all of them. They floated now, on floods of bright talk. These jackals barely held together by cotton and steel, liquid and air. Their dens in weedy waste. Take a gun to all of them. Hatch waved off their shameful smell.

The black tunnel roared overhead. The train rocked over the clunking rail joints. Sped on, swaying to the curves. Hatch’s mind eased away from his spine. Floating, flying. A clear feeling. It made things plainer.

T-Bone had solved one riddle even as he presented another. Ah, that explained it. Yes, that explained it. John. Uncle John. So that was why he’d made himself scarce recently. A disappearance both gradual and sudden. Each day, an oxidizing of a single cell, a single organ, a single limb, until—no more John. Uncle John. But Lucifer? Why would Lucifer aid and abet? Lucifer and John, brothers in the skin, but no closeness.

Light pitched upward, ran away from Hatch, quicker the farther it went. Each shaking train window mirrored blackness. Drawn by the seat’s gravity, he was a body at rest. His mind signaled his body, Move, Act, but he could not. He ran his mind over T-Bone’s smooth black tale, shining with lacquered luminosity. Bird. Betrayal. Lucifer. John. Jesus.

THE FAMILY HADN’T SEEN OR HEARD FROM HIM since last year, Christmas. Nor did they want to. Forgiveness had wings, but Jesus had ridden it to death. His fury, like a powerful storm, had carried him to heights that had permanently separated him from the family. Now—still unknown to them—he had orbited back into their life like a red meteor.

Even before he could walk or talk, he had exercised his red will. He refused to allow anyone to feed him. He would turn his face away from the feeding hand and food like poison. Cry in anger.
You had to wait for him to fall asleep, then sneak the food into his little mouth.
And once, his innocent teeth had tasted Lula Mae’s big bare toe. She kicked (from reflex and fear)—
I thought a rat was biting me
—teeth and taste down his throat.

These events had come to Hatch’s ears through the living mouths of his family. But he had no reason to question their validity.

His eyes fell on Jesus’s long-fingered hands that balanced an old battered brown suitcase—Gracie’s? Uncle John’s?—across his high knees. Red, why didn’t you check your suitcase?

I ain’t want to, Jesus said. He turned to Hatch from the seat opposite, his face blurred and distant with sleep. They had been on the train for many hard hours. Jesus had refused to check the suitcase with his other baggage, refused to put it on the luggage rack above and kept it on his lap the whole time like a baby.

But ain’t you uncomfortable?

Jesus laughed, a deep laugh that echoed inside Hatch.

Hatch let it drop. Silence seemed to pin them in moving place.

Hatch, Junebug called, come here.

What? Hatch said. He approached. What you want? What you doing on my grandmamma’s grass?

You don’t like it?

Get off my grandmamma’s grass.

You make me get off.

You better get off.

Shut up, punk. Junebug smacked Hatch’s black face red.

Jesus cracked Junebug over the head with his milk-weighted baby bottle.

I’m gon tell yo granny, Junebug said. You crazy.

So what, Jesus said. Tell her. She ain’t my mamma.

The train checked speed, then jolted back. He knew what to expect, the pattern immediate, intuition, instinct. Lula Mae would greet them at the station—her white skin like light in the Memphis night—safe in something better and greater than herself. Two days later, her deepest heart would convert her warm smile into a permanent, burning frown. They were her prisoners for the summer, in her small, knowable world. Near summer’s close her heart would cool. Her cold tears would greet their departure home. Yall call me, Lula Mae would say. Write me.

The same thing next summer. Predictable. Why do we visit her every summer?

Red—

Don’t call me Red, Jesus said.

Hatch’s eyes collided with his reflection in the train window. Jesus’s face was so similar to his own. He sat up very straight and tried to smile.

Nasty granny nasty granny, Junebug said. Whitelady, Whitelady. Briar-patch legs.

Better not say that again, Jesus said.

Whitelady. Briar-patch legs.

Jesus’s fist exploded red.

He had the feeling that Jesus was dissolving, disappearing. Again he tried to smile. The feeling deepened, widened.

HATCH LISTENED TO THE SECRET WHISPER of Jesus’s sleeping blood. Even in the dark he could see the ever-present suitcase. One end of a thin length of cord knotted around the handle, the other looped around Jesus’s outstretched wrist that hung limply over the side of the bed. All day, he had refused to let the suitcase out of his sight, even carrying it to supper.

Lula Mae entered the room. With much racket—Jesus required the impenetrable sleep of the dead—she unlatched it (strangely, it was not locked), opened the lid, and revealed the shining secret, a pack of
Kool
mentholated cigarettes. Lula Mae woke Jesus with a resounding slap. She held up the pack. Boy, she said. You too young to smoke.

Jesus looked at her, her palm print clear and red in his cheek of fossilized stone. Bitch, he said, just like that, you ain’t my mamma.