How you, Miss Gracie?
Yeah, how you, Miss Gracie?
She could feel their eyes warm on her behind as she passed. Maybe not Dallas’s eyes, eyes that did not absorb a flicker of light. Frozen wells.
Then, who could have known that, years later, John would beat Dallas within an inch of his life, and still later, that he would strap her, Gracie, to the bed after she told him, You sleepin in sin, both asking and answering. She saw his belt raise but closed her eyes to its sting. She searched high and hellwater for her keys. Could find them nowhere. Believed John had robbed her of them, as he had first surprised her with the burning damage of his words. Why you think I be out there? Why you think? I like you but I don’t lust you. So surprised she still didn’t know what instrument he’d used to whip her, his belt or his tongue. He opened roads in her back and walked them. She sought her keys, found them in the space under the bed, locked the door on her way out of the apartment, and caught the first taxi. Trucks flew through the yellow-lighted streets. A yellow moon. The moon’s taking a piss, John said.
She explained to Inez and George—the man John would never call father, spit at the suggestion—what had happened, the story both heavy and formless from the water in the words. You thought George woulda whispered a word of it to Lucifer, Check on John. Go check on yo brother. George probably wanted to and maybe he did, though how could you tell cause Lucifer always watched you in flicking glances, as if you were more than vision could bear.
George took car keys out of the cookie jar. I’m gon kill that bastard.
George, Inez said, now wait. Junior didn’t—
Damn, Inez. Open your eyes.
But Gracie was the one paralyzed by a blinding fright.
George shook the car keys in Inez’s face. Damn, Inez. Open your eyes. Shook them again.
5
WALL-TO-WALL PEOPLE—crowded dots in an impressionist painting—load the car. Don’t be such a bitch, lady. What’s wrong? Didn’t you get what you needed last night? The hog is just ahead, shoving its way through the car. Damn, homey? Think you a football player? He slaps a grip on hog’s shoulder. Feels a burning sensation in his stomach. The hog has cork-screwed him with its tail.
The hog runs for the mouth of the tunnel, three-toed feet slipping on the tracks like a woman in high heels.
He surges and plunges, a windmill, all legs and arms, snatching his feet up almost before they touch the ground. The hog spins on one leg—the chubby shank, the monkey-wrench calf—brings the other high in a wide arc, and catches him on the side of the head—the temple, right? the church at both sides of your head—then, hollow pain, like someone knocking a pipe bowl against a table’s edge. The old roundhouse kick. Hog knows its licks and flicks.
He has to guard against the hands—paws?—the narrow fingers in-grown perfect for the old eye gouge.
He sees an opening. Drop-kicks the hog in the balls. (Know my flicks, too.) Son of a bitch, the hog says, hands over his balls, Adam holding the fig leaf.
They are tangled between the rails—which one is the third, the hot jolt of raw electricity?—rolling, two contestants in a mud-wrestling match. The hog stinks bad—pickle juice?—and is covered with scratchy, stubbly skin, three-day-old beard over the whole week of its body. It tickles. He locks his teeth onto the hog’s tonguelike ear. (Wait, raw pork is bad for you.) Hog considers returning the favor, but it is dignified, the low blow beneath him. These humans …
He brings the butcher knife—the knife, how could he have forgotten it?—into view. Hog-squeals. He drives the knife between the second and third chins, a clean blow. He can feel a weapon on the hog, just as he knows it has a navel. What makes it moo—grunt?—oink? So that’s why they called it—
A grind of gears—a lawn mower? a car?—started beneath the small high window above the bed filled with books stacked like sandbags. Hatch’s early-morning skin felt the old mattress—he slept in the same old iron bed he’d had all his life; each night, the coiled springs kept squeaking even after he lay still—but the contours and niches did not fit his bones. Somebody’s been sleeping in my bed. His feet dangled over the edge, awaiting the hangman’s ax. He swung his legs from beneath the covers, rooted his feet on the floor, pushed his torso up, and sat on the bed’s edge, leaning forward, chin resting on the pyramid of his fingers. His sleep muscles tightened trying to hold on to the heat and color of the dream. The shit that can crowd your sleep. Sleep slowly pulled its two black wings from over his face. Silver teased his vision. A dogtag bright-dangled from his neck. He squeezed its motion in his fist. It was perforated down the middle, like a salt cracker, so—Lucifer had explained when he gave it to him many years ago—that strong hands could snap it in two, half of the tag marking the body and the other half, the grave. He checked the bed for dampness. Early-morning voices and traffic sounds rolled over him. He had never been one to take all the nightmare images from the evening news into his sleep. Why now?
The previous night he’d had trouble sleeping. A jackal had thrashed its tail repeatedly against his chest. He had defended himself with a motion he remembered but his body couldn’t perform. Turned on the bulb beneath the hooded lamp. Sat on the bed edge, then moved over to the chair before the window, shade drawn. Small light teased the room, pale, from a streetlamp. And the darkness beyond, full of the city’s sounds. Then a tin-trickle of rain. He sat that way until a washed-out sky and a swollen sun drenched the windows with golden light. Fingers of dawn pulled him back into sleep, into dream.
A recurring feeling. Above: sun—choking up his skin’s natural oils. He thinks. Pulls up clumps of grass from a mental pasture, a black concentration of thought-force, chewing a blade or two to cut free thoughts. The sap of resilient spring. The sun eats its last shadow for the day. Night falls boulder-heavy, heavy drape to drop over the day, cloak to shelter you. A lizard scuttles green. Curled, the lizard curves around the circle’s inside. Grunts and silence. Silence and grunts.
The shade blew steadily in the window with a rasping sound. The mattress and springs coughed dry. The sun stood small in the empty morning sky. Rays of light spread wide, like the early-morning legs of a man above his toilet, pissing yellow.
He screwed his guitar in tune. Played a few invisible notes. His fingers refused the strings. Why? He showered and dressed, quickly. Pulled a book, Myths of a Mestizo Continent, from the half-bubble chamber of his drop-leaf desk. A gooseneck lamp junkie-nodded over the wooden desktop. Once, the brass desk lock had hidden all his important belongings—magazines, books, his songs, poems, rhymes, and letters—Yes, letters. Damn. I’ve wrote Elsa poems, songs, rhymes; still she ain’t mine; should I try letters? Elsa. Elsa—from the eyes of others. Especially Sheila’s nosy eyes. He would not tell his mother Sheila about his hard night. She’d already applied remedies to lighten up his sleep: put a doormat before his portal so the spirits could rest their shoes; sat a glass of water on the mat to quench the thirst of their long journey from there to here; and tacked a Scripture above the inner door—Just in case these evil spirits—BLOOD SAVE ME. She had a theory: his posters—Bruce, Jimi, Bird, Trane, Jack J., Joe L., the honored dead whose names popped and blinked from these paper gravestones rooted to the walls—had attracted restless spirits. The dead call us to remember.
The carpeted stairs creaked softly as he came down. Sheila stood framed in the open bathroom door, eyes dead set in the mirror. One hand hidden inside a Parisian washcloth—a pot mitten, a hand puppet—a souvenir from the Shipcos. A long monologue of soap and silence. Hot light flamed her taffy-colored skin. Reddened her skirt—diaphanous, flowing (flaming creases, rippling) in heat-blinding white—and matching pumps. Her hair sprawled a black uncombed shawl about her shoulders—like her aunt Beulah’s hair—not the usual ponytail. The air steamed from her recent bath, the smell of scented soap and powder—musk? opium? honey?—and her labored breathing. She picked up—with hands callused by the rhythm of work, skeletal hands, the skin sail-tight, hands the Shipcos (
and others before them) had molded for her through thirty-five years of bronzed labor, hands that carried fine-papered books from the Shipco residence (They ain’t gon miss them. They got plenty more) to here—a brush from the porcelain sink edge.
Good morning, she said.
Good morning. Lucifer already gon to work?
Your father went with John.
Uncle John?
Sheila nodded.
Hatch had not seen or heard from John in over a month. Nor had Inez seen or heard from him. Gracie relayed Hatch’s messages to him, but he had yet to respond. Which had prompted Hatch to take the train ride out to Eddyland and try John’s extra set of house keys; John (or someone) had changed the locks. Why ain’t he called?
He didn’t say. The light is different where she stands from the light that surrounds him.
What you mean Lucifer went with him?
Your father sposed to meet John at Union Station. John’s going out of town for a few days.
Why?
I didn’t get all that. Lucifer rushed off in such a hurry.
Is something wrong?
I know bout much as you do.
Where Uncle John goin?
Do I look like John?
Hatch thought it over. He was not part. Neither Uncle John nor Lucifer wanted him to be part. Hidden rendezvous. Well, he said. Catch you later. I’m going to go see Inez.
One hand swam—a dolphin—along the white sink. Dived into a low glass of clear water. Brought teeth to the surface. Drowned dentures. Clean. Applemeat-white. Slapped them into her mouth. When a stranger or visitor caught her off guard, she would hide her toothless mouth (gums and more gums) with her hand and speak through her fingers. This embarrassing ritual would cause Hatch to shrivel, fade, then flare up in silent, unexpressed anger.
Sam never could drive for shit, Dave said. I know. We runnin buddies for years. Never could drive. But he insist on drivin with that wood leg. We drivin down to see Beulah. John loaned me the car and I loaned it to Sam. Cause he beg me the whole night. Nephew, Sam said, after all I done done for you. You can’t let me drive? And he kept on beggin. Sheila say, If you let him drive this car, you better let me out on the side of the road. And you know how Gracie is. She read me from the Bible. Sam keep at me. Nephew this and nephew that. I let him drive. Sheila don’t get out. And Gracie don’t open her Bible. Drove along fine for a mile or two. Then it happened. One, two, three. Faster than you can snap yo fingers. They couldn separate the teeth from the glass.
She faced him. When you talk to her?
Last night.
How she doin?
Same ole.
Sheila shook her head.
She—
Hush.
Hello, Inez?
Jesus. How are you, baby?
This Hatch.
Oh.
How you doin?
Terrible.
How’s George?
A long pause. Fine.
Well, I want to come and see you.
Don’t come. You know I’m sick.
But—
There ain’t nothin good out here.
I’m gonna come see you.
You’ll understand someday when you old.
Be there tomorrow morning. Bout nine.
Don’t come so early.
Okay.
If you gon come, come on then.
I will.
Bring Jesus. Bye.
Well tell her I said hi.
I will.
Get you some breakfast before you leave.
I will. Hatch was already in the kitchen. Aunt Jemima’s face floated up from the oatmeal box. Steam lifted from Lucifer’s untouched nest of hawk-eyed grits. Hawk grits soar to the nest of your ribs. Toast floated on steaming coffee.
And some meat. You need meat. One day you’ll see. Your body need meat in the mornin.
Little chance of that. Okay. Hatch drew open the refrigerator. Cold rushed out. Throat working, he guzzled some apple cider, straight from the jar. Hope she didn’t see that. Held the edges of a toast slice and moved the butter knife in rhythmic strokes. Took a few slices of toast and some scrambled eggs and made two sandwiches. He eyed the ham on the bright white plate. Leave that man’s pork right here on the table. Take a pitchfork and feed the devils pork. Didn’t Christ put demons in a herd of swine? Ain’t the pig a graft between a rat, a cat, and a dog? Stuffed the sandwiches into a paper bag and stepped out into the screaming morning.
Second Street. Deep Second, Uncle John called it. Edgewater. Woodlawn long gone. South Shore too. An axis of distance. Hatch suffered a furnace of sky. The sun’s still yellow wheel. Birds winged high in a windless sky, their voices—yes, voices, high above in the blue-red arch—circling, circling—like explorers—new terrain. The air poked sharp, threading the lungs. A trumpet to the blood. Strange. Cause no wind. Unusual, here in this city of one big lake (Tar Lake) that lifted a hawk from the icy nest of its waters and flapped you in the wind of its cold feathers (stalactites of feathers, dripping winter year-round)—this lake imitating ocean. Like a traveler who had not seen land for months, he saw the world with new eyes. All the colors vivid. Saw two black lines of birds—red-tipped beaks, beaks dipped in inkwells—stiff on two black lines of telephone wire. Trees in green leaf. Brown blazers of barks covering their trunks—And tracks. Networking through the bark; the seed must absorb water to rehydrate; Sheila’s green thumb had impressed this lesson, in the middle of his forehead—and brown sleeves of bark enveloping their skinny limbs.
A radio coughed on the horizon. Hatch tugged his horseshoe earlobe.
Hello my friend
Sky, so happy to see you again
Do you know, Brother
What the wind’s blowing down
Have you seen, baby
A million million peoples coming right on down
The song retracted from Hatch’s ear. Jimi. They bustin Jimi. The radio gurgled, cleared music from its throat. In the chambers of his mind, Hatch busted a rhyme.
This is Genuine Draft
Master of all sorts of darts and arts and crafts
Back again my friend
So wipe the suds from your mouth and wipe on a sin grin
Dropping science and my mix ain’t thin
Friend, I can chemistry you again and again
I view the colored heart from close range
And get mo strange than a Col trane and another thang
Stakes snakes states skates shakes
Wobbling and snaking making crooked trails and trailin flakes
Brakes and grapes and drapes and crates
It’s my aim to take
Yes, My my my my my
Just me myself and I
Sharp as Shaft as tack
Here to kick the facts about how
the decks are stacked and whacked
Slice you up and put you down
Like toast in the toaster twelve miles underground
I’m a hardcore worker to the bone the bone
Got more rocks than Fred Flintstone
But even a rock man got wages to pay to the biblical pages
Victim to them skeezers like Eve
time way back befo the ages
I’m tellin you, bro, my girl got me goin through laboring stages
Cleaned me out, pay me coolie wages
Called me on a Monday another day another dolla
She say yo homeboy what’s up I bought you nother flea collar
Come over quick let me see if it fit yo little ass
Shriveled up bastard, yo money last long as passed gas
You see what I mean, flip?
Thought I was captain of my ship
But she slapped me down a tip
Unctuous bitch got me losing my grip
He trimmed his tongue. Unctuous? Check that. The ear trieth words as the mouth tasteth meat. Cause the whole language resembles the body of a trained athlete where every muscle, every sinew, is developed into full play.
One day my ear will take me far. Hatch’s tongue rolled in his mouth, the pea in the whistle.
Slipping and sliding right down her manhole
I’m all covered with shit, black sheep lost from the fold
Loud spit flooded his song. No, smells ambushed his nose. Smell like dried doo-doo on a doggy day. Realization barked in. Packs of unleashed jackals—all dyed in the same flaming color of spring (summerlike) heat—trotted in ducklike lines, sniffing out somewhere they might nuzzle their greedy snouts. Sunlight glared on their white shirts. Their clothing said blood. At the next corner, more jackals lay in wait. Wet dripping tongues tasting the day. Chiseled white fangs hungering to bite off the feeding hand. Sic em, boy! Paws shaking in tune to color and noise. Every time Jack looks in yo face, he sees a mirror of his crime. And though he stacks the plates of grace, he ain’t never done no time. The best way to take jackals to your heart is to get as far away from them as possible. But Hatch had nowhere to run. He timed his movements against the rhythm of the street. Their ears caught the beat of his feet. These sound-sensitive jackals, red ears like sharp twitching flames. Red-tailed jackals blazing off to buy some coal or get their ashes hauled. Pure products from the deep red doghouse. It must not be hot, that one can burn in it forever and never burn up. Their mouths moved, but silence came out—a wordless gap—for their words rusted together in one red voice. Hatch pushed forcefully through them, a river in the middle of a red sea. Where had they come from? Who’d dreamed them? A handful of light in his palm. Then a wild pitch spinning black out—The thought cooled off in a hot breeze. What Spin say on his record? A burned goose laid the golden egg of civilization.
Rails Under My Back Page 13