Babylon Rolling

by Amanda Boyden

  “What?” Ariel doesn’t follow.

  “Thurman, not Thurston. Some kind of family name.”

  “He knew what to do.”

  “Yeah,” one of the lingering Tulane students says, “but not like how—like what you did.” Ariel watches the girl nudge Ed with her silky young shoulder. Is she flirting? Is Ed good-looking to college students?

  “Well, you were pretty quick on the draw,” Ed says back. He whips out an imaginary cell phone and holds it to his ear. “911.”

  Ariel’s not sure she wants any cake. What was she thinking? Same old Ed.

  Only he’s not.

  “Bigger,” a kid says.

  “Eat that first,” Sharon tells the boy. “Git.”

  Ariel admires Sharon’s chutzpah, helping to pass out cake after her son’s caused a terrible accident. Ella stays glued to Ed’s leg. “You want cake, Fitzy?” Ariel asks.

  Ella glowers at Ariel. Ariel’s used the wrong name in public. Ella purses her lips, barely says, “Yes.” It really is a pretty cake. It reminds Ariel of something from a fairy tale. A Cinderella cake. It must be four layers tall.

  “More,” another kid says.

  Dark grows in from around the edges, from under the raised houses, drips in from the leafy canopy of live oaks. In the distance, the streetcar screeches around its turn from St. Charles to Carrollton, and Ariel knows in a strange instant, surrounded by hot bodies once again, that she has lost her tether. Something more than Michael Harris on his mini motorcycle has run amok.

  “I’m going to lock their door,” Ariel announces, deciding that all the Good Samaritans should hear her. “But, hey, if anybody talks to them before we do, and they need anything, Ed’s around with the keys, okay?”

  A couple people clap Ed on the back again, for the fiftieth time. Ariel locks the Browns’ door. She wonders if she should check the house later when everyone has gone home. Water any plants or do dishes.

  “The ambulance people seemed to know what they were doing, at least.”

  “Paramedics.”

  “Yeah. They were good. That woman paramedic was way real good.”

  “We should pray tonight.”

  “An’ order flowers. Yo, Charity let in flowers, right?”

  “Somebody needs to be in charge of flowers.”

  Ariel stands on the Browns’ porch and takes in the view. Cerise Brown was always out on this porch, with a wave to Ariel, by the time she left for work in the morning.

  The view is better from this side of the block.

  Ed needs to mow their lawn.

  • •

  Ed feels something other than peace and understanding flowing through his veins, and he worries about it. He’s nearly clogged with mixed emotions, and he considers going to Tokyo Rose for a Scotch. The beer he tries not to gulp isn’t even registering. He knows it has to be adrenaline, of course, but more than that, he’s concerned that he’s proud. He can’t help himself for talking about what he managed to do with Roy Brown, and he sees that Miles is proud as well, which only perpetuates the issue.

  Ella has glommed on, too. How frightening for her to see the Browns burned and in pain. Ed can’t go into the bar, of course, but he also can’t stop running the looped tape of the rescue, over and over. Something seems injured in his back, but damn if he can feel it at the moment.

  Considering his sandals, Ed thinks that Roy Brown might actually end up being alright. Well, that he might make it with injuries not much worse than his wife’s. Ed’s thought it through: if the charcoal sat for however long on the bottom of the oil barrel while Roy grilled food, the bottom was going to be much hotter than the lid. And it was actually the side of the barrel that had rested on Roy, not the bottom. The charcoal shifted, obviously, but the barrel itself buffered the heat for a while. Roy might be okay.

  “Daddy, I don’t want it,” Ella says, holding her plate of cake up to Ed’s chest. The old man could have sustained significant injuries from the collision, however.

  “Okay, sweetie. You don’t have to eat it.”

  How tenuous life is. Ed recognizes the toddler wandering around, dragging the dead banana leaf. She’s Debutanté’s little girl, Arlet. The girl’s maybe two, the mother no older than seventeen. Ed thinks about getting new palm lines, how he could change his future with new creases in his hands. Be a different person.

  But he’s already a different person. He’s a man who has rescued another.

  “Daddy.” Ella tips her plastic plate towards his shirt.

  Ariel stomps down the stairs. “Give me that,” she says to Ella. “Wasting when others want more isn’t right. Here, Sharon.” Ariel gives Ella’s plate back to Sharon. “She didn’t touch it.”

  Ed can’t figure out Ariel’s short temper the last number of months. He should let her brusqueness go without comment. “Moo-deee,” he says for some reason instead.

  Ariel smirks. “Were you going to simply let her smash it on your stomach?” She does the cocky head thing she’s learned since moving here. “All zoned out from being a hero?”

  He wishes she would be kinder to him, especially in front of others. He hasn’t done anything wrong. On the contrary.

  “We should have dinner before dessert anyway,” Ariel says to Indira and Sharon.

  “I don’t even try stopping ’em from getting into the sugar,” Sharon says. “Can’t stop ’em so I join ’em.” She laughs.

  Indira chuckles too. “Children have a much higher tolerance for sugar than adults.”

  “Fruit works, sometimes,” Ed offers.

  “The last number of days,” Indira says, “my children have been eating far too many of Prancie’s treats.”

  Ed wonders when Philomenia changed her name. Likely she’s trying to get herself invited over for dinner at the Guptas’ house. She did the same to them when they first arrived.

  “Moving can be such a trying experience,” Philomenia says. “I thought it might be nice to have something you need not bake yourself.”

  The Tokyo Rose customers dribble back into the bar, and with them goes Ed’s buoyancy. He would like to go home. “Time for dinner, then?” he asks Ella.

  His daughter nods and raises her arms to be picked up.

  “Ella, that’s enough,” Ariel says. “You can walk.”

  Ed stoops to lift Ella and winces. “Daddy’s back is sore,” Ariel says. “You walk, young lady.”

  “Sorry,” he says to Ella.

  Ed, Ganesh, and Indira agree to go to the hospital after her morning classes. Ariel has to work, of course. Sharon Harris busies herself with a grandson, wiping his face. Philomenia nibbles at her sliver of cake. Neither says a word.

  After typing in Ed and his family’s home phone number and Ariel’s cell into his own, Ganesh agrees to collect donations for flowers at the bar. Miles trots over, and Ed brings his family back across the street.

  The new night sighs. Glossy leaves rustle. Ed takes the stairs to their porch in his bare feet and notices how warm the bricks still are. He hopes Ariel will give him a back massage later, that the kids will go to sleep easily, that Cerise and Roy Brown will be alright.

  And then Ed thinks of the Harris boy again. He never cried out in pain. Ed will make sure the kids pray for Michael Harris tonight too.

  Ariel finds Ed on the porch. She sits next to him, leans over and takes a goodwill-gesture sip of his Scotch, then realizes he’s been crying. “What is it?”

  “That kid. Michael Harris.” Ed turns his face away from Ariel and sniffs.

  “He’s a shit,” she says. And he is. Ariel has seen him be downright cruel to his younger brother, the one who looks so much like Michael that you need to see them together to realize which is which. Michael is taller, but they both wear their drug-selling uniforms, white Ts, droopy blue jeans, white-white running shoes. Both have the same shaved heads and attitudes. Ariel considers her husband, considers this Rescue Ed. “Please tell me you’re not feeling bad for him.”

  Ed turns to
gaze at Ariel. “Why shouldn’t I? Why don’t you? Who knows how long before he walks right again, if he even will.”

  “He nearly killed two people—two old people—being an idiot.”

  “You never had any fun as a kid?” Ed asks, and suddenly Ariel doesn’t like his tone, doesn’t like the condescension in his voice. Rescue Ed. She has to work tomorrow.

  It’s all she can manage: “I’m glad you were able to help today. I need to get some sleep.”

  Ariel has no idea what time Ed opens the bedroom door, but the sharp crack of hallway light jolts her awake. Ed reaches back around the door-jamb and flicks the light off. Their room fills again with a browny-black.

  Fumbling, Ed sheds his clothes and crawls noisily between the sheets. He doesn’t seem able to lie still, wriggles and twists, trying to unobtrusively force the tucked-in cover out from the foot of the bed.

  “Ed. Please. I have to work in the morning.”

  “Can we make another baby?”

  Ariel is so tired she can hardly think. Environmentalist Ed. Rescue Ed. They don’t jibe exactly. Do firefighters recycle? Does Superman take the streetcar to the grocery store? “Babies drain the environment,” she says, too wiped out to care if she makes sense.

  “That’s true.” Ed seems to consider. “But can we practice?”

  “Ed,” she says. It’s all she needs to.

  4

  In the morning, Alphonse break the news. He give Fearius good work, tell Fearius he gone sell Avon again. Not no lookout, not no runner. Fearius be taking over his bros blocks in Pigeontown, deep the other side of Carrollton, while his bro lay up over by Touro in a cast and those ropes and what. His bro text messaged Alphonse late, toll him to tell Fearius about his leg. Alphonse say they drive over by the hospital when it get dark.

  After they grown and out from under the thumbs of Moms and Pops, Fearius bro Michael go by Muzzle, a name like what a fighter pit got to wear before he get into the ring. Like there no taming him. Or Muzzle like on a gun. Fearius think it a good name. It done took Fearius a long time come up with his own, have to be like his bros but different.

  This morning Fearius find out he have to give Muzzle thirty percent his take each day. Alphonse get fitty, less than normal but lots after Muzzles share. It leave Fearius twenty percent. It how it is when a nigga comes out juvey. But it change soon enough if Fearius play the game good, careful. Fearius spose he should be happy the runners and lookouts be paid outta Alphonse pocket, not his own.

  Now Fearius hoof it back and forth between the dead house stoop to the cars rollin slow down the street. Nobody in the house for over six months. Muzzle done tore down the For Rent sign a long time ago after he heard the owners live by Florida, dont even check it. The dead house be painted pink and peeling brown, and it make little kids want to eat the curls like they chocolate. Fearius stopped two kids already, toll them eating paint make them stupid. Toll them not to come around no more, that it his house now. One the boys dripped snot out his nose and asked where Muzzle be. Fearius raised his hand like he ready to smack him and they both ran round the corner, made Fearius smile.

  Now he hoof it, sellin his Avon, two for ten on the white, three for ten on the lime green. He look enough like Muzzle most customers dont notice or care, just pass him money in a handshake, a palm slide like they friends sayin hello.

  Muzzle done got his blocks the easy way or the hard way, depend how you look on it. It Alphonses hood. Mostly only Alphonse flesh and blood work Pigeontown. Muzzle worked years to earn Alphonse protection, only now there aint no getting away from it. Muzzle stuck with Alphonse. Fearius now too. It be part of the code. Fearius belong to Alphonse, best never cross him, never cheat him. The Glock aint all the power Alphonse carrying. Fearius understand lucky too, ya heard.

  Fearius sit on the dead house stoop and wait, watchin the street, watchin for Alphonse. Fearius figure Alphonse be checkin on him at least a couple times his first day, come pick up the cash money, maybe give him a pager if he see Fearius a good worker. But it a matter of trust, so it hard to say.

  The back door of the dead house kicked in. Floor covered in all kinds of things, aint nobody ever cleaned out what be left from before. Piles of clothes, brown water in the toilet, place smells like cat piss and rotten Popeyes maggot wings. Junkie needles. Fearius try not to look at the garbage inside, the tags all over the walls, big spray paint dicks and ghetto work like what they say come from Los Angeles. Fearius try to breathe out long and slow when he go to his supplies in the hole over the door, not have to take the place into his lungs. Out in the sun with a rag on his head be way better than inside. Plus it be a rule. They got to see him, know he there. See his clean kicks, his clean clothes. Trust. Trust the Alphonse supply clean. Worth it to come back again a second time in one day, some of them three times, a couple even more.

  Alphonse make Fearius hoof it longer than Muzzle, give Fearius a double shift his first day makin sure Fearius prove hisself a good solja. Fearius know patient, know hard work. He work school hours and then some, past dinner. When it get dark later, Alphonse real blood bros be taking over nearby. Customers know they suppose to skip over three blocks where the streetlight busted out.

  Not everybody be so lucky to sell Avon for Alphonse. And not everybody have the sense Fearius do, even if it be a rule. Dont touch the shit. Dont be stupid on the product. Never mess with the supplies, Muzzle toll Fearius. Fearius only smoke when Alphonse offer up some his own, and then only the lime green. Fearius never look at a gift horse. And Alphonse, he never smoke less he got a lieutenant watching. Alphonse be high yesterday, wont be no more for the rest the month.

  It a little quiet over this way, Fearius think. Not bad quiet for business but quiet like he dont know nobody yet. Some peoples hang back when they see he not Muzzle, stroll away, stroll back a half hour later, look all casual, stroll away again.

  Fearius here with no defense, but he aint scared. He gone prove to Alphonse he grown big as Muzzle, big enough. Hang with Alphonse, get protected by Alphonse. Everybody know it in Pigeontown. Anybody fuck with Fearius, they fuck with Alphonse.

  But it like what they say? Fearius stare down at the stoop and spit. A rock and a hard place. It good and not good. Best he live rich or die trying. What else he gone do, shove fries out a window, be poor all the days he get? Fearius gots plans. He gots big plans. He dream of spinnin rims, paying somebody else to detail his ride. Baby blue glitter paint, but tasteful. Speakers under the seats they so many, so loud. Nobody gone miss Fearius coming or going. Not Moms or Pops neither. He be showing them why school aint gone happen and why he right. Fearius gone buy Moms some sparkling Christmas presents, yo.

  Fearius nod at himself, nod at his vision, when a skinny white bitch roll up in a yellow truck covered in brown like a banana gone soft. Rust enough to make him sneeze. Fearius stroll up slow after he check the street. Whitey got a sweaty twenty she pull out her brassiere. The look fo sho in her darty eyes. She want five for twenty. She say, “Muzzle.

  Muzzle knows me. He lets me. Five for twenty. Where’s Muzzle?” She be jonesing bad.

  Fearius think on if he should make his mark now, early, make Alphonse happy or mad. If she gone take four for twenty, Fearius make Alphonse more money, even if Alphonse give a okay to Muzzle to deal the bitch. Her hair look like a ol stuff animal drooping over her red eyes. Like tangly fur. Fearius make hisself stop looking at her hair and say, “I ain’t Muzzle. No deals.” He tip his head like the cornerstore Chinese motherfucker did when Fearius done be little and dint have enough money for candy. Fearius practice that look. He remember it, done made it his. Like he the man. And now he be the man. “Maybe next week I make a deal,” Fearius say all warm and fake, like on purpose fake, like she best know it fake. “Four for twenty,” he tell her. Fearius put his hand on her banana truck roof, casual, but he feel the rust. Rust be worse than dirt. He take his hand off the roof and shrug, start backing off.

  “Bullshit!” the bitch say, but Fearius
know he got her. They aint no heart in her, her eyes ziggin and zaggin, her jaw going. She be chewing on her own tongue. “Where’s Muzzle? That’s fucked up.”

  Fearius shrug again and back away more, rub his hand on the leg his pants, casual, get her rust off him. He actually turn and then she call at him, “Gimme four.”

  Bitch must not know where else they selling safe or she already trust Muzzle, trust Alphonses product. Fearius give her four, pocket the twenty, keep rubbing his hand on his pants. She drive away too fast. She gone kill a kid speeding on her way to go smoke up.

  Fearius draw a lil line in the air. Muzzle taught him it be keeping count, it be like saying ‘I remember.’ Fearius feel good to do it. He remember the banana truck. He done got one customer good already, make the bitch come back faster.

  But now Fearius need a hose for his dirty hand. Alphonse forgot to tell Fearius where he might could wash up. Fearius have pride. Clean be important. He be representing Alphonse. And Fearius, it his first day back at work.

  “Mom?” Marie asks.

  Cerise opens her eyes to her flesh and blood.

  “Mom, look what people brought you.”

  Cerise tries to focus on the enormous bouquet. She glances at the IV needle taped to her arm, at her hands wrapped in so much gauze they look like mittens. The burn people explained to her last night about the procedures to come, how the skin can’t heal even close to right without scrubbing it away over and over again. They call it debridement. Every two to three days. Cerise shivers.

  “Are you cold?”

  Cerise shakes her head. The pain medication’s making her feel sleepy and dumb, but the flowers are dreamy, like that painter’s garden, a mass of summer blooms in all the colors of the rainbow. They had to have cost a fortune, Cerise thinks, more than her normal measure, more than she made in a day standing behind the cash register. “Who?” she asks Marie.

  “Your neighbors. Three of them came to visit. You were sleeping.” Marie gives Cerise a look only a mother could, and Cerise worries she will cry yet again. That Marie would look at her own mother like her child now is too much. Cerise couldn’t stop crying last night when Marie told her Roy’s burns weren’t as bad as Cerise’s. Second degree only. Pure tears of joy. Roy’ll be home nursing his fractured ribs without Cerise within the week. She can see him trying to change his own bandages, patting cream on his burns. The crying starts again, dribbles out of Cerise’s eyes.