All the Water I've Seen Is Running

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All the Water I've Seen Is Running Page 15

by Elias Rodriques

Ain’t no jobs down here, Desmond says.

  Could get my old job at Mezzaluna’s back.

  You trying to bus tables again? Twig asks.

  Just till I figure it out. Maybe work at PCD. Maybe teach.

  You ain’t serious, Egypt says.

  Deadass.

  No, you ain’t serious. You just sad.

  I have forgotten how hard it is to be around people who know me so well that I cannot hide. That intimacy is one of the things that made me flee Virgil after Aubrey passed. I never could lie to him. He always knew what I was thinking, even the night that I met him at a Halloween party hosted by one of my Teach for America colleagues in Crown Heights. When I entered the apartment, I saw him immediately. At six-five, he stood well above everyone else in the room. Hair shaved to the skin on the sides, he wore a high-top. A dark-maroon lipstick coated his mouth, and that color smudged the cigarette dangling from the corner of his lips. He wore a black blazer with no shirt underneath. When someone introduced me to him, I asked if he was Grace Jones. He was.

  “Tempted to Touch” came on and we danced opposite each other. When it ended, we joked about how old the song was. I told him that I remembered hearing the song growing up on the island. Years later, after we moved to the States, Hot 97 played it as though it were new. He said they always did that with Jamaican imports.

  As the night continued, he and I talked in the corner. He placed one hand on the wall, just above my shoulder, and looked down at me. I asked where his people were from. He said Yallahs. Mine were from Clarendon and Saint Thomas. He called me country and I said he looked like country come to city. Then he talked about places I had never been and used phrases I had never heard, and I pretended to know them.

  After a few more drinks, Virgil invited me back to his apartment. On the walk deeper into Crown Heights, he asked if I was a Gold Star. I said no. He asked who I slept with and I told him about a skinny white girl I dated in high school who I ate lunch with most days. Then he changed the subject to New York. As we walked south on Franklin at around three in the morning, we talked about how freeing it was to be gay here. We crossed Eastern Parkway, which cars still raced down, even at that late hour, and Virgil put his hand in mine.

  Heading toward Flatbush, we turned off Franklin and onto an empty side street when a car slowed down. Someone leaned out the window and screamed, Chi-chi man fi dead. I heard a loud pop and pulled Virgil to the ground. After a minute, when no noise followed, we stood up. The car was gone.

  They must have run over a bottle or something, Virgil said as he put his hand back in mine. His fingers trembled and my heart raced, but we didn’t say anything.

  Though Virgil and I thought it easier to be out in New York than in Jamaica, that wasn’t the last time someone would harass us. Each time it happened, we didn’t talk much about it, in part because Virgil already knew how I was feeling. In time, that frustrated me; I wanted to be able to hide, and that wasn’t possible with him. I worry it won’t be possible at dinner, either.

  As I watch the road pass by, the images of Virgil keep coming until I put my hand against the cold window. At the first B section entrance, we take a left. Occasionally, a man only visible as a white T-shirt and a red glowing ring smokes on the front step or standing in their driveway. Otherwise the houses are indistinguishable.

  As we drive, I remember that J-Boogie used to live back here. His family moved to Palm Coast in the ’90s, when the first housing developments started appearing. Shortly after they settled, Hurricane Andrew hit, knocking out the power and flooding roads. Not long after that, a wildfire spread across the region. It was so large that ash rained gray snowflakes from the sky. The image lingers as the car stops and the liquid in my stomach rocks. I breathe deep, hoping to calm myself, but I’m still nervous when I exhale.

  Meals

  Anyone bring wine? I ask as we exit the car.

  Goddamn you got bougie, Egypt says.

  Got something else, Desmond says.

  Desmond opens the trunk and pulls out a mostly full bottle of Jack Daniel’s. He holds it by the neck as we walk to the front door. I knock. Jess yells that the door is open. We enter. The hardwood floors shine streaks of white in the fluorescent light. No carpet and no tile. There aren’t many houses in Palm Coast without one or the other. In the front of the room sit two round wood tables shades darker than the floors. Behind them is a long, rectangular glass table surrounded by eight chairs. They lie five feet away from the sliding-glass door that leads out onto the back porch. The room looks half like a restaurant and half like a regular Palm Coast home.

  Framed photographs line the eggshell walls. Closest to us is a picture of a man and his son wading into the Intracoastal. Then a woman walking up the first hill in Graham Swamp. A man bicycling down Linear Park. Bucket-hat-wearing old men lining the pier. A long-haired white teen skim boarding. A man sitting on his back porch, arm drooped over the neck of a border collie. Two camo-hat-wearing teenage boys sitting in the bed of a red pickup on a dirt road. And finally, above the head of the table, is a picture of Aubrey in black and white, hair pulled back into a ponytail, strands falling over her forehead. Her skin is textured with lines and pockmarks where she presumably popped zits. Her eyes are closed as she pulls on a cigarette. A wisp of smoke rises from a glowing ring. Beyond it, a half inch or so of ash crumbles, ready to fall.

  I’m in the kitchen, Jess says.

  I follow the voice and see her slicing scallions on a champagne-colored wood cutting board. She refuses to look up. I hope that’s because she’s still mad about Espanola.

  Place looks nice, I say. Where’d the pictures come from?

  I took them, she says.

  Check you out, being all artsy.

  Well, you know, after I got my first job and got some money I decided to buy myself a camera like everybody else.

  One of them big ones with the long lenses?

  You know it, she says, chuckling. Me and half the other twentysomethings. Taking pictures like it gives us a personality.

  You still shoot?

  Boy you know that camera’s in the garage.

  After a pause, I say, Seems like you cooled off.

  A little, she says.

  I walk to her side and try to hug her. She continues looking down at her work. Her shoulders are stiff and her hands move quickly. My arms settle awkwardly around her body.

  Don’t get yourself cut, she says.

  Don’t cut me.

  In Mom’s food stories, violence shadows each meal. Our cuisine, she says, comes from slavery: unwanted bony cuts of meat mixed with produce and starches from other lands. Our recipes abound with heavy meals meant to be eaten in the morning to sustain through fieldwork, even after Emancipation, as she suggested in stories about her Indian grandfather.

  The first day Mom’s grandfather joined his father in the fields, he awoke to loud sizzling and the scent of fried dough. While his younger siblings slept, he joined his older brother, father, and mother for dumplings and salt fish. His early-morning nausea kept him from eating much.

  The sun was down when they got to the fields. By midmorning, sweat soaked through his soiled clothes as he lagged behind his brother and father in the coffee rows. Around noon, he fell, surrounded by the not-yet-ripe fruit. Then he felt a pull. His father propped him up onto wobbly knees. He spent the day flanked by his father in front, his brother behind, and the coffee bushes on his side, hoping to go unseen.

  After work, they walked home, where his mother served curry goat. He ate so quickly that he didn’t realize he burned his tongue. Midway through his first plate, his brother berated him for not eating enough to last through the day. His father said he slowed them down. Who knows what would have happened if they got caught?

  As they complained, he looked down at his meal until his mother intervened. She was tired of her husband getting on her children, of him ruining meals with his screaming. When the two started yelling, his brother took his father’s side. The argume
nt escalated until his father stormed out of the house, as he always did. They were never sure if he was going to return.

  This dinner that we are about to eat will be the only time I have ever spent with this group of friends: Twig, Egypt, Desmond, and Jess. I’m sure they never hung out when I was gone and won’t after I leave.

  Quit your fidgeting, Jess says, and I realize I’m tapping my feet. She places four thick pork chops on two cast-irons. They sizzle like static on the radio. Smoke rises. She turns on the stove fan and the gray gas shoots upward. She reaches for a wooden spoon and stirs a brown gravy in the pot behind the cast-irons.

  You about ready? she asks.

  I got you.

  I pick up the bowl of transparent amber liquid. She flips the chops, I pass her the bowl and she pours it over the meat. The stove hisses and bubbles as Jess spoons the liquid deglazing the pan onto the pork. She ladles the gravy from the back pot on them and turns the heat up.

  Smells great, I say.

  Thank Mr. Jacobs. He raises the best pigs around.

  They free-range?

  Free-range? Jess asks. Where you think you at?

  All right then, Miss Big-Time, I say. Just asking a question.

  Ain’t nothing fancy here, she says. Just trying to cook better than my momma.

  Jess sprinkles a pinch of salt atop the smothered chops. Then she takes the tongs, pulls out a limp green from the pot, puts it into her mouth, and smiles.

  Think you staying in Palm Coast for the long haul?

  Ain’t nowhere to go, she says. Folks know me here.

  Probably can’t run a restaurant out a home in Jacksonville anyway.

  You’d be surprised.

  The red-brown gravy thickens and bubbles slowly like gas escaping a swamp. Jess turns the heat off. She pulls a pan of biscuits out of the oven and places them on the trivet. I put them in a bowl. They’re crusty on the outside but give a little in my hands. I hold on to the last one too long and sear my finger. By the time I’m done, Jess has plated the greens and the chops. We bring everything to the table, where Twig, Egypt, and Desmond sit grinning from ear to ear, holding a glass of whiskey.

  Watch out for the bones in the collards, Jess says. It’s just pig tail, but I don’t want none of y’all to chip your teeth or nothing.

  She over there acting like we ain’t eat pig tail, Desmond says. You hear that, Baby D?

  Like Jamaicans ain’t born eating pig tail.

  You know this fool had the nerve to ask if my pigs was organic? she says. You better go on back to California with that.

  I said one thing.

  Boy, quit your yapping and sit down, Jess says. Food’s about to get cold.

  Got to say grace first, Egypt says. Desmond rolls his eyes, and Twig and I laugh. You got something to say, Desmond Robinson?

  No ma’am.

  That’s what I thought.

  Egypt, you know I’m just clowning.

  When our laughter subsides, I put my hand in Jess’s and Egypt’s. The smell of the kitchen—salt and heat dug deep into the grooves of Jess’s palms—floats up to my nose. Everyone bows their heads. Their chests rise slowly. Desmond grins as he shifts in his seat. Egypt sits still with pursed lips. This must be how they look when they sleep next to each other. I close my eyes.

  Dear lord, Egypt says, thank you for bringing this warm food and this beautiful home into our life. Thank you for bringing us together to share this meal. Thank you for blessing Jess’s hands and this kitchen and for bringing Daniel home and for everything that you’ve done for us. Amen.

  Amen.

  I can’t recall the last time I prayed over a meal. Though most Jamaicans are Christian, Mom was an atheist by the time I was born. She says the last time she was in a church was at her stepfather’s funeral. After the service, his family, Mom, and my six-year-old brother drove from the church high in the hills to a small home. One of Mom’s stepfather’s cousins prepared a meal of oxtail, cabbage, and rice and peas. When she finished cooking, everyone took their chipped plates outside because there wasn’t enough space in the house for everyone to sit. They ate beneath the sun on an early spring day and surveyed the town in the lowlands.

  According to Mom, Junior sat cross-legged atop a large rock and balanced his plate on his lap. He and Mom shared a fork. As she ate, he tired of waiting for her, picked up a piece of oxtail, and gnawed the soft, fatty meat off the tough bone, its dark juices dripping onto his pale chin. The people around him laughed at the city boy. The American was more country than all of them combined.

  They berated Mom for not raising her child with manners. She had been gone too long. She was basically an American. Mom said she knew where she was from. They said she missed birthdays and funerals, holidays and illnesses. She moved abroad to make money and forgot about all of them when they needed her. When Mom started screaming, asking where they were when her mother left and her father didn’t know how to do their hair, or where they were when That Woman beat them, her sister dragged her to their car.

  Mom always ends that story by saying that they never apologized. She wouldn’t talk to them until they did. When she left, she ran away from them for good, in the same way I once thought I was escaping this place.

  The memories of how much I hated Palm Coast and everyone here come rushing back: when Desmond called me bitch-made because I didn’t want to run anchor, when Jess called me faggoty for not dating anyone, when Twig compared the difference between white people and white trash to the difference between Black people and niggers. Because there was nowhere to go, I hid in silence, dreamt about moving away to find a new home. Nearly a decade has passed, but I’m still pissed, especially now that they all act frustrated with me for falling out of touch. As much as I owe them apologies, they owe me too.

  I pour a glass of whiskey and reach for Desmond’s glass, but Egypt pulls it away.

  He’s driving, she says.

  I’m good to drive, he says.

  You already had one.

  Let me put something in my liver, he says. Ain’t going to be but two sips.

  Egypt cocks her head and chews her bottom lip.

  Four sips, tops.

  You ain’t drinking a lick more, she replies.

  Come on, Egypt. I’m just playing.

  When I put the bottle down, it’s heavier than I expect so it clanks against the glass table. My body must be exhausted. I’ve barely eaten today. I sip from my own cup. It’s cooler and less strong than what we drank at Brandon’s earlier. My tongue is still numb from his moonshine. The whiskey doesn’t sting as it goes down. When I swallow, its fumes spread in my mouth. I cough.

  Can’t handle your liquor all of a sudden? Desmond says.

  All of a sudden? Egypt asks. Y’all been drinking?

  What had happened was, I say.

  We wasn’t drinking, Desmond says.

  Everyone laughs but Egypt, who leans back into her chair, crosses her arms, and shakes her head.

  Y’all still covering for each other, Jess says.

  Same as when we drove to Miami, Twig says.

  I forgot about that, I say. Told everyone we was at each other’s house.

  And your mom called and asked to talk to my mom, Twig says.

  And Twig jumps on the phone, I say, and he starts speaking in this high-pitched voice. Hello? Janet? Yes, this is Rose. How are you?

  Can’t believe we got away with that, Twig says.

  Ain’t no way in hell y’all got away with that, Egypt says. Ain’t no way in hell you and your big old deep voice sound like a woman. Bet on my life your mom knew and just ain’t say nothing.

  Desmond chuckles a low-pitched, closemouthed rumble. Twig joins in at a higher pitch. I follow suit, my shoulders rising and falling with my breath. Then Jess lets out a laugh that shakes her body. Finally, Egypt joins with a sway.

  When we quiet, Jess says, Funny thing is, I done cooked all this food and now I ain’t hungry.

  That’s because you tired, I
say.

  And you been tasting, Egypt says. Every time I cook, I eat damn near two meals before it even comes off the stove.

  I know that’s right, Jess says.

  Can’t tell, Twig says. Small as you always was.

  Still look good, Desmond says.

  Oh, you been looking? Egypt says.

  Who me? Desmond says. Shit, I ain’t seen Jess once today. Close my eyes every time she walk in the way. Me personally, I’m just saying what Baby D said. He was the one what was talking about how she look good.

  Daniel? Egypt says. That fruit?

  Excuse me? I say.

  You know I ain’t mean nothing by it, Daniel.

  Better watch yourself.

  Nigga or what? Shit, I wish you would.

  We laugh, and Twig laughs harder than the rest of us. I wonder if he knows I’ve slept with men. We settle down and look at our plates. I split a biscuit with my hands and push the butter-colored inside into the dark gravy on my plate and then into my mouth. The biscuit melts. I bite and the outside crunches. I tell Jess they’re amazing. Everyone praises her cooking. She says thank you and that there’s more if we want. Twig nods and reaches for the collards. His face is turning red from the whiskey and the heat, hiding the freckles on his cheeks.

  So what y’all done today? Twig asks, food stuffed into his cheeks like a chipmunk. Been waiting on you for a minute.

  My fault, I say. We just been running around.

  Where y’all been though?

  I look at Desmond and he shrugs as he turns away, scratching behind his ear. Egypt leans over her arms on the table, her eyes darting between us. Jess is still, watching me closely, though her face is expressionless. I don’t know what she’ll say if I tell a lie, but I hope she’ll cover for us.

  We was just driving around, I say, checking out the old haunts. Bumped into Jess.

  Y’all used to hang in Espanola? Jess says.

  Espanola? Egypt asks.

  Desmond crosses his arms and leans back. His eyes widen as if to say, Do something. I turn to the picture of Aubrey smoking with her eyes closed. She looks deep in thought. I wish I knew what she was thinking about.

 

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