Rails Under My Back (13 page)

You act like I never been there befo.

I guess it’s because we never went there together.

New York New York.

So bad they had to say it twice.

Only thing I don’t like bout New York, no alleys.

Got that right.

No alleys, no place to piss.

New York New York.

Those slopes run it now.

That’s what I hear.

You better believe it.

Man, someday those slopes gonna convert the White House into condominiums.

Shit, the mayor talkin bout sellin Red Hook to some slopes. Throw Stonewall in for free.

Man, those slopes are something else.

The Man got them in his hip pocket.

Mr. Slope, he
is
the Man.

They bent over in bellyaching laughter. Lucifer clapped, hard and fast, until he noticed some of the other patrons flinging stares in his direction. He and John had spent that morning, like so many others in the old days, conversing about the Man. They had developed a whole mythology. He was a white man (what else?) with white hair and a white beard, wore a white suit with matching shoes, drove a white Caddy, drank milk, owned a white cat, liked mayonnaise in his food, and ate only white bread (of course). The myth had spilled from them as they tried to keep their voices level, above the rising and falling alcohol sway, away from the monitoring eyes in the lounge. The myth took Lucifer away from his own situation. He and Sheila had gotten into an argument that morning.

Have a good one, Sheila says.

I ain’t going to work today.

What? She is dressing for work—the long train ride to the Shipcos in Deerfield—white snatches of cloth in both fists.

I already called in.

Well, where you hurrying off to?

John.

John? There is no mistaking the look in her eyes.

Yeah. He called while you was in the shower. He’s going out of town.

We ain’t heard hide nor hair of him in a month and he calls and you gon run off jus like that?

Well, I
—

What yall up to?

Look at that bitch over there. Not over there. Over here. The twin motionless glare of John’s spectacles, motioning with his eyes. The one with the French braids. I’d like to teach her some mo French.

Lil brother, Lucifer said, ain’t you got enough women?

True. But a man is an army. Gotta have your reserves.

There it is.

John kicked his legs to straighten his trousers. He finished his drink and ordered another. One for the show and two for the road.

The TV mushroomed into life above the bar. Flicked quick color-catching images. A rim and backboard shudder like birds. A black figure sprints down a runway. Takes to the sky. Rail-thin, Flight Lesson sails thirty feet above the court—bouncing on the pole vaults of his legs—in slow motion.
He can truly fly.
He feather-floats back to earth. Leaps into outer space. Reaches out his tentacle-long arm. Grabs a Cool Breeze.
Hermès Athletic Shoes and Cool Breeze, the winning combination.
Behind him, the moon shimmers like a half-dollar. Freeze-frame, he hangs in the air, perfectly still. Legs tucked under him like landing gear. Their last wedding anniversary, Lucifer and John had taken Sheila and Gracie to Air Waves, Flight Lesson’s new restaurant.
Reservations. Black tie. C-note entrees. Five-dollar cups of coffee. Live jazz. Vinyl doggy bags.
Lucifer gave the waiter a heavy tip for choice seats. Flight Lesson dined with his family in a glassed-in booth at the restaurant’s center.

Man, John said. He nodded at the TV screen in direct line of his sight. Dap coulda cut that motherfucker.

Yeah. Dap was made for basketball. A hoop machine.

A legend.

Pros chumps these days.

Spoiled.

Too much money.

And pussy.

Lucifer laughed a good laugh.

You
coulda cut that motherfucka. John’s spectacles were trained on the screen.

Yeah. In the old days.

There it is.

And you coulda beat him too.

Me? John curved the spectacles onto Lucifer’s face. Nawl.

Yeah you.

Lucifer looked toward the end of the bar, where the bartender—he stood against the day; an aquarium-long piece of frosted glass filled up the space behind him—a rag knotted in his fist, tried to hide his interest in them. He wiped down the bar. Lucifer finished his beer in slow, deliberate swallows, then tabled the empty glass. Think
it
will do any good?

Nope. We had our day in the sun.

So why you goin? For Spokesman and Spin?

John thought about it for a moment. Nawl. For myself.

Lucifer said nothing. He thought he knew what John meant. He caught a flash. Smelled a thin gray streak, a match’s trail. John met his eyes in the mirror. Immediately, he moved his eyes and tried to read time on his gold watch. 1300 hours, he said, grinning. Time for my train. He drained his drink. Lucifer saw the nerve gathering in him. The lenses snapped shut like a cigarette lighter. He blinked and burned off the alcohol. Stood.

Lucifer stood up also.

John pulled a thick pad of folded bills from his pocket.

Lucifer wanted to say, You’re wasting time and money, but he had learned long ago that trying to stop John was like trying to dam a river with a Band-Aid. John paid the bartender with a single bill from the fat pad.

Keep the change.

Thanks. The bartender wiped down the bar. His eyes maintained their curiosity.

Lucifer lifted John’s single small suitcase. Surprised at its heaviness. He had expected light, phantom weight.

Damn, nigga. What you got in here, bricks?

John grinned. Something like that. He hoisted the flight bag up to his shoulder, heavy-like, thick rope. Jus some extra things. You gotta be prepared.

Didn’t the Man teach you how to pack light?

They walked through cavernous hallways, nearly empty but with spurts of hustle—Lucifer’s steps so light he couldn’t tell where he put his feet down—their shadows sliding along green- and violet-tinged marble walls. Girders and glass lifted above them and somewhere far above that the conical station roof, clean metal that spilled out into light. Their heels sounded against the last length of the tunnel. In the distance, smoking trains signaled a wavy beam of noise.

Wait, John said. I need some squares.

They stopped at a vendor pushed deep in the tunnel wall. In the old days, no vendors here. Only a blind man or two trying to drum up some pennies. John would drop a dirty washer or greasy ball bearing into the blind man’s tin cup, then pocket a handful of yellow pencils.

Give me two packs of New Life.

Lucifer and John continued, the tunnel growing crowded now, passengers filing through, their dragged luggage echoing through the marble station chambers. Lucifer and John broke the tunnel’s mouth. Steam hissed up from the tracks below.

John moved his flight bag from one shoulder to the other with perfect lightness. He was anxious for the trip. His face was burning with it. And his eyes—Lucifer caught glimpses of them—red at the edges.

He handed John the suitcase.

Remember the las time we rode the train together?

Yeah. The spectacles masked John’s eyebrows, but Lucifer could see the eyes clearly, brown and lined with red threads.

We were goin to see Beulah, John said.

Lucifer couldn’t recall ever taking the train to see Beulah. No. We were going to Washington.

Washington?

For the demonstration.

Right. Right.

Why you takin the train? Lucifer said. Ain’t you a plane man?

What’s wrong, can’t this old cocksman learn some new tricks, some new shakes of the dick?

They both laughed. The vibrations bounced off John’s spectacles, red balls. Lucifer felt a shocking surge and fall of blood. The red tail of some animal—like something that was always around, a live vine spiraling around a dead tree—curved hidden around the next corner.

Shit, man we should open us a church.

Yeah. You know them reverends gettin them some.

Cash money.

Nappy pussy.

Sure you don’t wanna go?

Lucifer thought about five years ago.
Let’s find us some cooze, John said. Lucifer could hear the gin sloshing in his brother’s beer-barrel chest.
He looked at John’s suitcase. Tulip-shaped locks. Wish I could. If I had—

John answered before Lucifer could finish. Sorry you can’t.

Well.

Happy trails.

Lucifer and John embraced in a tight knot. John didn’t seem to want to let go.

A GREEN BREEZE slipped beneath the curtain. On a green day like this word had arrived (Lula Mae speaking through a clipped Western Union letter because the T Street apartment had no phone) that R.L.—
he was my only brother, as Sheila is my only
sister—had died in a car crash in California. Beulah stood brushing her hair before the open window—
Pappa Simmons loved to comb his black, Indian hair before a full-length mirror, feeling slices of wind push through the comb’s teeth, saying, By God, you’re a handsome son of a bitch
—while Sheila guarded bubbling pots on the stove—she never could cook for shit—and Gracie enjoyed a passage from her Bible (the specific verse memory also hid), when the message arrived. Beulah read the letter to herself, her lips working silently, then stuffed it in her bosom.

Gracie opened her album to two photographs—she could never connect them, the R.L. in the photos separate from the R.L. in her memory and the hearsay that had become part of her memory of R.L. The first showed him sitting at a round table in a smoky room, playing cards with a group of other jacketed men. He gazes directly into the camera, expressionless, with the confidence of one who doesn’t need to strut his good looks. The black-and-white photo couldn’t capture his green eyes. And the second photo, so cracked and faded that the colors had started to bleed, R.L. standing in broad winging daylight, riding boots with spurs like sparkling stars.
Well, they used to sparkle when the photo was new, free of the grease of hands and age.
Chaps. Denim shirt and leather vest. A lasso looped around one shoulder. A Stetson, white and creased like a dumpling. And white gloves.

What kind of cowboy is that? Hatch asked. The toddler pushed his fingertips over the white gloves as if to rub away the color.

A real cowboy, Gracie said. I can testify to that.

Yeah, Sheila said. You remember back home in Houston how he was always sneakin Daddy Larry’s broken-down horse out of the barn and ridin it to town, causin all that devilment.

Gnawed steps leading up to the barn where Daddy Larry kept his one bright horse, skinny as he was, a long room with hooks and hanging collars and traces and hames and plowlines and ranked shelves where Daddy Larry stored kerosene and where his wife Ivory Beach—don’t call her my mother, never that, step or otherwise—kept her mason jars filled with applesauce and preserves and molasses. And if she had her way, these same jars would keep the murdered flesh of her husband’s three children—Sheila, me, and R.L.—pickled and brined, until she served his cherished seed with his Sunday supper.

What kind of horse he ride? Hatch asked. I don’t see no horse. Where his horse at?

He wasn’t no devil, Gracie said.

Sheila looked at her. I didn’t say he was. Did anybody hear me call him a devil? She searched the other faces in the room for support.

I heard you, Gracie said.

You know Sam and Dave and Nap was always puttin him up to something.

Gracie considered the truth of her sister’s statement. Sam was the oldest of the bunch, uncle to his three nephews, who were first cousins. Dave the oldest nephew and close to his uncle in age, Nap next in line, and R.L. the youngest, wet behind the ears and eager to prove himself to his older kin.

They didn’t have a bit of sense, Sheila said. She shook her cloudy drink.

Gracie considered it. Never thought he’d die. Die like that. On some highway in California.

R.L.’s death refused to yield to her powers. He never visited her in dreams, only spied on her through the keyhole from the other dimension. So she never knew what killed him. But her first kiss with John—the shock of his lips—carried her back, her first kiss in the shadows of John’s new car, a red Edsel or Eldorado—what did she know about cars?—a replica of the instrument of R.L.’s death.

I don’t see why he wanna go out there in the first place, Beulah says. What business a nigga got being there.

R.L. made it his business, Gracie says.

Why don’t yall hush, Sheila says. Hush.

You know they don’t want us down there.

Who cares what they want.

Those crackers out there lynched him. Probably was waitin for him at the bus station.

Hush, Beulah. Hush.

No one could afford the train ticket West to attend R.L.’s funeral. R.L.’s wife sent a single letter (translated through Robert Lee Junior, their seven-year-old son) which said he’d been buried in … Beulah had stuffed that letter in her bosom too.

It was too much fo them white folks, Beulah said. A black cowboy with some white-lookin Indian woman from Brazil.

Hush, Sheila said. You know that R.L. was killed in a car accident. You know he liked to drive wild.

That’s what those white folks said. Can’t no cracka stand to see a black man wit no white woman. And that black man speakin Latin too.

Portuguese, Porsha said. The girl blinked. People in Brazil speak Portuguese.

Beulah, you don’t know what you talkin bout. Gracie shoved the words in Beulah’s face. R.L. died in California. He weren’t in no South.

Anything south of Canada is the—

That’s not right, Porsha said. Geography is my best subject.

Anyway, Gracie put down her plate of pig’s feet, how R.L. even know bout Brazil?