The Waking

by H. M. Mann

  “A Big Mac and a super-sized Coke.”

  He shuts the door. “None of that here, and none of that for you. You’re getting nothing but water and soup from now on.” He puts a blanket over me. “I’d clean you up, but then I’d have to clean you up again, you know?”

  “You’ve done this before?”

  “Told you I had a cousin, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I had a cousin, you understand?”

  I nod. His cousin got the other cure. “Yeah.”

  “I got duties, you know, can’t lose this job or my old lady will kill me, but I’ll check in on you from time to time.” He points to a small door. “Head’s in there, which is where I suspect you’ll be spending most of your time for a few days. And don’t worry about calling out or shouting. This berth is nearest to the engines. Got nearly three thousand horsepower just behind your walls, which is why no one ever wants to set up in thirteen. Be back in a second.”

  After Slade leaves, I take stock of my body. I am one large bruise, my elbow is one large scab, the back of my head is on fire, and my tongue has shriveled into a little bit of flesh.

  But I’m in one piece.

  For now.

  I wish I could just sleep through all this.

  Slade returns with several milk jugs filled with water and a first aid kit. He props two little pillows behind me and helps me sit up. He holds the jug while I drink until I feel strong enough to hold what’s left. Then he bandages my elbow.

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  A knock on the door later, the captain walks in. “How’s he doing?”

  “I’m okay,” I say. “A little woozy.”

  The captain turns to Slade. “Let me know how he’s doing.”

  “Yes sir, Cap’n, sir.”

  The captain leaves and Slade rolls his eyes. “Cap’n thinks he’s still in the Navy sometimes, so we all, you know, get with the program. He’s a good guy, a decent boss, and he hates to be behind schedule, so you’ll be on here until you get better. You’re a lucky man, Manny Mann.”

  “But I’m in room thirteen.”

  “From now on, thirteen will be your lucky number, Manny. You see, there was a hand who used to live in here, name of Sikes.”

  “Used to?” Please don’t say he died in here. I got too many ghosts in my head as it is.

  “Yeah. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have a cabin all to yourself. Sikes jumped ship just two days ago, most likely near Pittsburgh, and here you are jumping on the ship. In Pittsburgh. You know anything about boats?”

  “Not a thing.”

  “Neither did Sikes. He was just looking for a free ride, I suspect.”

  I take another long swig. I just can’t seem to quench my thirst, and this jug’s almost empty. I’ve had a gallon of water? “I ain’t looking for a free ride.”

  “You got that right. Won’t be nothing free about this trip, Manny Mann. It’s gonna cost you.”

  “I know.”

  And to prove it, I throw up a gallon of water, most of it landing on the floor, some of it spattering on Slade’s pants. “It’s already costing me.”

  “It’ll be worth it,” Slade said, wiping off his pants legs. “I don’t know your reasons for doing this, but it don’t matter. You’re trying, and that’s all that matters.” He checks my bandage. “I gotta get back to work. Keep drinking that water, and, um, I’ll be praying for you, all right? You ain’t Baptist, are you?”

  I feel like it, as wet as I am. “No.”

  “You never know. You might be. Well, I’m out. I’ll lock the door so no one disturbs you.”

  “Okay.”

  “And if you need anything, just turn on your light. I’ll be able to see it wherever I am.” He turns off the light. “Try to get some sleep, man.”

  “I will.”

  Five minutes later, with three thousand horsepower roaring to life all around me, I turn on the light because my body is on fire and no amount of water will put it out.

  4: On the Boonesboro

  Withdrawal is like dying only you don’t want to.

  Withdrawal is pain that ends only when you pass out to wake up to pain again, it’s hot flashes followed by cold flashes, sweat and tears and diarrhea and vomiting at the same time, goose bumps as big as your knuckles, and fire in the center of your bones.

  And though every moment feels like your last, it isn’t, though your mind tells you it is, your mind begs for it to be your last. And no matter how hard I try, after soiling myself for the tenth time in an hour on my bunk or spewing another gallon of water, I cannot sleep, which is kind of good since my dreams have been nightmares, but it’s also bad because I’m seeing people in this little cabin, people I don’t hardly recognize. They’re staring at me, mouthing words I can’t hear, and making me feel claustrophobic. I feel so restless, like I have to go out to get away from them, like maybe I can get off this boat and score a bundle somewhere, but the first time I tried to leave, I found that Slade had locked me in and no amount of pounding on the door and cursing was going to open it.

  And the view outside hasn’t gotten much better. It’s still raining, and it seems as if the barge is flying down the river. Brownish water courses around the trees flowing halfway or more up the trunks. I’m floating on a flood, living in a cramped room having cramps, slipping and falling into my own vomit, cursing at the top of my lungs at the engines roaring so loud that I can’t hear myself curse—

  And I’m happy because I’m getting clean.

  Though the next time Slade comes through that door, I’m going to kill him and get out of here if it kills me.

  No, I won’t kill him. I probably couldn’t throw but one punch at him before puking anyway. I just wish he’d come around more often. “We’re past Martins Ferry and Wheeling,” he tells me on one of his visits, which means nothing to me since I have never been out of Pittsburgh in my life.

  “Two smoky towns, and we’re shooting right between them,” he says. “They say that back in the day, you could see fresh red-hot ingots of steel spilling down the hills on both sides of the Ohio, all of it lighting up the night sky, like something out of hell itself. Not much on those hills but clay now, not even any trees.” He tells me about so many locks and dams to come that I run out of numbers. “You ought to watch us go through a lock,” he tells me. “It’s really something.”

  “Can’t see much from the toilet,” I tell him.

  Then he laughs. “Oh, yeah. Not much of a view from back there.” Then he makes some comment about “needing to hose out this place again” and “maybe we can get you some soup soon.”

  I quickly lose track of time, and not because time is going so fast. Time’s going slow, like it’s stopped, like the sun is standing just out of reach on the other side of the clouds, broken, unable to move. And those clouds are like hands pressing down on me, pressing down like a paramedic stopping the flow of blood, stopping the flow of everything except the river.

  On the fourth day, according to Slade since I don’t know which end is up anymore, he brings in some chicken broth in a Styrofoam cup. “Sip it slowly,” he tells me.

  I don’t, and I can’t, the salty broth tastes so good, and I start crying because it tastes like golden heaven, like sunlight, like warmth and love and hope. “It’s good,” I say, watching my tears drop into the broth. “It’s real good.”

  “It’s okay, Manny, it’s okay. I’ll get you some more once you keep that in you a while, okay?”

  “Yeah.”

  He rolls in a bucket and a mop, and I feel so bad. “Not as much to clean up today,” he says.

  “I can do it,” I say.

  “Nah, you just rest and try to keep that soup in you.”

  I feel so helpless. “Maybe tomorrow.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I need a shower and a shave or something.”

  “Soon,” he tells me, and the room fills with the smells of bleach and Pine-Sol as he cleans up
. “Getting better aim back here,” he says, wiping the toilet down with a sponge.

  “I’ve had lots of practice.”

  “Getting any sleep?”

  “No.”

  “That has to hurt, huh?”

  “Yeah.” My eyes feel all dried out and crusty.

  He finishes in the head and sits beside me on the bunk. “Seeing anything?”

  “Just these walls. And the bottom of the toilet.”

  “I meant are you seeing things you don’t normally see?”

  “No.”

  “No visions, no ghosts?”

  “No.”

  “My cousin Trey swore he saw things, like my Uncle Louis, his daddy, chopping wood right there in the room. It was messed up, watching Trey’s eyes go up and down, like he was watching the ax, and Uncle Louis had been dead for going on fifteen years. You sure you ain’t seen nothing like that?”

  I’ve been too scared to tell Slade what I’ve been seeing until now. I didn’t want to scare him away. “I see … people mostly.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Mainly I see a woman.”

  Slade smiles. “Yeah. Is she beautiful?”

  “In a way.” I swallow some more broth. “Yeah. She’s beautiful.”

  “You recognize her?”

  “No. I mean, yeah. I’m not sure, but I think her name is Abassa.”

  “Abassa?”

  “Yeah. Abassa.” The name means something to me now. “She’s, um, she’s covered in dust and is being led away across the desert. She has these heavy chains on her wrists, and she has big eyes. I think she’s on her way to Ethiopia.”

  “Yeah? Ethiopia?”

  Slade thinks I’m crazy. “Yeah. She’s always looking back, you know, like she’s searching for someone, hoping to see someone.” Looking for Kazula. Trying to see her brother.

  “See anyone else?”

  “Yeah, but I don’t know who they are.” Some of them in overalls, some in suits, all of them dark with kinky hair and flat noses.

  “You feel up to talking for a while? I got a few hours to spare. Not much doing until we hit Marietta. We just passed Moundsville, where the Ohio state pen is.”

  “Have we crossed the Mason-Dixon Line yet?” I ask.

  “Think so, but I’m not sure,” Slade says. “I know the towns, not the lines on the map.”

  I’m in the South. “I’ve never been in the South.”

  “Not much different from the North on this river. Folks are generally the same whether you look right or left.” He stands and stretches his hands flat on the ceiling. “Cap’n thinks you got a vicious case of the runs from drinking the river, so if he asks, ‘How’s the dysentery?’ just say you’re getting better. As long as we’re ahead of schedule, he don’t care that you’re here.” He drops his hands. “Sorry I haven’t been around more. The river’s mighty angry because of all the rain. The Ohio’s usually pretty calm, like there ain’t even a wrinkle on the water. This rain, though. Never seen nothing like it, and we’re supposed to have more tomorrow. Makes loading and unloading a terror, and the captain seems to think we’re having some engine trouble.”

  “Sounds fine to me.”

  “To everybody else on this boat, too, but Cap’n been around more than any us of. Besides, Cap’n has him a girlfriend in Marietta. That’s where we’ll be stopping to get the engine checked out, so …” He leans against the wall. “You up to telling me your story?”

  Where to begin. “You don’t want to hear it. I’d rather hear yours.” To hear a happier story, to hear about a happier life that would make a man as big as Slade.

  “My gram used to say that the very telling of tale is good for the soul, the heart, and the mind.”

  “What if the tale’s all bad?”

  “No tale is ever that bad, least none I ever heard.”

  Just you wait. “You haven’t heard mine yet.”

  He laughs. “I can take it, if you can take the telling.”

  I take a deep breath. “Okay … My daddy’s a Cajun down in New Orleans, and my mama was a heroin addict who got murdered by someone when I was four, and I found her body, but I didn’t tell anyone she was dead for almost two whole days because I was scared of the monster in her room.” I take another breath.

  Slade’s eyes pop some, but he doesn’t say a word.

  “The cops came, and the last glimpse I got of my mama was her bare feet pointing toward heaven.”

  “Hmm,” Slade says.

  “I’ve lived with Auntie June ever since.” Twenty-five years. I never grew up a bit after that. I’ve been under the covers afraid of the dark for twenty-five years.

  “You, uh, get a diploma?”

  “Yeah, but not from any high school.”

  “Been locked up a lot then?”

  “Yeah. A few times for dealing.” The soup does a flip in my stomach, and I run to the head. It seems like a lot more comes out of me each time, like I’m puking out years instead of only what’s in my stomach. I return to and flop onto the bunk. “Sorry. It was good soup.”

  “I’ll get you some more.”

  “Thanks.” I wrap the blanket around me because here come the goose bumps and the shivering.

  “You warm enough?”

  “Yeah.” Even though I’ll be burning up in a few minutes.

  “You got any kids?”

  I laugh in spite of my chills. “One. On the way. A son.”

  “Yeah? Got a boy and a girl myself.” He digs in his back pocket and pulls out his wallet, flipping it to a series of pictures of smiling people. “This here’s Tony, my oldest. He’s gonna play college football or join the Marines. He ain’t decided yet, but he’s only fourteen and don’t know gold dust from diarrhea.” Tony is as massive as his daddy, with puffy dimpled cheeks. “And this here’s Tiana, my baby. Cute, huh?”

  “Yeah.” Her corn-rowed hair is full of little white beads.

  “Only nine, can you believe it? She gonna be trouble in a couple years.” He flips to a family portrait. “That there’s my wife, Tonya. We’ve been together since I was thirteen and she was ten. Never had another girl but her, never wanted another girl but her, and besides my mama, she is only woman who won’t take no mess from me.”

  I pull the portrait to me and look into Tonya’s eyes. What is it about her eyes?

  “She’s a proud lady, let me tell you,” Slade says. “Proud of her house, her yard, her garden, her children, and her man.”

  Pride. There’s pride in her eyes. That’s what pride looks like, like determination and grit with both shoulders thrown back and chin up, eyes focused and fierce. Focus, the lady’s got focus.

  “You got a nice family, man,” I say, and I hand the wallet back. I don’t even have a single picture of my family.

  “Tell me about your girl.”

  I fall back against the pillows. “I don’t have a girl anymore. She told me to get out.” I rub my knuckles before I know I’m rubbing them. I see Slade staring at my hands. “I, uh, I …” I sigh. “I never hit her or nothing like that. I just haven’t always done right by her, you know? I got to make it all up to her.”

  “You will.” He smiles. “You gonna tell me about her or not?”

  “What you want to know?”

  “What’s she like? What’s her favorite color? Is she a good cook? That sort of thing.”

  “Mary … that’s her name. Um, she’s, um, twenty.”

  “A young one, huh? What’s she see in an old man like you?”

  I look away. “I ain’t that old. I’m twenty-nine.”

  Slade whistles. “You’re kidding.”

  “No.”

  “Whoa.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Manny, when I pulled you out that car I swore you were someone’s grandpa.”

  “I ain’t even a daddy yet.”

  He smiles. “But you want to be, right?”

  Under any other circumstances, I might, like if I could be born all over again. “I guess.”
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  “Is that why you’re getting clean, so you can be there for your son?”

  “Yeah.”

  “But you ain’t sure Mary will want you back.”

  “I don’t know. I hope so.”

  “Is she a good girl?”

  “Yeah. She’s Catholic and sings in the choir and everything.”

  He blinks. “Yeah? And she hooked up with you?”

  It doesn’t make sense. “Yeah.”

  “Miracles can happen, man. Bet she’s been trying to reform you.”

  I nod. “Yeah. She wants to save me.” From myself.

  “I didn’t know Catholics did that, but I’m liking her more and more already.” He shifts his weight toward me. “But she’s a sister singing in a Catholic choir?”

  “Sort of. At St. Benedict’s they have a Gospel choir, too. She sings in that one.”

  “A Catholic Gospel choir?”

  “Yeah. I’ve only heard them once or twice, but they can sing their guts out. It messed me up, too, the first time I heard them. Walking in, seeing folks kneeling and crossing themselves all over the place, expecting organ music, all the while the choir’s singing ‘King Jesus’ or something like that and shaking the rafters and knocking dust off the stained glass, even people swaying and shouting like at Ebenezer. That’s Auntie June’s church, but their choir only has twelve people in it, and none of them can sing a lick. They got red and white robes there, and—” I stop. I ain’t talked this much in years. “Sorry.”

  “What you sorry for?” Slade asks.

  “I’m talking too much.”

  “Good for the soul, ain’t it? Taking your mind off other stuff, right?”

  “Yeah.” I start to sweat and pull off the covers. These ain’t hot flashes. They’re sheets of fire. I know I’ve lost at least twenty pounds.

  “So tell me about Mary, and who was it? Auntie June. Tell me about them.”

  For the next few hours, I spill it all to Slade while I sweat and shake, telling him things I haven’t told anyone. I tell him how I have never been able to love my Auntie June since she wasn’t my mama and was such a holy roller. I tell him how I was afraid of losing Mary from the first second I ever saw her while I was sitting on that tub. I tell him how I was afraid for my life every second of every day every time I did time in County. I tell him how I learned I have claustrophobia while I was in County and tried to stand by any window I could. I told him how only Mary ever visited me when I was there and how I used to plant gardens when I was in Project Success and looked at my muddy, dirty hands as a badge of honor. And my wishes. I told him I wished I could have my mama back, could meet my daddy, could go down to Africatown to see if Auntie June was telling the truth, to stand on the deck of some boat in the middle of Mobile Bay, Alabama, and feel what Kazula must have felt all those years ago, a stranger in the strangest land.