Babylon Rolling

by Amanda Boyden

  Then he think on where Muzzle be now. Word on him be bad, worse than bad. Make Fearius feel somethin not coming clear yet, maybe like how he next in line for taking care the family, like what the bible stories talk about brothers and all. Fearius cant exactly touch on what eat him about Muzzle and him, how they twined together. He only know he not no Muzzle. Fearius not even smoke no weed for a month. He suppose Muzzle have a reason why he stay away from his family. Fearius still cant figure why Muzzle not come at him with a gun, rob him naked. It not like he dont know where the work go down.

  How much Muzzle love his lil bro? Fearius not sure. The not knowin make him sleep bad every night.

  Two of those long neck white birds fly right over Fearius then, and he think some more on Muzzle. Another hundred something steps an he thinkin on Blockhead. Alphonse done send another solja that night down to Charity get the official report.

  Alphonse tell Fearius it not his fault Blockhead dont die. He say Fearius back in honorable standin.

  Blockhead in a wheelchair droolin, cant even talk. Lyin in bed some nights, Fearius think he go sneak into Blockheads house and finish him off for his moms and pops. It take everything Fearius got not to think on it 24/7. It like Blockhead more a lump a meat than he ever be before. Make Fearius sick.

  His own Moms ask back a month ago if Fearius losin weight. No possibility he tell the Moms how the world be so heavy it eatin him. Hoofin it alongside the bike path on top the levee, he shake his head. He look up and see lil ol Miss Cerise hoofin her own skinny ass up the levee from near the water intake. Fearius gots to go down that way over to work. He like her. They be knowin each other since he born. Miss Cerise dont call him out, just let him be, though she never catch him before goin into Pigeontown in the mornin.

  The ol lady study her feet goin up the grassy slope, steppin carefully. Even from where he at, Fearius see her one hand hang kinda funny off her arm. His stomach twist watchin her go slow up the hill. It like sittin in a class knowin he cant answer one fuckin question the teach put out, an sooner or later he gone get called on, only the class be the world now. Somehow you hafta answer some way. He dint think this gone be how it goes. Not no how. Blockhead figure it out a long time ago. You gotta answer. Look at the pictures and make up a story. Fill up the time till you off the hook.

  Miss Cerise stop and rest, her face tiltin to the sky. Fearius keep goin and catch her attention. He the one wave first.

  She do a funny thing, lift one arm part way and then switch to the other arm. She wave like a Miss America then, little but real big at the same time. Fearius get this weird idea to quick squint his eyes. Miss Cerise goes blurry, and he can see her when she young. He punch her dance card any day, ya heard. He like that sayin.

  Fearius open his eyes wide to the sun and think maybe he not right in his head no more. He make sixteen soon. Miss Cerise a hundred. Fearius wish Taliqwa let him come round. He don’t care she getting fat like she say. He just miss her. Her company and pussy both.

  He walk up to Miss Cerise and hold out his hand, pull her up the last couple steps. “Mornin, Miss Cerise,” he say.

  “Hoooo! Thats the biggest hill in town,” she say, stompin her feet. “How you doin, Daniel?”

  “Awright,” he say, wishin he be able to tell her his true name. “How you?” How you since my big brother wreck yo life?

  “Im a left hander now,” she say. She raise her left hand there on top the levee, and Fearius not fearius one drop no more. Somethin wrong with him. He want to lay down and let a big ball roll him over, press him into the ground down to China where nobody know him but he can get the news to Moms that he okay, Pops maybe too. Not Alphonse or nobody else find him in Chinkland, hey.

  “Why you up this way?” he ask.

  “Took a walk down Oak. Been a while. Lots of new stores and restaurants.”

  “Yeah?” Fearius never go in neither. If he shop clothes, it down in Canal Place where he buy what show his money.

  “I thought your schools in the other direction,” the old woman say.

  Salright. He knew it coming first thing he see her. Fearius just shrug, stuff a hand in his pocket hold up his trousers. He know Miss Cerise aint no fan a showin drawers.

  “Pigeontown has some real troubles, Daniel. I worry about you.”

  “I be fine.” It make him feel better somehow knowin Miss Cerise care about him a touch.

  “Schools not always a complete waste,” she say. “You might could go an not care about the grades. Just go for something to do. Maybe youll enjoy history or mechanics or something.”

  Now Fearius gotta laugh. “Bout all I enjoy be the—” How he say it proper to Miss Cerise? “The young ladies the best part bout any school.”

  Miss Cerise laugh too. “Your sister, now shes a student, right?”

  “She a nerd, right. Not in no classes with the babies though.”

  Miss Cerise dont say nothin about it, just smush up her mouth.

  They walk on a little ways. Fearius gone double back to work. He respect his elders usually.

  “They got daycare scholarships and things for young mothers who wanna study,” Miss Cerise say all a sudden.

  “That a good idea,” Fearius say, an mean it.

  “It is, isnt it?”

  “Sho is. For real.” Klameisha need to be back at school. Comin up, Fearius always think she gone marry the president or be Oprah she so smart. Now she change diapers. “I like that idea,” he say. “Klameisha and the babies both be more happy she go to college.”

  The lil ol Miss Cerise walkin alongside him smile an try clap her hands, only they dont make no clapping noise.

  This day, Fearius be the kid got coal in his stockin. Everywhere he turn, he feel sad. Maybe it time tonight he go visit the hens in the Channel, go get him somethin make him feel good. “I best be gettin on,” he say and stop walkin.

  “You find yourself some nutrition for lunch,” Miss Cerise say, “or take a break and come to my house.”

  Right. Lunchtime the busy part the day with the hospital workers on break an the Tulanes between they classes. “Awright,” he say. “Thank you.”

  “You know I still cook.”

  “I know it,” he say. “It smell good every night, yo.” He start gettin on.

  “Daniel,” she call out. He stop and turn round. “You an your brother aint the same. You can do whatever you want, you hear me?”

  How he can tell it to a ol lady that he dont have no choice? “Yes, maam.” Fearius head off to work.

  On the sofa, Ed eats toast spread with peanut butter. He looks down at his dirty white T shirt with a strange sense of pride. Never would he have believed he could manage to produce such a spectacle, the stains and the belly both. Granted, he might be all of three months pregnant for its size, but still. Alcohol, sloth, and gut-wrenching fear at gunpoint can change a man.

  He has two hours still before the kids get out of school. Ed aims the remote control at the television and flips through, not really looking. The TV turns into a sort of kaleidoscope when you click it fast enough, he’s learned. He pauses momentarily at America’s Funniest Videos, these days shortened into the strange acronym AFV, as though it’s something masculine and motorized. On the screen, there’s a medley of accidents arranged to classical music, tree swings snapping and skiers crashing and babies tipping upside down, the sights so disturbing that Ed nearly gags. How can any of this be perceived as funny? It’s all horrifying. It’s disgusting. Any of those accidents could have resulted in tragedy. Broken necks and premature death.

  He turns off the TV and stands, tossing his toast onto the coffee table, where it lands, satisfyingly, peanut butter side down. Crumbs pitter from his dirty shirt onto the floor. Bravo. Everybody should notice when he doesn’t clean.

  Ed moves to the foyer and peers at the house across the street through the narrow window flanking the front door. Ariel desperately wanted to call the police that night. Ed wasn’t about to ever, but he told her he’d go int
o the station in the morning when he sobered up.

  He lay wide awake. As the sun finally rose and Ariel breathed evenly beside him, he solved the riddle. Of course. It had been the younger Harris boy, Daniel. Ed had just never seen his face. He lied to Ariel the next day about filing a report. Being a snitch in New Orleans doesn’t really fly, he’d heard numerous times in the Rose.

  Ed suffered, to be sure, but he’s not interested in sending the kid back to juvenile. After all, Daniel only helped Ed to understand his own lowly position in the world. Brilliantly, actually.

  Through the window, the Harris house gives up nothing at the moment. A plastic shopping bag flutters, snagged on a curl of their porch ironwork.

  Gandhi tried never to kill a living entity, although he confessed to having trouble with scorpions. Ed isn’t any Gandhi, but he has some determination. He won’t ever tell Ariel about the identity of the attacker. Instead, Ed’s developed what he could only call an obsession with Daniel Harris.

  Last night, Ariel crept into bed so late he had to pretend to be asleep. She’ll approach him when she’s ready, he guesses. Or maybe not. He doesn’t know her at all anymore. He’s married to a stranger.

  Their kids need a mother. He’s willing to continue the sacrifice for now. He’ll never forget his mantra at gunpoint. Never. Being a father is tantamount to nothing else.

  The plastic bag sags on the iron railing. Winds at the end of April must not be much. He feels it, feels the same way: not much. Ed puts his cheek against the glass of the window. It’s cool. He wants more. He lifts his shirt and presses his belly onto the glass too. Raising his arms over his head, he fits them into the rectangle. He closes his eyes against the cool.

  Can she even do this? Ariel’s not sure. She drives in the general direction of home.

  Javier kept his back to her when she entered the kitchen at lunch. Warren disappeared into the walk-in. No question the rest of them know now, down to the dishwashers. Nobody uttered a word. The kitchen had never been so quiet.

  She informed her managers to call her only if they were incapable of solving a dire problem on their own, and then she left.

  Ariel detours towards the place on the river everybody calls The Fly, a big, manicured, grassy expanse of public land alongside the river, near the zoo. It qualifies as a sufficiently calm place to go before telling her husband about fucking her sous chef for months and then getting caught by the prep cook on hotel property.

  Again she considers not telling Ed. How much easier would that be?

  She has to. She runs the risk of him finding out another way otherwise, although it’s a risk she feels almost willing to take. Ed hasn’t been doing well since the attack. Since before the attack.

  Ariel knows it’s her fault. All of it is.

  She pulls into a parking space and gets out of her car. The Mississippi roils an ugly brown. On the other side of the watery expanse, processing plants of some kind rise like giant smoking toilets equipped with blinking chimneys. Behind her, a slow-rolling car passes blasting shit rap. She doesn’t turn to look, doesn’t care who drives with his wrist on top of his steering wheel.

  The moment, or the living in it, has trumped her. How could she have let this happen? And now she’s going to go home and destroy the tenuous peace. Oh, God. But he has to hear it from her. She may well lose her job. He needs to know about the possibility beforehand.

  Ariel turns away from the river and walks to the car. College-age students wing a frisbee around in the grass.

  Ed must have had twenty women pining after him when they met in college. Ariel felt like she’d won the lottery when she got his attention. She heaves a hard breath into her lungs and unlocks her car door. She’s locked everything since the attack, even if she’s going to unlock it immediately after, even if everything seems perfectly safe.

  The drive home is ridiculously short. Ariel thinks about driving some more, maybe going around the block and taking off again, but she knows there’s limited time before the kids get out of school. And Ed might not be sober tonight. She doesn’t know when else to get it over with.

  Pulling up to the house, she’s taken aback. What is that? What the hell? She slows on the street before turning into the driveway. Ed—is that Ed?—has squeezed his half-naked body into one of the front windows by the door. Is she seeing right? What is he doing? His stomach distends against the glass, his cheek flattened into a pale pancake. What in—what is he doing? She can see his eyes are closed.

  Is he dead? What has happened? Ariel’s hand moves to her horn before her brain knows what her hand is doing. She honks loudly.

  Ed jolts alive. Her husband in the window is alive. He twists away without looking outside, gone into the interior of the house.

  The voice of the dishwasher from the Belle is the one that comes to her with imaginary words: “Ain’t gone be easy, Miss Ariel.”

  She turns off the engine. More than most men, Ed has feelings. She wraps her hand around the leather handle of her briefcase. Ed cooks. Ed listens to NPR. She will not cry. She will not. Ed just pressed his half-naked body into one of their front windows. Ed stays out late drinking across the street.

  Fortitude, Ariel. You have to tell him.

  She puts the key in the door. “Hello,” she calls out.

  Nothing comes back.

  “Hello. Ed. Where are you?” She sets her briefcase on the foyer table.

  Ed descends the stairs, pulling on a Chicago Blackhawks T shirt. “Hi,” he says. “Why are you home?” He does that, gets to the point so fast he yanks the rug out from under her.

  “Were you just pressed into the front window?”

  “It felt cool,” he says. He comes down the last step and kisses her cheek in greeting. He’s started the habit since they’ve been here.

  “It’s really weird, Ed.” She tries to catch his eye. He won’t give it. “You looked like an exhibitionist.”

  He barely tilts his head in acknowledgment, walking into the family room. “So you’re home for what reason?”

  Ariel follows. “Can we talk?”

  Ed stops in his tracks. His shoulders relax. “Yes.”

  The family room is filthy. She feels like she’s going to collapse. “I need to sit down.”

  “Alright.” Ed sits in a chair.

  Ariel brushes crumbs off the sofa and sits. She looks at the man she married. He looks very sad. He knows. He’s known in his gut from day one. She’s sure. He carefully rests both of his forearms on top of the chair arms. Ariel’s reminded of an execution. She only knows her opening words. Time to get them out. “I fucked up,” she says. Ariel can actually see the impact of her blow. Ed pulls in his stomach.

  “How so?” he asks, and just then she notices for the first time in years how absolutely beautiful his green eyes are. What has she done?

  “I—”

  “Since Ivan, right?” he asks.

  She’s struck silent.

  “Right?”

  She can only nod.

  “I knew it,” he says. “Who?”

  “Somebody at work.”

  He blinks as though he’s a person in a movie who’s been slapped but remains stoic. “Who?”

  “A, a cook.”

  Somehow these words affect Ed more than the others she’s uttered so far. He grips the armrests. “Are you fucking kidding?”

  Ariel is certain she will cough up her heart in a second. “It’s over.”

  Ed tips his head down and rubs his face. “When?” He looks up and places his arms on the chair again.

  “What?”

  “When did it end?”

  She’ll be honest. “Yesterday.”

  “What color is he?” he asks quietly.

  She can’t be hearing him right. Why would he ask that? “Why would that matter?”

  “What color is he?”

  “I don’t see why that matters at all, Ed. It’s over.”

  “Is he chocolate or mocha or café con leche?” He’s strapped
into the electric chair.

  “Ed—”

  “What color is his cock?” He clears his throat and spits on the coffee table.

  She looks and sees grimy plates, a piece of toast, candy wrappers. A glob of spit. So this is what she’s earned for working seventy-hour weeks, she guesses. It’s what she gets for Javier. Ariel fingers the hem of her skirt. She wore it when she and Javier fucked at some point. She’s never had it dry-cleaned. “Brown,” she says.

  Ed is on his feet. He grabs a plate and slams it on the floor, shattering it. “Fucking fuuuuuuck!!!”

  Ariel hunches on the sofa. Her heart can’t fit up her throat. It’s stuck. She retches.

  Ed’s changed.

  So has she.

  21

  Cerise walks the park. Audubon’s prettier than she even remembers. She doesn’t know who started it, if it’s private or public in its money and what, but there’s a golf course and a bike path and pavilions where people can have birthday parties and family reunions. She’s even seen wedding receptions, mostly pretty white ladies having their pictures taken under the live oaks drippin’ Spanish moss.

  Tradition is tradition, she supposes, no matter what it makes her feel like. In her right head, Cerise knows those white brides have nothing to do with her history or why Cerise was born and raised in Louisiana. But in her wrong head, those white brides still make her life harder in this year of their Catholic lord or however it goes.

  Most ways, though, Uptown is a fine place. She wishes her daughter thought the same. Ain’t no changing Marie. Cerise could put Roy on the task of getting their daughter and her family to come back this side of town, but he’d come in afterwards just sayin’ what Cerise already knows. Marie aspires to oatmeal. She wants new, bland, beige, soft porridge.

  At least a dozen geese on their way from someplace else in the world waddle around by the big pond, fixin’ to go another place else soon as they can work it. They fatten themselves up on the green green grass. Cerise gets a kick out of ’em. They’ll eat every speck of bread and then chase away the little kids who throw it. Dropped onto the paved path, their green turds are big as a child’s. Guess the geese take in more grass than bread, considering the color of what they leave behind.