Rails Under My Back

by Jeffery Renard Allen

  Koot had a long life, Big Judy said. And Mr. Footy treated her good. Now, that Buck. He called me every kinda name, and ain’t none of them in the Bible. Jus the meanest cuss. Couldn get him to walk ten feet down the road and ask Koot fo a cup of sugar.

  A flower blazed between an angle of roots. You took a close curious look. The yellow jacket stung you, your jaw puffed up and threatened to explode by the time you made it back to the house and Big Judy powdered it with tobacco—some of Mr. Buck’s chewing snuff—to smoke out the swelling. Bandaged your face good with a shroud of handkerchiefs.

  Your jaw swelled so your ears hurt. Pain new and undreamt of. Thankful that you had not been attacked by a snake or one of those blue-green lizards that Big Judy called scorpions. Better off than Koot, killed in a car accident—no, a crash, that claimed, yes, claimed, staked with jagged glass and twisted spikes of metal, the life of a pregnant white woman and the white baby black in her belly, and a second woman who was driving Koot to the hearing-aid store, thrown through a car’s windshield—If it means anything, if it can help, she was killed instantly; she didn’t suffer—her reluctant feet still planted to the passenger side of the floor where they had refused to follow her body roadside. Feel yourself driving through a wet curtain (beads, yes, beads) of glass, like jetting from beneath a pool to break water’s surface; feel yourself flying through air, a bird sailing wind in slow motion, then feel your face covered with crumbs of glass, and a numbing sensation in your feet.

  THE FAMILY SAT DOWN TOGETHER, their knees close under a table covered with a fresh white cloth. The room heavy with greasy odors. The delicate aroma of yellow watermelon that grew wild in unattended winds. Cool iced tea that people drank year-round. The graveyard preacher joined the family at the reception table. Word had salted down to him. Or he had invited himself. His plain black three-piece shined the satin gloss of a raven’s wing. Small, but a big horse head and face of a man. Processed hair flowing manelike. He found it easy to blend his religion and his appetite. (He wiped his mouth with a paper napkin after every bite.) Gracie matched him word for word. Angels angled out in their speech.

  Sister, the preacher said, you know your Bible. His chin hung close to Gracie.

  I try. She stirred with the start of a laugh.

  Yes indeed.

  The preacher’s mouth smelled like money. Hatch had already endured two preachers that day. Now a third. Preachers troubled him. And the presence of this one strengthened his inclination to spit in every preacher’s eye.

  The preacher led the family in prayer, rising on food steam to heights invisible to the eye. With his paper napkin, he wiped the prayer from his lips.

  Keep the faith. By and by God reveals his divine plan to man. And with that, he heaved himself up from the table and quit the house.

  I HAD TO PUT THE GUN ON MR. BUCK, Dave said. I asked him, What you call my mamma? I told that motherfucker. Say it again. Big Judy screamin, Dave, it ain’t worth it. Shit, it’s worth it if I say it is.

  The earth cooled. A heat-hushed night. The heavens low-hanging. Moonlight soft-showered the window. You rested under the white bedspread, translucent from use, safe now, the wire screen having been checked and double-checked so that no bat would fly through the open window on a dark breeze.

  Jesus, you sure it closed?

  Yeah.

  Check it again.

  I already did.

  Them bats bite you in the neck. Flying rats.

  Pale moths and bright mosquitoes yellow-revolved around Big Judy’s single porch light. John, Lucifer, and Dave, ghost-gray men in the night carrying their gin and beer, sat rough on Big Judy’s metal folding chairs and lit up the dark with their cricket talk.

  Uncle John blew magic lamp smoke from his mouth and nose. Why didn’t you tell me that Fulton is a dry county?

  I did tell you.

  You ain’t tell me shit.

  Nigga, you got cotton in yo ears, that’s all.

  And what you got in yours?

  Lucifer, you better tell this nigga.

  He can’t tell me shit.

  Nigga, I’m older than you. Talk to me wit some respect.

  You ain’t sayin nothing.

  Say what I got to say.

  Say it then.

  I’m gettin ready to.

  You gon make us wait.

  Did I ever tell you bout that time—

  The men spoke brick upon brick, sharing mellow-golden stories—some about Sam, about And (who Hatch knew only as Beulah’s former husband who visited her every free chance), about Spin, Spokesman, Dallas, Spider, Ernie; some about men Hatch didn’t know (he hung on to their names); some about Bataan and Okinawa, where And, Sam, and Dave had fought and claimed blood, and others about that yellow-green place where Lucifer and John had done the same—building backwards, word after hard word.

  WHY, SHEILA, THIS MUST BE YOUR DAUGHTER.

  You know that ain’t my daughter. That’s Gracie.

  Gracie? The drunk’s red eyes widened in mock surprise. The drunk and Gracie sat squeezed tight together on the yard swing. The Gracie I used to know?

  Cut that out, Mr. Man, Gracie said. You knew it was me.

  I thought it looked like you but I knew you couldn be lookin that good after all these years.

  Stop that, Mr. Man, Gracie said. You still a fool.

  You still know how to love a fool?

  Stop that, Mr. Man.

  When had Hatch last seen Gracie show such girlish energy and exuberance? (Never in John’s presence. Never.) Ready to lift her skirt and flirt.

  When you going back home?

  Why?

  I’m gon drive up there to West Memphis to see you befo you head back.

  You don’t wanna do that.

  You still know how to dance?

  I don’t dance.

  You still know how to move yo body the way you used to?

  Gracie grinned at the grass beneath her feet.

  Why don’t you move back down here? Why don’t you come home? Why you want to live in a big city? City life, piss in a can. Bury it.

  I LIKE EM SLIM. Streamlined. Built for speed.

  St. Louis woman the best type. Way down from the Gulf of Mexico.

  Can’t hold a match to a Texas woman.

  Who you know from Texas?

  You’d be surprised.

  You brought yo kids. Why didn’t you bring Jesse?

  I like my coffee in the morning. Crazy bout my tea at night.

  What fo? So she can slow me down.

  That’s yo woman.

  Like hell.

  Sam should be here.

  You know what he told Koot after Mr. Footy died?

  What?

  He said, Koot, you got to have somebody on the vine. Had to say it five or six times cause you know Koot deaf. Koot say, Sam, that ain’t no vine. That a jimsonweed.

  Well, I’ve given up chasin women.

  I leave you there.

  But I’ll still go to a bar—

  Dave, damn if we don’t know that already. You a drinkin fool.

  —have me a taste and talk to the womens. They’ll give you some too, if you know how to talk to em right.

  HE DIED TEN YEARS AFTER SHE CAME BACK.

  No, it was fifteen.

  You can’t never get nothin straight.

  Look who’s talkin.

  We can look at the death certificate.

  Why don’t you go get it.

  I would if you hadn’tah lost it.

  I ain’t lost nothing.

  That ain’t what I recollect.

  I don’t give a damn—

  Yall stop that arguin, Beulah said in her usual shrill voice. All yall do is argue.

  You always agree with her, Gracie said. You always have.

  I ain’t tryin to take nobody’s side.

  You jus like Lula Mae. Take Sheila’s side in everything.

  Shut your damn mouth! Sheila said. All that happened a long time ago. What can I do about
it?

  THE ROAD HISSED under the black tires. They rode in the black limousine, silent as the dark they traveled through. The sun had fallen but the heat had not let up. The dark had absorbed it like black cotton.

  THEY STOOD IN THE ROAD under the failed sky. Sheila passed Reverend Blunt a tip, slipping him the money quickly.

  Why, thank you. Reverend Blunt had changed into a fresh suit. He smiled into Porsha’s eyes. I’ll drop by tomorrow and see how yall doing.

  Porsha returned the smile.

  Good night. Reverend Blunt charged up the road.

  Why you do that? Hatch said.

  Sheila said nothing.

  Why you give that bastard a tip?

  HATCH STEPPED INTO A HOUSE FULL OF MOVING VOICES.

  You must be her granson. Is that her granson? Is he her granson? Why I ain’t seen him since he was nay high. Where that other one, that red-lookin one? Her granson sure a handsome one. We gon miss yo granmother. Look, there Gracie’s boy. A fine woman. I’m gon sho miss her. Ain’t he the devilish one? You remember me? Why, I ain’t seen you since I know when. Any kin to Lula Mae kin to me. You come down here to visit me anytime you want. Come on by my house and sit a while befo you go back. I bet you like pecan pie? You a fine young man. You a handsome young man. Look like yo daddy. You come down here to visit anytime you want. I live jus up the road there. You member where I live? Drop by and sit a while.

  He couldn’t wait for the house to clear of people. Juiced out by the sun, he needed sleep.

  He found quiet escape in the kitchen. He would have shut the door but there was no door to shut. He thought about all he had seen and said and heard and done all that he had not seen said or heard or done and all that he would see say hear and do.

  Well, he said, if you ain’t never been nowhere other than Kankakee, here, and West Memphis—

  I been more places than that, Porsha said.

  —Tucumcari might as well be Arizona and Arizona Brazil and Brazil might as well be France and France California and California Texas and Decatur New Mexico and—

  What map you lookin at?

  He saw Mr. Byron standing and pointing and spitting his name. The past that wasn’t past sparkled like a reminder above the kitchen shelf. Lula Mae’s old serving set. He remembered it from his many trips here. She had purchased it in either Texas or New Mexico. The cocktail bowl showed a rodeo scene. The lid made like a cowboy hat, a Stetson. The ice tray was a chuck wagon held in place by black wire wheels. A coffeepot sat on a black wire stand with four matching coffee mugs. Each piece glassed in a western yellow-brown. The serving set had been waiting for him all these years. Waiting for his return.

  Why are you sittin in here by yourself? Sheila spoke from the open doorway.

  I want that.

  What?

  That dinette set. Hatch pointed up to it.

  Well, get up and get it. You better put it up before Gracie see it.

  44

  TREES STOOD LIKE AN ARMY in the clear morning air, their leaves glowing rivulets of lava.

  His sweat-dampened saddle fit easily into the horse’s back. A horse can tell if a man is strong-willed. Give him a chance and he’ll stand on your foot and let you know who’s in charge.

  He climbed on the horse in proper fashion and tightened his legs around the iron belly. He kicked the horse into motion. Man and horse galloped off in a mute cloud of dust. Ponds like glistening uniform buttons. Word of his talents had spread far. More than once he had talked gently, sweetly, and rubbed a calf’s legs all night long.

  The speed of the gallop watered his eyes. He looked into the shimmering distance and told his horse things about the world he knew to be true. The horse blew and rolled its eyes at all it saw.

  45

  PORSHA ROSE BEFORE THE OTHERS and moved quickly through Lula Mae’s house, her quiet hammer taking down the horseshoes nailed above Lula Mae’s doors. Each and every one of them. These she would have for herself. Luck. Magic doesn’t fade. Maybe the magic could work for her, work in her life.

  YOU CAN’T MISS WHAT YOU AIN’T NEVER HAD, Gracie said.

  It’s passed, Mamma said. What can I do about it? I’ve had forty years of dealing with that misery. Go on with your life.

  You go on with yours.

  THE LIL HOUSE was much smaller than Porsha remembered. Half the length of a city subway car. And even smaller inside, boxes and more boxes where seats might be, the space between the boxes only wide enough for one person to stand comfortably. She, Mamma, and Hatch rummaged through Lula Mae’s belongings while Gracie stood in the grass watching through the open doorway.

  Gracie, why don’t you stay in the house and keep an eye on Beulah.

  Why don’t you.

  The lil house had four small windows, all rusted shut. (Lula Mae had never opened them.) The open door offered the only light and air. Hatch had pleaded, begged to light one of Lula Mae’s kerosene lamps and all had agreed, but the lamps were empty, long minus kerosene. No one could find a flashlight. So they worked in the metal dark and the heat, hauling out goods to the sun-heated lawn, cataloguing them by location on the grass.

  Mamma discovered her wedding dress, Hatch’s blue baby bonnet, Jesus’s first rattle, Porsha’s paddle-and-ball, Cookie’s bib (Gracie wanted it), unidentified wigs, and Lula Mae’s first partial, false teeth.

  Look at this, Hatch said. He held up a green duffel bag by its canvas straps like a dead rat by its tail.

  I believe that’s Mr. Pulliam’s old army bag, Mamma said.

  I’m gon keep it.

  Let me see it, Gracie said.

  Hatch played deaf.

  Porsha tunneled through hatboxes and shoeboxes. Lula Mae had thrown nothing away. She opened the last shoebox and found a mummified pair of shoes, peeling white leather that had long gone gray. She lifted the shoes from the box by the laces and found a thick, business-sized envelope. No stamp in the upper right corner, only a pale blue postmark, like watercolor. The envelope was burned black with the shoes’ shape, the burn obscuring most of the words. She found a second envelope, twin to the first. Eyes working, she deciphered one letter, two letters, then two words or the semblance of two words. Brazil, Nebraska.

  THAT WAS MR. PULLIAM’S DAUGHTER, Mamma said. She want the house.

  Too bad. Lula Mae had willed her house, lil house, and everything in them to Sheila.

  I told her she can have it.

  Porsha cocked her ear. What?

  Mr. Pulliam’s name on the mortgage.

  Mr. Pulliam been dead fifteen years. Lula Mae the one who paid off the mortgage.

  Mamma said nothing.

  Ain’t you gon contest it?

  It ain’t worth the time and trouble.

  I’ll hire us a lawyer.

  I don’t want to go to court. For this old house.

  But, Mamma—

  Hush. It ain’t worth the time or the trouble.

  FOR THE FIRST TIME IN MEMORY, she saw the lil house stationed on grass not concrete, the trailer hitched behind a brand-new truck on the red gravel road before Lula Mae’s house. Gracie had sold the lil house for a hundred dollars to Lula Mae’s daily hospital transport.

  I gave him a good deal, Gracie said. Since he was good to Lula Mae.

  The truck and the lil house pulled away, leaving a thin gown of dust.

  Gracie sold Lula Mae’s stereo (for a dollar) to Lula Mae’s best friend, an old lady with hands like a man, wearing a hearing aid like a spy. She sold Lula Mae’s kerosene lamps, flower-rimmed plates, crystal pitcher and glasses, bread box, spice holder, red metal kitchen chairs and matching table. She sold the meat freezer for twenty-five dollars, frozen meat included. She sold the dishwasher, washing machine, and dryer (seventy-five dollars for the set).

  Two middle-aged white women—daughters of Lula Mae’s employers, kin of Mr. Byron, the white man who knew the Griffith family graves the way he knew his teeth—rushed through the house grabbing up everything in sight, like a tornado. Gla
ss figurines, decorative baskets, vases, ashtrays, place mats, plates, and anything else Gracie had not sold.

  Together they lifted a stunned and immobile Porsha off her feet. Hatch stayed their hands. They put Porsha down. Said, We jus wan something to member Lula Mae by.

  MAMMA AND GRACIE fought for possession of the quilt, tugging at it, an angry game. A store-bought pattern—a tattered circus clown, once bright patchwork colors against a dull yellow background—now frayed at the edges that Lula Mae had sewn together in a matter of hours and stuffed with store-bought stuffing, an everyday quilt to keep you warm at night, protection against the air conditioner’s winter cold. (Gracie had sold the air conditioner for twenty-five dollars.)

  YOU SAY IT’S FUN?

  Porsha thought about a favorable way to describe her line of work. Nothing came to mind. What about you?

  Reverend Blunt smiled. There’s no better job.

  It must run in your family.

  Why do you say that?

  Ain’t that how most people start?

  He laughed. I guess so. I guess that is how they start. You must go to work and prepare the way of the Lord, he said in a deliberate humming preacher’s voice.

  She found it hard to laugh, laughter pinned down by everything heavy inside her.

  It’s a hard time for you. I know it is. Miss Pulliam was a special woman, very special.

  His eyes were clear and kind, free open space.

  Thanks.

  I can—

  She stopped him. I would like to. I really would. But to tell you the truth, she pushed the words up from inside her, I’m seeing somebody.

  Reverend Blunt said nothing for a moment, his eyes showing no change. Well, he said, I hope he seeing you too. It never works when one person is invisible.

  He said it the same way he said everything else, without malice or sarcasm. She listened and accepted it and thought about it and thought about other things she was thinking through and sat saying nothing not knowing what to say. Sat smelling the new car leather, supportive, firm against her body, Reverend Blunt smiling into her face—got to admit, he is the perfect gentleman, ain’t looked at my body once, short skirt and all—the air conditioner blowing cool in the silence. How long had they been sitting here and talking? one hour? Two?