Rails Under My Back

by Jeffery Renard Allen

  Babies grow fast. Before you knew it, Porsha was starting school, learning how to read and write and add and subtract, figuring out this and that. John would light a cigarette and begin to speak, leaning his elbow on his knees. What you learn in school today? He watched his niece with his brown eyes, dry, ready to catch sun and flame.

  How to think, Porsha would say.

  She was all in your business, surprise you, standing straight and staring, like a paper doll in a pop-up book. Why the door closed? What yall doing? Why you on top of her like that?

  Gracie and John moved to the two-flat on Seventy-second and May Street (Englewood) with a false fireplace—no chimney, all cement. Then, when Jesus was seven or so, John bought the house on Liberty Island with a real hearth where a fire could burn. Gracie put Cookie’s photograph—remember the day that you, Beulah, and Gracie bathed, dressed, and groomed Cookie and took her to the photographer—on the mantel above it: the dead muscles of Cookie’s face and the loose eyes that looked in two directions at once; a white-and-pink bow; a pink dress with white collar and black belt; black patent-leather shoes; Cookie against a background of white cloud, its imprint surrounding her body, like a gem in a box. She kept a six-pack of Big Bear malt liquor in her new refrigerator, drinking half the six days of the working week—yes, that was in those days when both you and Gracie worked on Saturdays—and drinking the rest on Sunday, finishing the last can late in the evening while her favorite show popped and buzzed on the TV screen. Stopped drinking the beer after John talked bout her so, complained how it stank so on her breath, how her gut started to swell like the toothpick-skinny drunks on Church Street, like the ever-present slow-moving Dallas with flat tires round his belly.

  THE THOUGHT OF GRACIE brought Sheila back to the Oriental woman’s face. Sheila caught the woman’s eyes. The woman did not turn away. The eyes in the reflected face continued to look at her. Sheila felt transparent under the gaze. I forgot to comb my hair? Didn’t wash my face? Got a booger in my nose? My legs ashy?

  The train arrived with a smell of hot metal. Not the one she needed. Framed in the windows, the frozen-forward faces of passengers. But they different in New York, Lucifer says. Here, the seats face forward overlooking the tracks—as if you were the conductor, you think—but there, you face the other passengers, keep yo eyes to yoself. Yes, you think, looking but not seeing, eyes turned away, curving and swerving with the tracks. The conductor shouted, STANDING PASSENGERS, PLEASE DO NOT LEAN ON THE DOORS. Cause you might fall out of the doors, like teeth spilling from a mouth. The train drew off.

  Roughnecks rolled down the platform steps. She clutched her purse strap tight, kept her hand firm on the skillet inside her purse. Her previous weapon, an open knife, Hatch’s old Boy Scout blade (cause switchblades illegal) rusty to the touch, though it still cut; carried it till that day she left it on the sink and lost it to the drain; sides, knives are slow to the cut. Used to carry a pistol, wrapped up in a white footy—really did look like a foot, cloth stretched tight—til it fell out of her purse, stomped against the kitchen linoleum and blasted a hole in the wall, inches from Hatch’s stomach. Tried Mace; one day on the bus, it released in her purse and nearly suffocated the passengers. So she settled on an iron skillet no bigger than her palm. Purse snatchers. Cutthroats. Rapists. Junkies. The mayor was even talkin bout puttin video cameras on every street corner. Fine with her. Sometimes she wished those doors would open and spill—spit?—out some of these bad niggas from the foul-and-rotten mouths of projects in Central, Eddyland, Crownpin, and South Lincoln. Kids nowadays got a patent on devil. They walk loud and talk loud and drive loud cars that zoom by in the silence of night, blaring music, shoving you out of sleep and rearranging the house. Most nights, Sheila slept through the noise, but Lucifer—His reflection in the glass of her eyes is the transparent mask of a man. The runaway world. The sharpest eyes can’t see the arrows of death, Father Tower used to say. Bad intentions cannot travel so far as good.

  The younguns in this dashing city, what do they know? Where have they been? Their eyes see nothing but their own nightmares. Father Tower used to say, There are plenty fountains of knowledge beside the roadside. It’s up to us to drink. Perhaps, if these young hoodlums could taste the cleansing sweat of labor. The way of work and knowledge are one and the same, idle body, idle mind. The devil works overtime.

  Somebody got to witness for the Lord. I’m too old. You prefer the privacy of your own Bible, though your fingers almost too tired to flip through its pages. Tired of left-handed fellowship, you left the church a few years—two?—after Father Tower’s death, after Cotton Rivers climbed to the pinnacle of Mount Zion’s rock, setting up a pulpit at either end of the stage, and he and that Cleveland Sparrow exchanging sermons, extending a long length of white Scripture between them, branched birds sharing a single worm. Said, somebody got to witness for the Lord.

  Here I am, Mother Sister. Years of seeing, Sheila knew her well. A fat yellow woman, a lump of butter, spilling into two pink house shoes. Hair pulled back into a long ponytail, stretching the lines of her face. You may not know it, but each of you is my spiritual baby. I bring words of Scripture for nourishment. The milk of salvation. I am here to lift you up so that your short arms can reach the teat of your redemption. For the Lord Christ said, As Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness to save the backslidden Israelites, so must the Son of God be lifted up, so that whosoever will believe in him should not perish but have everlasting Life.

  My children, do you want everlasting life? It is written in the Scriptures that the Lord Christ said, Lift up your eyes for the fields are white and ready to harvest, so pray to the Lord of the Harvest to send forth laborers into the field. The laborers are paid good wages. Better than the white man’s wages downtown.

  Each day, Sheila gave her a dollar and felt better for it. God needs soldiers. Tomorrow is not promised to us.

  Mother Sister wasn’t like some of these really crazy ones who got all up in yo face, a bullhorn, screaming, Repent! The wages of sin is death! The Lord will stamp your passport to hell: Blaspheme! Fornicator! Homosexual! Whore! Dope fiend! Drunkard! The crazy ones who say, God don’t tolerate this, he don’t tolerate that. Christ is coming. Take care of yo soul. No, Mother Sister wasn’t bad. Nor the Burned Man. Each day Sheila gave him money too—a quarter—while most passengers turned their faces to the window.

  Heard he really saving that money fo an operation.

  What happened to him?

  Got burned up in a car crash.

  That’d give anybody religion.

  No money could sway Lucifer. His feelings about religion had petrified into one silent shape. Once, Sheila and Lucifer had boarded a crowded bus. He found a seat and she found one behind him, both directly on the aisle. She could watch the taut ropes of his neck. The squareness of the back of his head. Whisper over his shoulder. For the next few stops, passengers crowded into the river of space that separated the two rows of seats. Stood tidal wave-tall above them, swaying to the bus’s motion. A man vacated the seat next to Lucifer and he slid over to the window, opening the vacated seat for her. Before she could rise out of her own seat, a bean-bald young man snapped down into it. Sheila started to tap his shoulder, say, Sir, this man is my husband. Would you mind? But people today full of devil. Every word was a challenge. The man fumbled in the pockets of his blazer, stealing glances at Lucifer. Hi, the man said.

  This was her opportunity. He had spoken and without venom. She saw the mug-shot profile of his face, every feature straining under a permanent smile.

  You know you hear bout so much evil these days but rarely do you hear of the wonders of God. The man waited for Lucifer’s response. Here is my chance. I could ask him, Kind sir, this man is my husband. Would you mind exchanging seats so we could sit together?

  Why, ma’m. Not at all.

  Guess so, Lucifer said. He was looking directly ahead, not at the man.

  Bet you never heard of DDT?

  DDT?


  Guess not.

  Disciples Against the Devil’s Tribulations.

  Oh.

  Oh.

  Now, do you attend church?

  No, Lucifer said, saying it more with his eyes than mouth, cause they were in constant motion, whipping back and forth between watching the man and looking straight ahead.

  Why not?

  Well, it’s kind of hard to explain.

  Try as best you can. Don’t be embarrassed.

  Well—

  I’m not asking anything from you. See, we Disciples are just a few men who get together on Thursday nights and discuss the glories of the Bible. We don’t even have a church. Sometimes we meet at the Medina Temple, or the New Riverside Multimedia Church, even the Cotton Club.

  That disco on Hayes and Twelfth?

  But most of the time, we just meet at somebody’s house. Brothers discussing the Bible’s wisdom. How does that sound to you?

  Fine.

  The young man watched Lucifer with his permanent smile.

  It’s just that, see, I’m leaving the city, so I—

  What?

  For good?

  Yes.

  Where are you moving to?

  New York.

  What? Sheila stiffened at Lucifer’s lie. You are not. Oh, I see. Clever.

  Lord. The capital of sin. They got what, six million people there?

  Ten.

  That’s a lot of sin. But you know, I’m sure DDT has a church there. Look them up and tell them you met a Disciple here who told you how God desperately needs your services.

  I will.

  You know, I used to live right over here on Forty-third. I used to stay up in the house all the time, lonely, alienated, didn’t have many relationships. You have many relationships?

  Guess so.

  You married?

  Yes.

  Good. Cause if you ain’t you could find some nice sister Disciples in New York. See, we always say, the devil put the d in evil. I used to do evil and I thought I was all alone up there in my room. See, I used to have this problem. With masturbation.

  Sheila pulled the lines of her face taut, towing in her grin.

  Yes, I would be up there in my room, my hand working up sin rather than flipping the pages of the Bible. Then I met a Disciple. He talked to me just like I’m talking to you now. I went to his house that Thursday. And these brothers were so honest they blew me away. It was an awesome experience. Right away I told them about my problem with masturbation.

  This one brother told me, Every night, pray to Desire. And I did and after seven nights I didn’t have my problem anymore. The Lord stepped in and kicked out that problem I’d had for nearly eight years. And you see, I’m not embarrassed to talk about my problem with anybody. Cause the problem means the cure. Gotta let people know about a good doctor. Ain’t that right?

  Right.

  The Disciples are just awesome. And if you gon be a Disciple, you gotta be ready to suffer for the Lord. See, people don’t want to suffer. They want a comfortable life. But every day can’t be a McDonald’s McCherry Pie day. Sometimes you got to eat just meat and potatoes. Sin lasts for only a little while. Take the s out of sin and you will get in to the kingdom. Moses and Abraham got their tickets punched to glory. Do you want to get into heaven? Do you want to go where there ain’t no pain and suffering and crime and lies and overall evil?

  Yes.

  You seem like a pretty intelligent guy. Think God can use your talents? What do you do?

  I work for UPS.

  What? You work at the airport. Crownpin. Why had Lucifer lied? He would never see this man again.

  Would you like to deliver glory in the kingdom? Doesn’t that sound awesome?

  Guess so.

  Then you must be ready to roll up your sleeves and go to work for God?

  Lucifer said nothing.

  It is no accident that I am sitting here talking to you. Let God blow you away. See, I used to have a problem with masturbation, but today I have many relationships. Cause the Bible says, the body is the temple of Christ. The body belongs to Christ. Am I right?

  Yes, Lucifer said. I’ll look up the Disciples in New York.

  Good. What kind of music do you like?

  Jazz, I guess.

  Well, I like classical music, though I listen to a bit of everything. Soul. Rap. You like those Christian rap bands?

  What?

  You ain’t never heard of them?

  No, Lucifer said. How does it sound?

  Well, I never got to hear it good. But I saw some bands on this cable station.

  Hm.

  You ever heard Peter and the Wolf?

  No.

  Awesome. I listen to it all the time where I work. You know—

  Well, Lucifer said, this where I get off.

  A SECOND TRAIN banged by the platform without slowing down. The Asian woman watched Sheila, bulging black eyes, ripe plums. Sheila caught a glimpse of something else. Roundness stretching out the thin frame, as if the woman’s belly were metal being drawn out by a magnet. The woman saw where Sheila was looking. Hid her stomach behind her small black purse. Might as well hide a watermelon behind a napkin. Can’t be done. Two of mine died on the vine.

  Hatch born seventeen summers ago, the summer of the cicadas—last year, they came a season early, mistaking spring for summer; or (perhaps) after seventeen years, too impatient to wait for summer; or (perhaps) their folded wings felt the coming heat (it would be the hottest summer in the city’s history, sky red and the soil baking your feet)—the summer after the spring that the country pulled out of the war that had called both Lucifer and John, the year the cutthroats killed the Reverend Cleveland Sparrow. Yes, niggas were changing even back then. They beat the reverend (Father is too good a word for him), made a bloody crown of his brains, punctured his body with the thorns of their ice picks, then propped him up on the altar, arms spread as if floating, over the open waters of his spilled blood. Cotton Rivers found the body of his partner in God, and he pined away in a matter of years (three?), this young man leaving behind a young wife and a new son, leaving the church in the young arms of his only son, Cotton Rivers, Junior, who the congregation knew as the New Cotton Rivers, the (now) fourteen-year-old evangelical who, through the clean channels of the TV screen, converted the pimps and prostitutes of Church Street and Cottage Grove and Stony Island and Hollywood and Broadway and all the other cesspools that flowed through this river-rhythm town. From the moment of conception, he’d given her no peace. Nausea. Diarrhea (brown rivers). Dry skin. Cramps. More diarrhea (brown lakes). She thought labor would bring blessing and release, but he didn’t want to leave her womb, fought her for thirty-six hours until the doctors had to cut her open. Then the fatigue wouldn’t quit her body. I’d been out of the hospital four months. Still tired. I mean tired. Tireda than when I was pregnant. Beulah had said it’d be a boy. They the ones tire you out. Fill you with morning sickness. Make you labor. Beulah was right. Porsha had come easy. But Hatch …

  From the first, Hatch loved words. Had to talk to him constantly or he’d cry. Sucked his bottle dry and left milk words inside the empty glass. I WANT MORE. And at night, he kept his hand at your mouth, touching, exploring. His first teeth—two buckteeth—looked like books. Had to read him a story before he went to bed and one when he got up. And he learned to read almost before he could talk. In his room, neatly stacked books cover his windowsills like row houses, many that you carried home from the Shipcos’ one stone-heavy book at a time. Following the text with his index finger, word for word. (Some books he will flip through quickly, as if his forked fingers are divining for rapidly evaporating water.) In grammar school, he always won the class spelling bee—but you had to whip his time tables into him—cept that one time the letters knotted up in his throat, and the veins in his neck strained as they tried to draw up the words, and the tears fell.

  One kindergarten afternoon (or was it Head Start?), he phoned her at the Shipcos’
. His class had gone on a field trip (to the Aquarium? Planetarium? Zoo? the Museum of Science and Industry? the Historical Society?). Our city had a black founder, Hatch said. His name was Marcel Vin. He established a trading post at the mouth of the Central River and lived there for seventeen years in a crude log cabin with a Potawatomi woman and twenty-three works of European art. Sheila, he said. I had an accident.

  What?

  I had an accident.

  What?

  An accident. I got some bowel movement in my pants.

  Just like him to say it like that. Book say it. His hands had grown books. You speak to him, and he closes the book upon one finger to keep the place. Maybe it was the books that made him turn serious. Made him stop smiling. And maybe one of the serious books put the idea in his head that God didn’t exist. One had hooked him on the theory that anything he could imagine had happened somewhere sometime. Flying monkeys. Talking roaches. Hyenas that work as stand-up comedians. One day, he approached her, face serious.

  Mamma? I got something to tell you?

  Yes?

  You ever heard of the Lord Christ?

  She said nothing. What kind of question was this? He knew religion was no joking matter. Had she not brought him up in the church? Had they not attended Father Rivers’s sermons three nights a week, where music weaved in and out of the preacher’s words, hid like termites in the wood of your Bible, soaked into the after-service corn bread, chicken, and cabbage, followed you home, echoed in your bathwater, muscled into the sack of your pillow, added an extra pump to your man’s loving, and tapped you on the shoulder when you tried to sleep?

  Well, Mary gave the Lord Christ these toy clay birds. Guess what the Lord Christ did wit them?

  You been reading your Bible? She had bought him the abridged one, the children’s edition, the version she had given Porsha years before, after Father Tower recommended it.

  Sometimes. Guess what the Lord Christ did?