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Rails Under My Back

Page 28

by Jeffery Renard Allen


  Fresh he said.

  The breath of prayers and sermons floated in the air. He has made his bed in darkness, but as long as I am in the world, I am the world’s light. Hatch’s breath grew fat. He concentrated on producing his thick music. Yes, I’m pressing on the upward way. New heights I’m gaining every day. Our Father, lover of my soul, let me to thy bosom fly. Gabriel will wrap you up in his wings and fly you out of the storm. He felt the wings of an angel hard-flapping overhead. Shall we gather at the river where bright angel feet trod? The assembled roared in front of him. Laughter touched him from behind. He turned his head to investigate. There he saw a woman among the odor of roses, standing in the doorway of the hall leading to the undertaker’s office and holding a red-and-black sailor’s cap on with both hands so that the winds of Hatch’s music would not blow it off. Dark hair spilled in deep folds. And smiling. The coiled spring of Hatch’s guts twisted and raised him from his seat. He was lifted up in a sea of music, pouring out of him, churning and eddying about him in warm spirals, burying him in a glittering shower.

  Later that night, Hatch loaded his instrument and effects into Uncle John’s trunk.

  Uncle John, take these home for me.

  What? Do I look like an errand boy?

  I know I drive a cab but—

  A fille. I met this fille. Elsa.

  Uncle John smiled. Show her who’s king. He kicked the cab into yellow motion. The sound of its backfiring faded at the end of the street.

  HATCH AND ELSA cleared the last ashes of music from the chapel.

  I like the way you play. Elsa brushed her hair back from her forehead. Her eyes were bright.

  Thanks.

  You play with a band? Her eyes burned two nails in his heart.

  I got my own band. He had to unpin the words.

  Your own band?

  Yeah. Third Rail.

  Nice name. I sing a little.

  Oh, yeah. Well, we need a backup singer.

  I don’t sing that well.

  Don’t hang your harp upon the willows.

  Elsa smiled. So you’re a poet too.

  Could be. Could be.

  FREEPORT? MY SISTER WENT THERE. Well, just for one year.

  I should talk to her.

  Elsa had moved their conversation to the seclusion of her father’s office. Are you lookin forward to going to college?

  Yes, I am. I plan to study accounting, then I’ll do my year of mortuary school.

  Massive furniture, shadow presences in the room.

  It runs in the family?

  I guess so. My dad wants me to do a year or two at the seminary.

  The seminary?

  Yes.

  Bet you already know how to preach. Yo father sure can.

  I really want to be a model.

  A model?

  Yes.

  Why you want to be model?

  What do you mean?

  You’re a talented individual. Why waste your talent?

  She thought it over, fingers at her ruminating chin. Are artists born or made?

  Made.

  So, how’s that different from modeling? Natural talent.

  He thought about it. My sister’s a model.

  Now I know I have to meet her. Are you going to introduce us?

  Well, she’s not that kind of model.

  What kind of model is she?

  NOBODY IN OUR FAMILY HAS A GRAVESTONE. Nobody.

  Why not?

  No money.

  Money? They aren’t that expensive.

  No?

  No.

  We don’t even have a car. My sister does. And my Uncle John. Hatch thought it over. People in my family barely get a decent funeral.

  You have to watch what funeral home you choose. Have you ever heard of Sleepytime Incorporated?

  I’ve seen them all over the city.

  They are nationwide. They have a warehouse where they stack all the bodies. They’ve lost a body or two here and there.

  What?

  Yeah. A coupla times they tried to convince a family to have a closed-casket funeral because they had lost the bodies. Empty casket.

  Damn.

  And they also do mass incinerating.

  What’s that?

  When they put more than one body in an oven at a time. Like they might cremate a baby with an adult. Or two kids together. The ashes get mixed up. The family thinks they have Bill’s ashes, but Bill’s are mixed with Sue’s, Larry’s, and Baby Tom’s.

  Damn.

  It happens all the time.

  I know one thing. They don’t do no good funerals down South.

  Next time somebody in your family dies, let us handle it.

  WHAT’S YOUR SIGN?

  Cancer, Hatch said.

  Pisces.

  Two fish. My sister a Pisces.

  Oh. Then she must be a good woman. Elsa smiled.

  Hatch returned it. An easy silence in the room. He looked at his watch. Wow! You know how long we’ve been talking?

  I can imagine.

  Let’s do something.

  You like Chinese food?

  My favorite.

  I know a restaurant.

  At the restaurant, Elsa showed him how to eat shrimp fried rice with chopsticks. There was something magical about it, working the sticks like puppet handles and seeing the rice rise on invisible strings to your mouth.

  Let’s have coffee, Elsa said.

  Coffee? That’s for old folks.

  So we can talk.

  Okay.

  I know a place where they have quality coffee.

  MY GRANDFATHER, MY MOTHER’S FATHER, was a cigar maker in Puerto Rico. He died long before I was born. But my father’s father died a few years ago. He had a funeral home down South and he had pictures of the old days and was always telling stories. He had two horses that pulled the funeral procession. The horses would cry if someone was going to hell. And they would stop twice if someone was going to heaven.

  Hatch and Elsa blew laughter back and forth between them.

  Who gave you those? Elsa’s fingers reached out and seized his dogtags. Blind to him, they had slipped out of the V of his open collar.

  Lucifer.

  Steam rose like a white bird. Her fingers made two hot wafers of the metal.

  Lucifer? She studied the dogtags closely. The hot metal sizzled and sang.

  My dad.

  Was he in the army?

  Yeah. He and my Uncle John.

  She studied the tags. Red shadows played over her light brown face, two small red coffins.

  This is good coffee, he said. They were drinking thick brown coffee in thimble-sized cups.

  Thanks, she said. She released the tags. They went instantly cold.

  He sipped. She sipped. He tried to keep his reckless eyeballs in check, keep them from surveying the saxophone curve of her neck, the float of her breasts.

  Who learned you this coffee? he said.

  My mother.

  She the Puerto Rican half of the family?

  She laughed, molasses-thick laughter that sweetened the air.

  Am I that funny?

  No, honey. She took his hand into her own. The sheen of his skin seemed to add a shimmer to her own. She gave his hand a light squeeze, then returned her own hand to her lap. Give me your cup.

  My cup?

  Yes.

  He handed her the thimble. She upended the cup, dumped the sediment into her saucer. She peered into the hollow. Let me read your future.

  My future. You believe in that stuff?

  She parted her lips, a light smile. She looked into the cup. He leaned forward to see what she saw. Patterns. There were actually patterns inside the cup.

  Well, what you see?

  Your future.

  Well?

  A bird.

  LET’S GO TO THE PARK.

  The park? he said. It’s winter.

  So.

  Collar turned up, he agreed. The coffee had formed a
warm sanctuary inside him. He felt free from the fears that had choked him in the funeral parlor. They left the coffee shop and took the train to Circle Park.

  They strolled in the cold night. The sky sat awake above them. The air clean and stinging the nose. From a vast black vault, stained with city lights and stars—the floodlights of heaven—millions of snowflakes drifted down silently in a straight path. Brilliant moonlight transfigured her red-and-black sailor’s cap, her black wool scarf and matching gloves, her body-hiding coat which reached down to her ankles, and her black leather boots that came above her knees. They strolled through darkness spangled with wet snowflakes. The night widened around them. Except on those lucky occasions when the moon shone just right, Elsa’s face was lost in the shadows. Tracing a huge circle, Hatch and Elsa covered the entire park.

  They found a quiet bench. He sat down facing her, so close their knees touched. They spoke in the perfumed darkness. He saw her in sharp detail in the moonlight. He hoped the darkness would protect his face, make him appear even the slightest bit handsome. He took both her hands in his. He kissed one hand, gently, a small trembling bird.

  In the subway, they held hands while the panting monster of a train screamed down the tracks. He took her home through the flying underbelly of the city and on the El, the city’s high skin above. She invited him inside. The Bishops had painted every room of their house yellow, pink, or purple.

  You know us Puerto Ricans, Elsa said.

  Damn.

  It’s even too much for Dad sometimes.

  The colors mean something?

  Nothing that I know of.

  Wood furniture, banisters, walls, and floors. Hatch had never seen so much wood in a home. A forest in a house. Damn.

  I had a wonderful time, she said.

  Me too.

  She kissed him with a foreshadowing of tongue.

  He ran back to the El, with a thread of breath almost too thin to pull him up the stairs. Caught another train. He sang silently while it barreled down the tracks.

  Lil piece of wheat bread

  Lil piece of pie

  Gon have that yaller gal

  Or else I’ll die

  The words almost spilled into sound. Once home, he tried to settle back into his skin.

  WINTER DEEPENED. HUGE wet flakes of snow streamed past windows. Gray slush in the streets. Then the hawk wind rose from the lake. Frozen birds rattled in the cold.

  A crystal net of ice covered the city. Hatch rose early to meet Elsa in the privacy of her father’s office. A patch of pink sky gave the illusion of warmth in the room. Hatch. A smile warmed her face. He was as welcome as violets in March.

  ELSA MET HIM at the door in a black dress of ruffled organza and forearm-length black gloves. A cross gleamed gold on her bosom. She accepted his bouquet. Aren’t you sweet? She buried her face in the flowers. I got something for you. She pinned a gardenia in his lapel. Pinned one to her dress.

  Hatch led her by the arm toward Uncle John’s borrowed cab. Elsa’s trailing bows swept a clean path.

  Are we going in that cab?

  Yeah. My Uncle John loaned it to me.

  I could have used one of the limos. Never be afraid to ask.

  It wasn’t that. I had the money. See, it’s my Uncle John’s cab. My Uncle John. See, well, it’s sorta hard to explain.

  Please, Uncle John. Jus this one time. Special.

  That’s my livelihood. Why don’t you ask Porsha?

  Porsha? Man, she scared to drive her car. Know she ain’t gon let me drive it.

  EVERYBODY BLEW GAGE and juiced back and jumped black. The dancers rocked the hall, a big sea-tossed ship. Elsa shook her butt like a rattle. She was as good a dancer as he was a clumsy one.

  Beulah. Why they call it the Lindy Hop?

  Cause Lindbergh hopped the ocean in that plane of his.

  Hours later, white exhaust trails guided them from the dance to a cruise ship. The ship set out in full moonlight from a harbor of colors. Sang softly on the waters. Hatch pointed to the cathedral’s cone towering above the docks. A flock of stars. He and Elsa leaned on the railing and studied the sedentary waters of Tar Lake. A big fish jumped on a string of moonlight, thrashing the very heart of the water. You see that? Lightning and thunder far out on the lake threatened rain. They tossed their gardenias onto the waters. Sailed into the early hours of the morning.

  In the back seat of Uncle John’s cab, Hatch and Elsa harbored the night. The rolled-down windows offered a cool breeze. Dark shone clear as day. May had drawn out every leaf on the trees. Hatch nibbled with soft kisses at Elsa’s forehead, her eyes, her cheeks, her lips, and her neck. He felt the spires of her nipples poke through the soft dress. He tasted the moist loin of her mouth. Then he played the slow length of his tongue over her fast body. He put out his hand to fondle her charms. Elsa railed one word, Respect, then fit the pieces of her clothes together. His hands stopped but his mouth could continue. He could Spokesman her. Baby, a circle is a circle, an angle an angle. He could Uncle John her. Bitch, why don’t you jus relax. You know you want it. He could run Jimi’s voodoo down. Well, I march right up to a mountain. Crumble it to dust in the palm of my hand. It’s our own little world here tonight, he said. So let’s forget about yesterday or tomorrow. The time is now.

  Your watch is fast, she said. She moved into her own seat. Sat on her own vine, under her own fig tree.

  There was a hard silence in the cab.

  I wish

  I was a catfish

  Swimming in the deep blue sea

  I’d have all you pretty women fishing after me

  Look, I’m not mad at you, she said. She put a light kiss on his lips. The hairs on his body rose treelike. Then the bird left the branch to return to the sky. Swift time flew on silent wings. Months later, Elsa was still sitting under her tree and his bird was still in the sky. She had yet to uncover the nest, reveal the unknown treasures of her inner life.

  HE LEFT THE TRAIN, stepped out of a warm steel tub into naked air. He ran the five blocks to Elsa’s house. (He was almost twenty-five minutes late. Inez was to blame for that.) House in sight, he slowed his feet. Pressed his hand into his chest to congeal his scattered breath. Searched for sweat under his arms (found none). He took the stairs one at a time. He rang the bell. Politely waited. He rang the bell. Politely. Waited. He pushed the doorbell again. Waited. Polite. Patient. His blood flushed and faded. He pushed the doorbell. Then he held it, held it, held it—couldn’t let it go, finger and ringer electric one—so long that his finger began to hurt. The world fell silent, intent upon his response. He ran to the nearest phone. The phone handle mocked the rude round rhythm of Elsa’s mouth. He dialed her number. Heard the answering machine click.

  HE FUMBLED HIS KEYS before the door. The keys clanked loud as chains. He managed the keys in the lock. Pushed the door open. Night invaded the house. Wrapped it in longing sleep. Elsa. Elsa. Elsa. His fingers found the telephone in the dark. Dialed the number. The answering machine clicked.

  Hi, Elsa. It’s Hatch. I was jus there. We musta had a mix-up. Guess I’ll try you again in the morning.

  His eye leaked, dripping sight. The bed called, reverse gravity. Pulled him up the stairs. Pulled him beneath the covers. He sank down into the feathers of nested sleep.

  16

  LUCIFER DECIDED to return to Union Station for a final drink. He longed for the table near the window where he had sat earlier that day with John. The sun poured yellow surprise into his eyes. The bar was closed, the desired table sealed off from sight and sound behind a steel blind. Strange hours. He would have to find another bar. Bounded on the one side by Union Station and on the other by shops, the large square curved out of sight like a pebble skipped over water. Bus lines cut through the square from every direction. What he could not find here he could find in the narrow side streets that flowed into it.

  It did not take him long to find a bar. He entered to a red carpet stained in places. The bar was filled with a f
ashionable crowd who blew opaque smoke and white laughter into mustard-colored walls. He found a table before two narrow windows overlooking the square. Hot-looking brilliant clouds swelled beyond the glass. He winked. A waitress watched him with eyes of shocking blue. She smiled with blood-smeared lips.

  What can I get you?

  He told her. She got it.

  He could hear the clear ringing sound of wheels drawn close to the curb. He turned his glass around in his hand. Bubbles rose from its depths. He sunk back with collapsed shoulders. He had spent the entire afternoon searching for the right gift for Sheila. Far beneath feeling, it rested like a sunken treasure at the bottom of his pocket. Painly obtained, easily forgotten.

  He emptied his glass at a gulp. Waitress, another.

  He looked out into the fading sun and saw two reflections of the waitress going from table to table, drink to drink. Outside shade and inside light made mirrors of the windows. It was getting late. He reached for his glass. Brown, round, and empty: a bird’s nest. Ah, he had forgotten. The liquor had flown out of the glass and into his belly. And hatched. He could feel young life moving through his body. He rose. His shadow remained seated. He gave his shadow a moment to get it together. His vision contracted the two waitresses in one. My check, please. The waitress scratched on a pad with a beak-sharp pencil. He paid his bill. Slipped a tip into the waitress’s flapping soiled apron. He smiled his best smile. She had attended him with the soft and careful movements of a nurse.

  Thank you, sir.

  You are quite welcome.

  Have a pleasant evening.

  The same.

  With that, he turned to the door. The knob reached out to shake his hand. Come again.

  I will. Holding the knob in his hand, he turned once more to the waitress. Then he went out, the sun dropping behind him. A belt of shade gradually began to rein in the day. The ark of his head rocked unsteadily on the mountain of his neck. He took his breath backwards. He directed his steps back to Union Station, his shadow crawling along beside him. The streets looked unfamiliar, though he had walked them dozens of times. The sidewalk thick with people in evening colors hurrying in all directions. Rush hour. He looked at every couple as they passed. Watched every moving figure for some gesture, some form, some trace of Sheila. Seeing him, pedestrians turned to look at each other. Cars hissed on the wet street. (Had it rained?) Their movement made him aware of his own. Thoughts of Sheila walked in the open beside him. He found himself in front of the bar.

 

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