Nowhere Is a Place

by Bernice L. McFadden

  Jeff’s throat pulses with pain and he can feel the ropes cutting through the skin of his wrists and shins. He twists this way and that, and the ropes slice deeper, sending fire through his wounds.

  “This gonna be the last night you boys see.” Malroy’s voice comes to him first and the footsteps follow. “You the one who did it?” he asks, bending down so he can get a better look at Jeff. “Was it you or him?” he asks, his hand coming up and pointing toward Jim, who is just beginning to stir. “I could never tell the two of y’all apart.” Malroy grumbles and tips the jar to his lips again.

  Jeff says nothing.

  “The devil musta got ahold of you.” Malroy’s face swims above Jeff’s. “’Cause I can’t think of one good reason why you would do what you done.” Malroy shakes his head with dismay, then shuffles over to Jim. “Thought one of you had some sense,” he says, and kicks at the soles of Jim’s feet. “You the one who did it?”

  Jim’s eyes flutter.

  “Well,” Malroy mutters in resignation, “I guess it don’t matter which one of you did it. When Massa get back from Myanmar, both y’all going to swing.”

  * * *

  It scratches at the back of Lou’s mind as she eases herself into a sitting position and her back screams out in pain. It’s there, even though she pretends it’s not. That thing she will have to do. Her God-given right, the only one the white people haven’t found a way to take from her.

  It is a necessary act; she’s seen it played out day in and day out for as long as she can remember. The weaker is always destroyed. Sometimes pounced upon and eaten by its own mother, other times tossed from the nest and left to die.

  Rubbing her stomach with one hand and reaching for her shift with the other, she forces herself to focus on the situation at hand, even though her mind is trying to drag her to a safe place—that place in time that is frozen inside of her, bright and colorful and full of yellow sun and a cool blue sea.

  “Can’t right this minute,” she chastises her mind aloud, and eases the smock over her head.

  Shuffling over to a shelf, she reaches for the small paring knife she uses to gut chickens and skin taters.

  “The strong have a better chance of surviving,” she whispers as she starts out the door. “The strong have a better chance of living to fight or run another day.”

  ___________________

  “What you want?” Malroy slurs when his bleary eyes catch sight of Lou.

  “Just wanna see my boys before they taken away from me is all,” Lou says, and shuffles forward.

  Malroy eyes her and then pulls the small bottle of whiskey from his pocket, unscrewing the lid and swinging it in Lou’s direction. “Want a taste?”

  Lou says nothing. Malroy laughs and takes a long gulp before replacing the lid and pushing it back into his pocket.

  “Go on,” he spits. “But don’t take all night.”

  She knows just who is who. Jeff is slightly taller, stronger around the chin, while Jim’s eyes droop a bit and his mouth is soft like woman’s. Both boys are as still as corpses, but the slight rise and fall of their chests lets Lou know otherwise.

  She moves toward Jim, who is roped to the trunk of an ash tree. She watches him for a while, takes in his features, but stills herself from reaching out to touch him. The night blows around her and the stars glitter like silver in the black sky while the moon frowns down on the earth and the mess the white men have made of it.

  “I believe I’ll take you up on that offer,” she throws over her shoulder at Malroy before turning to face Jim again.

  Malroy, his chin resting on his chest, back barely scraping the round wood of the water barrel, lifts his head on a weak neck. “Heh?”

  “I believe I’ll have that drink now.”

  Malroy’s face goes blank and then a sinister smile swells on his lips before he clumsily removes the bottle from his pocket and passes it over Lou.

  Lou inhales, presses the glass lip to her mouth, throws her head back, and drinks.

  Back with Jim now, she settles herself down on the ground in front of him, folding her legs beneath her, and places one hand flat on the cold ground. The other she wraps tight around the paring knife and rests her fist in her lap.

  She waits.

  Before long, the muttering and drunken chuckles from Malroy come to an end and are replaced by loud snores. It is then that Lou moves onto her knees and crawls forward.

  She allows herself to touch him, to stroke his leg, caress his young face, before grabbing hold of his chin and pulling down gently until his tongue is visible.

  He stirs a bit, weakly moving his head left and then right, trying to climb out of the blackness the blow from the pan hurled him into, but Lou holds fast, reaching in and catching hold of his tongue. Fingers nimble, hand swift, she slices into the pink flesh, severing it and tossing it flapping to the ground.

  Then she presses her lips against the crying, screaming ones of her child and spits the whiskey she’s been holding in her own mouth down into his.

  Lou jerks her head back, and Jim sprays the night air blood red. His eyes are wild and his lips flap helplessly as Lou takes his face and presses it against her bosom, rocking him until the pain and the shock pull him back into the darkness again.

  * * *

  Just before dawn and before they are even heard, Jeff feels the vibrations of the horses’ hooves. Then the galloping sounds cut through the purple-blue haze of the new day.

  Malroy, groggy and head still spinning from the whiskey, pulls himself up and hurriedly brushes at his clothing as he tries to shake the dullness from his mind. His eyes fall on Jeff and then Jim, whose chin is resting on his chest, which is caked with dried blood. Before Malroy can move to investigate, Lessing and two of his cronies gallop into the clearing.

  One is potbellied and blond and carries a jug of whiskey, and the other is tall like Lessing, but thinner, with puffed cheeks and dark hair. Lessing carries a whiskey jug too, and is the first to dismount. The other two follow. None of the men are steady on their feet.

  The potbellied one comes to stand by Jeff’s head. He lifts his boot, balancing it over Jeff’s face. “Watch out, now!” he screams, and Jeff squeezes his eyes shut, bracing himself for the hard sole and the pain. But the boot comes down a half-inch from Jeff’s cheek. “Okay, okay, my aim is off.” The man laughs and raises his boot again.

  It goes on like that at least a dozen times, until the man tires of the game and walks away.

  “Malroy, fetch his mother,” Charlie Lessing instructs, then turns the whiskey jug up to his lips.

  Three minutes later, Lou appears.

  “Yassir?” she says, careful not to look at Jeff or Jim, whose head is still hanging limp. Her eyes hold fast to the tops of Lessing’s shoes.

  “One of these boys did a very bad thing,” Lessing says, his hands laced behind his back. “But, of course, you already know that.” He snickers.

  Lou says nothing.

  “If you were raising them right, they would know their places.” Lessing shakes his head and drags his hands through his hair. “I can’t have no niggers of mine stepping out of their place.”

  Lessing’s eyes swing between the boys. “Which one done it, Malroy?”

  Malroy’s eyes follow suit. “I—I don’t know, sir,” he mutters.

  Lessing’s face flinches and his eyes bore into Lou. “Which one done it, Lou?”

  Lou raised her hand and pointed a shaky finger at Jim.

  Jeff’s eyes bulged and his mouth fell open, but the words he wanted to holler out seemed to be caught in his throat. It was only then that Lou allowed her gaze to brush over him; it was a cold and sweeping look that chilled Jeff and forced his mouth to snap shut.

  “Jeff. He the one that done the bad thing to you,” Lou said, and finally turned to look at the child her words would hang.

  Lessing nodded his head and walked a crooked line over to Jim. “Hey, boy, hey!” he said as he kicked at the soles of Jim’s
feet. “Get up, now; it’s time to die!” He laughed.

  Jim slowly raised his head.

  “What the hell happened to him?” Lessing said in disgust, taking a few steps backward.

  Jim’s lips were bloated purple and crusted with blood.

  “Malroy, what you do to him?” The sight of Jim’s face snatched Lessing’s drunkenness right from him as he turned to confront Malroy.

  Malroy straightened his back. “Nothing, I ain’t touch ’em, ’cept to knock ’em down and bring ’em here,” he nervously sputtered.

  “He gets fits, sir,” Lou said quietly.

  Lessing spun around. “What?”

  “He gets fits,” Lou said again.

  Lessing looked back at Jim. “That true, Malroy?” he asked over his shoulder.

  Malroy scratched at his head and looked hard at Lou. He’d never heard of either of the boys having fits. But there were a lot of things kept from him. And then again, he thought as his eyes fell on the discarded whiskey bottle, there were things he just couldn’t seem to remember.

  “Yassir,” he said, his voice a bit unsure.

  Lessing picked up a broken tree limb and jabbed at Jim’s cheek. Jim opened his mouth to scream, but only a choking sound emerged. “Jesus, the boy bit his tongue clean off,” Lessing said in disgust as he tossed the limb aside. “Well, let’s string him up.”

  * * *

  The horse brays and shuffles restlessly as Malroy sits behind Jim, holding him upright with one hand while working to loop the noose around his neck with the other.

  “It is up to you,” Charlie Lessing screams and points a scolding finger at the crowd of slaves that huddle and watch, “to make sure your offspring know that they are slaves and the white man is the master!”

  Lou watches as the potbellied man’s hands tighten around the reins as Malroy climbs down.

  Jim’s eyes lay on her, pull at her, ask her, Why? Why?

  Some of the women turn away, some of the men walk away, but Lou remains, eyes open and clear. She will watch Jim leave the world the same way she watched him squeeze into it.

  “Those who can’t hear will feel!” Lessing bellows, and with the drop of his arm, Malroy slaps the mare on the behind, sending her tearing out from beneath Jim’s body.

  Jeff screams as Jim’s face is streaked with terror and then panic when his air is cut off. His feet flail and kick, and his mouth opens and spews nothing.

  The nothingness is so loud and heavy that it knocks Lou to her knees.

  She remains there until Jim is still. She remains there inhaling the scent of the good earth, feeling God’s gentle breeze against her face. Then she rises, laughs, and begins to dance, hopping from one foot to the next, spinning and chanting the song of the dead: Return to Mother Earth and become joyful in the light beyond the living. Return to Mother Earth and become joyful in the light of the living . . .

  * * *

  Everything she thought she’d lost or forgotten is returned to her in Jim’s last moments of life: the scent of her grandfather’s pipe, her mother’s soft hand protectively wrapped around her own, her father’s strong back, the kind eyes of her brothers . . .

  Everything.

  Goodbyes are for white folks.

  Hand-holding people crossing dew-drenched meadows. Stargazing people whom the years have bound together so tightly, the two become one. Gray-haired people with creased faces and shared memories.

  Goodbyes are for white folks and not for slaves, so Lou looks past the limp body of her dead child and toward the new day.

  Route 40

  When I finish I just look at Sherry, try to figure out what’s broken inside of her.

  Why you looking at me like that? she says, then does that thing with her eyes that make you think you’re the strange and peculiar one, not her!

  I say, A mother would not kill her child, and I toss the nasty red book into the backseat.

  Really? she says, and looks out ahead of her for a while. Well, you didn’t seem to feel that way when Verna killed April.

  That was different.

  How?

  White people do things like that, not us.

  We do it too, now, and we did it then.

  That’s what she say, but I feel like she want to say something else. Feel like we ain’t talking about this story anymore.

  Women do it for a number of reasons. Verna did it out of shame, Lou did it to save one, I—

  I hear the “I,” but then her voice stall and her eyes glaze and then she all of a sudden snaps the car to the right. I don’t have time to hang on or scream or shut my eyes when I see the nose of the tractor-trailer barely miss the tail end of our car.

  When we climbing the ramp that say REST STOP, I finally find my voice again and scream, Have you lost your ever-loving mind?

  She can barely put the car—I mean, SUV—in park before she out and puking up her lunch.

  I grab my wipes from my bag, jump out, and run—best my stiff legs can carry me—around to her side, but she hold up a hand, keep me at bay.

  She say, I’m okay, Dumpling. I must have eaten something bad.

  I hand her the wipes.

  Little Rock, Arkansas

  We just sitting there, staring at the school.

  I look at the clock; it’s been twenty minutes. She ain’t saying nothing, just staring.

  Then she jerk, push the door open, and jump out.

  I think she gonna throw up again. Think she might have some type of virus. Wonder how in the world I’m going to drive this SUV when I can barely handle my Pontiac.

  But she don’t bend over and hurl, she move quick as lightning across the street and toward the building. I don’t know whether I should follow or stay. She walking fast, so I snatch the keys out of the ignition and start off after her.

  People looking. Sherry’s face set, intent on doing something. I don’t know what. I call out to her, Sherry!

  But she don’t slow up at all until she standing right in front of it.

  I come up beside her, breathing heavy.

  Sherry stretch out her arm; her fingers brush against the stone, then press into it. Then her eyes begin to water.

  I don’t understand none of it. What? I say. It’s just a school, what’s wrong? I say, and put my hand on her shoulder.

  She say, This is Central High School.

  I look up at the building. Okay, I say.

  She look at me, she say, Nine black students walked through these doors in 1957.

  I think back to where I was and what I was doing in ’57; I can’t remember. Then I look at her and say, Only nine?

  Dumpling, don’t you know about the Little Rock Nine?

  I press my hands against my ears. You sounding like your sister now! I scream back at her, and start toward the SUV.

  Sherry follow.

  * * *

  I ain’t stupid, you know.

  I know.

  I’m older now; you think my mind quick like yours?

  Sorry. I didn’t mean to yell at you.

  I know all about what happened down here, just couldn’t grab hold of it right quick.

  I understand.

  You got me telling you stories, dragging me up and down the highway, Madeline calling every hour like she crazy, ain’t heard from Sonny Boy, my legs swelling—I’m tired!

  Dumpling, I apologized, what more do you want?

  I look at her. What more do I want? I say, and slam my hand down on my knee. I want to do some of the listening for a while. I’m tired of talking. Ain’t you got something to say? You come out of me and I don’t even know you! You hardly ever call or come home. This time on the road is the longest I been around you since you were in high school. You like a stranger to me.

  I feel myself shaking all over. Reach down in my bag, pull out some wet wipes, wipe at my hands, drag them across my face. I’m on fire.

  Turn on the goddamn air-conditioning, I say, and pull at the collar of my T-shirt.

  Sherry turn
it on, roll up the windows, stare straight ahead.

  Well? I say when I feel the sweat drying up on my face.

  Sherry sigh and say, What you want to know?

  I wanna know why the man on the other end of your cell-u-lar phone is such a secret. I wanna know his name, if you love him, what he look like, what he want from life. I wanna know if you’re happy with him, if y’all talking marriage or living together maybe—I know you young people like to shack up instead of walk down the aisle.

  You want to know a lot, she say.

  She so difficult, this middle child of mine.

  I just want to know enough to make me feel like I got a middle child, I say.

  Sherry look at me and her eyes dig deep into me before she take a breath and say, His name is Falcon; he sells umbrellas on the beach.

  My eyes widen, and her hand go up.

  She say, Don’t say nothing bad about that, Dumpling. Don’t jinx me the way you always do.

  I wonder what she mean, but my mouth shut.

  She goes on and say, He’s eight years younger than I am. Her face blush for a second. He’s one of three children too, she say, and her whole body seem to glow.

  I don’t have to hear her say she love him, ’cause I see it all over her. Don’t have to ask if she happy, ’cause as soon as she said his name, happy start spilling out of her.

  Falcon, huh? I say, and she beam and nod yes.

  Route 40

  Mama, that you? Sonny Boy say after Sherry hand the phone over to me. He the only one of my children call me Mama.

  Hey, baby, where you been?

  I been here and there, you know how I do.

  I shake my head and smile. Yeah. You all right?

  Uh-huh. How ’bout you?

  I’m okay.

  From what Sherry say, you all been a lot of places.