The Tangled Bridge

by Rhodi Hawk

Patrice and Marie-Rose fell in after him.

  “What about our bags?” Gil called.

  Patrice stopped and turned. “Oh.”

  Trigger waved him off. “They’ll be fine. Come on!”

  “No, he’s right,” Patrice said, wary of the dark corners of the rail yard where she’d heard coughs and groans.

  She looked at her brothers and sister. “This isn’t Terrefleurs. We can’t leave our belongings behind because someone might try to take them.”

  Gil got to untying the bags and they hauled them from the rumble seat. Patrice gave Rosie Francois’ Bible and took Rosie’s luggage herself. No one seemed to notice that Patrice had no bag of her own. They walked together into the street paved with big round stones, unlike the dirt or crushed shell roads back home, and it felt uneven beneath her feet.

  The music was coming from a brick warehouse. They could see lights and hear laughter. But as they approached the doors, Patrice started to feel foolish.

  “You do the talkin, Gil,” she said, but then caught sight of Trigger and realized he was carrying a machete.

  “Trig!”

  The thing was long and dark and curved, and though it served as an everyday tool on Terrefleurs, it looked positively sinister in these streets.

  “What in the name of Sam Hill are you doing with that?”

  “Figured I’d tote it along in case I need a shave.”

  “Don’t get fresh! You can’t be tappin on doors with a machete in your hand.”

  “What was I supposed to do, leave it behind?”

  “You were supposed to pack bare necessities only.” She stepped up to the door where they heard the piano and turned to look at him.

  “I know, Treesey, but I wasn’t sure if we were gonna stay here in New Orleans or head out to the country. Personally, I think we’d fare better in the woods. Build ourselves a little cabin. Can’t go hunting here in the city and this part of the river’s liable to be overfished.”

  She stared at him. Aside from his valise and the machete, he was carrying a frog gig, a slingshot, and a fishing pole, all strapped together. Blood had seeped into the bandage tied around his arm where the stranger had slashed him this morning. Both he and Gil were covered in mud, and the girls weren’t much cleaner.

  “What a sight, what a fright.” She was trying to sound disgusted though in truth she thought Trig might have a point about trying their luck in the country rather than in New Orleans. The dark building loomed over them and it looked menacing despite all the music.

  They hadn’t knocked but the door suddenly opened.

  “What y’all want here?” a man said.

  Behind him was a dim office, but the piano music and the sound of many voices were now louder. This man was tall; no, not just tall—big.

  “We … We’re…” she began, and then elbowed Gil.

  Gil said, “We’re lookin for a boy named Ferrar.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “He’s got an eye that looks like it’s bleeding, only it’s not.”

  “Ain’t seen no one like that.”

  He moved like he was about to shut the door again, but instead took a long look at Patrice from her shoes to her hat and back down again, and then swept his gaze over the others. “What in the holy fuck of a cotton truck did y’all ride in on?”

  And then he roared with laughter. Deep and earthshaking. Slapped his knee to get it all out. Trigger looked at the others and laughed, too, only Trigger is known for his peculiar laugh, so that only made the big man laugh harder. Patrice felt nine shades of stupid.

  The big man shuddered it out til he got his breath back. He dragged a match up the wall and lit a cigarette roll, paused, then offered it to Patrice.

  “No thank you.”

  He then presented it in mock-offering to the others and Patrice had to grab Trig’s wrist so he wouldn’t try to take it. Not that she objected to him smoking; she just didn’t want him to take one from this person.

  “How much money do you make?” Marie-Rose asked him.

  “Rosie!”

  “I just want to know—”

  “It’s not polite,” Patrice said through her teeth.

  The big man just laughed, shaking his head, and cast a sidelong look at Patrice. “Yellow rose. Look at you. So this … Ferrar. He your daddy or your boyfriend?”

  “I don’t believe that’s your business. If you don’t know where he is then you can at least tell us where we might go to ask about him.”

  He was smiling at her in a way she didn’t much care for. “How old are you, honey? Seventeen?”

  Patrice waved her younger siblings away from the door. “Come on, let’s go.”

  But Marie-Rose slipped right past and stepped up to the big man. “She’s fourteen. And I’m seven. And if you don’t tell us where Ferrar is my brother’s going to chop you with his machete.”

  This sent the man into fits again, right down to the knee slap, and Patrice and Gil had to drag Marie-Rose by the arm as they headed for the street.

  But as they crossed to the end of the street the man called out, “Hey, cotton truck! Hold on now. I’ll ask for you.”

  Patrice looked over her shoulder, but the hulking form had already disappeared back into the office and was closing the door.

  “Never mind him,” she said without slowing stride.

  “He’s checkin for us,” Trig said.

  Gil said, “Come on, Treesey, we might as well see if anyone there knows something.”

  She let her younger siblings pull her back toward the doorway. The vehicles on the street had already thinned out from when Patrice was parking Papa’s automobile, so that now it seemed desolate. A fresh peal of laughter rose from inside.

  “What’s goin on in there, a party?” Rosie asked.

  “I suppose,” Patrice said.

  “Someone’s birthday?”

  Gil said, “Naw, too big.”

  They listened. A lone horse clopped into the street and when it came into view, Patrice saw in the gaslight that the rider wore a uniform. A policeman. None of the children moved, suddenly uncertain which side of the law they occupied.

  The door opened and the big man emerged again. “Simms is comin.”

  Patrice didn’t ask who Simms was.

  From somewhere beyond the street came a burst of hollering. Agitated, as though a fight were occurring. All the children turned toward the sound.

  Patrice expected the policeman to turn on his mount and head toward the disturbance, but as she watched him there in the glow of lamplight she saw him glance backward in the direction of the sound, but only for a moment. He turned forward again and continued on atop his horse, gaze dropped, clopping past until he was gone.

  Marie-Rose asked, “Ain’t a policeman supposed to help if there’s trouble?”

  “Isn’t,” Patrice said.

  The big man said, “They don’t get involved around here.”

  They heard the interior door open, and with it came a rise of sound from the warehouse, then the door closed again. A man approached, small in frame and wearing a striped suit, fedora, and a pencil mustache. The suit looked like it wanted to be something expensive but was made of cheap material. He paused at the exterior door and took in the children with a long gulp of the eye. Patrice and the others stared back. Finally, he adjusted his hat at the big man but said nothing.

  “Awright then, come on in,” the big man said.

  The children stepped forward but the big man splayed a hand. “Just her.”

  Meaning Patrice.

  “Never mind then!” Patrice said, blood ready to boil.

  Gil stopped her. “Go on in, Treesey, we’ll wait right here.”

  “We are not splitting up. Not even for a minute.”

  “Y’all can wait in the office,” the littler man said, his voice high and thin and his expression receding to boredom.

  Trigger said, “You know, Patrice, if there’s any trouble…”

  To this, the bi
g man started laughing again. “Oh yeah, that one there said he gonna cut me down with his machete knife.”

  A fine thing that he liked that, and that the little man thought it funny, too. They had no idea that the true weapon the children had at their disposal had nothing to do with a machete.

  The little man stepped forward. “They call you Patrice? I’m Simms.”

  And then he lifted his chin toward the big man. “This here’s Hutch.”

  She nodded at him but that was it. Didn’t offer her hand or introduce the others.

  Trigger gave her a private look. It’s alright, Treesey. He took Rosie’s valise from her hands.

  Patrice regarded Simms and told herself that if it came to it the Lord would forgive her if she had to use pigeonry on him. Or anyone else.

  Simms gestured at the door in a way that seemed so easy and confident she would follow that she did follow, despite herself, and the three younger children followed, too, at least as far as the office. She looked over her shoulder at them when the second door inside the office opened and the piano music and voices poured forth. Her siblings’ expressions puffed up as if the sound lifted them on a rogue wave. It made them look like children to her. Not Guy, Gilbert, and Marie-Rose, but just a group of ragtag little children.

  Then, with Simms’ hand on her back she was passing through that door, and it closed on those little children’s faces.

  twenty-eight

  NEW ORLEANS, 1927

  SO MUCH SOUND. THE piano was near-shimmying in the corner. She’d expected full bright light, but the broad, vast warehouse was surprisingly dim, with most of the light concentrated on the piano. The player’s hands darted across the keys, a cigarette at his lips and a lock of greased hair falling forward over his eyes. Folks were smoking, laughing, and shouting at one another though Patrice couldn’t imagine how any single one could hear actual words from any other. A bank of smoke rested above their heads as though all their gassing kept the cloud up high rather than falling to floor.

  Simms said something to her but she shook her head dumb. The only conversation she understood came from the piano. When she looked back at Simms he was gone. And so she looked at the faces of those in the near vicinity in the hopes that one of them might look like Ferrar’s type of acquaintance—someone nearing twenty, black, who set his day by a rooster crow or steam whistle. But these people were nothing like that. Women were snuggled in close to their men, and the men’s ties were loosened with their sleeves turned back. They all looked sleepy and jazzed at the same time. Some folks were donning their hats and leaving through the office where her siblings were waiting.

  These were mostly white folks. There were a few coloreds, too, but not many.

  Maman was black and Papa was white, so Patrice and her siblings were somewhere in between. A meaningless fact at Terrefleurs but outside the plantation, like at school or at the general store, Patrice got the sense that it meant something to others.

  One by one, people seemed to take notice of her and once that happened, their attention didn’t loosen.

  She tried to look bored. Back in that office, Rosie was probably grilling Hutch. (What’s your shoe size? When’s your birthday? Did you refuse to go to school, and that’s why you don’t speak properly? What time did you get up this morning? What time did you get up yesterday?)

  The little man named Simms had returned and was pressing a glass tumbler into her hands. She looked at it. Thirsty as she was, she could smell it was some kind of alcohol and that absolutely wouldn’t do. She tried to give it back. Cherry bounce was the only such drink she cared for and then only once in a blue moon. Simms wouldn’t take the drink back from her.

  She told him, “I need to find out about Ferrar.”

  “What’s that, honey?” She heard his words this time only because he was leaning down and putting his lips to her ear.

  She cupped her hand over his ear and shouted, “It’s what we came here for. I need to find out if anyone’s seen Ferrar, the boy with the blood eye.”

  He nodded and took her hand, pulling her toward a group of men who were already staring at them as though Patrice were doing the Charleston in her undergarments. The men sat with elbows resting on stacked wooden spools and they each had tumblers like the dreadful one Patrice still held.

  Simms looked at Patrice and swept his hand toward the men like he was offering her a banquet of wild game.

  Oh, Gil should be the one to ask around like this!

  Hands folded in front of her, she proclaimed, “I am looking for a boy—”

  The nearest man bent forward with his hand winging his ear, and Patrice spoke into it: “Trying to find a boy named Ferrar.”

  He frowned and shook his head. Whether he didn’t know the name or simply couldn’t hear her, Patrice wasn’t sure.

  She cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted very slowly into the ear. “Looking for Ferrar! He’s got a blood-shined eye!”

  This time the man nodded in understanding, almost a look of wonder.

  She asked, “You know him?”

  He shook his head no.

  A fat man tapped the first man’s shoulder, and the first man hollered something that sounded like “she’s looking for a boy.”

  At this the fat one smiled broadly and waved her over. She repeated herself. He had his hand on her back, though, his fingers moving along her spine. The third man pulled her away from the fat one and toward himself, his hand cupped to his ear, expectant.

  She said, “I’m looking—” and he turned his face and kissed her, full, hard, his hands wrapped tight around her back.

  She slapped him and tore herself away. Her mouth hurt where his teeth had rammed her lips, and it tasted like blood and brandy.

  They were all in hysterics now. Patrice ran for the door and burst through it. Her brothers and sister were sitting on their valises talking to the big man named Hutch. They were all stretched out and gabbing like old pals, with Rosie curled under Gil’s arm.

  “Let’s go!” Patrice said.

  And then she realized Simms had followed her out, his laughter high and thin as his speaking voice. “Hide the machete! We all in trouble now!”

  Trigger got to his feet, his features going dark.

  But Simms said, “Come on, now, didn’t mean no harm.”

  Patrice marched to the front door.

  Simms said, “But what if we find your boy with the eye? How we s’posed to let you know?”

  The children were scrambling after her, Rosie struggling with her bag. Patrice snatched the Bible and Rosie’s valise and pushed through the door.

  The night air felt clean even though it had seemed so foul only a little while ago. Marie-Rose was asking, “What’s it like in there? What happened?” but nobody else spoke a word.

  That’s when they heard the motor. Distinctive among other motor sounds in this city. After today, Patrice would know that rumble-grunt anywhere.

  Trigger said, “Papa’s Ford!”

  * * *

  ALL FOUR CHILDREN BROKE into a run. Marie-Rose tripped and fell flat almost immediately. Patrice turned to help her up but Rosie had already righted herself and was flying across those big round stones after her big brothers. Trig let go of his valise and it went tumbling down and opened in the street, but his feet never slowed; they were pumping faster than Patrice had ever seen him move. As the valise flew open she saw his toy aluminum automobile and wooden filling station burst out. She watched them bounce across the cobblestones.

  “Oh!” she cried and nearly paused, but then determined that Papa’s automobile was more important, so she let Trig’s toys smash themselves on the stones.

  Leaving home for good, packing only the barest necessities, and Trig had made room for his toys.

  She rounded the bend in time to see the Ford moving out of the rail yard. Trigger was already a fair spell ahead and closing in on it.

  Gil stopped dead, and Patrice knew he was using pigeonry.

  “W
ait,” she called.

  The Ford kept rolling though the uneven surface kept it from moving fast. Trigger caught up with it and threw himself at the driver. There were at least six or seven men milling around, three of which were piled into the Ford.

  The driver socked Trigger good across the jaw. Trig went tumbling sideways, the machete and fishing pole and the rest of the bundle clattering and scattering along the ground.

  Another man jumped out of the Ford and kicked Trig straight in the head.

  At eleven years old, no matter how wild and brave his heart, Trig was no match for this man. Trig rolled back and barely avoided another kick.

  “Stop!” Patrice screamed.

  And she herself stopped though she was still on the side of the rail yard opposite them. She focused her mind on that awful man who was kicking her brother. The kicking stopped. The man fell still and Trig hefted himself to his feet.

  The Ford was rolling again. Patrice focused her mind on the driver and it stopped.

  Gil and Rosie were clearly trying and failing to work pigeonry on these men. They weren’t as strong as Patrice though Rosie was pretty effective if and ever she could keep calm.

  Trigger socked his attacker in the gut. The man doubled forward for a moment and then struck Trigger across the nose.

  Patrice had to return her attention to him to make him stop, thus leaving the driver of the Ford alone. And there were other men, too. A whole group of them pulling a closer circle around Trig, drawn by the ruckus, emerging from the crevices of the rail yard. One of them cuffed Trig on the ear. Patrice turned her attention to him to stop him, but then the first one struck a blow.

  Patrice was walking slowly so as to maintain concentration. Gil and Rosie were clearly too upset to be able to accomplish much pigeonry. Rosie gave up and sprinted for Trigger.

  “Rosie, no!” Gil called.

  He took a few steps forward and stopped, his fists balled.

  “Leave him alone!” Rosie screamed.

  One of the men scooped Rosie up as she barreled forward. She screamed, and then she was kicking and clawing at him. Trigger threw himself at the one who’d grabbed Rosie and punched him square in the face. He dropped Rosie, but now the circle had tightened. Patrice could barely see what was happening, who was punching whom, who was grabbing. Someone was laying into Trig again and someone else had backhanded Rosie.