Fresh Ink: An Anthology

by Fresh Ink An Anthology (v5. 0) (azw3)

  Frantic, he reached for his machete. “Stop!” yelled a voice. The stranger stood in the center of the room. His trembling hand held a revolver at Ramses’s face. “Don’t move.”

  The stranger eyed him. “You’re the…the drummer, aren’t you? You’ve come for the notebook, I presume.”

  Ramses cold-stared him.

  “Well?” the stranger yelled.

  The tentacles tightened around Ramses’s ankles.

  “I don’t know anything about it, really. I’m just a writer. I listen. I’ve been there before, you know, your little club. In disguise, of course. The Scourlings are a benevolent fraternity, mostly. We are curious. The elders sent me, gave me the smoke bombs. They want to know more about you, you know. They think your stories can help usher in the…the Visitors.”

  The Visitors. Ramses looked down at the tentacles that wrapped ever tighter around his legs. Clearly, the stranger’s stories had helped him begin to open the portal. That, combined with the technology plans in Rosie’s notebook, would allow the Scourlings and their mutant Visitors to rampage through the streets of New York unchecked.

  Ramses’s fingers were a few centimeters from the machete handle, but then what? He couldn’t chop the tentacles away without getting shot. He kept his expression tight, ignored the beads of sweat that trickled down his back.

  “The Visitors will come through regardless, yes? We’re just here to help them along, really. But you have been here now, you’ve seen them, the gateway.” The stranger nodded at the tentacles. “They like me. I can come and go as I please. But they are upset with you, I’m afraid.” The stranger grinned. “Terrible things happen when they’re upset.” He took a step toward Ramses, gun shaking. “So give us the notebook, yes? And then we’ll see if they like you better.”

  The apartment door swung open; Rosie barged through. The stranger spun around, gun in hand, and in that split second, Ramses Garcia Garcia felt his heart crumble. The girl he loved would be blown away before his eyes, all while trying to save his life. But instead of a gunshot ringing out, the whole world dissolved into a bright white.

  The stranger yelled and then something collapsed with a thud. The room was still a pale blur with only the slightest hint of movement in its midst. But Ramses could smell Rosie’s perfume and then he felt her climb onto his lap. Her flash cannon. Of course.

  “Stop!” the stranger yelled from somewhere on the floor.

  “You have my notebook?” Rosie whispered.

  Ramses nodded, barely suppressing his smile. He knew what to do.

  “Then let’s go,” Rosie said, clutching him tightly.

  Ramses leaned forward and slammed back against the chair, tipping it toward the window, and then clicked the ignition boost on his jet pack.

  “No!” the stranger yelled, but his howl was cut short by the roaring engine and then the shattering of glass.

  “Ay, m’ijo,” Ramses’s abuela used to say, her breath thick with tobacco. “Never leave a place the same way you enter.”

  Ramses thought of these words as he and Rosie exploded through the window and out into the midnight sky over the East River. His vision gradually returned, and the dark city came to life around him. Up, up, up they surged, the chair trailing beneath him as tentacles clenched and squirmed against his legs. Flames danced along the wall of the tenement. He caught a glimpse of the stranger’s bulging eyes staring out at him before smoke engulfed the whole facade. He handed his machete to Rosie. She held tight to him with one hand, and with the other she hacked once, twice, then three times at the seething tentacle. It screeched, squirted ichor from its gashes, and then released. The chair tumbled for an instant through open sky, and then a sauropod’s gigantic head rose to meet it, mouth open. The chair disappeared with the snapping of those great jaws. The beast paused, its huge eyes wide and then, as if in slow motion, its neck seemed to become boneless. It crashed into the dark waters of the East River and vanished.

  “A close one,” Rosie said, surveying the city around them.

  Ramses nodded, watched the plume of smoke rise toward the stars.

  “If they had gotten those designs…”

  Another nod.

  The still-dark world around them seemed to be quietly careening toward some unknown catastrophe. They sensed the coming war, could almost smell it, felt their hidden enemies churning in the shadows. But they knew we moved with them as well, felt our strength and the wisdom of the ages course through them. There would be turmoil and strife ahead, but there would also be stories and music; many long, joyful nights at the Bochinche awaited them, and there were still so many new machines to invent.

  Ramses and Rosie held each other close and hurtled through the sky toward Brooklyn.

  When World War II broke out, folks around here signed up right off. I was too young to join. My father was too old. But that didn’t keep us from warring with one another. Or me from running away from home six times by my twelfth birthday—the last time for good.

  Truth is, I wasn’t suited to live on a farm. My father blamed my teachers for my discontent. He ought to have blamed himself. Slaughtering pigs and wringing chicken necks did as much to chase me toward books as any teacher ever did. But it was my father’s binoculars and the almanac that pulled me away from the farm first. It’s how I got the notion I wanted to be a mapmaker, plotting out every planet and star in the sky. Four years later, I’m sitting at the Lucky Linda Café, homeless. My father would say he could have predicted this.

  “Boy! You boy!” yells Mr. Jackson. “Get up. This ain’t no flophouse to sleep in day and night.”

  I keep my head down, plus one eye open because Mr. Jackson is not like his wife, Ma Susie. He wants you to buy your meal, eat it, and be gone. This is a twenty-four-hour café. Some of us have been here since midnight, so he ought to expect a little sleeping to get done.

  The café is small. Maybe it holds fifty folks, I’m not sure. I’ve never seen it more than half-full. I used to sit at the lunch counter across the room. It faces a mirror long as the wall. Sitting here near the window suits me better. My presence doesn’t suit Mr. Jackson at all. He looks at his watch. Then looks at it again for good measure. “I got here five thirty this morning. You been asleep at this table the whole time. I can’t earn no money with customers doing that.”

  I sit up, knowing full well this isn’t how he treats the other customers. They get served coffee at the regular price. “I paid for my coffee. Two cents extra, like always. And I gave her the tip.” It’s not true, but his wife nods like it is. One day it will be. Next week I’m signing up with the navy at the recruitment center across the street. I figure I’m plenty old enough, not that Uncle Sam or my father would agree. Uncle Sam says I need to be seventeen. My father thinks I need to come home.

  Pulling spit into his throat, Mr. Jackson shoots it into a rusty can. “Country boy here, taking advantage, like they all do,” he says to Ma Susie.

  I rise up inside and out, yelling. “The sign says buy a cup of coffee and stay and sit as long as you like!” Looking at a few customers looking at me, I lower my voice and settle myself down. “We all came in around the same time, midnight.” I’m pointing to the regulars. “He played blackjack. The navy guys played dice.” I look left at a man slicing cards faster than a butcher shaving ham. “That one there was drunk before he sat down. You look past it all. Only not when it comes to me.”

  The drunk man raises his coffee cup, downing the last drop. A sailor with a pretty gal perched on his lap salutes. Another one at the counter hangs his head low while he writes, then cuts his blue eyes at me and smiles. He’s been here two whole days. Barely eating. Always writing. His fingers busy, moving a fountain pen from line to line. What is he, sixteen? A liar, maybe, like me. Well, the way Hitler and the Third Reich are fighting, each one of us is needed—Negroes and whites alike. Thieves and liars too, I
guess.

  Before the Jacksons bought the Lucky Linda Café, it was vacant—a good hiding place for rats and pickpockets on the run. Gutting it, they made it seem brand-new. Mr. Jackson laid the tile floor. Ma Susie made all the curtains by hand. Her brother installed new pipes and put in the lunch counter. A few boys got paid to haul away bricks, broken furniture, and plaster. Mr. Jackson blames me for other things they left with—his wallet, for starters. Now kids aren’t allowed much in here anymore. If I hadn’t done the mural, I’d be banned too.

  “Old man, leave the boy alone.” Ma Susie roots around in her apron pocket. “Here’s another newspaper article, Zakary James. I almost forgot.” She sits it on the table. “You’re famous.”

  THE BOY WITH HIS EYES ON THE STARS, the headline reads. Planets and stars that I painted on the front and the side of the café fill most of the page. “I told my father. There’s more to life than living on a farm.”

  It was my idea to draw the mural, I told the reporter. I lied about the reason why. Truth is, I was trying to make up for things. The stolen wallet, for sure. I didn’t run off with it, but that was just happenstance. I plotted and planned and schemed along with Ezekiel, Randy, Luke, and Tennessee. But they pulled if off without me. One day early. I’d be in the reformatory too, if they hadn’t. So, I guess you could say I owe a debt to them.

  Painting the mural was like painting a new life for myself. Six months later and I’m brand-new. I wrote that to my father in a letter. I included the article too. He told me to do my duty. To come home and help him run the farm. Haven’t you had enough of the low life? he wrote. Of dragging our family name through the mud?

  Ma points to a customer outside in a blue velvet hat. “Her type didn’t come in before that mural was painted. Those stars are good advertisement. You see them from the bridge, three blocks over.” She pinches my cheek. “We did right, letting you stay.”

  Mr. Jackson looks at me like I’m the enemy. Then he recalls a boy from a few weeks back who stole the tip jar.

  I nearly took off after him. But it’s my practice now to stay clear of boys like myself. Living on the lam, breaking the law, is like drinking rotgut. It only takes one sip to draw you back in. So, I spend my nights at the café. Part of my days here too, reading and painting. When Mr. Jackson has had enough of me, I head for St. Matthew’s Church. It’s four blocks away. They pay you thirty-five cents a day to scrape the wax off the floors. Sometimes, to keep out of the cold, I do it for free.

  Ma wipes crumbs off a table, into her hands. “Nobody’s perfect….” She points to the blue-eyed sailor at the counter. “Not him over there,” she whispers, “or that poor thing who stole the tip jar.” She laughs. “He did stink to high heaven, though.” She looks at me. “Negro or white, you boys always do.”

  Yesterday, she passed along a bar of Ivory soap, a rag for washing myself with, and this shirt. It’s a little too tight but it’s clean. She lost twin boys to the croup soon as they were born. So mothering every boy who walks through her door gives her pleasure, I believe.

  She shakes her head. “He had such pretty black hair. What was he, Italian? Jewish?” Ma Susie asks.

  “A thief, like him.” Mr. Jackson points to me.

  “I never stole anything from you.”

  He looks at Ma. He pours water into a glass and takes a long drink. Then he brings up his wallet. He thinks he saw one of the boys who stole it. “Susie made me doubt myself, though.”

  “You’re sixty, old with bad eyes,” she reminds him. “All these boys look alike to you.”

  His eyes always find me well enough. “He was your friend, wasn’t he?”

  I lie. “No, sir.” Looking out the window, I pray Ma Susie is right. Because I’ve no plans to see Ezekiel and those other boys again. I do what I shouldn’t when I’m in their company. And for once I’ve got my eyes on a bigger life.

  “Well, if he comes in here—” Mr. Jackson steps behind the register.

  “Put that hatchet away.” Ma takes it. “They steal to eat. For shoes.” She looks awfully disappointed in him. “Our sons would deserve the same kindness.”

  “Our boys”—Mr. Jackson fights to untie his apron—“deserve to be here more than some.” Pitching it onto the table, he walks out of the store.

  The blue-eyed sailor puts down his pen, having watched it all.

  Ma pats the apron like it’s her husband’s back she’s soothing. Passing by a guest who has walked in, she crosses the street and sits down beside him. There’s a bench in front of the recruitment center. When Mr. Jackson has had enough, that’s where he goes. I get his apron and tie it on.

  Some people can’t imagine that I’ve ever worked a day in my life. But I’m no slacker. On the farm, I worked eight- and ten-hour days. Milking. Feeding. Planting. Pulling. I hardly carry my own weight here, mainly because Mr. Jackson won’t have it. But customers are at the door. And it’s just me here to greet them. “Morning. Breakfast? Good. Follow me.” Cook is hard of hearing. I yell at him as I pass the kitchen. “Two for breakfast. More to come.” Seating the couple at the counter, I take their order. Next, I fill their glasses with ice and water. And inspect the silver before I set it out. Pushing open the kitchen door, I read off the order. “Oatmeal, eggs over easy, toast and jam, times two.” It’s going to be a busy morning, I see. More people are at the door. I take a peek at Ma. She’s holding Mr. Jackson’s hand. He’s eyeing me, but still not satisfied.

  Truckers are Ma Susie’s favorites. They order double and triple meals sometimes. And tip good. I lead this one back to the lunch counter too. It’s easier on me. No running around the whole café taking orders. “This seat work for you? Good.” I sit him next to the blue-eyed sailor. That’s not the best idea, I see. The sailor grabs his things and heads for a table near the window. Maybe he wants more privacy—who knows? Who cares? I’ve no time to dawdle. I’m off to seat more customers. Three, to be exact. Just when I start complaining, Ma Susie and Mr. Jackson walk in. She kisses my cheek. He reminds me that I’m not to work the register. Grumbling, he says he may check my pockets for tips.

  “Which he earned.” Ma stuffs change from a table into my pocket. “And you—apologize,” she says to him.

  Taking back his apron, he sucks his false teeth. “Sometimes you is worth a plug nickel, I guess.”

  That’s a compliment. One I’ll take any day of the week from him.

  When the crowd dies down, I eat my fill, with no interfering from him.

  * * *

  • • •

  The Lucky Linda Café is thin on customers between noon and three. Which is why I use that time to draw. Years ago, I used loose-leaf paper. But that’s too flimsy for a boy on the run. Now I paint on sturdy brown paper, the kind butchers use to wrap raw chicken in. I swiped an entire roll once, and cut it into sheets. Being careful, it lasted me a year. The paintings I drew ended up in the river, though, along with a lady’s purse that the cops were determined to retrieve from me.

  As carefully as I can, I unroll the paper. It’s one solid sheet—ten feet long, to be exact. The best work I’ve ever done. I modeled the mural outside after it. They’re not twins, just in the same family.

  “Excuse me.” My painting is slipping off the tables. “Can I borrow those?”

  The blue-eyed sailor hands me a sugar bowl and saltshaker to anchor the painting. Standing at attention in his dress whites, he takes his pea cap off. “Jesus. The whole universe.” For the first time, I notice blue ink on his fingertips.

  My chest puffs. “Counting the Milky Way, there’s a thousand stars.”

  He points to the Big Dipper, Orion’s Belt, a meteor’s purple tail dragging across the sky. I bring up my favorite planets. “Pluto’s the baby of the bunch. That’s Saturn—a big show-off. It’s got rings. All made of ice and rock. Then rings inside of those. The larger rings are each named for a letter of the
alphabet. Know how many of them she has?” I answer before he can speak. “Seven. One day I bet we’ll get to the moon. Saturn too.”

  He doesn’t laugh. Like some folks. He looks over my creation. It’s done with oil paints and used brushes I won in a crap game. “How long did it take?” he asks.

  “Three months for the solar system.” I tell him it took two years to do the entire thing. That’s not exactly true. I stashed it in the basement of a church for a year. Left it with the pawnshop owner twice. It’s tattered at the edges and stained. But people hardly notice.

  He reaches out his hand. “Nicholson. Gunner’s Mate Jim Nicholson.”

  He’s a tall fellow, I’d say six two or so. I’m just clearing five seven. Blond hair, a skinny nose, he looks as plain an’ ordinary as I do. Scared too. Which makes him fit in just fine at the café, even though whites hardly ever come unless they have a Negro girl on their arm or they’re down on their luck.

  “Zakary James.” I shake his hand. “Pleased to meet you.” I wipe the sweat from his hands on my pants.

  Situating himself at a table, he pulls out a pack of Lucky Strikes and offers me one.

  I take two. One to sell to the hobos on Miller Street. The second I’ll pass along to the priest at St. Matthew’s Church. I never know when I’ll need his kindness again. “Shipping off soon?” I pull out my paint tin.

  He lights his cigarette and takes a long leisurely drag, but doesn’t answer.

  “Got a gal? I got a gal. Emma Jean,” I lie. I’ve no time for girls. Not with the life I live. But military men always seem to want to talk theirs up. I’m just making polite conversation.

  He’s digging through his back pocket and pulls out his wallet. It’s black leather, stuffed full of money. “No gal. Just a mother. The best in the world.” He kisses her picture after showing it off. Then he gets back to looking worried. “My father was a hero in the First World War. Died some years later.”