Rails Under My Back

by Jeffery Renard Allen

  AN OLD MAN sat in the seat opposite his, profile stamped by white light. His back facing the forward motion of the train. He directed his age-weakened eyes at Lucifer. Hi. He extended his hand, perfectly pointed and ridged, a flint arrowhead. I’m Reverend Van.

  Lucifer took the hand, hard and cool as money. The reverend shook firm and sharp, machinelike. Lucifer Jones.

  Glad to meet you.

  You too. The reverend switched his long thin legs to the left, like a gate allowing a ship (Lucifer) to enter dock. Lucifer sat down in his seat—How did he know that I was sitting here? How did he know that I wanted to sit down?—and tried to be comfortable. Every nerve in his body alive. Strangers steel us.

  Hope you don’t mind me sitting here? The reverend returned his legs to their original position. The gate closed; only the reverend could open it.

  Not at all. Lucifer’s skin was hot. Fire stirred about him.

  My car was too cold. So I decided to change.

  Lucifer watched the moving words lift from the reverend’s long phallic neck. He’s a preacher. I’m riding with a preacher. Not what he had imagined: a long, quiet ride, the steady soothing rumble of the train.

  Looks like we gon share this ride. The preacher’s right eye was completely red, a broken blood vessel.

  Yes.

  I’m always happy to make a new acquaintance. The preacher’s Dobb—ah yes, tight-fitting to hide his preacher head—sat on the empty seat next to him. Preacher-typical. His egg-shaped head contained the secret yolk of life.

  Me too. Lucifer tasted his teeth. Whiskey had failed to burn away the sleep. He would have to brush them.

  Where you headed?

  New York.

  Me too.

  I knew it. Jus my luck.

  I’m attending my brother’s funeral.

  Sorry to hear that. Bet you gon preach his funeral. Probably be around to preach mine. Preachers never die. The preacher smelled like the past in his dark—black? brown?—three-piece suit. I bet he’s had that suit twenty-five years. Lucifer heard the tight heart beating inside his vest.

  He lived on Amsterdam Avenue. You know where that is?

  Uptown. Probably in Harlem.

  Yes. Harlem. His wife gave me the address. The preacher fisted his left lapel and threw open his blazer, revealing the shiny vest. His free hand searched in the small vest pocket. Discovered a strip of paper luminous with grease stains. He handed—lines ran like dark roads on the old man’s palm—Lucifer the paper. There. The preacher’s finger indicated numbers scrawled across a bus transfer. Lucifer pretended to read them.

  I see. Lucifer nodded.

  She told me to take a cab from the train station. Said it should cost no more than eight dollars.

  Probably so.

  Sounds like you know New York City.

  Not really.

  You ever been to New York City?

  Once or twice. New York and Home: two cities sailed together; he dreamed about one while he lived in the other.

  Furrows in the earth last for three months. Furrows in the water come back together.

  Lucifer sought slow understanding. The preacher’s serious mood would not taint him. He would not allow it. Damn if he would.

  I probably won’t even recognize him.

  Who?

  My brother.

  Oh.

  He never sent pictures. He wrote or called me once a year. That was about it. We had no reason to see each other. This will be the first time he ever heard me preach. And I’m sure he’ll be listening. Sure. He moved to New Orleans in 1928. Then Memphis for a few years, then Chicago, then Detroit, then Los Angeles, finally New York City, Harlem. He hated the world.

  Lucifer thought about something courteous to say and thinking found nothing.

  What about you?

  Me?

  Why are you going to New York City?

  To see my brother.

  He lives there?

  No. Well, not exactly. It’s a long story.

  Well, we’ve got fifteen hours, I believe.

  Lucifer said nothing. Nothing to be told.

  I understand, the preacher said. The necessities of blood.

  Yes, Lucifer said, not knowing what else to say.

  What’s your brother’s name?

  John.

  John. The preacher broke the word between his fingers. John. Be kind to your brother, for he is just a ship in the ocean of time searching for a harbor.

  Lucifer studied the preacher’s wrinkled skin, legends or biblical passages written beneath it. So the preacher thinks he’s a prophet.

  I’m sorry. I’m not trying to pry.

  No need to apologize.

  I like to talk. The first sign of old age is all the talking cause you can’t do much else.

  Lucifer attempted a laugh.

  Where you from?

  Lucifer told him.

  Oh yes. I often preach there. You know Mount Zion Church?

  I used to know one called that, years ago, but it’s probably not the same church.

  It probably is. The preacher was looking directly at Lucifer’s forehead. A red stalactite reflected in his white eye. Ah, the red widow’s peak. He had forgotten to shave it.

  Excuse me, Lucifer said. He tried to rise from his seat.

  You see—the preacher’s wing tips flopped like catfish—I got a few years—

  I’ll be right back.

  —but I try to travel and spread the truth.

  That’s good, Lucifer said. Excuse me. I need to use the bathroom.

  Maybe before God calls me home—the red eye was looking into a new country—I’ll carry the gospel to another land.

  The solid front of words knocked Lucifer back into his seat. The preacher must be deaf. All that screaming in church. That would be nice.

  I’m from Memphis. Live there, that is. Born in—

  Memphis? My wife’s from there.

  Maybe she knows my church. Here’s my card.

  Lucifer took it. Thanks. Pretended to read it. Buried it in his shirt pocket.

  Being that your wife’s from there, you’ve visited?

  No. I’ve never been down South. Well, except when I—

  You should visit.

  I plan to. The world sped past. Lucifer wanted to sit here quietly and alone and watch it. Perhaps study his map of New York City. (So long since he’d been there.)

  Memphis used to be a nice place. Now everybody got bars on their doors. The world’s changed so.

  Yes.

  We hurt ourselves. Cain killing Abel. If we had any sense we wouldn’t be stealin from other po folks. Socrates said, Teach your mouth to say no. Black people are petty thieves. That’s the message of Jesus and the ten lepers.

  Lucifer didn’t know the parable.

  But we still got some good folks in Memphis. You should visit.

  I plan to.

  Come by my church anytime.

  Thanks.

  You and your wife. You can stay with me.

  Thanks.

  My wife ain’t living. God called her home.

  Sorry to hear that.

  She had bad kidneys. She had to drink one beer a day and keep her insides clean. By the time she lay back on her deathbed, she developed a round belly. Everybody thought she was pregnant, about to give birth to our sixth child. But you see, God been good to me.

  Oh no. Here it comes. Forcing me to go to church, right here on this train. Then he’ll shout Lord! and pass around his collection plate. Why does everyone want to talk religion to me? Lucifer was tired of the small predictable truths, gilded platitudes, humming homilies.

  I got married in 1933. My wife was nineteen. We were married for forty-five years. God been good.

  Lucifer smiled.

  I was born in 1910. That makes me how old?

  Lucifer told him.

  And I still got my health. And I have plenty to live on. I collect rent on three houses I own. I get eighty-five dollars a week from m
y congregation. And I get eight hundred eighty-nine dollars a month in pension.

  What sort of work did you do? Why did I ask that?

  Railroad.

  Oh yeah? One of my wife’s uncles—he thought about And’s relationship to Sheila: his wife’s great-aunt’s husband—worked for the railroad.

  Which railroad?

  I’m not sure. But he always talked about it.

  I started out working in the roundhouse. That’s where all the trains come in. I polished parts and kept the engines shining. Then they promoted me to switchman. My job was to open and close the track. I made forty cents an hour in 1941. In September I got a raise to fifty cents. In December I got promoted to seventy cents. Not bad money in those days.

  Not at all.

  Would you take my bag down? The preacher pointed to the luggage rack above their heads.

  Sure.

  The preacher adjusted his legs to allow Lucifer to stand. Lucifer slid the suitcase—old and heavy; It’ll last forever—from the overhead rack, balancing his body against the moving train—the train was spinning through Pennsylvania; Lucifer could see the drift of it all, the black face of a ridge, then stretched land below tree-covered mountains—and gently placed it on the preacher’s lap.

  Thanks.

  No problem. Lucifer retook his seat.

  The preacher snapped the latches and disappeared inside the open suitcase. Placed two wedges of tinfoil on the suitcase—a makeshift table—and began to unwrap them. Have some. A pork chop sandwich blazed from the preacher’s outstretched palm.

  No, thank you.

  Are you sure?

  I already ate.

  The best time of my life was when I was struggling. The preacher took an anxious bite from his pork chop sandwich. God has been good to me.

  Not God again. Lucifer wanted to tell the preacher to shut up about God. He mouthed a silent prayer for God to shut the preacher’s mouth.

  He gave me five children. The preacher chewed white words. And almost a sixth. The preacher started on a second wedge of sandwich. My wife could make one chicken go far. And as we sat at the table, each child would tell a story. The preacher disappeared behind his open suitcase. Reappeared with a triangle of tinfoil. His careful fingers opened it. Revealed a piece of sweet potato pie with raisins. Have some.

  No, thanks.

  I taught my kids the importance of instruction. The preacher ate the pie with three bites. I always told them, Do your best. The preacher brought a handkerchief white to his face. Cleaned his mouth and hands. Picked orange string from his teeth. Sucked his fed teeth. You have kids?

  The preacher’s question ran through Lucifer’s life like an accusing voice. Yes, Lucifer said. Two. A son and a daughter.

  We were poor but my wife always kept the children clean. There’s no excuse for not keeping yourself clean.

  The preacher’s voice strapped Lucifer in tightening circles of anger. Would you like something to drink? I could go to the dining car and—

  No, thanks. I got something right here. For the third time, the preacher leaned into his open suitcase. Leaned back into his seat with a mason jar full of tea dark as the old leather suitcase. Buoyant cubes chimed against the glass. The preacher unscrewed the lid. And when we could, my wife made each child their favorite dish. The preacher tilted his head back. Drank slow and deep, his long throat working the liquid. He screwed the lid back on the jar. Things were bad. The preacher folded the tinfoil into neat squares. We had five kids to clothe and feed. Returned the squares and the mason jar to his suitcase. We had two girls in college. And the bill collectors threatened to throw me in jail. The water was up to here—the preacher held the edge of his hand before his nose—but God didn’t let me drown.

  OUTSIDE THE WINDOW, the slums of West Philly, rows of two-flat brick houses—two symmetrical windows on each floor, a small porch, wooden rails—twins of the flat brick houses in South Lincoln. Light made the houses transparent. Lucifer could see women with perfect breasts, men with penises naturally contoured, whiskey brawlings, bare vineyards, branching trees of crystal, tall limbs bending overhead, triangular groves, white grass, fat speckled fish, and violets he could not reach. The train shook the window up and down; images swam, paperweight objects gravity-free. And just as suddenly, green forestry, the Philly river, through the window opposite the aisle downtown Philly, its colonial spires, its arcades like a giant’s stiff legs, arching cupolas and rooftops, and highways of blackened stone. The sun faded in a tunnel. The train shoved out the other side and pulled into a city of iron lace. A bridge curved black in blue air, both ends invisible. (Bridge cables?) Thirtieth Street station. The train pulled to a stop. Whistling trains punctuated the distance (silence). Some passengers exited. Others hurried on.

  This must be a switching point, the reverend said.

  I see.

  We should be moving shortly.

  Good.

  The train started to move, in reverse direction.

  Hey, Lucifer said. We’re going in the wrong direction.

  Relax, the reverend said. It always does that.

  28

  I’M GHOST.

  I know. Ain’t seen or heard.

  I been busy.

  Ain’t we all?

  So you found me.

  Didn’t think you’d come. Didn’t homeboy—T-Bone aimed his bald head at Abu—smother word?

  Yeah, Hatch said. Damn. It’s seven-thirty now. How soon’d you want to get here?

  T-Bone looked straight into Hatch’s eyes, an iron path. His bald head gleamed like a chess pawn. He bit down on his toothpick. Held his barking bulldog tattoos in check with the leashes of his shirtsleeves.

  Fast as I could get here.

  T-Bone continued to iron-watch Hatch. He bit ridges into his toothpick. Tasted it. Savored it. Cool, he said. Held out his hand, a long black line between his thumb and forefinger. Hatch gripped the black scar with everything he had.

  Good to see you, T-Bone said. T-Bone squeezed fire into Hatch’s hand.

  Same, Hatch said, pain beneath the word.

  Abu. T-Bone extinguished the fire. Gripped Abu’s palm. Squeezed Abu’s fat thin for a moment.

  What’s up, T-Bone?

  Kickin it.

  How’s life treatin you?

  The same. See a lot. Hear a lot.

  Damn, Hatch said. Is that a motor?

  T-Bone studied Hatch’s face, eyes unmoving. Stretched straight before him in a gleaming wheelchair. Silver spokes, silver hubs, and the wheels themselves, coated with black rubber. The motor tucked under the seat, small and black, neat as a gift, strong as a lunchbox.

  That is a motor, Hatch said. Automatic. A first for T-Bone. Years of manual motion had molded muscle, and you would see him, see his bulldog arms dogsledding him all over the city.

  So what. I don’t really need it. I want it. Earned it.

  Uh oh, you slippin.

  Yeah, Abu said. You slippin.

  Nawl. Earned it. Deserve it. A nigga gotta move up, that’s all. I’m still me. You never grow out of being yourself. T-Bone thumped his leather chest.

  The boom rocked Hatch, powerful waves. He steadied himself. So you found me. So I’m here. So what’s up?

  Same ole same.

  Got to be more than that, Hatch said.

  Yeah, Abu said. Tell us. I’m all ears.

  T-Bone ran his eyes slowly over Hatch’s face. That bitch still troublin you?

  Hatch nodded.

  What’s her name again?

  Elsa.

  Spanish, right?

  Puerto Rican.

  Let me educate you. Cause you know I used to be out there. Race don’t matter. If a bitch won’t give—

  That’s why you brought me here? That’s why you want me? You kickin word? You jus want to bust the hype? I thought it was something serious? Abu said you said that it was serious.

  Yeah, Abu said. That’s what you said.

  T-Bone shot a glance at Abu, then retu
rned his demanding eyes to Hatch’s face.

  Hatch caught his drift. Abu, Hatch said, I check you later.

  What?

  Why don’t you go get the tickets. I’ll meet you there in a few. Better yet, I’ll pick them up. Meet you back at the house later.

  I thought we was going together?

  I changed my mind.

  Why?

  I jus did, that’s all.

  Abu looked at Hatch for a long balancing minute. Emotion bled from his face. Understanding set him in motion. Okay. Aw ight. Check you later.

  Maintain, T-Bone called after him.

  Abu said nothing. Went swinging along and alone.

  He’s gone, Hatch said. Abu’s gone. So tell me.

  I think you hurt his feelings.

  You can’t hurt Abu, Hatch said. He too fat.

  That’s yo homeboy. Learn how to be subtle.

  He’ll get over it. So tell me.

  T-Bone’s bulldog biceps bounced and leaped at invisible possums.

  Come on, T-Bone. Tell me.

  T-Bone smiled, showing toothpick between teeth.

  He said it was serious. Something about Uncle John and Jesus.

  How yo family doing? T-Bone spoke with night hush in his voice.

  Damn, T-Bone. Hatch kept his voice calm. Held his anger and anticipation in check. No easy task. Skin hot, he wanted to scream. Damn. Why you holdin back?

  Chill.

  I am chill.

  Ain’t you never heard, patience makes virtue.

  Patience is a virtue.

  I said it right the first time. T-Bone’s bright bald head threw Hatch’s glances back at him.

  Okay, Hatch said. You’re right. I am chill. I really am. Chill.

  Good. T-Bone spit out his toothpick; it arched and dropped, missilelike. John stole a bird.

  Uncle John did what?

  You heard me.

  Come on, T-Bone. Come on.

  T-Bone worked a new toothpick into his mouth. John stole a bird.

  Damn, T-Bone. Damn. Why you playin?

  You know I don’t play.

  Then somebody—

  And Lucifer helped. Aiding and abetting.