Rails Under My Back (37 page)

You know us Puerto Ricans, Elsa said.

Damn.

It’s even too much for Dad sometimes.

The colors mean something?

Nothing that I know of.

Wood furniture, banisters, walls, and floors. Hatch had never seen so much wood in a home. A forest in a house. Damn.

I had a wonderful time, she said.

Me too.

She kissed him with a foreshadowing of tongue.

He ran back to the El, with a thread of breath almost too thin to pull him up the stairs. Caught another train. He sang silently while it barreled down the tracks.

The words almost spilled into sound. Once home, he tried to settle back into his skin.

WINTER DEEPENED. HUGE wet flakes of snow streamed past windows. Gray slush in the streets. Then the hawk wind rose from the lake. Frozen birds rattled in the cold.

A crystal net of ice covered the city. Hatch rose early to meet Elsa in the privacy of her father’s office. A patch of pink sky gave the illusion of warmth in the room.
Hatch.
A smile warmed her face. He was as welcome as violets in March.

ELSA MET HIM at the door in a black dress of ruffled organza and forearm-length black gloves. A cross gleamed gold on her bosom. She accepted his bouquet. Aren’t you sweet? She buried her face in the flowers. I got something for you. She pinned a gardenia in his lapel. Pinned one to her dress.

Hatch led her by the arm toward Uncle John’s borrowed cab. Elsa’s trailing bows swept a clean path.

Are we going in that cab?

Yeah. My Uncle John loaned it to me.

I could have used one of the limos. Never be afraid to ask.

It wasn’t that. I had the money. See, it’s my Uncle John’s cab. My Uncle John. See, well, it’s sorta hard to explain.

Please, Uncle John. Jus this one time. Special.

That’s my livelihood. Why don’t you ask Porsha?

Porsha? Man, she scared to drive her car. Know she ain’t gon let me drive it.

EVERYBODY BLEW GAGE and juiced back and jumped black. The dancers rocked the hall, a big sea-tossed ship. Elsa shook her butt like a rattle. She was as good a dancer as he was a clumsy one.

Beulah. Why they call it the Lindy Hop?

Cause Lindbergh hopped the ocean in that plane of his.

Hours later, white exhaust trails guided them from the dance to a cruise ship. The ship set out in full moonlight from a harbor of colors. Sang softly on the waters. Hatch pointed to the cathedral’s cone towering above the docks. A flock of stars. He and Elsa leaned on the railing and studied the sedentary waters of Tar Lake. A big fish jumped on a string of moonlight, thrashing the very heart of the water.
You see that?
Lightning and thunder far out on the lake threatened rain. They tossed their gardenias onto the waters. Sailed into the early hours of the morning.

In the back seat of Uncle John’s cab, Hatch and Elsa harbored the night. The rolled-down windows offered a cool breeze. Dark shone clear as day. May had drawn out every leaf on the trees. Hatch nibbled with soft kisses at Elsa’s forehead, her eyes, her cheeks, her lips, and her neck. He felt the spires of her nipples poke through the soft dress. He tasted the moist loin of her mouth. Then he played the slow length of his tongue over her fast body. He put out his hand to fondle her charms. Elsa railed one word, Respect, then fit the pieces of her clothes together. His hands stopped but his mouth could continue. He could Spokesman her.
Baby, a circle is a circle, an angle an angle.
He could Uncle John her.
Bitch, why don’t you jus relax. You know you want it.
He could run Jimi’s voodoo down.
Well, I march right up to a mountain. Crumble it to dust in the palm of my hand.
It’s our own little world here tonight, he said. So let’s forget about yesterday or tomorrow. The time is now.

Your watch is fast, she said. She moved into her own seat. Sat on her own vine, under her own fig tree.

There was a hard silence in the cab.

I wish

I was a catfish

Swimming in the deep blue sea

I’d have all you pretty women fishing after me

Look, I’m not mad at you, she said. She put a light kiss on his lips. The hairs on his body rose treelike. Then the bird left the branch to return to the sky. Swift time flew on silent wings. Months later, Elsa was still sitting under her tree and his bird was still in the sky. She had yet to uncover the nest, reveal the unknown treasures of her inner life.

HE LEFT THE TRAIN, stepped out of a warm steel tub into naked air. He ran the five blocks to Elsa’s house. (He was almost twenty-five minutes late. Inez was to blame for that.) House in sight, he slowed his feet. Pressed his hand into his chest to congeal his scattered breath. Searched for sweat under his arms (found none). He took the stairs one at a time. He rang the bell. Politely waited. He rang the bell. Politely. Waited. He pushed the doorbell again. Waited. Polite. Patient. His blood flushed and faded. He pushed the doorbell. Then he held it, held it, held it—couldn’t let it go, finger and ringer electric one—so long that his finger began to hurt. The world fell silent, intent upon his response. He ran to the nearest phone. The phone handle mocked the rude round rhythm of Elsa’s mouth. He dialed her number. Heard the answering machine click.

HE FUMBLED HIS KEYS before the door. The keys clanked loud as chains. He managed the keys in the lock. Pushed the door open. Night invaded the house. Wrapped it in longing sleep.
Elsa. Elsa. Elsa.
His fingers found the telephone in the dark. Dialed the number. The answering machine clicked.

Hi, Elsa. It’s Hatch. I was jus there. We musta had a mix-up. Guess I’ll try you again in the morning.

His eye leaked, dripping sight. The bed called, reverse gravity. Pulled him up the stairs. Pulled him beneath the covers. He sank down into the feathers of nested sleep.

LUCIFER DECIDED to return to Union Station for a final drink. He longed for the table near the window where he had sat earlier that day with John. The sun poured yellow surprise into his eyes. The bar was closed, the desired table sealed off from sight and sound behind a steel blind. Strange hours. He would have to find another bar. Bounded on the one side by Union Station and on the other by shops, the large square curved out of sight like a pebble skipped over water. Bus lines cut through the square from every direction. What he could not find here he could find in the narrow side streets that flowed into it.

It did not take him long to find a bar. He entered to a red carpet stained in places. The bar was filled with a fashionable crowd who blew opaque smoke and white laughter into mustard-colored walls. He found a table before two narrow windows overlooking the square. Hot-looking brilliant clouds swelled beyond the glass. He winked. A waitress watched him with eyes of shocking blue. She smiled with blood-smeared lips.

What can I get you?

He told her. She got it.

He could hear the clear ringing sound of wheels drawn close to the curb. He turned his glass around in his hand. Bubbles rose from its depths. He sunk back with collapsed shoulders. He had spent the entire afternoon searching for the right gift for Sheila. Far beneath feeling, it rested like a sunken treasure at the bottom of his pocket. Painly obtained, easily forgotten.

He emptied his glass at a gulp. Waitress, another.

He looked out into the fading sun and saw two reflections of the waitress going from table to table, drink to drink. Outside shade and inside light made mirrors of the windows. It was getting late. He reached for his glass. Brown, round, and empty: a bird’s nest. Ah, he had forgotten. The liquor had flown out of the glass and into his belly. And hatched. He could feel young life moving through his body. He rose. His shadow remained seated. He gave his shadow a moment to get it together. His vision contracted the two waitresses in one. My check, please. The waitress scratched on a pad with a beak-sharp pencil. He paid his bill. Slipped a tip into the waitress’s flapping soiled apron. He smiled his best smile. She had attended him with the soft and careful movements of a nurse.

Thank you, sir.

You are quite welcome.

Have a pleasant evening.

The same.

With that, he turned to the door. The knob reached out to shake his hand. Come again.

I will. Holding the knob in his hand, he turned once more to the waitress. Then he went out, the sun dropping behind him. A belt of shade gradually began to rein in the day. The ark of his head rocked unsteadily on the mountain of his neck. He took his breath backwards. He directed his steps back to Union Station, his shadow crawling along beside him. The streets looked unfamiliar, though he had walked them dozens of times. The sidewalk thick with people in evening colors hurrying in all directions. Rush hour. He looked at every couple as they passed. Watched every moving figure for some gesture, some form, some trace of Sheila. Seeing him, pedestrians turned to look at each other. Cars hissed on the wet street. (Had it rained?) Their movement made him aware of his own. Thoughts of Sheila walked in the open beside him. He found himself in front of the bar.

He tried again. He entered the station of Sheila’s body on this street, at that corner, through this facade, and under that grate.

THE SQUARE QUIETENED, the stores emptied one by one. The light from the streetlamps managed to create a dim, fragmentary illusion. He turned a corner. The sidewalk glimmered like powdered light. Sparse traffic washed past. Taillights red-danced up ahead. The bar blinked in again.

He turned another quiet corner.

WHEN SHEILA MADE IT HOME, Lucifer was waiting for her, his eyes in the exact same spot where she last saw them that morning.

I gotta meet John at the train station. He’s going to Washington.

About the war?

Yes.

Short notice.

Well, they jus told John and he jus told me.

You gon skip work today?

I already called in. A sick day.

Jus like that?

Well—He thought about it. It’s no big deal. It really isn’t. I jus want to see John off.

I hope you’re not going.

He looked at her.

Twice he’d left her. First, to run off to the war.
He was one of the first niggers over there. But they didn’t make him go. John went and he followed. Yes, he was carried to Asia on the foolish winds of John’s draft. He might follow that fool John anywhere. Brothers are brothers.
And years later, he returned to the war—four trips to New York or Washington, four that seemed like one, beads strung together, a necklace of the big city’s bright lights—searching for what he had lost. Might he leave again? She cut off this possibility, snapped the beads, ground them to powder. That’s why, each day, she mixed Go and Stay Powders in his morning coffee.

Where’s Hatch? she asked.

Upstairs in his room.

Hatch!

No, don’t call him.

He’s sposed to be out with Elsa.

Don’t call him. Lucifer took a half-step forward, as if he had trouble recognizing her. He smeared a light kiss on her cheek. I bought you a lil something. He held a small box out to her. I bought it at the Underground.

The Underground?

Yes.

How can you even shop there? Sheila had lost herself the one time she shopped there. Ugly black walls that—rumor had it—were one-way glass and that concealed surveillance cameras and robotic eyes. Each shopper’s voice roared a seashell’s echo. Yes, it was the deepness that bothered her. Like being inside a big well. The elevators glass buckets drawing up lakes of people. Every floor (“level”) a marble square of tiles awash with people, merging into eddies and disengaging into new thick paths, varied schools of colorful fish. Babies sucked on the Aqua-Lungs of their pacifiers. Sucked the air thin. The world rushed and swam. She elbowed her way into an elevator. Pushed the up button. The elevator went down in one long rumbling roar. She burst from the open doors, a bull into the ring. Took five flights of escalators, riding their light free-running whine. Rode up into sunlight and oxygen.

I went there for you.

She took the box. Unwrapped it with all the enthusiasm her fingers could muster. A yellow bird rested in a nest of white cotton.

You like it?

Is it my birthstone?

I don’t know. But the man said that it’s a precious stone.

A Jew will say anything.

You don’t like it?

She said nothing.

They had these gems on sale.
Emerald. The deeper the green, the better the stone.
Brazilian. Don’t you like it? Lucifer did not move. Stood there watching her, waiting for an answer, breathing. The moist air of his breathing carried her.
John, Lucifer, and Dallas heavy-hauled Beulah’s black steamer trunks—seventeen trunks, yes, recall them, seventeen—down two flights of stairs, loading two trunks at a time into John’s red Eldorado, one in the red open trunk mouth (trunk for trunk) and the other canoe-fashion on the roof. Seven trips to Union Station, and another seven trips to carry Beulah’s twenty-seven boxes (how could the small T Street apartment have held so much? where had Beulah hidden it all?), the Eldorado stuffed so full that only John could squeeze inside it, the stacked boxes causing the red roof to sag above his head, the car to creak along. (Christ, Beulah. You gon wreck my ride.) Beulah’s departure left a free space which John and Lucifer quickly filled, and the four of them, the two sisters and the two brothers, transformed the closet-small apartment into nuptial chambers. Gracie and John would spend time in the red Eldorado, while Lucifer would touch Sheila behind the hanging white sheet.

Looking up, she caught his eyes in the light of her own. It had taken him what, seven, eight years to save up enough money to buy her a wedding ring, seven, eight years to replace the gold wedding band as he had vowed shortly after they married. Of course I do. Help me put it on.