Christ!
Moses!
Praise the Lord!
She makin the Good Book live!
It’s the devil’s work!
The sick woman’s sweat knotted, a silver train that moved inward from the four corners of her body and congealed into a single large bead between her breasts. Gracie lifted the bead with two fingers. She snapped it in her mouth gumdrop fast.
That night, Sheila and Gracie discussed the day’s events. Gracie realized that Sheila also possessed the slow fire of power, had always had it. The Lord lends us his body to do good work. Sheila explained the properties of roots, the democracy of ghosts, the committees of dead souls. But who had told her? How did she learn?
Look, Sheila said. Other folks live inside us. Yo body like a used road.
Gracie saw this, footprints up and down her body’s inner roads. Well, I thought dead folks sposed to be light.
What you mean?
Like ghosts. Ain’t they like sheets? Can’t you put yo hands through them? Ain’t they fulla air?
I think so.
They sho don’t feel light.
Sheila said nothing.
If they gon walk inside somebody, least they could take off they shoes.
From then on, Gracie lived a life of iron prohibition, laying the gleaming metal bricks of her soul—smoke, drink, dance, frivolity, gossip, fornication, and profanity being the sins to be avoided, sins that would take an edge off her powers. She sealed up her belongings from this world and rode off to the next. Practices and prohibitions she brought North in her black steamer trunk. Keep an eye on yourself, for fear you also may be tempted. She would never forget that train ride. The long cold tube of the coach. She was fleeing Lula Mae’s house for the station, and in the same image she was on a train looking down on flooded tracks, seeing a dead horse floating—its mane spread like a lily pad about its head—bobbing with the slow current. Two men at Union Station offered to carry her trunk; Beulah and Sheila arrived and chased them off with threatening eyes and purses—Be careful of these city niggas—this trunk heavy with the memories of every person back home she had helped, all the lights and shapes she had broken her soul into and shared with the less fortunate, all crammed into those brief years of power.
It was the most natural thing when Reverend Tower asked her to put in work for the church. Unlike the greedy-hearted brothers and sisters who only showed their face on Sundays, she went to Mount Zion every night of the week—stay the course—Reverend Tower’s voice lifting the waters of her spirit—
I won’t tell my sins, for what is one man that he should make much of his winters, even when they bend him like heavy snow.
Preach.
I can see it all from a lonely mountaintop, the story of a mighty vision given to a man too weak to use it, the story of a people’s dream that died in bloody snow.
—in those days when Cotton Rivers was a poor deacon, those days before Reverend Tower died and John, Lucifer, Dallas, and Rivers lowered him into the red soil of Woodlawn Cemetery (where Sam would later be buried), where he could watch over the souls of those he’d guarded in life and the congregation light-lifted Cotton into the podium of leadership and power on the tips of their praying hands, Rivers weighing the souls of the congregation to find the heaviest ones, Rivers forming a partnership with the Reverend Cleveland Sparrow, pastor of the Holy Victory Outreach Church, the two men trading pulpits Sunday to Sunday, church to church, then sharing the same pulpit, and eventually setting up a pulpit at either end of the stage (at both Rivers’s Mount Zion and Sparrow’s Holy Victory); on the right side of the podium, with his right hand raised high in the air, Cleveland Sparrow always released the high ship of sermon—
Abundance is belief in the Lord Christ.
What you say, Cleveland?
Cotton, I say abundance is belief in the Lord Christ.
Cause, our Gawd is the wealthiest being in the universe.
He is the owner of the trees.
He is the owner of the dirt rooting the trees.
He is the owner of every golden fruit born from the trees.
The stained glass flashed with the rhythm of moving shadows, the shadows of moving tongues.
He is the owner of the worm that spies in the fruit.
Yes, Gawd is the owner of the hollow beak that drinks the worm.
Gawd is the owner of the animals that eat the bird and the fruit.
He is the owner of four-walking animals that eat the fruit.
And Cotton, he is the owner of two-walking beings that eat the animals. You and me.
A blast of organ.
Yes, Sparrow. Man who holds dominion over the earth.
But Gawd is the owner of heaven and earth.
Who collects our rent.
He is the owner of the seas.
He is the owner of the fish in the seas.
—buoyant, floating on the hands and prayers and amens of the congregation, the congregation that Rivers and Sparrow shared, as they shared snatches of sermon and prayer from the cup of fellowship, as they shared tithes and choirs, as they shared watching eyes; the preachers formed the Deacon Twelve, twelve deacons who spent every moment peeping through the bush of righteousness to observe the activities of every brother and sister of the church and to carry reports of sin back to Rivers and Sparrow so they could wash those sins in the waters of sermon; Gracie put in work for the church, visiting the sick, preparing meals for the hungry, adding the thin reed of her voice to the choir, and teaching the Sunday school class.
Christ taught and his teaching was so powerful that it mastered all nature. Birds flew about him and settled into the nest of his hair. Fish left the water and sprang into the cool waters of his lap. Tiger and lion lay down next to sheep. Wind and river flowed upward to his upraised hands. Pebbles followed his steps. Cause Christ made new roads from his winding shawl, white clean roads. If we stay clean, we keep wax out of our ears, and then we can keep our ears to his path. Do you all understand?
No one spoke.
Let me put it like this. Do not be misled. Bad associations spoil useful habits. Do you understand?
Yes, Miss McShan.
Lucifer, explain the passage to the class.
Well, you shouldn’t hang around wit no bad niggers.
The class laughed.
Crude, but good. The Good Book says, A wise person will listen and take in more instruction, and a man of understanding is the one who acquires skillful direction. If any one of you is lacking in wisdom, let him keep on asking God, for he gives generously to all and without reproaching; and it will be given him.
Miss McShan?
Yes, John.
Do God come before my granddaddy?
The devil come befo Pappa Simmons, that no-church heathen. The Good Book speaks, Gracie said. And the word is living and its flesh never ages like the flesh of anyone’s daddy, or, uh, granddaddy. Do you all understand?
Yes, Miss McShan.
Good. Let us sing.
He’s got the whole world, in his hands …
—in his pants.
John, what did you say?
Just singin, Miss McShan.
He lyin, Lucifer said.
Nigga, shut up.
Both of you quit. Let us sing.
Raise me up
Take me higher
Lift me out of the fire
Raise me to higher ground
So I can see
Turn the key
—And my dick don’t get too tight to pee.
John, what did you say?
7
NEAR THE CLOSE OF A HOT DAY—a lean, white spring—he sat, book in hand (Man and Mestizo), before an open window of Uncle John’s Eddyland apartment, killing time. A vapor trail hung in the air, chalk-white. The window commanded a view of a long vista of riverbanks that cut into the horizon. The river like a plate of metal, reflecting the yellows of the day. Hills—he remembered these same hills from a dream when he was a kid (under G
racie’s roof, lying in bed next to Jesus), but he couldn’t remember the dream—that gradually flattened toward the river. Hills? Well, not exactly. A few ridges rising out of the flat plains. Lumps in the carpet. And the state line beyond the river. One world outside and one world inside.
From the window, he could see over the wall at the end of Canal Street to the busy avenue that ran two miles to the riverfront. Canal Street ran eastward to the lake. A broad and restful street between two rows of large buildings. Ran past little shops and delicatessens, boutiques and department stores. Tourists moved with tired confusion in the blazing heat. Shoppers walked stiffly and lazily between the thick traffic, like marionettes, clutching their packages and bags against their bodies to guard against swift-fingered and swift-footed thieves. He observed their rich and faultless clothes. Noticed the shape of their hats and the box of their shoes. How they carried their hands. Niggas drove by in streamlined bombs of cars, sound systems flinging music out into the street. The edge of the building cut Fifth Avenue off from his view. Well into the evening, yet the sun still well above the horizon. Earlier, the day felt like rain, but now the air was uncommonly clear. The world glowed. Windows sparkled. Rooftops shimmied and danced. A passing fire engine clogged his ears with alarm, cutting light from the siren’s revolving red eye like laser beams on the ceiling and walls.
A wind sucked the shops out and he breathed the smell of fried chicken, chitlins, candied yams, and greens. The horizon clicked, turned. Noise and light lowered. He thought he could hear the bright sound of the river.
The sun couldn’t reach Uncle John’s side of the street. The apartment was completely dark and Hatch could barely make out furniture in the shadows. One wall, squares of mirrors that multiplied the reflection of any who stepped through the front door. A plain black doormat, hard as a board beneath your feet. A blind television.
Hatch was pissed. Patience expired. The plan: Uncle John would quit work early—he drove a cab seven days, twelve hours a day minimum, from seven in the morning until seven at night; some weekends, Hatch helped him wax and polish the cab until it glowed like a UFO—and meet Hatch here by five-thirty. Here it is, damn near six and the concert start at seven. He probably chasin some woman. Puttin on dog. Or fuckin round wit Gracie. Fuckin Gracie.
Why’d you get married?
A dog don’t like a bone, Uncle John says, but he likes what’s in it.
Can’t understand why Uncle John continue to deal with her, put up with her ugly face and ways. A married woman, Uncle John says, she the sweetest thing in the world.
Hatch was pissed. Yet one glance at Uncle John’s face made him forgive much. Canal Street had become the room so he hadn’t heard a door rusty on the hinges, the click of key in lock, song rolling in thick waves off tongue
Mean little girl
You should kneel down on yo knees and pray
I want you to pray to love me
Pray to drive yo sins away
Hatch.
Uncle John.
Sorry I’m late. Uncle John smiled. His eyes moved behind the spectacles, which magnified them and camouflaged his fatigue. Tiredness showed in his shoulders.
Hatch felt Uncle John’s smile in the muscles of his own. That’s okay.
Slow day. Uncle John approached, a certain stiffness in his walk, moving in rhythm to his thoughts. You know me and some of the guys at the dispatch tryin to start our own service. He snatched Hatch in close for a hug. They embraced in a room of melting walls. They were the same height.
Hatch drew back. Let’s go.
Give me a minute to wash up.
The concert start at seven.
I jus need a minute. See, we jus need some capital and—
What?
The cab service.
Oh. That’s all you talk about.
You got to put in the work if you want the rewards.
Them Jews gon give you some money?
Which Jews?
Gracie’s. Them people she work for. The Sterns.
No.
You ask em?
I ain’t waste my time. I got better fish to fry. In a single gesture, Uncle John shed his clothes. Hatch turned to the window.
Give me a minute.
Uncle John, where yo binoculars?
My binoculars?
Yeah.
What you need wit binoculars?
I want to watch Randy’s hands.
Who?
The nigga we going to see.
I thought you said he white. Hatch heard the bathroom door close. Heard the shower spill open. He imagined water rolling down Uncle John’s tired muscles and the muscles giving the water more speed and force. He could feel the water, feel it roll, feel it rise in his chest.
UNCLE JOHN’S SHINY YELLOW CAB was imprinted with a moving image of Hatch as he approached it. The sun made two white spots on Uncle John’s spectacles and blotted out his eyes. Uncle John seemed the focus of the day’s heat. It shone in his face, in his voice, his walk. He opened the back passenger door from the inside. Company regulations: no passenger can sit in the front seat next to the driver. Hatch ducked inside the car. As a child, he and Jesus would take turns peering over the steering wheel of Uncle John’s gold Park Avenue. Then Uncle John would take the wheel and spin them into the world.
Take us to Fun Town.
Yeah, Uncle John. I wanna ride the Ferris wheel.
You know why they invented the Ferris wheel?
Who? Why who—
Nawl, why?
The army did it. They used it to elevate artillery spotters above the treetops.
For real?
For real.
Wow.
Uncle John pulled the cab away from the curb, down the thin black strip of street, a plane down a runway. Uncle John was the pilot, Hatch his copilot. The cab rode so smoothly that Hatch had no sense of a road under the tires, sled over snow. The sun followed at a distance. Above, clouds of many shapes drifted in the evening sky, hard and congealed the closer they were to the horizon, vaguer in outline higher up. Hatch held the binoculars carefully, for they were one of the few mementos Uncle John had brought back from his tour overseas.
The windshield stretched a veil hiding Hatch and John from the eyes of outsiders. Thick windows and the air conditioner’s hum blocked out the city’s natural night sounds. Uncle John sent the cab spinning around a corner—Hatch gripped the binoculars to keep them from sliding out of his lap—down a greased ramp; then one bounce, two bounces—the diving board stiffens—and the cab sprung out onto the expressway. Uncle John and Hatch rode through the bright hot spring evening. The buildings gave way to houses and the houses to cornfields. Countryside speckled with barns, silos, sheds, and shacks.
Are we headed to Decatur? We look like we headed to Decatur. Damn, Uncle John. We going the right way?
A shortcut.
John singing.
I’m a tail dragger. I wipe out my tracks.
I get what I wants, and I don’t come sneakin back.
A shortcut?
Uncle John took I-54, increasing speed. Hatch, you a backseat driver now? I drive every day. Don’t you think I know how to go?
I just thought—Hatch saw his face framed in the rearview mirror, then fingered the dogtags Lucifer had given him years ago. Fingered them for assurance, to know they were there at his chest. Habit. Custom. New steel organs.
I got a mean red spider
And she been webbing all over town
Gon get me a mean black spider
So I can tie her down
His face slid over to the window. Now he remembered. I-54. The expressway they always took to Camp Eon back in the Boy Scouts days. Steel mills. (Most of the city’s steel had come from here.) Yellow hard hats mushroomlike. The iron pulse of steady hammers. Showering sparks, an arc of red-hot tracers brightening night sky. Trolley tracks that ran to the mouth of Tar Lake. Bridges like hats above the lake, like upper and lower dentures that parted to permit a tongu
e-ship to enter the mouth-harbor. A mountainous ship held still on the waters. And in the distance, the low houses of Crownpin and Liberty Island. And Gracie. If you watched it long enough, the island would travel the length of your vision, float from one end of the horizon to the other.
Hatch heard bells. Baby-boot bells. Tinkle-tinkle. Round silver balls. The white ghost of Jesus’s baby boots kicked with the cab’s motion. Two white shoelaces flowed like milk streams from boots to rearview mirror. Whalelike, the back seat swallowed both him and Jesus, their eyes barely window level, excited, holding their breath. Then in Gracie’s kitchen, Jesus’s clumsy hand knocked a glass of milk off the table into Uncle John’s lap.
Uncle John rose from his seat and stood up, his chair falling backward.
Jesus blinked.
Boy, look at what you done. Uncle John’s hands, palms forward at his sides, as if displaying stigmata. He picked up Hatch’s glass of milk and poured it empty into Jesus’s lap. There, he said. See how that feel? That should teach you to think befo you make a mess.
Jesus did not move, his lap like a basin full of soapy water.
Elsa sure is fine, Uncle John said.
Thanks.
Mexican?
Nawl. I already told you. Puerto Rican. Mixed actually. Puerto Rican and—
Did you knock?
Hatch stirred in his seat. You know me, Uncle John.
Maybe I don’t. Did you knock?
Hatch said nothing.
Come on, you can tell me. Did you knock?
Nawl.
What? You didn’t knock?
Nawl. Not yet.
You crazy or something? Fine woman like that.
She—
It ain’t about her. If you fly right, you’ll never get anywhere.
Hatch scratched his chin.
Look, bitches are like cattle. Wherever you lead them, they will go.
Hatch thought about it.
You practice today?
Practice every day.
Rails Under My Back Page 15