Hatch brings the empty bottle to his lips. Damn!
Jesus recognizes in the gentle, absentminded movements of his hand something like a familiar melody. You remember?
Remember? Remember what?
Jesus shakes his head. Hard falling rain turns him to the window. Later. I’m out.
Where you going?
Business.
Business?
Peace. His legs carry him quietly out the back door, away from the loud adult voices in the front room. He stares down the deserted street back of the house. Somewhere in the distance, the thick-throated whistle of a freight train. Wherever he turns, he breathes water, drinks air. He throws his head back into steaming rain. Wind-whipped water pokes needles into his face. Yellow streetlights pop on.
He jets to his red Jaguar. Melts into it. Sits a moment, his clothes slippery, puddling on the red leather seat. Beyond the glassed-and-metaled outsides, the rain falls light now, spaced, fine and fresh. He teases the engine into life, and it purrs like a zoo cat house. The liquid world dissolves under the wipers’ squeaky swath. Forms again, dissolves. He eases the car into the street. Works up speed. Streetlamps run in two straight lines. The g ride runs silk patterns in the rain. A rooster tail of water arcs behind.
The rain shuts off. He kills the wipers. The world looms close. A star-blanched night. The heavens wheel and march overhead. The road flies past in the cold glitter of the moon.
He poplocks out of the g ride into a wet, cold, shining world. The street shimmers and swims beneath the streetlamps. The rain has washed the air clean. He inhales deeply, savoring the taste. Pure breath.
Inside the store, he shakes off rain like a bird. His hands blunder upon the counter, shedding coins. He tries to pick them up, but they run and jump from his fingers. He feels the counter edge against his stomach. His hands return the last coins to his pocket.
The slant-eyed slope—gooks, John called them, gooks—opens his mouth in disbelief. Toothless. His gums loom red. A flame opens in Jesus’s stomach. Swells through his blood and makes all his muscles loose and warm. Something kicks him in the back of the head. The slope’s face spills into red dots.
YOU LOOK LIGHT, Jesus said. He surveyed the apartment. I’m gon help you change the weight of your pockets.
What you mean?
Change yo cents to centuries.
Huh?
Damn you stupid.
No Face looked blank, an empty gun.
We can hang.
No Face raised his head. Thought you said you don’t represent?
I don’t.
Then—
We can hang.
No Face fed on silence. Really? The eye watched Jesus in disbelief.
Yeah.
You jus sayin that.
Really.
Really?
Yeah.
And we can hang?
Yeah.
Really?
Straight up.
On the for real?
For real.
In one movement, No Face bounded out of his seat and dropped down like a shoe salesman before Jesus’s feet. Thank you.
Hey!
Thank you. His tongue dripped hot saliva on Jesus’s canvas kicks.
Just relax, Jesus said, feeling saliva seep through shoes, socks, between his toes.
Thank you.
Hey!
Thank you. No Face sat there panting at Jesus’s feet.
Hey! Stop actin like a lil bitch.
Still on his knees, No Face raised his head, eye and patch studying Jesus’s face. When we roll?
I should kick yo teeth out, Jesus said.
Sorry.
Damn.
When we roll?
We don’t, Jesus said.
What?
I’m at another level.
Tell me about it.
What’s to tell. It’s a twenty-four-seven thing.
What?
Nigga, get off yo knees.
He did.
Find a seat.
He did.
Kick back.
He did.
It’s like this. Everything you do parlays into the next day. All yo life. And that’s the jacket you got to wear. Forever.
No Face looked at him, face slack.
Forget it.
No Face watched with his single eye.
Forget it. Just relax. Kick back.
No Face put a big glass pipe on the table. Jesus couldn’t tell what it was shaped in imitation of, a trumpet, a rocket, or a dick.
Beam me up, Scotty.
Where your father? Jesus really wanted to know.
Ain’t you already asked me that?
Ask you again.
No Face looked at him. He gone to work.
Jesus took off his shoes and removed the hot, wet socks. He put the socks inside the shoes and placed them neatly in front of him.
Turn off the lights.
No Face did.
Now close the shades.
Why?
Jesus looked at him.
No Face rushed over to the shades, snapped them down one after the other. Know any stories? Word, I heard you can tell some good lies. Tell me one.
Tell you bout the time yo mamma sucked my dick.
Hey, can’t you stop talkin bout my mamma? Show me some respect.
Jesus didn’t say anything for a moment. Then he told a lie about the nigga who could catch his own farts, the only story he could remember at the moment. No Face laughed all the while, uncontrollably, twisting and shaking, slapping his knees.
Know any more?
Jesus thought about it. Should he tell one of John’s war stories? See, West-side was tired of humping. So he shot himself in the foot. One problem. The bullet ricocheted off his anklebone and hit him square in the forehead. Wait, that was one of Lucifer’s stories. The one or two he told. John told this: Water. We wanted water. Our feet was burnin after all that humpin. So we was beaucoup happy when we saw the resupply choppers flyin in. Beaucoup happy when we saw those choppers drop us down some buckets, some buckets of what we knew was some good cool water after a long thirsty hump. So we hurried up and opened one bucket and another and another. Fuck. Ice cream. Those lifers had brought us buckets of ice cream. Can you believe that? So we took off our boots and started stompin marchin in that ice cream. Humpin all over again. No.
Come on.
I said I don’t know any mo. Damn.
No Face went silent.
Jesus blew the trumpet. It hissed. Light began to glow in his chest, particles of smoke creeping outward through his bloodstream, penetrating muscles and bones, washing his stomach hollow, his whole body slipping inside it, a pit where heat and light coiled around him, a nest of snakes.
He closed his eyes.
THE AIR CONDITIONER HUMMED like a speeding train, you snug in the bed under a winter blanket, staring at the ceiling, which seemed strangely close. You heard the creaking of Lula Mae’s sleeping bones from across the hall. Smelled her odor (Ben-Gay). Took stock of the day’s wrongs. Wrongs inside of wrongs, this onion that you peeled from one layer of stink to another, from one eye-watering sight to another. Each wrong deed joined like stones on a path.
Hatch?
What?
You sleep?
Sound like I’m sleep?
Lula Mae mean.
Yeah.
Real mean.
Yeah.
Let’s fix her.
How?
We gon walk home.
Kinda far, ain’t it?
A million miles.
Oh.
We can make it.
You sure?
Positive.
Okay.
You packed your bags, you and Hatch. Moved ghost-silent through the house, sensing the presence of the attic far above—the roof slanting inward with the pitch of the rafters. You unlocked the front door—it always stuck when you tried to open it; the rusty hinges were informants—and moved out into the black rea
ches of night. You stood on the front porch, where a yellow light burned—a swarm of insects—and saw a world in full bloom. The sky like a dark open flower. A full-eyed moon. The sound of covert crickets. And the short, discontinuous fire of lightning bugs. When they hold they breath, Hatch said, they fire come on. When they blow it out, they fire go off. Heat. Yes, even the nights were hot in West Memphis. Dark forgot its connection to cool. You waded out into the night, waded, then dolphin-leaped the fence, a red arc of light. Damn! Hatch said. He lifted the silver cuff that latched gate to post. You waded. Hands jammed in your pockets, head thrust forward, you scowled down the empty road. Stepped onto the red noisy gravel. Luggage dragged you to the corner. Dragged too by the pulley of a fresh act.
Hatch’s eyes began to water.
Why you cryin?
He did not answer. You turned to see Lula Mae giving chase with a switch.
SUNLIGHT AROUSED JESUS from sleep. He pushed himself upright on the couch, and sat there, groggy, trying to clear his head against the growing hum of morning traffic.
Damn! His flesh luminous with heat. His feet cold. He looked down at them. No shoes. He could see No Face, fuzzy, cloudy, dim. No Face! he screamed.
No Face’s black eye patch glowed like the barrel hole of a fired gun. I be dog. We fell asleep.
Nigga, what the fuck!
Some powerful shit. No Face’s head hung suspended between his knees, a heavy balloon.
Every inch of Jesus’s skin was alive, seeing, watching himself move in a dream. Bitch, what did you put in that weed? Jesus grabbed No Face by his collar and jerked him to his feet.
Nuthin. Somebody had stuck a red moon and a black moon in his face where the eyes should be. I told you I—
You can get hurt like that, seriously hurt. Hardly getting the words out, throat clogged with hate, each word anger-clotted.
But—
Jesus shoved him back on the couch. The sunlight scorched Jesus’s socked-but-shoeless feet. Where my goddamn shoes? Once again he snatched No Face up from the couch.
No Face pointed. Red color began to bleed from his eye. He adjusted his black patch. Over there. By the couch. Jesus pushed No Face down like crumbs off of a table. Mamma musta put them over there while—
Jesus quickly shoved his warm shoes on his feet. I ain’t never heard of no Buddha making nobody sleep like that. Pass out. He checked his pockets. Found everything in order. I mean, it’s tomorrow already. I mean. He sat down on the couch.
The pipe on the coffee table had been cleaned of ashes.
I be dog.
Where’d you get that shit?
From Keylo. He musta gave me some of that crazy shit. Whacked. Nigga always be jokin around.
You lucky I don’t … Jesus rested the words.
It’s cool, No Face said. We’re cool. Hey, you wanna watch some TV?
No.
We can watch some.
Bitch, do it look like I watch TV?
No Face studied the words, magnified them under the lens of his one eye. Well, what you wanna do?
Jesus felt a hole in his stomach, growing and spreading. His hands ran an orbit around his belly. Got anything to eat?
Sure.
He followed No Face to the refrigerator. Watched him open it. Almost threw up when he saw old cooking grease inside a mason jar, brown and gray like a rotting limb.
See anything you want? If you don’t, we go down to Mamma Henry’s house. She keep our meat in her freezer. And Mamma—
I know, Jesus said. I can’t wait.
They took out some leftover meat loaf and ate it cold and fast, then drank milk, right from the gallon jug, sharing swigs until the plastic container was whistle-empty.
You can take a shower. No Face’s anxious eye watched Jesus. I got some clothes you can wear. We go shoot some hoop.
Jesus looked at him. You lucky to be alive.
No Face directed his good eye somewhere else.
Real lucky.
Look. The eye returned. I got some of my own shit.
I don’t wanna try no mo of yo shit. I mean—
You don’t know me from Adam. I told you, that wasn’t mine. Keylo gave me that. Look, I’ll take you to my kitty so we can smoke us some real—
Nawl. I don’t wanna smoke no mo.
Cool.
You lucky to be alive.
We can pick up some oysters.
What?
Oysters. Wit hot sauce.
That’s what you like?
That’s what I like.
Funny. Spokesman used to eat that.
Who?
Never mind. Jus somebody from back in the day. You don’t know him.
So why—
It’s cool. You can eat. I’ll watch.
I ain’t hungry. Let’s shoot some hoop.
Some hoop?
Yeah, you know. No Face curved his wrist in a mock shot.
Well—
What’s wrong? You don’t want to?
I don’t care. I’ll whup yo ass in a game or two.
Follow me.
They squeezed through a narrow neck of doorway, then hurried to the elevator, which began to lower like a rusty bucket. The walls came rushing in and Jesus had to fight the urge to extend his arms in defense. The elevator opened into a dark vestibule. No Face miscalculated the height of the vestibule step and tripped out into the day. Jesus blinked forth upon the sky.
Hey, boys. Give you five dollars if you can tell me what kind of bird this is. The words emerged from pitch blackness, a dark niche cut deep in the building’s brick. A face, then a body—blue overalls with dirty suspenders, parachute straps—pushed into the light, fist holding the groin. A janitor, Jesus thought. He’s a janitor, cleaning up after this nigga trash. He saw Jesus looking at him. Flicked his tongue fast and dirty.
Damn, No Face said. You see that? He a stone-cold freak.
You can get hurt that way, old man, Jesus said.
The janitor cupped his hand over his ear. What? What you say?
Hurt.
And I can get hurt getting out of the bathtub too.
Jesus turned up the heat in his eyes, red coals. The janitor winked at him. Dushan, the janitor said to No Face.
No Face did not answer.
Tell yo mamma I be up there to see her later.
Damn, Jesus said. You gon take that shit?
Aw, man, he can’t sweat me. No Face waits a beat, watching Jesus.
Nigga, he talkin bout yo mamma.
You don’t know me from Adam. He ain’t nobody. That’s Redtail.
Who?
Redtail.
What kind of name is that?
Well, his real name is Roscoe. Roscoe Lipton.
He yall janitor?
The superintendent.
A janitor.
Yeah.
Don’t see how he can be nobody’s janitor. Too fuckin ole. Nigga can hardly move.
Crazy too. Nigga be feedin rats and shit. Feedin em.
What?
Word.
Jesus shook his head.
I know. But guess what?
What?
He used to be a pilot.
What?
A pilot.
You mean an airplane?
Yeah.
Jesus tried to picture the old drunk in a cockpit. What he do, fly a bottle round his lips?
Nawl, in a war. Warplane. Flying Tiger. Hell from Heaven. He changed some enemies too.
That old drunk motherfucker?
Yeah.
He can’t change his dirty draws.
He did.
Musta been a long time ago.
Yeah. Old nigga can’t even hear.
I can tell that. So that was why he did it, covered his deaf ear and cupped his good one.
But he hear good nough to hear what he shouldn hear.
What?
He a transformer.
Jesus considered the possibility of this.
You do something, and he
can’t wait to snitch. Hey, he might even snitch on you.
Jesus looked at No Face.
Round here, he gotta watch his back. I almost changed that nigga a few times myself.
I bet. He walk like you. He talk like you. He yo daddy?
No Face watched—one red eye—Jesus hard for a stocktaking moment.
They began their journey. Above the river, a gull white-winged along a wave. A hang-tailed hound sat tough beside a garbage can until No Face roused it with a speeding stone. A ragtop speeded past, but slow enough for Jesus to be momentarily blinded by a flash of hand signals.
Trey Deuces, No Face said.
Right, Jesus said.
No Face took cautious steps crossing the street, as if fording a river. He walked, Jesus beside him, for several more blocks through a fog of belching cars, dragging his feet, tripping over his shadow, slow and purposeful, the blind motion of sleep. The morning increased, the wind rose, gusts of it shaking the branches, bringing a faint snow of spring petals, flake on sifting flake. Through rectangles of glass, Jesus saw men dipping their heads in coffee cups, sitting stiff with their beers or hiding their faces behind newspapers. He and No Face rounded the corner. The sun brightened in the distance, and Stonewall glittered white. Tall rockets of buildings, ready to blast off.
Damn, we walked that far? You ain’t tell me we walkin to Stonewall?
Chill.
Nigga, you crazy.
You be aw ight.
A fenced-in basketball court loomed in the distance, thick shapes roving inside. Jetting along, Jesus and No Face found a stone bench and sat down to watch the game. Tongues circulated the circumference of the court. Homeys lined the fence, fingers poking through the chain-link holes, slurping Night Train and firing up missile-shaped joints. Floating heat. Sweat air. Grit that Jesus tasted in his cough.
Whirling colors, four men played the full-length of the court. Jesus took a good look. Two men in khaki pants and bare chests, and two in chests and blue jeans. Khaki One a tall (Jesus’s height) man with a sharp-angled haircut like a double-headed ax (V from widow’s peak to neckline). Bull-wide nose and thick worm lips. Wedges of muscle angling up from the waist and fanning out to a winged back. Big Popeye forearms. Dull white skin, as if faded from bleach. Whispered under his breath when he shot a free throw. Khaki Two a short nigga with carefully greased and patterned hair—a sculpture—and proud, bowed wishbone legs. He passed Khaki One the ball for a rim-ringing dunk. Serious hang time in the radiant haze. The opposing team took out the ball. Light-moving, the white man fell like an avalanche and smothered a shot. Drove the ball up the alley and around the other defender for the easy layup. Hoop, poles, and backboard cold-shuddered. The ball swirled around the rim before it flushed.
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