Babylon Rolling

by Amanda Boyden

  “Word out, Danny. You the big hit man, hey. Go on an get yo gun o get me all the green you got.” Muzzle raise his shirt show a peashooter .22.

  Fearius put down the remote control on the table. In they own house? It why Muzzle do exactly what he doin. He gotta know Fearius think about the Moms and sisters. Muzzle already know Fearius not gone do nothing under the roof on Orchid Street proper. He look at his fucked up bro in the TV light. He wastin away, just wastin hisself into nothing. He stink. Muzzle stink and shake both. Fearius feel like he be inside a movie, someplace where stuff pretend. Fuck, Muzzle gotta be a pretend thing the way he strung out.

  How it ever come this far?

  “Moms bank most my green,” Fearius tell his brother.

  “Gimme all you got, o the sisters gone hear somethin ugly. Sounds the babies not forget anytime soon.” Muzzle kinda pacing but not liftin one his feet like it glued down to the carpet or he cant feel it.

  Just then a baby chirp from the back. Both him and Muzzle go still. How this not some kinda sick joke? Muzzle gone follow Fearius when he go to his room? Fearius heart start thumpin. He might could pretend he dint know who come into the house. Maybe he just try an save the whole family from bein broke into and not see who he shoot.

  Muzzle know Fearius cant never deny him nothing. It go way back to when Muzzle beat the innards out Fearius every month. Still, Fearius hide stuff from Muzzle, things in Fearius own heart and in his own head that Muzzle cant never get at. Michael Bruce Harris never get everything that Fearius have, never.

  “I goin, bro,” Fearius say and walk away casual to find him some somethin. Muzzle stay in the front room. Maybe Muzzle need to keep lookin out the windows. More n likely he cant care less, just bein lazy. He need to get high again soon.

  Fearius dont got but three or four C and the usual work stack a fins and shit. Enough money still to get Muzzle ODed easy. Fearius reach into his hiding place an pull out his short president stack and the Jericho both.

  One fluffy, one heavy.

  He think on Moms and the babies in the house. He think on Blockhead. Theys just no way. Not here, probably not never.

  Mexico smell like tacos and rose petals, yo. He know it. It just have to.

  24

  This July morning, dawn arrives dressed in the colors of smoke. It is no wonder. It pulls behind it a day on fire. One must confront New Orleans heat directly. “Hello, hot day soon to come,” Prancie says aloud.

  She did not sleep at all last night. She has not slept well since supporting Joe through his ordeal, but now she finds sleep to be only wasted time. She has so much to write, so much to record. Meals and their times. Observations of foes and their actions. Night provides much better cover for her work. Her husband snores audibly from the guest room for a solid ten hours.

  Joe has begun legal proceedings, he claims, and he continues to insist she pursue a relationship with another man. This, above all else, displeases her. What a ridiculous notion with eventual court proceedings on the horizon. Does he think her so dim as to not see his plan to leave her with less than nothing? No, she will not alter her moral convictions at his bidding.

  He additionally persists in baiting her with terrible language and foul names, but she will not succumb to his taunts. She will not give him the satisfaction of the hatred he so desires from her. If she hates him, he will feel justified in his actions, but Prancie will not allow his victory.

  Something, she notices again as she looks at the seven journals spread before her, has gone awry, possibly, but she has no time to allow worry into her life at this juncture. Her journals had been so orderly, so lovely in their uniform penmanship. In the last months, the mouse and the moths have come more frequently. They must be to blame for the now significantly pronounced change in her handwriting. Still, the journals are a source of inspiration, and rereading supplies much of her current sustenance.

  Prancie goes to wash. She has a day of making groceries planned so that she might continue the increased feeding. First to the farmers’ market. She would like to choose from the fresh cheeses for a keynote ingredient. From behind the guest bedroom door come Joe’s uninterrupted exhalations.

  After undressing, Prancie weighs herself. She has not had to worry about her size for the entirety of her life, however she has noticed a continued dropping of digital numbers in the last while. Since Joe’s cancer. How he could have overcome such an invasive intruder remains beyond Prancie’s ability to understand.

  The nude figure in the mirror looks much like a slight, pubescent girl’s. See? The girl is very pale. She has taken care to stay out of the sun’s damaging rays. Her breasts do not yet need a brassiere, but wearing one that included some padding might flatter her slim figure. There. See? There! A faded scar. The shape resembles a scythe.

  Philomenia, eight years old, rode her bicycle down the boulevard away from the Sacred Heart Academy. That day she had learned the place of New Orleans in relation to the rest of the world. It sits at the end of a river, beneath an oval of lake, near the Gulf of Mexico, in the south of North America, a great distance away from the founding Sacré Coeur in France located in the continent of Europe.

  Philomenia pedaled not so much looking at the pavement as she did the imaginary map of the world spread out in front of her. What a grand and colorful place, this globe of theirs. She decided then that she would see all of it. Inside the irregularly shaped landmasses lay the freedom of her future. She would travel for years in glamorous dresses and meet her husband in an exotic destination. He would be a spy, or possibly an ambassador. Philomenia liked the idea of both the words, although she was uncertain as to the responsibilities of an ambassador other than to be a spy without having to remain a secret.

  In the imagining of her future husband, Philomenia did not see the workmen’s truck filled with tools ahead of her. At significant speed, Philomenia weaved her way around the coast of Australia and directly into a pointed shovel protruding from the rear of the truck bed at an angle.

  Prancie cups the breasts of the slight girl with her chilly hands. Neither of them has been off the continent.

  The farmers’ market at Riverbend spreads itself across a portion of a warming black asphalt parking lot. Three large white rectangular tents shelter local fare, including honey, and today, Creole tomatoes. Prancie searches for the cheese maker’s lovely rounds. She stands holding a small bunch of parsley when the mouse begins to chew. No, no. Not now. The moths come in and blanket the spread of produce. Prancie can barely see the celery for all the dusty fluttering.

  “I can help you?” a buxom African American woman asks Prancie, laying her dark hand on Prancie’s arm across a pile of Vidalia onions.

  Prancie tries to blink the moths away. It has not worked for some time. She says into the beating fog, “I may need to rest a spell. Is there a seat?”

  “Oh, here. Oh, now. I have a crate.” The woman comes around from the other side of her booth and steers Prancie to the back side.

  Prancie can barely see for all the wings.

  “Sit down. Sit.” The woman places her hands on Prancie’s shoulders and guides her down to sit on a milk crate.

  “Thank you,” Prancie says. “I’m sorry.”

  “Out on this blacktop, the heat can get bad even at this time a mornin’. Don’t know why they stick us out under the sun the way it cook the vegetables and grit up the honey.”

  Prancie stares at the moths, listening to the woman’s comforting voice. She does not care what is being spoken.

  “Here,” the woman says, “I know what you need.” She walks away towards what Prancie thinks is an automobile and returns with a dampened towel or washcloth. “Put this on your forehead. You just havin’ a flash.”

  A flash? Oh. A hot flash. Philomenia finished with that three years ago.

  “I know how it go,” the woman says and chuckles. “I know exactly.”

  “Thank you,” Prancie says again.

  “Sugar helps too, like with dia
betes. The nectarines are something wonderful, ya heard?”

  Prancie stares into the moths. She can hardly see the woman’s face with the interference. “Yes. I heard.”

  Prancie must find a way to address the insurgent pests. Regular driving will become difficult, as will other things.

  She returns home. Twice in her one-mile outing people chose to honk at her. Prancie does not care about the impatience of others. She must get back safely.

  So it will be gumbo again this evening, duck and andouille. Prancie did not secure the cheese she needed, but she can count on gumbo any day of the week as the vehicle for her special ingredient.

  When she looks at the clock, she sees time has escaped. Two o’clock. Prancie arranges her purchases on the counter and pulls her cutting board from the cupboard. She could likely cook the gumbo blindfolded.

  She sprinkles flour over the melting butter for the roux in the cast iron. Joe enters the kitchen.

  “You’ve been away for oh-so-many hours, Philly Steak.”

  “I was shopping.”

  “I see,” he says. “What’s the grub tonight?”

  “Duck and andouille gumbo,” she says honestly. Why should she hide her menu?

  “Awesome. High five.”

  “Sorry?”

  “The clock’s tickin, wife. Aren’t you even curious about being with a man besides me?”

  She so wishes he would give up on the pursuit. “I’m a married woman,” is all she can think to say.

  “But you won’t be forever,” he answers. “Come on.”

  He should have died. He did not.

  “Oh,” he says. “Ed found this and printed it up for me. He ordered high-speed internet.” Joe dramatically pulls a folded piece of paper from his back pocket and places it on the counter beside her cutting board. “Read up. Think about getting that other lay, Cheese Steak.” Joe leaves the kitchen.

  The page is only half full:

  Presentation

  The age of onset is variable, ranging from 30 to 60, with an average of 50. Death usually occurs between 7 to 36 months from onset. The presentation of the disease varies considerably from person to person, even among patients from within the same family.

  The disease has four stages, taking 7 to 18 months to run its course:

  The patient suffers increasing insomnia, resulting in panic attacks and phobias. This stage lasts about four months.

  Hallucinations and panic attacks become noticeable, continuing about five months.

  Complete inability to sleep is followed by rapid loss of weight. This lasts about three months.

  Dementia, turning unresponsive or mute over the course of six months. This is the final progression of the disease, and the patient will subsequently die.

  Treatment

  There is no cure or treatment for FFI; hope rests on the so far unsuccessful gene therapy. Sleeping pills have no effect.

  While it is not currently possible to reverse the underlying illness, there is some evidence that treatment modalities that focus upon the symptoms can improve quality of life.

  Prancie tries to remember what a modality is. It rests on the tip of her brain, at the very top. Her gray matter feels conical today. She stirs at the bits of browning roux paste, making certain it does not burn.

  “Phil Phil,” Joe says, returning to the kitchen.

  Prancie takes the thick wire handle of the cast-iron pot in both her hands. She lifts and swings with all her might. It finds his head. The vibration of the blow travels through her bones.

  Cast iron, she thinks, makes a wonderful sound against a skull. Joe falters and falls to the tile. She swings twice more at his prone form.

  Cerise convinced Roy to come up to the park with her, and she’s happy she did. She can tell by his step he’s enjoyin’ the place too. He’s carrying her easel. She’s got a wooden box of paints with a handle on it that she holds with her claw. She can just get the fingers through, she discovered, so the right hand’s startin’ to be good for something. It works for grocery sacks also.

  “Ha! There you go. That what you thinkin’ of painting?” Roy points at a No Fishing sign by the pond.

  “Just for that, I’m gonna paint you, Roy Brown. What you think of that?”

  Roy looks at her with the smile behind his eyes, something better than butter on warm bread. She loves nobody else more in this world. They keep walking around the path, and Cerise takes Roy’s free arm. It’s a beautiful day.

  Prancie skirts the red puddle coming from Joe and leaves the kitchen.

  Prancie will have a cognac. On the way to the parlor, she finds the creaking floorboards, each complaining one of them. She stops and bounces her small weight on every dark brown plank. Here you are and here you are and here you are too.

  Prancie inserts the key in the lock and turns.

  She returns to the bottle of Hennessy. Its color and shape both call to her once more.

  She pulls the corked cap. Straight from the bottle, Prancie swallows a goodly amount, what she imagines to be approximately a half cup.

  Prancie does not expect Joe to notice. Prancie does, however, need to sit awhile and consider the results.

  25

  The supply run out the second time in one week. Brick scramblin to find enough on his own with everybody runnin scared away from all Alphonses people. It not what Fearius worryin about so much though. It comin on three weeks since Muzzle first snitch an Alphonse go in. Fearius aint got but one week left before they see to him goin out this world. He have a sense about it. Nobody say nothing, but he know it. He have numbered days.

  Mexico be under Texas. Fearius remember from social studies. He know words like chalupa and burrito and puta, but the rest gone be harder. He happy the American dollar still worth somethin. Money always make steppin through foreign territory easier.

  Fearius get the call from Brick sayin to quit for the day. Before the giant hang up, it his favorite thing to tell Fearius the day count on Alphonse. “Nineteen days, nigga,” he say.

  Fearius can fuckin bring it in Mexico. He work an be the next Tony Montana, buy a house on the beach an put up Moms and maybe Klameisha in luxury. He gone have his own lieutenants lookin out. He gone have a bulletproof Hummer an a supply a chocolate color maids dont wear no underwear under those little ruffle skirts.

  He take the I-10 to Houston first, right? It the road there, he pretty sure. He need to start puttin clothes in a suitcase.

  Fearius enjoy the nature by the river, even if walkin it make his way home longer. Not many people ever up here which he like. Most days it almost dark when he get back, sometimes the sky already showin stars.

  Lately he notice the moon come out a lot in the afternoon. He can even see it from Pigeontown. He wanna know what it mean when the moon out in the afternoon. Maybe it always there. Might could be he develop better eyes. Carrots be good for the eyes, an he like the cooked ones Moms make with brown sugar.

  He look for wildlife every walk on the levee. So far he seen him rats an the big things, nutrias, a wild dog pack with two coyotes in it, the long neck white birds that come in two sizes an the long neck gray bird cousins. He seen three straight up alligators at different times and on a foggy morning something he think a pig with tusks. Theys those squawkin green birds like little parrots. Lots of funny bugs with armor and pinchers and what. Butterflies.

  Today dont offer up much. Fearius like to see him a deer sometime, or a big yellow cougar come walkin with fat paws out the scraggly woods right by the river. That be something. Maybe they grow em in Mexico.

  Despite himself, Ed’s beginning to feel bad about Ariel. She’s not eating and mopes around, crying routinely late at night. She’s told him at his insistence about the other man, and it now sounds like this Javier guy is a real asshole. Ed doesn’t want to have to explain to the kids why their mom lost her job, especially under the circumstances. A potential lawsuit is nothing he ever believed he would have to contend with.

  Well, he’ll
talk it out with Joe at the Rose. Ed goes out the front door and is hit by a blast of heat. July officially initiates the torture, he’s come to learn.

  For the last two weeks or so, Ed’s wanted nothing more than to fuck his wife. Just ball. He wants what Javier wanted. He wants what the guys in the Rose staring out the window want. His desire fascinates and appalls him. He will not roll to her though, on her far side of the bed. She has to come to him.

  Ed cuts across the grass. Joe doesn’t care, although poor Philomenia probably does. Joe’s spent a little time outside on his lawn lately, at Ed’s encouragement. Getting outdoors and being close to the ground helps everyone. Green and sky blue are the most calming colors around. And a good golden amber, about the color of a Pilsner Urquell. Naw. He doesn’t know about amber.

  He takes Joe’s steps two at a time. It’s beer hour.

  The doorbell rings. Prancie places the bottle of cognac on the end table. She will have even more in some time. She thinks Hennessy is a delicious vehicle to another place. Prancie will be there promptly.

  She expects Ed. He stands beyond the sheers on the other side of the glassed front door. The oval beveled insert glints in the afternoon sun.

  “Hello,” she says as she opens the door.

  “Wow. Ah, sorry. I thought you’d be Joe.”

  “I have never been Joe.”

  “I didn’t mean that—”

  Prancie holds up her hand to stop him. She surveys the drunk. He has destroyed her. At every turn. To befriend Joe in this last month proves her early thesis. A moth flies between them.

  Ed swats. “What do they call these?”

  “Pardon?” He saw it?

  “This kind of moth.”

  No. She will not engage in polite conversation. “I don’t know.”

  Ed Flank stands and waits for something more that will not come. Finally, he asks, “Joe’s ready?”

  She gets to say the words she has been planning for nearly half a bottle of cognac now. “No. Joe is indisposed.” Prancie looks down to her hand. Freckles of blood have dried to a light brown on the back of her right wrist. “He sends his apologies.”