SOME SPIRITS?
Thanks. She checked her figure in the mirror. Smoothed her blouse. Pulled her skirt here or there.
What would you like?
Zinfandel, if you have it.
I do, but I don’t think it’s chilled.
That’s fine.
He found the bottle. Popped the cork. Waved it under his nose. His face spoke fire. He put the cork under her nose to smell.
Umm.
He filled a stemmed glass and she accepted it, water cool. He didn’t pour himself one. Sat the bottle on the card table in easy reach.
She sipped. Umm. It’s good.
Yes, I bet. The smell was delightful. Owl lit a cigarette—his hand shielding his eyes from the unbearable brilliance of the flame—and in its flare she saw that he was laughing silently. That was great. With rapid wrist motion, he waved the flame out. I always like working with you. He leaned forward and tossed the black match. It sounded against the metal jar lid. He sucked heavy. Lifting his chin, he blew the smoke high. Professional.
She waved the white words away from her face.
Oh, I’m sorry. How stupid of me. The smoke. He reached for the improvised ashtray.
Wait. Don’t put it out.
Are you sure?
Positive.
Smoke formed a white gown above their heads.
I thank you for allowing me one. He sucked. I’ve been tryin to quit. But I can’t seem to do without them.
They say that it’s not easy.
His eyes followed her words. No, it isn’t. It comes with the work. You know me. He dried his face and hair with a towel. Slave to the image. He folded the towel into a sharp square. Dropped it into a wicker basket. Sweat had formed two crescent moons under his arms.
Her body started to respond to the cool and quiet machine-generated air. Sweat froze on her skin. Her nails raked away frost.
But I like working with you. He sucked on his cigarette. You’re easy to work with. Our sessions always go so quick. Most of the models, you have to tell them everything. He stubbed out his half-smoked cigarette in the jar lid, a flattened top hat. They own no poses or gestures. Or they copy something they saw in a magazine. But you—
Porsha sipped her wine. She didn’t know what to say. Didn’t want to say anything. Wished he would stop talking. Just stop talking. Allow her to enjoy her wine and the habitual calm that followed a shoot.
Then you have to shoot the same shot six, seven, eight times. Stupid. They can never get it right.
I try to do my job.
Waste a whole day. Time is money.
She finished her glass. Well, guess I’ll be going. She aimed the stemmed glass at his chest.
He took it. Sat it next to the unfinished bottle. How about another glass?
No. One is fine.
He studied her face. It’s been a pleasure.
Same here.
You got any other—
A video later in the week.
Good, good. He tried to light another cigarette. The match wavered from side to side in his unsteady hand. Any plans for tonight?
Not really. I mean—
Oh, don’t explain. I just thought I’d ask. We’ve been working together how many years now? Six? Seven?
Ten.
Ten?
Uh huh.
Ten?
Yes.
That long?
She nodded.
Are you sure?
Yes.
Time flies.
So they say.
And I hardly even know you.
I got a man. Her words pushed his face back. She hadn’t said it. Some forceful other had taken control of her mouth.
Pardon?
She snorted. Let me put it this way. My granddaddy, well, my great-granddaddy—he used to say, Never chase two rabbits at the same time.
Rabbits? His small forehead was lined up with her lips. She considered putting a hot glob of spit there. You don’t understand. I—
Wait. Jus wait. She shoved her palms at him. I already told you, I gotta man.
Hey, you got me wrong. His chin was so thrust forward that the muscles in his neck stood out. I was just tryin to—
Whatever.
He dropped his head. She studied him. His head, cow-bent in shame—I’m sorry—chewing the cud of his words. He eased his head up. Their eyes held for a moment.
Look, I’m sorry.
No, I understand.
I’m really sorry. One of those days. I have some things on my mind. Deathrow. I didn’t mean to snap at you.
Hey—he stubbed out his cigarette in the jar lid—it’s okay. He stepped into touching distance. We all have bad days.
For a moment she did not answer. She crossed to a window overlooking the curved lake and the city’s charted skyline. I’m sorry. She watched the bronze world outside the window.
Hey, it’s okay. Tell you what, let me give you a few. On the house. Your boyfriend would like them.
Thanks. You’ve done enough.
Please, allow me.
No, really.
Are you sure?
Yes.
Well, enjoy your day.
Thanks. I will. She faced him.
If you don’t mind my asking, what’s your boyfriend’s name?
Clarence.
Clarence. Well, tell Clarence I said hello.
SHE ROLLED LIKE COAL from the oven of the building into fierce afternoon light. Unclean light. The sun immobile in the sky. Yellow-red-white fault-finding color. Nothing to fear. Unlike some models’, her deep black skin suffered no aging in the light. The sidewalk gripped her feet with concrete hands. Her legs said stop, sit down, lie down, go to bed—right here in the crowded street. She heard a gurgling in the depths under the sidewalk. Long ago, she had studied a map of the city’s lower parts, the sewage system with its drainage lines and tunnels. The hollow skeleton beneath the city’s concrete-and-steel skin. She could smell heat rise from her body, buttered with sweat.
Yuck. I need a bath.
Two tall stacks pumped metal steam in thick clouds that thinned and streamed a white message high above the rooftops: BATH. Ah yes, of course. Why hadn’t she thought of it? The New Cotton Rivers’s bathhouse. She dragged her stinking body there.
Once inside, she presented her membership card and found a cubicle. She quickly undressed. Eased the fresh shroud over her head and pulled it over her work-slick body. Her shroud ran silk against her exploring fingers. It was soft and loose. Brushed against the tops of her bare black feet. She tiptoed across the marble floor to the chapel.
The New Cotton Rivers believed that the body must be heard. You must rub Christ right into your bones so the flesh can sing praise. The Prophet 1 Faith Stimulator—patent pending—was the machine he had invented for this purpose.
The white-gloved attendant taped a black cross over each eyelid. The crosses felt like fingers, touching her, caressing, probing. Each cross transmitted three thousand biblical pulses a second. The attendant attached a crystal crown and made sure that it fit snugly around her forehead. Holding the sleeve of her robe, he guided her across the white tile to the freshly drawn bath. The water appeared still, motionless, but her feet entered and spoke of bubbling warmth.
She lowered herself slowly into the perfumed waters—frankincense and myrrh—careful not to disturb the crystals at the bottom. Crystal serves to stabilize and balance our energetic system. It has positive and negative poles. It orients us more than guides us, concentrates the attention and drives our spirit to God.
Wine?
Yes, please.
Red or white?
Zinfandel. If you have it.
I’m sure we do. One moment please.
She drew up her legs, a bird with folded wings. The attendant returned shortly with her glass.
Thank you.
Enjoy.
Once the attendant left, she disrobed.
Toes arched on the white porcelain knobs, she studied her steeple
d knees. Her skin tingled in the touching water. She felt the sweet solid flesh of her own bones. Wet pressure enveloped her whole body, squeezing the breath from her lungs. A pain shot through her, and another and another, then a distant echo of the first, contracting and expanding in slowly accelerating rhythm. Mercury, her blood rose and sunk, rose and sunk. Warmth spread below her waist and relaxed the knot in her belly. A familiar feeling. When she got her period, she would sit in a tub of hot water all day to cool her joints.
Clean reflections played over her dark thighs.
Little Sally Walker
Sitting in her saucer
Weeping and crying for someone to love her
Rise, Sally, rise
Wipe ya weepin eyes
Put ya hands on ya hips
And let ya backbone slip
Shake it to the east
Ah, shake it to the west
Shake it fo the one you love the best
She saw blood beneath the water and thought the soap had cut her. She tried to use her washcloth as a sponge. Squeezed it in between her legs. Red roots extended beneath the water.
Lula Mae!
The roots lengthened.
Lula Mae!
Girl, hush all that screamin. Lula Mae shut the door behind her. What’s wrong wit you. She approached the tub. The blood reflected on her white face. That’s when Porsha knew, the blood belonged to her as wind belonged to sail.
We better get ready to go up to the Rexall, Lula Mae said. She untied her headscarf and thrust it at Porsha. Here, this a clean rag. I jus put it on. Dam your blood.
WHITE LIGHT FELL gray as new rust on the sidewalk. The crowd swept her along, a cork in the current. A wind blew now but she could not tell from which direction. Something long and wet pushed up her arm and licked her elbow. Scat! The dog trotted off, trailing the red leash of his tongue. The dome of Union Station rose up ahead, surrounded by its shops and stores, a tidy sweep of stone. Her shadow ran two straight lines along the marble walls of the station, veined green and black.
The earth is the Lord’s and the fullness thereof, the world and all that dwell therein.
What you say? The cashier spoke from the glass wicket. Light flooded it. The cashier moved as if swimming.
Told you
I got a right
I got a right
To the Tree of life
What? The cashier took her money. Do you want a transfer?
Cherubs nested in the neural tangle inside her skull, the dense network of cordlike fiber—handpicked by God himself—that obtained, stored, and transmitted information from the front backwards. She watched their wings, veined and transparent, insectlike. Scriptured wings. Walk with Jehovah, shoulder to shoulder. The Prophet 1 Faith Stimulator patent pending had done its work.
What?
She charged through the turnstile, boarded the train, found a seat, and turned her face to the window. The train pulled into motion. The windows shook, drummed deep inside her. Don’t bother me none. Her body was stone.
A legless man came rolling down the aisle on a wooden board. He rattled his change-filled can. Give if you can. Rattle and roll. Give if you can. Rattle and roll. She took a quarter from her purse, leaned forward into the aisle, and, like a game contestant, tossed the quarter at the moving can. She missed. He picked it up with stained fingers. Flipped it into his can. Looked at her with red eyes. Said through his masklike beard, That’s the way yo do it. He rattled and rolled to the next car.
The nerve. She settled back into her seat.
She saw a brilliant sun through the window. A few sailing (fishing?) vessels speckled the lake. Flocks of phosphorescent birds. Wards Tower loomed over the Loop—a towering mass of soaring walls reflected in the terminal black glow of its windows—against a radiant sky, a mile-high, gray and black tombstone. The city was a flat prairie that spread outward from the lake. No mountains or other natural formations to relieve the endless vistas of water, land, and sky. But cliffs and peaks constructed out of steel, glass, and stone. She saw a plume of smoke rise from the harbor, fan out and lift, black fingers reaching for the sun.
SUNLIGHT TEARS THE RAFT APART beam for beam tides and tongues stream metal and a breeze to witness the hour you mud-colored creature water wiping out the salt of your wounds rocking cliffs pearl-colored clouds. The circle closes, the net is being hauled in. You ride the monster’s back, sheeted with flame, a live rocket. Avoid its sprout, red tentacles, flaming vines. Dawn ruins it. Wakes of yellow flame. Seaweed. A thousand years deep.
She pinched her leg to force herself to stay awake. Coffee? No way. Bad for your breadwinning body. Glad she hadn’t driven. Once, stalled in choked traffic, she had drifted asleep at the wheel to be awakened by a concert of furious honking.
A hot wish rose in her body. Deathrow. With his body she could exhaust all the day’s games and pretense. Deathrow.
15
THE NIGHT HELD STILL outside the rolling train window. The glass framed a clean black box. Hatch reached for Elsa’s hair. Smooth and black, pulled tight in a ponytail, or combed forward—this he hated—a curved wing on each cheek. He reached for her waiting scent. Dream it to yourself. Elsa entered the night spaces of his brain.
The cleanly dressed congregation greeted one another in the bustling calm following Sunday service. He knelt on the podium, prayer-fashion, and placed his guitar into its padded case, soft, shapely, a protective womb. Case/guitar he gripped close, then hoisted it up and slung it over his shoulder like a rifle.
That was glorious. Reverend Ransom rolled forward, polished shoes—twin reflections of Hatch on the toes—inches above the red-carpeted podium floor. He took Hatch aside—Abu was still packing up his drum set—and discreetly produced the weekly cash.
Thank you. Hatch took the cash and quickly divided it into two equal portions.
That was simply glorious.
I’m glad you enjoyed it.
Reverend Ransom continued to hover above the floor, quiet, smiling into Hatch’s face. I have something else for you. He produced a business card. Floated it over to Hatch. CARIBE FUNERAL HOME. A CENTURY OF EXPERIENCED CARE FOR YOUR ETERNAL NEEDS. Explained: Close friend and colleague, the Reverend Drinkwater K. Bishop, was in desperate need of a musician for his funeral services. Go see him tomorrow. The Lord does provide. Hatch quickly slipped the card into his pocket.
The following afternoon, Hatch met the preacher-mortician in the floral chambers of his office. The undertaker explained, fingering his paintbrush mustache, that he had tired of the typical organ sound. Every funeral parlor had one. Even the angels are bored. He wanted an instrument that sounded equally celestial. My chariots need some new shoulders at the wheel, he said.
Hatch couldn’t stand funerals. Down-home spooks in their Sunday best. The chemical stench of preserved death. Dearly departed cramped in the casket. (Strange to see how death gets hold of the flesh.) White-skinned Dave eternally at rest in the black casket. Uncle John puts a brick of E&J—Old Rocking Chair, Sheila said, that was Sam and Dave’s drink—in his stiff pocket. Bad enough he’d drink you out of house and home, Sheila said. Bad enough he wouldn’t lift a finger to help raise those kids. He was the biggest liar. Oh, he could lie. Told Lula Mae that I smoke reefer. Big mouth—her tongue flopping up and down like a vessel on stormy sea—Beulah commenced to whooping and hollering. Sam, if I hada just been there to hold up your head. The preacher—Rise in the flesh up to heaven—resurrected the dead with the saliva of his voice. Once at the cemetery, the pallbearers (in ant formation) carry the morsel of casket to the rim of the grave. Dust dust and ashes, fly over my grave. And he had never played one, but he took the assignment.
IT WAS A CAB like all the others, small and functional, bug-shaped. Aerodynamic. Uncle John, yo cab ride smooth as a Cadillac.
Don’t it. Spokesman worked on it.
Hatch, Uncle John said. Bet you don’t know this one.
When Adam and Eve was in the Garden of Eden
They
didn’t know til the good Lord walked out
Say, when Adam and Eve was in the Garden of Eden
They didn’t know til the good Lord walked out
Eve turned around and soon she found out
Uncle John, that’s corny.
Where Abu?
That nigga sleep. He was sposed to come and help me with my gear.
You ain’t get him in on the gig?
The—
That’s yo running buddy.
The undertaker didn’t ask fo no drummer.
Uncle John shook his head.
Well—
Uncle John kept shaking his head.
Maybe next time.
How he payin? The undertaker I mean.
Good.
Good?
Yeah. Real good.
Good for you. Get that money.
CARIBE FUNERAL HOME swam into focus. The letters formed large bright yellow boxes like at a supermarket.
Thanks, Uncle John.
Break a leg.
THE FUNERAL HOME was an apple, red outside—cherry-wood panels—and white—oak walls and pews—inside. The assembled marched like a long line of black ants up to the raised coffin. Small clouds of handkerchiefs at their faces. Wept before the body stuffed in eggshell velvet in a gleaming bronze casket. Looped back to their seats.
Preacher Bishop started them out slow. Brothers and sisters, how often I have gathered thy children together, even as a hen gathereth her chicken under her wings. But such is the life of man.
Yes.
Hatch whipped organlike waves from his guitar.
Because Adam fell from grace, each of us must fall into the hands of sin, let Death lower us into the grave.
That’s right.
Reverend Bishop caught fire in the assembled’s faces.
But the grave is not our home. I say, the grave is not our home.
Lord said it ain’t.
As newborn babes desire the sincere milk of the Word that they may grow thereby, you gather at the table of my sermon.
Take yo time.
Let us sit at the Lord’s table. His breasts are full of milk and his bones are moistened with marrow.
Preach.
Brothers and sisters, one of ours has fallen but we must keep the bread of life fresh.
Rails Under My Back Page 27