Rails Under My Back (68 page)

I ain’t tryin to take nobody’s side.

You jus like Lula Mae. Take Sheila’s side in everything.

Shut your damn mouth! Sheila said. All that happened a long time ago. What can I do about it?

THE ROAD HISSED under the black tires. They rode in the black limousine, silent as the dark they traveled through. The sun had fallen but the heat had not let up. The dark had absorbed it like black cotton.

THEY STOOD IN THE ROAD under the failed sky. Sheila passed Reverend Blunt a tip, slipping him the money quickly.

Why, thank you. Reverend Blunt had changed into a fresh suit. He smiled into Porsha’s eyes. I’ll drop by tomorrow and see how yall doing.

Porsha returned the smile.

Good night. Reverend Blunt charged up the road.

Why you do that? Hatch said.

Sheila said nothing.

Why you give that bastard a tip?

HATCH STEPPED INTO A HOUSE FULL OF MOVING VOICES.

You must be her granson. Is that her granson? Is he her granson? Why I ain’t seen him since he was nay high. Where that other one, that red-lookin one? Her granson sure a handsome one. We gon miss yo granmother. Look, there Gracie’s boy. A fine woman. I’m gon sho miss her. Ain’t he the devilish one? You remember me? Why, I ain’t seen you since I know when. Any kin to Lula Mae kin to me. You come down here to visit me anytime you want. Come on by my house and sit a while befo you go back. I bet you like pecan pie? You a fine young man. You a handsome young man. Look like yo daddy. You come down here to visit anytime you want. I live jus up the road there. You member where I live? Drop by and sit a while.

He couldn’t wait for the house to clear of people. Juiced out by the sun, he needed sleep.

He found quiet escape in the kitchen. He would have shut the door but there was no door to shut. He thought about all he had seen and said and heard and done all that he had not seen said or heard or done and all that he would see say hear and do.

Well, he said, if you ain’t never been nowhere other than Kankakee, here, and West Memphis
—

I been more places than that, Porsha said.

—
Tucumcari might as well be Arizona and Arizona Brazil and Brazil might as well be France and France California and California Texas and Decatur New Mexico and
—

What map you lookin at?

He saw Mr. Byron standing and pointing and spitting his name. The past that wasn’t past sparkled like a reminder above the kitchen shelf. Lula Mae’s old serving set. He remembered it from his many trips here. She had purchased it in either Texas or New Mexico. The cocktail bowl showed a rodeo scene. The lid made like a cowboy hat, a Stetson. The ice tray was a chuck wagon held in place by black wire wheels. A coffeepot sat on a black wire stand with four matching coffee mugs. Each piece glassed in a western yellow-brown. The serving set had been waiting for him all these years. Waiting for his return.

Why are you sittin in here by yourself? Sheila spoke from the open doorway.

I want that.

What?

That dinette set. Hatch pointed up to it.

Well, get up and get it. You better put it up before Gracie see it.

TREES STOOD LIKE AN ARMY in the clear morning air, their leaves glowing rivulets of lava.

His sweat-dampened saddle fit easily into the horse’s back. A horse can tell if a man is strong-willed. Give him a chance and he’ll stand on your foot and let you know who’s in charge.

He climbed on the horse in proper fashion and tightened his legs around the iron belly. He kicked the horse into motion. Man and horse galloped off in a mute cloud of dust. Ponds like glistening uniform buttons. Word of his talents had spread far. More than once he had talked gently, sweetly, and rubbed a calf’s legs all night long.

The speed of the gallop watered his eyes. He looked into the shimmering distance and told his horse things about the world he knew to be true. The horse blew and rolled its eyes at all it saw.

PORSHA ROSE BEFORE THE OTHERS and moved quickly through Lula Mae’s house, her quiet hammer taking down the horseshoes nailed above Lula Mae’s doors. Each and every one of them. These she would have for herself. Luck. Magic doesn’t fade. Maybe the magic could work for her, work in her life.

YOU CAN’T MISS WHAT YOU AIN’T NEVER HAD, Gracie said.

It’s passed, Mamma said. What can I do about it? I’ve had forty years of dealing with that misery. Go on with your life.

You go on with yours.

THE LIL HOUSE was much smaller than Porsha remembered. Half the length of a city subway car. And even smaller inside, boxes and more boxes where seats might be, the space between the boxes only wide enough for one person to stand comfortably. She, Mamma, and Hatch rummaged through Lula Mae’s belongings while Gracie stood in the grass watching through the open doorway.

Gracie, why don’t you stay in the house and keep an eye on Beulah.

Why don’t you.

The lil house had four small windows, all rusted shut. (Lula Mae had never opened them.) The open door offered the only light and air. Hatch had pleaded, begged to light one of Lula Mae’s kerosene lamps and all had agreed, but the lamps were empty, long minus kerosene. No one could find a flashlight. So they worked in the metal dark and the heat, hauling out goods to the sun-heated lawn, cataloguing them by location on the grass.

Mamma discovered her wedding dress, Hatch’s blue baby bonnet, Jesus’s first rattle, Porsha’s paddle-and-ball, Cookie’s bib (Gracie wanted it), unidentified wigs, and Lula Mae’s first partial, false teeth.

Look at this, Hatch said. He held up a green duffel bag by its canvas straps like a dead rat by its tail.

I believe that’s Mr. Pulliam’s old army bag, Mamma said.

I’m gon keep it.

Let me see it, Gracie said.

Hatch played deaf.

Porsha tunneled through hatboxes and shoeboxes. Lula Mae had thrown nothing away. She opened the last shoebox and found a mummified pair of shoes, peeling white leather that had long gone gray. She lifted the shoes from the box by the laces and found a thick, business-sized envelope. No stamp in the upper right corner, only a pale blue postmark, like watercolor. The envelope was burned black with the shoes’ shape, the burn obscuring most of the words. She found a second envelope, twin to the first. Eyes working, she deciphered one letter, two letters, then two words or the semblance of two words. Brazil, Nebraska.

THAT WAS MR. PULLIAM’S DAUGHTER, Mamma said. She want the house.

Too bad. Lula Mae had willed her house, lil house, and everything in them to Sheila.

I told her she can have it.

Porsha cocked her ear. What?

Mr. Pulliam’s name on the mortgage.

Mr. Pulliam been dead fifteen years. Lula Mae the one who paid off the mortgage.

Mamma said nothing.

Ain’t you gon contest it?

It ain’t worth the time and trouble.

I’ll hire us a lawyer.

I don’t want to go to court. For this old house.

But, Mamma—

Hush. It ain’t worth the time or the trouble.

FOR THE FIRST TIME IN MEMORY, she saw the lil house stationed on grass not concrete, the trailer hitched behind a brand-new truck on the red gravel road before Lula Mae’s house. Gracie had sold the lil house for a hundred dollars to Lula Mae’s daily hospital transport.

I gave him a good deal, Gracie said. Since he was good to Lula Mae.

The truck and the lil house pulled away, leaving a thin gown of dust.

Gracie sold Lula Mae’s stereo (for a dollar) to Lula Mae’s best friend, an old lady with hands like a man, wearing a hearing aid like a spy. She sold Lula Mae’s kerosene lamps, flower-rimmed plates, crystal pitcher and glasses, bread box, spice holder, red metal kitchen chairs and matching table. She sold the meat freezer for twenty-five dollars, frozen meat included. She sold the dishwasher, washing machine, and dryer (seventy-five dollars for the set).

Two middle-aged white women—daughters of Lula Mae’s employers, kin of Mr. Byron, the white man who knew the Griffith family graves the way he knew his teeth—rushed through the house grabbing up everything in sight, like a tornado. Glass figurines, decorative baskets, vases, ashtrays, place mats, plates, and anything else Gracie had not sold.

Together they lifted a stunned and immobile Porsha off her feet. Hatch stayed their hands. They put Porsha down. Said, We jus wan something to member Lula Mae by.

MAMMA AND GRACIE fought for possession of the quilt, tugging at it, an angry game. A store-bought pattern—a tattered circus clown, once bright patchwork colors against a dull yellow background—now frayed at the edges that Lula Mae had sewn together in a matter of hours and stuffed with store-bought stuffing, an everyday quilt to keep you warm at night, protection against the air conditioner’s winter cold. (Gracie had sold the air conditioner for twenty-five dollars.)

YOU SAY IT’S FUN?

Porsha thought about a favorable way to describe her line of work. Nothing came to mind. What about you?

Reverend Blunt smiled. There’s no better job.

It must run in your family.

Why do you say that?

Ain’t that how most people start?

He laughed. I guess so. I guess that is how they start. You must go to work and prepare the way of the Lord, he said in a deliberate humming preacher’s voice.

She found it hard to laugh, laughter pinned down by everything heavy inside her.

It’s a hard time for you. I know it is. Miss Pulliam was a special woman, very special.

His eyes were clear and kind, free open space.

Thanks.

I can—

She stopped him. I would like to. I really would. But to tell you the truth, she pushed the words up from inside her, I’m seeing somebody.

Reverend Blunt said nothing for a moment, his eyes showing no change. Well, he said, I hope he seeing you too. It never works when one person is invisible.

He said it the same way he said everything else, without malice or sarcasm. She listened and accepted it and thought about it and thought about other things she was thinking through and sat saying nothing not knowing what to say. Sat smelling the new car leather, supportive, firm against her body, Reverend Blunt smiling into her face—
got to admit, he is the perfect gentleman, ain’t looked at my body once, short skirt and all
—the air conditioner blowing cool in the silence. How long had they been sitting here and talking? one hour? Two?

Sun shattered in flakes against the windshield. The reverend’s mouth moved but she missed the words.

He was handsome, yes oh so handsome—but she found it hard to hear what he was saying. The sediment of the past floated to the top of her still memory. Memories thicker than a snowstorm, free-floating in the reverend’s car, a single, contained space, a Christmas paperweight. His mouth moved again.

What was that?

I said why don’t we drive to Memphis? Take your mind off things.

No. I really would like to. I really would.
You are so sweet.
But I better stay close to the house. In case they need me. You understand.

Of course. As it should be.

Reverend Blunt opened his door and exited the car, rocking it with his strength. He came around the front of the car slowly, giving her ample opportunity to observe him, take him all in and appreciate. He opened her door, took her hand, and helped her out of the car.

Well, he said, it has been a pleasure.

The same.

He held her hand, his eyes watching and holding. She read his heart in his handclasp. Well, I better be going.

Yes, he said. That is the proper thing to do. He kissed her hand. Under different circumstances we might have—

Yes.

He pulled her closer. She leaned and took his kiss as if it were her rightful due. Kissed him until the pleasure began to send her.

She turned to the house and made it to the front porch when he called her.

Oh, Porsha. Let me give you this. He crossed the small bridge over the grass-covered drainage ditch and waited for her on the road side of the chain-link fence. She walked to the fence slowly but without hesitation.

I’ll be in the city in a few weeks for a mortuary convention. This is where I’ll be staying. He extended a business card.

She took it and read it carefully. She turned for the house. Walked on in the fresh sunlight.

SOMEBODY TOLD YOU WRONG, Beulah said. I ain’t never been po. Daddy always said, When you needy, eat the skin of a cow.

Porsha wondered if he meant this literally.

Yeah, Sam was a devil alright. But Mamma and Daddy couldn lay a hand on him. Our animals fight them. Our pigs and cows wouldn let Mamma and Daddy lay a hand on nwine one of us kids. Beulah’s lungs wheezed above her words.

How you feel today, Beulah?

I had everything. Cancer. Stroke. Heart attack. Hypertension. Asthma. Diabetes. Arthritis. I feel as good as I should feel. What else is left? I’m too old to get the clap.

Porsha did her best to laugh. She had it in her somewhere. She wanted to laugh with Beulah, for her. Lil Judy, Jacky, and Rochelle had stayed in Fulton where grave and gravity conspire. Had promised to come up in a day or two to bring Beulah back to St. Paul—and her nursing home bed—where all four lived. Beulah had bought them all plane tickets. In her Decatur house, she had raised the three girls as her own. Their mamma, Jesse, just thirteen when she had Rochelle, thirteen with the chaotic brain of a five-year-old, a parentless drinking fool, made worse when a stroke shriveled up the left side of her body, threw her red eyes out of balance (one up, the other down, like losing cherries in a slot machine), shortly after the birth of her last child, Lil Judy. And their father, Dave, Beulah’s nephew, Big Judy’s son, ran the street with his uncle, Beulah’s younger and only brother Sam, two stray dogs. So she had raised them as her own.

How come Beulah never had any kids?

I don’t know. Maybe she already had enough to handle.

You ain’t married yet?

I’m looking. I’m trying.

Well, take yo time. Don’t be in no hurry. Soon as they get some pubic hair, folks figure they old enough to marry.