The Abduction of Smith and Smith

by Rashad Harrison

  “I know you are a good man, Titus. I know, but you’re not good for him.” She looked at Jacob. “And what’s not good for him can’t be good for me.”

  He grabbed her arm. “Maybe I ain’t good for him, but maybe you not good for him neither. Maybe you not good at all. Gone for six months. What kind of mother leave her son like that?”

  “Stop it, Titus.”

  “Stop what? Telling you the truth you can’t stand to hear? All my life I had to hold my tongue. Get mad—don’t say nothing. Treated bad—don’t say nothing. Watch you and the other pretty yellow gals up the hill do what you do to get in Ol’ Colonel’s good graces, and I don’t say a word. And you think you the one so damn good.” Titus pushed her against the wall.

  Jacob took a step toward him. “Let go of my mother,” he said.

  “Don’t move, honey,” Sonya advised. “Mamma’s all right.”

  Jacob began to cry.

  Titus grabbed her throat and squeezed. “How much more money will it take to keep you here? What price Miss Ellen set for you? Don’t think I don’t know what you do for that old whore.”

  Titus held his grip. Her throat struggled to make a sound. “I am not a whore, and neither is she.”

  “You are what I say—” Titus stopped.

  Sonya felt his grip loosen as he looked down. A red peony bloomed on his shirt. She pushed the knife in a bit deeper. “My son is watching this. You know what kind of memory he has. He’ll probably never forget this moment. But how he remembers it is up to you. This can end with you letting go of me and letting Jacob and I walk out that door, or it can end with your guts hanging out your belly and you bleeding to death.”

  Titus let go. He winced as Sonya withdrew the knife. He clutched his stomach. The wound wasn’t deep enough to kill him, just deep enough to scare him. He backed away and Jacob ran to his mother. He lingered at the door, the fantasies of life with her now overwritten by the sight of her holding a knife stained with his blood in one hand and her son in the other. “You just remember that when we were crossing this country, when the mules gave out, or when we couldn’t hitch a train and you got too tired and your legs gave out, it was me that carried you. Both of you.”

  Sonya stared at him and held her boy tighter.

  Titus put his hand on the wound, then looked at the blood on his palm. “I’m sorry,” he whispered as he left.

  11

  It was dark in that place, yet his eyes still burned when he opened them. Whatever alchemy went into that strain he indulged in, it was strong—almost strong enough to make him forget his name. Almost. Lately he had been craving his opium on the more powerful side. He stood, slowly, feeling as if someone was still pulling him down. He flung the doors open, met with the bright light, only intensifying the pain behind his eyes. A strong light, accompanied by sounds of foreign tongues. Every word seemed screamed. Light and sound, so oppressive that it seemed supernatural. He had crossed paths with one of those “slant-eyed men with braided hair.” Haunted is what they called him—or at least that’s what he heard—but that was to be expected of a man who had to dig his father’s grave after finding him murdered.

  Memories emerged, all too clear: The things he wanted to forget as well as those things that he didn’t. The reason he came to this city, the man he was looking for, the things he wanted to do to him once he found him, all vivid.

  He walked through the city, which wasn’t easy—too many hills. He stood outside a church contemplating if he should go in or if they would be willing to receive someone like him. He liked to do this, stand outside churches and consider the possibility of redemption waiting for him in one of the pews, but he never went in.

  A woman walked out, young and beautiful. His eyes followed. Before he knew it he had followed her across the street, but then she disappeared. He lost her somewhere in the loud, bright crowd. There were too many people in this damn city. He had seen her before, haranguing people outside the saloons to find the Lord. He noticed her beauty then but avoided her fiery sermon—he already had another pretty proselytizer to deal with—now here she was again. There were no coincidences: his father taught him that. Everything was connected.

  He leaned against a wall. His leg bothered him. When he thought of his leg, he thought of the war; and when he thought of the war, he thought of his father; and when he thought of his father, he thought of the man who killed him.

  He looked at a wall and noticed a poster; on it he saw the familiar face of another woman. He read it:

  Have you seen this woman? Contact J. Smith at the O’Connell Hotel.

  He trembled as he reached for it, then swiped it down and into his pocket, as if stealing some precious jewel.

  12

  Jupiter went back to his room. Maybe the boy would tell Sonya that he saw him. . . . But how could he? He didn’t know Jupiter from Adam. Maybe Sonya would see one of the posters and come looking for him. There was that possibility—wasn’t there?

  • • •

  There was a tall Irishman at Langley’s who liked to accept challengers from the crowd. “Who here can take the Scourge of Dublin?” Shirtless and his arms held open, he stalked the crowd in circles. He looked sculpted out of pink marble. “I see many people but no men. . . . At least none worthy of my skill.” He threw a flurry of punches that sliced the air. An old man, short and broad, emerged. “I’ll take ya,” he spat. “And I’ll knock that smile off your fat Irish mug—and have a helluva time doing it!” The crowd cheered.

  Jupiter tapped the man on the shoulder and raised his own hand to the crowd. “No. You gentlemen came to see a fight that matters, one with real stakes, not just a pointless brawl, but a fight where the outcome affects all of our lives. I challenge the Scum of Dublin.”

  Silence.

  A man with a white beard tinted with dust came close to Jupiter and squinted. “Yep. He’s a nigger.”

  The crowd erupted in a din of cheers and betting.

  “Aye,” said the Scourge, “I see we have a mongrel that likes to bite. Well come on over here, you half-breed mutt, and let me put you out of your misery.” Jupiter didn’t wait for the crowd to react. He sent a punch to the Scourge’s face that made him shut up and get to work.

  During the war, Jupiter had engaged in many fistfights of this sort—most of them against men in his own regiment. He wasn’t worried about losing; he knew too many weak spots on a man’s body. Enough pressure on the kidneys and they fall like a shack on a windy day. He didn’t think about the money. As he inflicted more damage to the Scourge’s kidneys than rotgut whiskey, he thought about coming home to find Sonya, only to kill a man he had known all of his life.

  13

  Archer walked through the crowd. He did not know why, but he felt like searching the faces. He had settled into this life easy enough—but he was already thinking of ways to free himself. He thought of how badly the boy and his mother would be hurt if Archer were to suddenly disappear from their lives.

  Many Negroes passed by on their way to work the docks, clean stables, or foolishly pan for gold. Until one of those black shadows was more distinctive than the others. Something about the sight seized the movement of Archer’s muscles.

  He followed him past the general store, past the tannery, staying just two or three people behind him. All the world seemed to drift away—an optic iris locked on the back of the man’s head, the rest of the world pushed to the edges. Archer kept following. His heart began to race as he got closer. He followed the man into an alley that led to the dock, then past the docks and into a tavern. Down in the tavern was a large fight pit. Archer blended into the crowd and watched the Negro, waiting to see his face. The Negro traded words with what looked like a large Irishman. The crowd urged them on. A fight commenced. Over the flurry of punches Archer only watched for the Negro’s face. It was as if he were the one in that ring. One of the fighters must have landed a
good punch because everyone screamed. The Irishman moaned on the floor. The Negro stood over him. He turned to face the crowd. Jupiter raised his hand in victory.

  • • •

  After the fight, Archer followed him for a long while, and eventually to a boarding house. All Archer had to do was be patient. He had tracked him out West and now he finally had him. He waited in an alley across from Jupiter’s boarding house, trying to fight off sleep in the darkness.

  Come dawn, Jupiter finally walked out. To pull out a gun in that crowd would send women and children screaming. He had to get close enough to push the barrel into Jupiter’s back, feel his muscles tighten with fear, relax with recognition at Archer’s voice in his ear, then seize when the realization of this seemingly chance meeting’s purpose sunk in.

  He snaked his way through the crowd, bumping into people, stepping on their feet, finally getting close enough. Archer pulled out the gun and aimed it at the back of Jupiter’s head. The thought of pulling the trigger and Jupiter’s brains splattering on the man next to him made Archer reassess. He wanted it clean. He didn’t want the blood on him, but he enjoyed the power of holding Jupiter’s life in his hands—so close to him now, after all this time, that he could breathe on him. All Archer had to do was pull the trigger, but he didn’t. He couldn’t. He needed another option. He tried one more time and aimed the gun at Jupiter’s head. His hand shook. A woman gasped. He lowered his pistol and walked through the crowd. People avoided him and struggled not to make eye contact. He made it back to the other side of town with the pistol still in his hand. He kept walking and eventually the pistol was gone. He had dropped it somewhere, he didn’t know when.

  • • •

  Archer was not watching where he was going when he bumped into the man.

  “If you intend to walk, at least plan to keep your eyes open,” said the stranger.

  “My apologies, sir—” Archer looked at the man, then took a step back. It was like looking at himself—not the Archer of now, but the Archer of the past, before his trek across the country, before the hell of war, before the desperate need for survival.

  The stranger seemed taken aback. He stared at Archer for a while. He must see it as well, thought Archer.

  “No apologies necessary,” said the stranger. “Why don’t we go inside? Join me for a drink.”

  Archer agreed.

  “Name’s Ellis,” he said over his whiskey.

  “Archer.”

  “You’re from the South. I hear it. What parts?”

  “Georgia. And you?”

  “North Carolina. Greyback?”

  “Uh huh. You?”

  Archer watched Ellis’s eyes jump. “Yes.”

  Archer laughed. “You don’t have to lie. You jumped conscription, didn’t you?”

  “I jumped at my best chance for survival. Can’t blame a man for that.”

  “No,” said Archer, “you can’t blame a man for that. Funny thing, war is. Atrocities are bookended by the mundane. You’ll watch a man lose his head in a spray of blood—a man with whom you shared bitter tobacco, stale hardtack, and a lewd story or two—and hand to heaven, you’ll remember some forgotten lean-to in the distance, or the way the sunlight sends up orange over the green line of the trees. Hard to look at nature without thinking of a man dying.”

  Ellis took another sip of whiskey. “What are two southern boys like us doing out West, Archer? I’ve come to strike it rich. The high seas, that’s the future. Trade with other nations across the vast oceans. Sure, this country is big, but soon it will run out of room—it will be around the globe that America finds her sustenance for the future, and I mean to take part in it.”

  “So you’re a sailor?” asked Archer.

  “Well, of sorts. Something like that. I’m a cooper.”

  “A cooper?”

  “I make barrels,” said Ellis.

  They both laughed.

  “You’d be surprised how often a good barrel comes in handy on a ship sailing across the ocean.”

  “I can imagine,” said Archer.

  “What about you? Why are you here?”

  Archer thought for a moment, took a sip of whiskey. “I came to San Francisco to kill a man.”

  Ellis, lifting his drink for a sip, stopped short. He looked at Archer.

  “I tracked him here, all the way from the South. I’ve been here for months. I finally get close to him and I couldn’t even pull the trigger.”

  “Why’s that, Archer?” Ellis asked, still frozen.

  “It’s hard to kill a man you grew up with. No matter what he’s done.” Archer stared at Ellis, then smiled.

  “Oh, you’re a sly one! Almost had me. Guess I deserved that. I love a good story. Cheers, to Archer.”

  They clinked glasses. They drank awhile. They grew warm and removed their coats.

  “Archer, I’ve had my fill. My bladder needs to see a man about a stagecoach. I’m going ’round back.”

  Archer nodded.

  Ellis was gone for some time before Archer realized that he wasn’t coming back. Archer reached for his coat, but it was gone. Ellis had left his and taken Archer’s.

  Things just seemed to happen. Somehow, he was in Chinatown. He did know the phantom smell in his nose. He could not pin it down until he entered the opium den. He rested on the floor next to two very quiet men and began to board his green dragon. That is when he realized what the smell was: it smelled like home . . .

  • • •

  Archer’s mother held his arm tightly. “Come closer to your mother, boy. I want to show you something. I want you to see truth in its rawest form. I want you to see how a man acts when he thinks no one is watching. And how that impulse to behave in such a way is in you. But you’re still a boy. You have me for a mother. We can start now, and make sure it doesn’t grab ahold of you, like it has so many men in the South, like it has your father. Come to the window, boy, but don’t make a sound.” She parted the curtains as she held Archer’s young body to hers. For a moment she was breathless and still, then Archer felt her chest heave. “There,” she said. “Look, but don’t throw these curtains back, look through the space I have provided for you. You see there . . . that’s your father . . . going into the slave shed. Do you see it? Tell your mother if you see it.”

  “Yes, ma’am, I see it,” said Archer, not really sure if he had or if it was the phantoms of his mother’s mind projected onto his own.

  “You did see him, didn’t you, Archer?”

  “Yes, I saw him.”

  “What did you see? It’s all right, you can tell your mother. Don’t be afraid. Now is not the time to be worried about decorum and what is and what is not appropriate. Tell me what you saw. You’re an innocent in this situation, and I promise you will still be innocent, even after speaking such abominations to your own mother.”

  Archer began to tremble. His young mind not fully able to grasp what was happening, only sensing the danger on an animalistic level, not knowing the plot, but knowing that he was in some kind of strange performance of double-speak and whispers that is common in the adult world. The dual-play, where the words spoken are from one performance, yet the facial expressions are from another. The kind of play that children always know is being performed, even when they cannot seize the content.

  “Say what you saw.” She grabbed him tightly, shook him.

  “Mamma, I . . .” He was confused. He did not know if he should repeat, but he knew that whatever he said would mean trouble, for him, for his mother.

  “Speak,” she said.

  “I saw Daddy going into the slave shed.”

  “There’s a good boy,” she said before the tears. “Such a good boy,” she said into his neck. She held him so closely that Archer felt suffocated by her sobs. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry you had to see your father in that way, but now you know
. Now you know the kind of man he is, and the kind of man you must not become. The kind of man that would build slave quarters right outside his wife’s bedroom window. Taunting her. Begging to be spied on, debasing her, turning her into some kind of immoral voyeur. You do understand, don’t you?”

  “No, Mamma,” Archer said to his surprise.

  “You do know why your father is going into that shed, don’t you, son?”

  Archer shrugged his shoulders, then shook his head.

  “Don’t play games with your mother. Don’t be like him. Do you know why your father is in that shed?”

  He shook his head again.

  “Oh dear God how you’ve learned already. Don’t make me debase myself and speak the horrors that go on in that shed. It’s bad enough that I know, but then to make me say it to my own son. He’s trained you well, your father has. Hasn’t he?”

  “Yes—I mean I don’t know, Mamma.”

  “Fine. This is the game we’ll play. I’ll say it to you, to show you that I am not afraid to remove all ambiguity from the situation, so that it is clear in your head what has occurred this night and why I’ve acted the way I have. But I will retain what is left of my dignity. I shall not say it aloud. Come closer to your mother, and I’ll whisper it into your ear.” She cupped her mouth over his ear. He could feel her hot breath and tears snake along the contours of his ear. Then she spoke, a whisper that became breathless and hurried and full of tawdry details that made Archer’s ear grow physically hot. His eyes grew wide as he looked through the parted curtain, a sliver of moonlight shining through the clouds and the slave quarters casting a long shadow upon the house.

  “There,” she said as she finished. “Now there won’t be any games between us. Now you know the kind of man you must not become. Now you know what threatens the honor of so many of our men in the South. Promise me you won’t be like them, hand to heart, promise me.”