The Salt Fields

by Stacy D. Flood

  “And I took you with me.”

  “Ain’t nothing special about white folks,” Carvall said again. “They’re just men.”

  “What are you saying?” Divinion countered.

  “I fought with them,” Carvall said.

  “You did not.”

  “Well, not with them. Beside them. They are just people.”

  Divinion sat back in the chair. “No, sir. I disagree with you there. They are not just people.”

  “Are we really debating whether white men are truly men?” I finally had to ask. “They are. They are carbon and corpuscle just like we are, just like everyone on this train is.”

  “Oh, and you know this because you’ve spent so much time with them. You know this because you’ve studied. No, I don’t think so. You say this because that is the way you want it to be.” Divinion leaned in closer. “You ever cut one? You ever watch one die?”

  “They die,” Carvall said.

  “Shit, they die. I know they die. I seen them die. But they don’t die the same as you and me. Their bodies die, but they pass that money and that power onto their children so, in a way, they live on. They don’t just fade away like Black folks do, with maybe a couple of dimes and some fucked up stories to their name. No, white folks live on.”

  “So you’re talking about ghosts,” said Lanah. “Niggas are always talking about ghosts.”

  “Ain’t nobody...”

  “Apparitions and shit. Scared of ghosts. Niggas always scared of something.”

  “Ain’t nobody talking about ghosts, woman.” Divinion said. “You can get rid of ghosts with a few words and roots. What I’m talking about is forever.” He sat back in his chair as if the rest of his story was familiar to us. “See, your Daddy...”

  “Don’t you talk about my Daddy,” Lanah interrupted.

  “Like most of the people here’s fathers, drank up their money, and when they died ended up like dust fading away. White folks? Their pasts take root, grow into them. They ain’t people. I don’t know what you call them.”

  He sat back further in his seat and crossed his legs as the sun rose high into the afternoon, as if, with that, his point was final. Eventually he closed his eyes with a deliberate air, placed his fedora over his face, like there was nothing left in the world for him to see, and soon he drifted asleep in a way that defined a level of comfort no one else in that train car had shown—mouth open, frame slumped, sweat dripping down the curve of his neck only to be absorbed by his shirt collar. For a couple of hours the train didn’t stop. All the while, Divinion kept his head on Lanah’s shoulder, as if she was the most precious thing he’d ever owned and he wanted to make sure everyone saw, and that no one stole her in his slumber, or that she didn’t steal herself away. Lanah kept silent and precise, adjusting her dress now and then to prevent wrinkles. If she dozed off, he would immediately wake up, as if they slept in shifts—either for protection or to minimize the time they spent with one another.

  Carvall wrote letters for most of the early afternoon; I didn’t ask to whom. He scribbled with his pencil as the sky slid to dry blue, then bleached milk-white, and he kept writing through the tatters of sunlight and the passing pine groves. Eventually the pencil fell from his hand as he began snoring slightly, so I picked it up and placed it on the seat beside him before it had the chance to roll away.

  After a few minutes it seemed as if the entire car was in slumber, as if the train itself was propelled by the momentum of our dreams. I rarely sleep, since my dreams are mostly memories or nightmares; often I just close my eyes and try to find images in the darkness that remains. From where I was sitting, I couldn’t see much of the sky, so I tried to make shapes from reflections and shadows instead. I listened for insects hitting the other side of the glass, and even through the clack of the wheels I could hear the din of workers and farmers in the fields beyond—if not actual sounds, then my memory of them. I thought I heard singing. The rest of the coach drifted in and out of sleep, afloat like ships at sea. A few passengers snored, their rhythms uninterrupted by the train’s occasional lurches. A few children played, and in the heat of the day people ignored them, left them to their fun, since no one was sure what the future held for any of us. I watched Lanah. In every flash of sunlight she sparkled like the brightest jewel I could imagine. She was the most elegant creature I’d ever met, embodying the refinement and subtle gracefulness I hoped to find up north. When she slept, she slept upright, still, hands and long fingers crossed on her lap, gloves folded atop her collapsed fan. Her fingernails were painted the color of dried blood.

  I blinked, closed my eyes for what I swore was only a second, and opened them to the swaying of the coach. Lanah was staring directly at me, waving the open fan in an even rhythm, careful to direct the resulting breeze at herself alone. She kept her gaze constant, even as a sly smile spread across her face, and as much as I wanted to look away, I had no excuse for avoiding it. I was trapped, so I let her stare wash over me. I started to like it.

  I smiled. “I wasn’t snoring, was I?”

  She shook her head. “When is your birthday?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Is today your birthday? People usually make these big decisions near their birthdays.”

  “Is it your birthday?”

  She squinted. “I asked you first.” I stayed silent. “And is that really your name?”

  “Minister?” I added an apologetic smirk. “Yes. Minister Peters.”

  “Sounds like a slave name. Like Hero. Or New Boy.”

  “It’s just a name.”

  “Well, are you?” she asked then.

  “Am I what?”

  “A minister. You don’t seem like one.”

  I laughed because it was the second time I’d heard that question on this train, compounded by the many times I’d heard it before. “No. My parents were just optimistic.”

  “I don’t know,” she replied. “I’ve never met a good minister in my life.” She opened her purse. “You got a cigarette?”

  “I don’t smoke.”

  She then sighed. “Divinion smokes, but he counts his cigarettes. I’ve never met a man so small, have you?” She didn’t wait for my answer. “I’m not even sure where he keeps them. He doesn’t believe a woman should smoke.” She searched her purse for a moment longer, then returned her glance to me. “Do you believe a woman should smoke?”

  “I don’t have much of an opinion on that, ma’am.”

  Then she laughed. “Well, Mr. Peters, if you don’t have opinions on anything as simple as that we’re going to have a long trip together.”

  “Minister.”

  “Minister Peters.”

  When I think back on that moment nowadays I remember her smiling when she repeated my full name, but it could have been a reaction I imagined—something in the half-life of the early afternoon, those moments of dilated pupils, the silent world, and stillness. I imagined her staring into my eyes and smiling, she and I in some kind of contest to see whose eyelids could stay open and alert, who would blink the most, and who would slip into dreams first, whatever dreams we might find. We watched each other, suspicious animals, in the heat of the rising day.

  * * *

  Sunlight burst into our car as the train’s doors lurched open at the next stop, and I awoke to the sound of voices that were now familiar. I opened my eyes when I heard Carvall reply that he was “fine, thank you.”

  “Man, you practically have a rug on your head,” Divinion countered.

  “I do not,” said Carvall. Noticing that I was now awake, they both turned to me.

  “Now, Minister’s hair looks all right,” Divinion said before returning his focus to Carvall. “But, boy, I thought the military made you all keep your hair looking good.”

  “Ain’t nothing wrong with my hair,” Carvall replied.

  Divi
nion turned to his wife. “Lanah?”

  “You need a haircut,” she replied without looking at any of us.

  “And this is the stop to do it in,” Divinion proclaimed. “Right down the road. Take no time at all.” He leaned towards Carvall and me and spoke a little quieter. “Besides, there’s some numbers...”

  “There it is,” Carvall interrupted.

  “Let me finish.”

  “How are you going to play the numbers in some small town you may not make it back through?” Carvall asked.

  “Oh, if I win I’m making sure someone gets my money. I got enough family nearby to check.” Divinion sat a little straighter in his seat. “Besides, it would be good to stretch our legs a bit.”

  Carvall sighed. “Yeah, that’s true.” He stood. “Lanah, you want to join us?”

  Divinion slapped him on the shoulder. “What’s wrong with you?”

  “What?”

  “You don’t bring no woman to no barber shop.”

  “I know that. I meant just for the walk.”

  “No, thank you,” she finally replied. “Minister promised to take me to lunch.” She smiled at me, and I tried to hide my surprise.

  Divinion didn’t hide his surprise in the least. “When did y’all discuss this?”

  “While you were asleep. I was thinking that little catfish place we heard so much about. Want me to bring you something?”

  “Yeah,” Divinion said, looking from one of us to the next. “A couple of pieces.”

  “Okay, then.” Lanah began collecting her things into her purse.

  “Shouldn’t one of us stay here to look after our things?” I asked when all four of us had moved to the aisle.

  Divinion snorted. “Boy, how much you really think we have to lose?”

  * * *

  Once we were outside the train station, the afternoon felt like a familiar song: the chattering of the magpies, the midday cacophony of townspeople. Grocery trucks moved down the street as people yelled, bartered, and ran away from, towards, or through their hellos, goodbyes, and lives. It wasn’t much different from the town we’d started in, and there was no newfound sense of freedom in being miles away. As I walked over peanut shells and gum wrappers and squinted at storefronts with faded signs and whitewash, I realized how much farther I still had to travel. Dogs barked. Babies cried. Some children played cowboys and Indians; others played with dusty marbles in the street, and still others balanced on tin can stilts to make themselves a little taller and more important.

  Lanah had heard from family members who’d traveled north before of a small outdoor café at this stop, which specialized in cabbage, coleslaw, and the best catfish sandwiches and lemonade in the state.

  “You just looked like you could use a civilized lunch,” she said. We walked a couple of blocks through clouds of dust that hung low to the street, trying to collect as little of it as possible on our persons. The air shimmered with heat, yet Lanah moved as effortlessly as I imagined she would move through any world, ethereal yet confident, with a practiced gentility that seemed wholly natural, announcing her presence by the click of her small heels. I wondered if Lanah were really her name, or if she’d invented it for the movie star she wanted to be. Between one store selling quarter hats and another selling ironworks, there was the small restaurant with two tables out in front; Lanah chose the one with the most shade. I pulled out her chair and she sat down without comment as if that was a courtesy she expected and deserved.

  She was excited by the large Coke machine on the porch; even though she didn’t order any Coke, she said that a vending machine at a Black restaurant meant the food was good and they were doing well. She obviously valued success.

  “This heat,” she said, once again brandishing the elaborate Chinese fan from her purse. The waiter brought us tall glasses of lemonade, seeds and pulp dancing around thick ice cubes before settling to the bottom. “My cousin here would like a larger glass,” Lanah told him. “And fill it to the brim, please.” Before the waiter left, she added: “And bring two beers. Seems like the right type of afternoon for those, too.”

  “What kind of—”

  “Anything cold. It’s been a long journey.” She smiled until the waiter walked away and then added, for my ears only: “I know it seems like a lot, but it’s a shame not to ask for everything you want, isn’t it? Divinion doesn’t think women should drink beer, either. But he isn’t here, is he?” She looked at me for some sign of collusion or protest but found neither.

  “We aren’t really cousins,” I said.

  “How do you know we aren’t?”

  “We went over this. Plus, any basic knowledge of—”

  “Basic knowledge?” she repeated. “You do seem like someone who enjoys their basic knowledge of things.” She took a sip from her lemonade, careful of the condensation dripping down the glass. “Look, I’m sure someone was in the shed somewhere, and then in the shed somewhere else, and all of a sudden look at us: cousins enjoying a beautiful lunch together.”

  Cars passed. There were a few tables inside from which diners watched Lanah, enthralled.

  “I heard white folks come all the way over from Tennessee to eat here,” she said.

  Those magnificent hazel eyes gleamed in the sunlight.

  As if trying to stave off the sloppy compliment I was forming in my mind, she then told me that she wanted better skin. She claimed that she was a “mutt” rather than “mulatto,” gave her signature half-smile, and selected an amalgamation of ethnicities (Irish, French, Bengali) that seemed to fit her mood. I got the impression that this was not a new game for her. When I pressed her about Irish towns and French provinces, though, she admitted that all she knew was her father was dark, her mother white, and the confusion gave her a status she enjoyed.

  “You, though,” she said. “You have good skin. It’s a gift. Good skin or good hair. Don’t take either of those for granted.”

  The best thing you can be, Lanah tells me, is a Frenchman, because then, automatically, you’re exotic, empowered, important, and someone else, far away. For a moment we watched the blur of silver-tinged grasses as watery clouds eased past. Aphids hopped from leaf to leaf. Sparrows danced near our feet, capturing pieces of grease-laden potato chips that had tumbled from the table edges to the ground. In the low brush of a nearby field, dragonflies hovered and dandelion seeds drifted.

  “So the exotic would make you happy?” I asked.

  Lanah shrugged. “Close enough.” Once again she reached into her purse in search of a cigarette, then, remembering their absence, sighed in frustration. “But I’m with Divinion now, and no two people can be happy at the same time. My momma taught me that.” As soon as the waiter had brought our lunch and walked away, she leaned in closer. “I’m leaving him,” she said. “As soon as we reach New York City.” She started to smile again, but her expression changed when I simply chewed my sandwich, unfazed and unsurprised. I think she expected my reaction to be more dramatic, but from what flashes of herself she’d allowed me to see, I was anything but shocked.

  I swallowed. “Why?”

  “Certainly you can tell that I’m no two-dresses-and-an-iron-stove type of woman. I’m going to Harlem first, where things are happening. Who knows, from there.”

  “When do you plan on telling Divinion this?”

  “Divinion won’t understand. No matter what he says or pretends, he’s a Southern boy at heart. This place gets into some people and it fills them up and never leaves. Me?” She inhaled. “I want to smell the rest of this world, something more than dust and sweat or coal when a man is on top of me. I want to clear all this dirt off of me. Let the ocean air fill me instead.”

  “And after Harlem, off to France?” I asked.

  Her smile returned. “Why do you care? You ask that like you plan to blackmail me or something.”

  “Maybe I wi
ll.”

  She swallowed a sliver of ice and smiled even wider. “You won’t tell Divinion.”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “Because you don’t like him.”

  “I barely know him.”

  “That doesn’t keep you from not liking him. And you think this little bit of knowledge is going to hurt him somehow. So you’ll keep it for now, tight in your gullet, ready to spit it out when you think it will be useful. Or you’ll keep it because you think that just having it, having some private knowledge over him, hurts him even more. Or you’ll keep it for luck. You probably have a lot of good luck charms.”

  I thought of my grandmother’s quilt, tucked deep into my suitcase, still on the train. It was precious to me but not enough to anyone else that I feared it being stolen. People rarely understand what others leave behind.

  “What makes you think I don’t like Divinion?” I asked.

  “I’ve been watching you this entire time, as much as you’ve been watching me. And I can tell instantly when two men don’t like each other.” She sipped her beer. “But you’re also jealous of him.” She gave me a smoldering look over the top of her glass, ignoring the waiter who approached us wiping his brow, and continued on. “Yes, part of you is jealous of him.”

  “Jealous.”

  “Oh, you’d never admit it.” She placed her glass back on her napkin and wiped the dew between her fingertips. “As much as you hate him, you envy him.”

  I mustered a laugh. “So you say.”

  “I say.” She sighed. “Don’t do that. Don’t deny it. You’re bigger than that.”

  “I’m not a jealous person.”

  “That’s probably true. But you’re jealous of what he has.”

  “Which is?”

  “Me.”

  I swallowed hard. “Ah. For now, you mean. Since you’re leaving him.”

  “For now. But you’re jealous that he’s the man I’m with.” She was enjoying this.

  I did watch Divinion—less than I watched her, but I watched him. I stared. I wanted to figure out what type of man he was and what had brought him to this train this day, with Lanah on his arm. Was the journey truly Divinion’s idea or was it Lanah’s? Mostly, though, I watched his tie. Through scratches of light that would crawl across the train car, then disappear, I couldn’t determine precisely what color it was, nor the pattern. It wasn’t that I didn’t have a name for it; I couldn’t determine anything about it. I’ve been trying to find that color-or-pattern ever since.