Red Hot Blues (20 page)

“This farm don’t deserve to be run by no
nigger-lovin, music-playin faggot-boy like you, Ace Travers! Your
father was a good man—”

“My father was a fucking criminal!”

He thwacks me, flat-hand. I feel blood ooze
out the corner of my mouth.

“Your father was a hero! A
goddamn
war
hero! And his daddy before him! And you? What the fuck have
you
done for your country, huh, boy? Huh?” He’s right up on
my face. Screaming at me.

I scream back. “You’re a fucking chicken
shit, Randolf. You hide behind your bullshit, telling
me
I’m
a faggot, and you bring
three
other men to fight me and a
nigger
?” I’m using his own language against him, to make
sure he’ll listen. Because even thinking that word makes me sick.
“You’re fucking scared! You couldn’t take me down even if you
wanted to!”

That gets the right reaction. Rage burns in
his eyes, contrasted with the two burning homes behind him.

A sickening smell of gasoline and thick black
smoke whistles through the air, like a quiet barbecue, mixed with
the summer scent of the aromatic flowering tobacco plants. What
irony, tobacco—stinks so bad when you smoke it, and smells so good
when you grow it.

Eight feet tall plants this year.

We’re hidden completely, unnoticeable
here.

I hear screams, muffled screams, by the
house. In the distance.

But we’re a mile away, maybe two. And, buried
under the large leaves, we might as well be half a globe away.

Randolf’s pride has been offended by my
accusations against his manhood. He doesn’t even bother hitting me.
He throws the unlit torch on the ground. “Untie him!” he says to
his goons. They look at him, doubtful. “Untie him, damn it!”

They do.

I hear sirens, firetrucks.
Finally!
Everyone will be at the house. Even before, with the flames, we
could’ve screamed and no one would have heard us. Now? With the
sirens? It’s pointless.

Randolf played it smart. I wonder how many
villages of innocent people he burned down in his heyday.

A real pro.

He tells his goons to stand back. He gets
into fighting stance. “Let me teach you a lesson, little boy. A
lesson your father failed to teach you.”

I’m standing, my head woozy. My stance shaky.
I must have lost a lot of blood.

He strikes!

He lands his fist deep into my stomach. I
didn’t even see it coming I’m so out of it. I fall on my knee and
cough, blood spattering from my mouth and filling me with the
flavor of old, warm copper.

“Ha ha!” Randolf croons. “Not so fuckin tough
now, are you! Get up! I’m gonna give you a chance! Get up!”

I can’t. I can’t get up. Too much pain. Too
much!

BOOM!—His boot, under my chin—
god, that
hurt!
—and I’m reeling, swinging back. I hit the ground with the
back of my head, an arc of red blood spinning out from my
mouth.

I’m lying on the floor, spinning, dazed,
weary...

That scent... That flowery scent. Like
perfume. Beautiful perfume from fragrant flowers. Large and
beautiful flowers.

Large and beautiful...

I’m at the blues bar—

“Get up!”

—
and there’s a girl next to me, laughing.
A silver laugh that echoes like the mellifluous calls of the
gods
—

“See? You can’t fight me, you fuckin punk! Ha
ha ha ha!”

More laughter, from other guys.

—
She smiles at me—blue, aquatic eyes.
Turquoise, the Mediterranean, every beautiful shade of blue you’ve
ever seen.

I could die here. I could—

And there’s dirt on my lips. Black dirt.
Sand, soil.

—
I’m in the ring, swaying, fighting
Bradley Mad-Dog Westley. On the ground. Blood on my lips, the
canvas red under my eyes. Spinning, fading...

“
Travers! Travers! Travers!” The crowd,
cheering.

“
Travers! Travers! Travers!”

Mad-Dog was supposed to lose this one. It
had been arranged. And I was supposed to win. And everybody would
have been happy.

But he’d hit me, kicked me. On the ground.
“Oompf!” And again, now—

“Ha ha ha ha! We’re gonna burn your little
nigger friend here, Ace! Gonna burn him good and make you watch!
And then we gonna burn
you
!”

—
Where am I?

Mad-Dog. The ring. Gin. Momma. Dad.
Janice.

And then I stood up. I stood up and saw two
of Mad-Dog. Two. Four fists. Two heads.

And I swung for him, aiming right in the
middle of the two images in front of my eyes. And all I remember is
the crunch of his nose under my fist.

And the roar of the crowd.

“
Travers! Travers! Travers!”—

“Time to get up, little pansy-wansy. Time to
Wake. The Fuck. Up. ... And burn!”

—
Where?

—
Momma. Mad-Dog. Janice.

Janice.

Janice.

The tattoo.

“
In fear or shadow, I will be your
Justice, when no one else can.”—

“He’s a goner, boys. So much for his
big-talk”

—“
In fear or shadow, I will be your
Justice, when no one else can.”

Janice. That hand. My father. The man who
started this all and who, from his grave, continues it.

I won’t let it happen.

If it kills me, I won’t—let—it happen.

If it’s the last thing I do...

It feels like it. It feels like my final act.
I have no strength left, no power, no vision. Like in that ring
with Mad-Dog...

It takes all the will in the world for me to
gather my strength, to force my eyes open, to focus, to look, to
form a plan.

To clench my fists.

And then to act.

I’m back.

I don’t think. I swing my leg out! Catch
Randolf behind the calf and he
drops
!

I’m up, staggering, falling, three men coming
for me at the same time—

Boom!
My fist. In the stomach of the
first! He goes down.

Boom!
Someone else’s fist, in
my
stomach, and now I’m on my knee again, swaying,
swallowing blood—

—“
In fear or shadow, I will be your
Justice, when no one else can.”—

I see the knee coming for my lips before it
can hit me and I slide back, swing my leg again—
bam!
Another
goon on the ground!

Two of them grab me, stand me up, hold me by
the arms. I fight them, struggle with them. But I’m weak, so
weak—

—
Like I was with Jed and Bobby and Lewis.
Just like that. I got a few punches in. And then they ganged up on
me—

The dude in front of me goes for an upper
cut...and I
kick
his fist with my boot. Perfect timing! He
holds his broken hand and falls to the ground!

Then a bullet hits me—no, a cannon—on the
side of my lower back. Or it feels like a cannon. But it wasn’t. It
was a fist, a mighty fist, accompanied by a loud and booming voice.
Randolf’s voice: “Fuck this pansy-party. I’ve had enough. Burn the
fuckers!”

I fall to the ground, knees hitting it hard.
Lightning-pain pulses through my body, focused on my lower back,
the area of my kidney.

White lights in front of my eyes. Tears in my
eyes. Pain all inside and through me.

I pass out.

—
Looking at you, babe. Looking at you. I
love you, love you always. Your face, perfect, beautiful,
exquisite. You’re the most beautiful girl in the whole fucking
universe, Ginger. I’m so happy I’ll die looking at you, right here,
in front of my eyes. My mind’s eye.

Goodbye, my love.

I’ll always love you. Endlessly.

In the blackness, confusion hits.

The
whoosh
of fire being lit.

Heat.

Then: mad-crazy insects—
thousands
of
them!—are at my foot, Biting. Gnawing. Chewing away.
It’s the
fire. This is what fire feels like...

The pain is so exquisite. It’s the most
painful thing I’ve ever felt in my life.

Gnawing. Gnawing. Gnawing.
Chomp chomp
chomp!

On my foot.

God, that hurts!

I’m paralyzed. Out. Can’t move. Just feeling
the licking flames of hungry termites at my foot, the one that had
the gasoline on it.

And then, in the distance, like an old
warship, echoing over the ocean:
Boom!

And again:
Boom!

Nothing. Silence.

Then:
Boom!

“...The nigger... a gun!...How the fuck did
the nigger...a gun!...”

Boom!

—
Four shots.

—
Am I dreaming?

—
Four shots. Four. Yes, I’m dreaming.
Father. He was shot. Four times. By momma.—

Stomp! Stomp! Stomp! Something punching at my
foot. Hitting it! Like a hungry dog biting it!

“
...goan be ok...”

—
Four shots.

—
It’s a dream.

Screaming.

Gunshot. Gunshot. Gunshot.

Thwoomp. Thwoomp.

Bodies falling.

Flames. Everywhere.

Flames. Flames.

Hot!

I feel them. And see their redness in front
of my closed eyelids.

Red. Bright red light.

And hot, so hot. Unpleasantly hot. Burning
hot.

But
I’m
not burning.

Am I?

The tobacco is burning.

“...you goan be OK, sir. You goan be,
OK...”

Dragging. Hurting. Raw skin. Hot. Hot.
Hot!

“...I tole you I wadn’t ejjucated, but I’m
smarter’n a poodle’s
bee
hind...”

Dragging. Dragging. Dragging.

“...I too ole fuh dis. God, that hurts...I
goan get you outta here, Misser Ace. You goan be OK. You’s a good
man. Only a half a mile or so ta go...”

Dragging. Dragging. Dragging.

My skin’s on fire. My chest burns.

My back, that punch to my lower back...

Gin, baby, I love you.

An hour into the drive, all hope is lost.
We’re too late. I know we’re too late. I’ve called his phone a
hundred times and no one answers. Except for that one answer.

And then that
Click
.

Then my phone rings.

I almost drop it. The call’s from
Virginia.

I answer.

It’s his mother: “Ginger? Oh, god,
Ginger!”

“Mrs. Travers, what, what is it!”

“Oh, god, Ginger! They wanted to burn
him!”

All motion stops.

Somehow I manage to keep holding the
phone.

Somehow.

My mouth goes completely dry.

“Mrs. Travers, please, is Ace OK?”

“They burned the house, Ginger! They burned
Aaron’s house! They took Ace!”

I start to panic. I wanna get sick— “Mrs.
Travers.
Please. PLEASE
—What. Happened!”

“He’s in the hospital, Ginger. They’ve taken
him to the hospital.”

Then he’s alive. Oh, god, then that means
he’s alive!

“He was asking for you, Ginger. He was asking
for you as he got into the ambulance.”

“I’m on my way, Mrs. Travers. I’m on my
way!”

When I put the phone down, I see Layna’s
already going at a hundred miles an hour. I don’t tell her to slow
down.

St. Mary’s Hospital. Early morning the next
day. Before sunup. We’ve been driving all night. And when Layna
couldn’t drive, I took over. Layna slept about an hour. I didn’t
sleep at all.

Christa Travers is too difficult to
understand. The woman is in shock. She says to me that “he’s” in
critical condition... “again.
”
That “he” dragged “him” over
a mile and a half through the tobacco fields and “he’s nearly
seventy years old, y’know?”

Huh?

All these personal pronouns are driving me
nuts, but when I push her, she goes almost catatonic. I have to
keep in mind this woman has lost a lot in the last few weeks. And
then the threat of losing her house, and now her son...

So I hug her.

I’m freaking out, because I still don’t know
what’s happening to Ace, but I hug her. She cries onto my dress as
we fall onto some hospital chairs.

It reminds me of when her son cried on me.
The boy who would later fill me. The boy to whom my heart belongs,
forever, eternally.
Oh, Ace, I love you so much. I’m so sorry
for leaving you
.

I’ll move to Virginia. I’ll work on a
goddamn tobacco farm if I have to! But I never want to spend
another day away from you.

Ever.

If I do lose him, if he does go, my only
regret will have been not spending every moment of every day with
him.

A doctor storms past. Layna stops him. His
eyes are frantic. “Sorry,” he says, “I can’t talk.” And then he’s
gone.

She looks for a nurse. Emergency all around
us. Everywhere. People running. “...cardiac arrest...!”

Oh, god.

More people running! “Take him to the ER
now!” A man on a gurney!

Oh, god!

Nurses behind him! Pumping air into his
lungs! People using medical terms I don’t understand. They’re
running toward us! “Out of the way! Out of the way!”

I see him, that dark, leathery skin. An old
face, white hair, lidded eyes. Dying. Quiet.

Aaron.

The funeral is held a week later. All the
farm staff attend. It’s a sad time. The main house is almost
completely gone. Aaron’s house is gone. Some of the tobacco plants
are gone, from when Randolf’s lit torch fell, setting Ace’s lower
leg on fire. But Aaron, in his old age, with lightning speed,
smothered the leg so that the flames didn’t lick up Ace’s body fast
enough.

Aaron saved his life.

In their macho-ness, none of the boys who’d
attacked Aaron and Ace had bothered to check if Aaron was carrying
any weapons on him. Why would he?