He need to get a little chant up in his head. Here I go, here I go, here I go. Step up, bro. Get it right. Keep yo life. Get to feel Taliqwa again, over and over, yo. Keep yo life. Keep yo own life. Keep yo life. He done feel a little sick in his stomach back when he cross Napoleon Boulevard and look down to where the parades make the big slow turn onto St. Charles.
Babylon rolling, the marchin bands drummin and the girls clackin in they cowboy boots with the taps on em. The girls in front the marching bands wave flags or only dance, all of em with no pants on. Just leotards. And they wear nylon stockings in the color of they skin, even the dark girls. They must make them getups custom, like car interiors on Cribs. First time Fearius remember growin hard and linkin it up with something he see be when he five or six, watching the high school dancers in leotards.
This day he up here for another reason. Fearius walk slow on Caron-delet now, glancin down the one short block to St. Charles at the cross streets, seein all the 5-0 standin in the middle of everything, scoutin the crowds. Guns hangin huge on hips, clubs unsnapped, ready to beat some nigga down. Two of em at every intersection, some standing full on in the middle the boulevard. The marchin bands hafta bend they straight lines to go round em, like the police fucks made of stone. What that they say about a unmovable object?
He got to screw his head on straight now, stop gettin distracted.
From a balcony bout ready to fall off the side a ghetto house, a old white dude shake his finger at Fearius, actually shake his finger. The man too old to care about. Fearius keep walkin. Funny what one motherfuckin block can do. St. Charles full of mansions and right behind it be shit squares, crumblin down.
Last word Alphonse get, the party up over by Delachaise, one street off Louisiana, the mo fo busy intersection with the gas station and pharmacy and the corndog stands and the quick shop and Fearius stomach in his throat. No question they be people everywhere, no question why the nigga choose it for his party spot in the first place.
This thing Fearius have to do aint easy. He got three blocks to go and not one real plan. He hopin his gut tell him what to do. What the chances be he gone get taken out hisself by a solja after he shoot the hit? His legs feel like he been smokin, like noodles. Fuck, he so scared his hands prickly.
He kinda go out his head then, floaty, thinkin on what he shoulda put in a letter in his room for Moms.
And then he almost there, and the fog clear out his head like the ghost of Jesus or somebody blow it out with a big breath. Poof. Fearius know what he hafta do. Pass once and make sure the hit at his own party then go hang on the other side the parade, watch behind lots other people, wait and see if the nigga leave to buy popcorn or somethin. Fearius have only as long as two parades of marchin bands. If Chaos start rolling and Fearius still dont have it clear, one on one, he gone hafta go into all of em, pretend he a friend. He gone get shot if he hafta go in.
Here come Delachaise. Fearius walk down it and see one huge fuckin pile of brothers an they bitches. The hit done make em all a stage from boards and scaffold things. They dancing an drinkin, and worse, theys a empty circle round them all like a lieutenant piss out they territory.
Fearius think on it a thousandth time. What if he just tell Alphonse there werent no opportunity? Same as always, any way he figure it, Fearius fucked iffin he dont try. Likely dead he dont try. Maybe he just leave town now, disappear.
Naw. He aint no coward. Cant be a coward no matter what else. Fearius is fearius, motherfuckers. Fearius invisible. Nobody gone see him.
He look for the hit, remember he have that blockhead. He got a square skull. Fearius know him from the third grade when the idiot not readin still even when he held back two years. The kids laugh when Blockhead get called on and he read words backwards or just make em up. After a while, the kid finally only look at the book pictures and tell a story. Fearius never figure out why Miss Franklin let him go on an on with everybody bustin a gut. Guess she needed her a laugh. Fearius remember the teach puttin her head on her desk and slappin it, her shoulders jigglin with her laughin. Fearius know Blockheads birthname but aint gone think it. He only the hit.
Fearius walk along casual on the far side St. Charles with his hood up. So many niggas out during Mardi Gras the hit an his guests aint gone single Fearius out right away. Fearius step casual, just turn his head a inch.
There he be. There the hit stand. He in among everybody, but theys no mistakin the skull shape of a person cant read.
Fearius keep going towards the crowd around Louisiana ahead. He gone cross the route where the bros not lookin and come back up the other side. He feel all a sudden like he could run a race an win, his muscles so ready.
He wonder if Blockhead ever learned him any writing at all.
Fearius glance back over his shoulder, make sure the hit still hangin, and he see something he not sure he see right. The hit leavin everybody and headin over to the dead side St. Charles. Fearius stop an turn. It true.
Walkin slow as his legs let him, Fearius go back in Delachaise direction. His hand go in his coat. He gots to get a round in the chamber, but he need two hands.
And it like somebody watchin over, decidin the cheetah get to catch the zebra tonight, cause right then a marching band start up with a blastin loud number, got a dude in his tall hat and tails out front, liftin his knees proud with his baton, and not nobody lookin Fearius direction suddenly.
Fearius take out the Jericho and pull the top hard to get a round in, keep it close to his leg on the away side the parade. The band a blessin. Nobody see Fearius.
Fearius, he surviving. He the fittest of them two. He gone be the eater, not the dinner, too bad for Blockhead.
The hit head up Delachaise. When Fearius take the corner, the nigga gone. Fearius stop an squint up the dark street. The band play, and Fearius skin crawl. He hear drippin somewhere.
It somebody pissin.
Fearius try hear around the blood pulsin in his own ears. He follow the piss noise, steppin with no sound.
The snares start passin on the boulevard, rat tat tat, rrrrrrrrratt tat, and there the dumb mo fo blockhead be by hisself, pissin in a bush by a stranger door. How dumb you gots to be, nigga?
Do it right, Fear, do it right.
Blockhead maybe sense Fearius cause he turn and look with his dick in his hand. His motherfuckin dick in his hand.
Fearius raise and point.
“Who dat?” Blockhead say, laughin, and Fearius realize the nigga cant see Fearius at all. It hafta be Fearius luckiest day ever. He gone get to live.
The snares keep goin.
Blockhead never had shit in his lunchbox, never sat with nobody. He took food off all of them younger kids, stuffed his mouth up like he jam-min it with words he need to read out later.
Fearius aim and try to shoot in time with the drums. Rat tat tat.
He run and run. He dont even hear no sirens. He run some more and pant and run, cutting in and out, tryin not to go in any straight line. Finally, he understand he in the clear. Best he stop and stroll.
His coat slippery with sweat on the inside, stink like gunpowder. Him or me, him or me, him or me. It the chant back home. Him or me.
Blockhead. Him or me. Ronald Walters ate Fearius sandwich once, even with two bites gone. Left Fearius warm milk and a soft apple.
20
Philomenia rests her pen atop her journal. She does not know what to write.
Outside the bay window, the live oak dips its branches toward the lawn. She realizes she could not bear living in a place where every tree shed its leaves each year. This particular New Orleans March is bleak enough without deciduous influence.
Soon it will be buck moth caterpillar season. They have overrun the city in recent decades, stinging all manner of warm-blooded beings, although she cannot remember large barbed caterpillars inhabiting her youth. Likely they arrived on a ship from a poor and foreign place, similar to the nutria, those bloated rodents plaguing the waterways. She stares out the glass panes
that need washing. Certainly, it seems, Louisiana is the receptacle of all manner of biological offal. The barnacle across the street provides testament to the fact.
She must not collapse. She must regain something of her former strength. Something.
The greatest luxury a man can offer a wife is to allow her to remain in the home. Choose wisely. To marry an impoverished man for love is to destroy your future, Philomenia. The working world is not your place.
Joe claims that he will not work another day in his life. “Not one more fucking day in that office,” he actually said indelicately. He has escaped hellfire, somehow, and he remains resolute in his decision to escape Philomenia. After her years of service, she cannot, still, fathom his request. He insists that she come to an understanding about his choice. They cannot continue to live in the house together indefinitely, he has said. He has said that he does not know exactly how to explain why he has made his decision, only that he will see it through to its end.
He has said that they will need to sell the house since he will be neither working nor dying. “Sorry about that, Philly Phil Phil,” he said. “Bet you’re pretty bummed out, huh?”
Along with his new hair, Joe’s coarseness has grown with each passing week since the unspeakable night of Carnival. He sleeps in the guest bedroom. She carries on with her cooking and cleaning, proffering her skills in what she acknowledges is an ungainly attempt to sway him.
Philomenia will not leave this house. She is deserving of this house. She has earned this house, has she not? She has spent the majority of her years on Orchid Street.
She lifts her pen and opens her journal to a fresh page. “I have guarded this block,” she writes, “since I was a newlywed. That I am told I must leave against my will is incomprehensible.”
A mouse has begun appearing. It chews, now, on her spinal cord. Its actions prove far more substantial and difficult to ignore than those of the moths. “That I …”
Joe’s recent words about her health have embedded themselves, syphilitically, in Philomenia’s brain. He has willed her the future she cannot have. She cannot.
She is able to recall the exact circumstances with great precision.
He stood at the kitchen island as Philomenia, after baking, prepared a marinade for the evening’s roast. He chose a warm blueberry muffin from the cake plate. He lifted the domed top of the butter keeper by its button of glass, looked into it, and then licked its edge with a long and whitish tongue. He rubbed the muffin along the stick of butter, embedding crumbs. He opened his mouth as wide as it could be opened and inserted the muffin. He bit off half. He smiled.
“Delicious,” Joe said. He spoke with his mouth full, she knew, because he no longer cared what she thought. No, more accurately, he spoke with his mouth full because he knew she would not care for his doing so.
Salvation, the mouse says. You know where it lies.
He seemed never happier in his life. “You know, Philomenia,” he said, wiping the melted grease from his face with his forearm, “you still have time for love. A year or two, at least. How old was your mother when it did her in?”
Philomenia added cayenne to the marinade. “Sorry?” She could not have heard correctly.
“Stare at a ceiling for months, Phil Philly. Philly Philly Philly.” He pushed the rest of the muffin into his mouth and rubbed his stomach. He closed his eyes. “You are a very good cook,” he said, again with food still in his mouth. “Milk.” He pointed to the refrigerator.
Philomenia obeyed. She took his favorite glass from the cupboard and filled it. She passed it to him. He gulped greedily. She can still see his Adam’s apple moving under his skin. Are they extricable entities? Can an Adam’s apple be removed and held in a hand like a marble?
“Really, Phil, you should go hog wild before you don’t know what you’re doing.” He took another muffin and rubbed its top across the stick of butter.
Philomenia mismeasured the cumin. “What do you mean?”
“You lie sick while I go across the street night after night, is what I mean.”
“I made food for those people. I shared—”
“You really don’t know, do you.” He looked down to the muffin in his hand and then up to her face. “You’re sick with what your mother had.”
Philomenia turned to the cupboard. She needed a dish. She needed something from the cupboard.
“I’m guessing under those clothes somewhere is a nice little package even now. Good Lord, Phil, go get yourself something while you still know what you’re doing.” He laughed. He took yet another bite of blueberry muffin. “Fuck somebody else besides me before you die. It’s coming on.”
“Your maladroit language, Joe, is beyond—”
“My God!!” Joe’s yelling filled the room. He threw what remained of the muffin across the kitchen. It burst against the pantry door. “Wake up!! Listen to me!!” His neck colored angrily.
Philomenia placed her fingertips on the lip of the countertop. She looked at the bowl of marinade, an oily red. Joe, she realized with startling clarity, had always been exactly and only what her mother required Philomenia find for a husband. She could not say she had ever loved him. She raised her face. “Yes?”
“You’re sick.” He squeezed his face into a rumple of aging skin. He closed his eyes and shook his head. “I’m sorry, Philomenia. I’ve been a, I have not …” Joe began to cry. “Please.” He ground his fists into his temples. A tear came from his right eye. “You’re sick.”
She clearly remembers him standing and picking up the piece of muffin from the floor. He took a sheet of paper towel and wet it. He wiped down the pantry door before the blueberries had a chance to stain the white paint. He went to the sink. He bent his shoulders along with his head. “How can I make you hate me?” he asked into the garbage disposal.
Salvation lies in your skills, the mouse says, and the moths come in en masse. Wings beat across the view to the barnacle, for how long, Philomenia does not know.
When they leave, Prancie retrieves her pen from the floor. Joe, she realizes, still consumes her food with gusto. The solution has been there from the start.
Ariel can’t believe it’s April. Here in this soggy city, the months escape through her hands, fish back into water.
She paces a path through rooms she shouldn’t be in, thinking what she’s thought from the very first: Javier will never go down on her. Maybe it’s a cultural thing. Maybe he’s afraid of Henny catching the scent. Funny. When Ed tries, he can make Ariel come with his mouth in a couple minutes. His mouth and a finger or two.
It’s something about Javier’s desire to have her. Everybody wants to be wanted, right? She can’t analyze her poor choice. Actually, that’s not true. Ariel could break it down to the minutiae as to why she’s taken on Javier. She just doesn’t want to look at the pieces.
Stopping for her reflection in one of the Governor’s Suite’s bathroom mirrors, Ariel remembers the lost opportunity of Phatty with the smallest twinge of regret.
Isn’t the grass always greener in memory? She slaps her own cheek. Ariel gets a nice pink blush on her pale skin. She slaps the other side. She feels moderately mentally ill, although she knows she remains rational and cognizant and enough of whatever all else is required for work and mothering. It’s the wife-ing that’s giving her pause. She hikes up her skirt, takes off her underwear, and lays it neatly on the vanity.
She’s here, and waiting, and her body’s switched on before her brain. She does not like herself. How, though, how in hell do people stay satisfied with a tiny sliver of life like it’s the best cake they’ll ever have? Javier, at least, is something other than cake.
His knock sounds. When Ariel lets him in, he comes straight at her. Lately he seems to want to fuck as fast as she will allow. She allows it. There’s something impious about it that she relishes, something very not right.
Javier takes Ariel by the upper arms and pushes her backwards into the living room of the suite. Staring at her mouth
, he shoves her down to sit on the arm of a love seat, grabs her hair and yanks on it, forcing her head back. He mashes his lips on hers. Javier opens her jaw. She sucks his tongue to the back of her throat, filling up her hollow.
He pulls her to her feet. She takes a wrapped condom from her bra and tears it open. He does not step out of his dropped pants, only watches as Ariel rolls it on.
She is his doll. By her hair, Javier turns her away from him, his free hand running up under her skirt, and then he is inside her quick and hard.
Ariel inhales sharply. He pounds against her ass, and she grunts, and she sees the black man with his arm around Ed’s neck suddenly, the way he described it, the gun, and her stomach tightens like a fist. She is going to stop this, she thinks, all of this, and then the door to the suite opens.
Ariel swings her head over her shoulder. Javier’s head follows. The prep cook Nikki is balancing an elaborate fruit tray. She seems intent on not dropping it, looking down. Javier’s cock is thrust as deep as it goes. He turns back to Ariel, finds her eyes, and smiles. He keeps fucking. She knows he is only a few strokes away. Hair rips from her scalp. He shudders into her as Nikki looks up.
Fearius walkin his normal morning route, starin out at the river from the levee. It gone be hot soon. Theys a gap by the power lines with no trees where the river shows good, even from a distance. It so damn brown. Water aint suppose to be that color, he dont think. He always wonder what it do in a glass bowl. Do the mud settle at the bottom finally like a science project?
Then he think on swimmin and how he aint been in so long. Moms use to sign em up for summer swim at the pool down on Tchoupitoulas. Muzzle push him off the high dive once an lost his privileges and then done blame Fearius. His bro beat on Fearius for a week.
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