Big Machine

by Victor Lavalle

  Gina and Rose spoke together, “All the time!”

  Karen continued, “When Reverend Cook said he’d build his first church right outside Jacksonville, my sisters and I volunteered to help. We’d worked as treasurers for our church and had a talent for managing money. Reverend Cook would send us what he’d collected as he traveled, and we kept the books. We started fund-raising around the city ourselves. We turned every stone. We shook out every coin purse. We knocked on every door. Even white folks’.

  “But do you know that once we had the money, we just couldn’t give it up? When Reverend Cook came asking to see the ledger, we showed him falsified notes. We knew he wouldn’t catch on quick because Reverend Cook was illiterate. And he had a trusting heart. We didn’t even feel ashamed of ourselves. We were protecting that money from Reverend Cook’s hubris. He was going to build a Tower of Babel. That’s how we justified our actions. And when he raised a stink with the local preachers, it wasn’t hard to get those men on our side.”

  Gina said, “They appreciated a few small donations.”

  Rose added, “Minor offerings.”

  Karen sighed. “When it all fell apart, Reverend Cook carried the blame. So many people had given money, but the only one to prosper was him! That’s the gossip that spread. Reverend Cook had become one more false idol. No one took this harder than Reverend Cook himself. He felt so terrible he shot himself in Missoula.

  “And we actually felt lucky, you believe that? With him gone who could prove what we’d done with the money? And all those preachers we’d paid distanced themselves from Reverend Cook too. Painted him as a serpent from the safety of their pulpits.”

  We’d never heard any of this before. Usually the Washerwomen obscured their personal history, saying they’d arrived in New York with a mission, nothing more. As Karen told us this now, I looked at the carpet, not her. I felt shocked by her honesty, like I’d been by Rose’s in the bathroom earlier. But I appreciated it as well. Today we were being spoken to like adults.

  “Most Christians speak of doubt like it’s blasphemy,” Karen said. “But doubting God is like disbelieving oxygen. Thankfully neither needs our permission to sustain us.”

  At that a whole bunch of us inhaled a deep breath. It was as if we meant to test Karen’s statement. When we exhaled, we were still alive.

  Karen continued: “Doubt is an essential human trait. But why? If we really believe we’re created by God, then nothing got dropped in by accident, right? So what purpose does doubt serve? If it’s useless to disbelieve heaven, then maybe we should cast our eyes to earth.

  “Who do you believe in and why? Do you see men wise in their own eyes? There’s more hope for fools than for them. Jalen deceived Eric. Larry deceived Jalen, Saul fooled the astrologer in Birmingham. Half the Bible is folks getting tricked! So maybe we rethink doubt. Not as our enemy but our ally.

  “Think of King Jesus as our greatest doubter. Who saw the order of society and taught us to defy it. Who saw the ugly urges in ourselves and taught us to resist them. As we navigate through the powerful tides, doubt is our rudder. If we’d questioned our motives, maybe Reverend Cook would be alive. So many others too …”

  Karen clapped her hands. They were worn down to nothing but bones and veins because of her illness, hardly any flesh left on those fingers. And yet when had she seemed stronger, more vital, than right now?

  Gina whispered, “Come up here, Ricky.”

  When I say I won the Washerwomen’s game, it sounds a bit silly because the reward was just three hugs. Still, every child yearned for the privilege. We threw out those challenging questions to earn their praise, the question that would lead here, to the lesson. And to the wisdom the Washerwomen felt they must pass on.

  I stepped over my sister’s hand, bumped into Wilfred’s knee with my thigh, came around the sofa table and into Gina’s arms. She cradled me so tight I thought I’d turn into a diamond.

  Then I moved on to Karen, who could hardly lift her arms now that her sermon was over. She rested her head on my shoulder and leaned her body against me. I held her up.

  Last in line was Rose. Her thin arms kept me at a distance. “I’m sorry for hurting you, Ricky. I lost my temper. Will you forgive me?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said.

  Rose pulled me down by the shoulder until her lips rested against my ear. The warmth of her breath, it nearly overcame me. Rose smelled like jasmine, a scent she loved to wear.

  She said, “Doubt is the big machine. It grinds up the delusions of women and men.”

  51

  AS I STUMBLED OUT of By the Bay, I wondered who I could call for help. Dear old Mom? No. Call the Dean and beg for camaraderie? Not likely. Why not try the police? That’s what some people would do. But not me. I dialed the Gray Lady’s cell phone.

  Why? It was that moment when Claude drove me to her cabin on the Washburn estate. When she opened her front door looking like a hot mess. Wearing only a housedress and slippers. Lack of makeup making her face look uneven and old, and yet, when she saw me, all she did was wave her hands in the air. Had I met anyone else so willing to expose themselves? Look at me. I’d agonized over sock garters. A little style is a good thing, but you can’t trust a person who won’t be ugly in front of you. I wouldn’t say I trusted her yet, but I was willing to try.

  The Town Car arrived a few minutes later, and when they found me, I was crouched beside the pay phone. The heat in my neck had returned, but now it had spread to the middle of my back, right between my shoulder blades. The car pulled up, and I was doubled over, but I kept an eye on that hotel.

  “You’re hurt,” Ms. Henry said, stepping out of the car so fast I thought she’d fall.

  “Be careful.” I pointed across the street. “There’s something wrong.”

  “In the hotel? Your room?”

  “Something is up there.”

  She stared across the street and up to the fourth floor. I followed her eyes but had no idea what she expected to see. It’s not like the fourth looked any worse than the third or the fifth. Then I saw her scan the skies.

  “You can’t go back inside,” she said.

  “Why don’t we send Claude in with it?”

  She pointed at our ride. “Just get in the damn car!”

  I tried to move with some dignity but even ten steps felt impossible. I lifted my left foot, and my back burned. Lifted my right foot, and my nipples chafed. Each step aggravated one of my conditions. I felt dizzy. My headache returned. I’d nearly drowned in flop sweat by the time I reached the car door.

  Claude didn’t even turn around to look at me. Just turned his radio up.

  After the explosion at Laguna Lake the National Guard had been mobilized. One nearby unit, anyway. And sent to protect … San Francisco?

  They were talking about this on every local station. The Bay area was getting help, but somehow Garland still wasn’t top priority, even after two explosions in three days. While the attacks had started in Garland, they’d obviously move on to San Francisco. That seemed to be the governmental logic. Or possibly Berkeley. At the very least the terrorists would upgrade to Oakland, right? Garland wasn’t even the redheaded stepchild. It was the baby abandoned on a street.

  Claude sped onto I-580 fast. I couldn’t offer much more than a heaving sound to Claude and Ms. Henry’s debate about where to go next. I felt flush and nauseated. My head throbbed, my chest hurt, my ankles even swelled.

  Then I vomited, though there wasn’t much to it, mostly bile.

  “Did that boy just puke in here? This is a Lincoln Town Car!”

  “Open the windows,” the Gray Lady said.

  I had my hands on my knees, and she reached into the space between my arms and chest, pressed the silver tab until the window scrolled all the way down, then pulled her arm backward again. That’s the closest we’d been yet.

  “Larry!” Claude yelled. “You’re going to clean that up right now!”

  He had one hand on the steering wh
eel, one hand in the glove compartment, and no eyes on the road. He merged onto the freeway with some sort of sixth sense as he threw a rag at me.

  “His name is Ricky,” Ms. Henry muttered.

  Claude didn’t hear her, but I did.

  Claude drove down the highway for only a minute or two. He pulled onto the shoulder, clicked his hazard lights, and got out. Came around to my side so he could look at the mess himself. Was he cringing at the sight of my vomit or the sight of me?

  “I need a hospital, Ms. Henry. Not some screening truck.”

  “Try to make it,” she whispered.

  Then I screamed, “Call me an ambulance!”

  “You’re an ambulance,” Claude said.

  “If we got one, they’d take you to Kaiser,” the Gray Lady explained.

  “Then meet me at Kaiser.”

  “No, no,” she whispered. “That’s not possible.”

  Claude dropped the rag on top of the little puddle between my chukka boots and pressed on it with the toe of his Florsheim shoe.

  “He could go to Alta Bates,” Claude said.

  She shook her head. “We can’t afford either one.”

  Claude must’ve realized he wasn’t soaking the vomit with that rag, only pressing it even deeper into the carpet, so he pulled his foot off.

  “Let’s take him to Highground,” she said. “They’ll look at him for free.”

  Claude slammed the door shut, but opened it again. Now he leaned forward—head into the car—then stepped back and shut the door a second time. Walked around the bumper, but returned to my side, opened the door for a third time, and said, “Who’s going to pay for this?”

  With his chin he motioned toward my vomit stain.

  “I don’t know how much it would cost, Claude.”

  He stared at the Gray Lady. “Let’s say seventy-five dollars.”

  She opened the green handbag. “I’ll make out a voucher.”

  Claude slapped a hand down against the roof.

  “No more vouchers. No promissory notes. No fucking IOUs! I’ve tried to get someone over at the Washburn place to cash these things like you said they would, but they tell me I have to wait until Mr. Wash-burn is around to sign off. Well, that man must spend every day of the week on his yacht because I’ve never seen him!”

  Claude glared at Ms. Henry, and I looked at her too. She held two vouchers, a pair of red tickets, which she shuffled as if this was a card trick and now one of them would turn into cash.

  Claude growled. “Well, your credit is no good. You’re not qualifying for any loans from me. I get cash, right now. I don’t care if it’s five dollars, but I get it in my hand or I’m going to call my old friends on the force and turn the two of you right in. I don’t even know what kind of bad shit you’ve got me into, but I better get paid to be in it at least.”

  The Gray Lady said, “You work for the Washburn Library. I know things have been a little tight, but that’s got to count for something.”

  “Lady, I’m just a man with a car for rent and a few connections.”

  I turned to him. “Claude, I know you don’t like me, but I’m really serious here. I need help. Something is wrong.”

  He didn’t spit at me or mace my eyes or any of the meanness I expected. Instead he turned his head and stared down the highway.

  “I’m not rich,” he whispered. “I can’t just be running around having adventures like I’m some fucking kid. Give me a little something and I’ll get you there.”

  Claude had been a man of authority once, but life had reduced him to a scavenger now. It was hard, in that moment, not to sympathize.

  “Do you have anything, Ricky?” the Gray Lady asked.

  “Whatever’s left in my jacket pocket.”

  Claude dug into my right pocket quickly, then tried to reach inside the left but had to roll me toward him so his hand would fit. He found two fifties. He snapped them. Stood outside and held the bills up to the sunlight, making sure he could find the little authenticating strips.

  While he did that, Ms. Henry snuck her money out of her purse. Stuffed it down her shirt and tucked it safely into the bra. When Claude looked inside again, Ms. Henry held her purse up for him and he rummaged around, but found no money. Not even coins.

  She was good.

  52

  MY HUG WITH ROSE was interrupted when my father knocked at the Washerwomen’s apartment door. Well, not just my father. All our fathers. And mothers too. Every adult. Eleven couples in the hall. Rose pushed me back, stood up, and went to let them inside.

  Because Sargent Rice was the first one into the living room, I blamed him for the end of my special moment. What a surprise! A son who’s hard on his father. What’s next? A daughter who won’t cut her mother a break?

  My father walked in, saw me standing by the couch. He knew I’d posed the winning question. “You did well,” he whispered, but I turned away from him.

  The other Washerwomen stood up as the rest of the adults entered the living room. This was so rare, parents in there on a Saturday, that Altagracia cried. Nothing yet, not even the story of Reverend Cook, had scared her more than this. She cried, and it spread to the littlest children. Their parents went over to console them.

  But it didn’t work. Being held was even worse than being seen. They’d stormed our sanctuary, and we hated them for it. Most of the older kids looked down, as if they were ashamed of their parents. Only Wilfred stood up and went to the window rather than stay with his surprisingly small mom and dad. He pulled at one of the blinds and peeked outside.

  Karen spat, “Get back from there.”

  His mother and father each grabbed a hand and pulled Wilfred over to the rest of us.

  Gina spoke to the kids. “We’re going now. We’re ready.”

  I thought we’d say a prayer together, but no one offered anything. Parents just held their children and led them toward the front door. The state maps on the walls showed their wrinkles now. Each one as rumpled as linen slacks. They weren’t coming with us.

  Good-bye, Texas, Indiana, Idaho.

  My mother clapped for Daphne, and my sister went to her. My dad knelt down next to me.

  “Ready to get?” he asked.

  He smiled, and his round face actually looked excited.

  “You’re going to leave me behind,” I said.

  He sighed, stood up. “Why’d you have to say that?”

  “You did it before.”

  He nodded and shut his eyes. It was an old story that I’d used against him plenty of times. A mistake my father once made. He’d dropped me someplace where he shouldn’t have. He’d left me.

  “Not really worth talking about right now, little man.”

  I frowned. He grabbed the top of my shoulder and squeezed it.

  “I’m here,” he said. “I’m here.”

  And this is really why I’d brought up Sargent Rice’s old mistake. He’d drifted too far from us, from me, to share love, but pain travels greater distances.

  “Okay,” I said. “Let’s go.”

  And he dropped his hand. Stooped down. Looked into my eyes. Found his smile again.

  Then we left the apartment side by side.

  EVERYONE HAD ASSEMBLED in the hallway. That’s not quite true, makes it sound too organized. We’d just gathered into a little mob. Half the parents in front and half in back, and in between the two stood the Washerwomen and the children. I ended up next to Wilfred. I peeked ahead, searching for Annabelle.

  “Where are we going?” I asked Wilfred. As if he knew. Sometimes even I mistook his size for maturity.

  “We not going anywhere,” he whispered. “It’s cop cars outside.”

  “They were out there this afternoon.”

  He looked down at me.

  “It’s like ten of them now. Lights on and everything. Up and down the block. Even a truck.”

  I didn’t believe him because I didn’t want to believe him. How were we going to get past a roadblock like that? Our
parents had filled small suitcases for each of us and handed them out. I was annoyed because my mother and father wouldn’t know what I wanted to keep. They’d probably just packed a bunch of clothes.

  They had their own bags lined up against a wall. Even less stuff than us. Just book bags. We were traveling light, which I thought might help. We could probably go down and out through the laundry room, into the weedy backyard. There was a fence to climb, and then we’d be in the backyard of a store that sold Indian ingredients and saris, both. We might have to break in, but we could just file out the front of the store and get free. Disappear into the night. The adventure of this idea actually made me feel better for our chances. How could we get caught if we did something so daring?

  A few of the parents went to the stairwell door, and then I felt even better. Better that than the rickety elevator. One last trip down the sanctified steps. It would be so quiet inside the stairway that I could say my little prayers, and God would even hear them because I believed He dwelled there.

  The first set of parents went down, and the Washerwomen next. We kids mingled in afterward. The last of the parents followed in the back. But the staircase got crowded quickly. The space could hardly hold us. I thought I only felt claustrophobic because Wilfred stood next to me, but it didn’t take long to realize it was more than that. We weren’t moving forward, we weren’t going any farther down.

  The parents in the lead stopped at the bottom of the landing.

  Kids bobbed their heads trying to see the problem.

  One parent broke off, went down to the third floor, but the others stayed and kept us from descending. And my own father, who was at the back, ran up the stairs, toward the fifth floor. For a moment we heard nothing, then this faint snap. It came from the top of the stairwell and from the bottom. Then the noise got closer.

  The stairwell lights were going out.

  Lightbulbs popped, and darkness came at us from both sides, a pair of rising waves.