Rails Under My Back (56 page)

Tradition? You mean—

Nawl, that ain’t what I mean. You trembled at the sound of your own loud voice.
Damn. I just shouted at Uncle John.

Why you yellin at folks? Porsha said.

Who asked you? you said.

Boy, Porsha said, respect your elders.

Who asked you?

Both of yall be quiet, Sheila said. This is sposed to be a family get-together.

The family talked family things. (Holidays always helped the family’s memory enlarge.) Time hung like leaden weights. Would Jesus appear?
The family thinking it, not saying it, cause nothing is hardest which treads on somebody else’s toes.
No one had seen him in almost a month, since Thanksgiving, the scorched form of his body imprinted on Gracie’s couch, her kitchen chair. His presence lay on Gracie’s house—yes Gracie’s house, the house that Uncle John had bought her, the home that he lost—thick and black. But his termite absence had eaten into the carved wooden armrests of her couch and chairs.

Black Christmas. Snowless. Nipping frost. You and Red to build snowmen (always two snowmen cause one never seemed enough) with pointed icicle dicks. Christmas Eve, Santa’s secret sled parked outside Gracie’s sleeping house. You and Red wait for the clock to strike midnight, kneel beneath the tall sparkling tree that smelled of pine and artificial frost and unwrap present after present.

Jesus would come. You knew it. Definite proof lived in the muscles, the secret blood.

Porsha poured everyone a fresh glass of eggnog laced with Crown Royal. Jesus stepped through Gracie’s door.
He used his own key, yes he used his own key.
The family went mute at the renewed sight of him. For a moment, he said nothing, stood and held the family in his frowning eye, face fist-tight. His earring glittered like a single tear. You saw your own reflection swimming in the diamond surface. Sparkling tenfold on his shaved head. Yes, Jesus had shaved his head. Looked like a daddy longlegs with his clean curved skull and long skinny arms and legs.
Member how you and Red used to squeeze em? See how much pressure it took to ooze out the insides.
You studied the anxious line around Jesus’s mouth. The eyes full of their usual clarity. (Yes, something had always been old about him.) A dull gleam of recognition filled Jesus’s eyes.

What’s up? he said.

Long time, no see, you said, keeping your voice steady and calm.

I know.

You and Jesus touched hands, softly, without the usual force.

Son. Uncle John met Jesus with an expansive hug, and the rest of the family offered tentative hugs and kisses.

Rest your coat, Gracie said.

Jesus did.

The perfect host, Gracie ushered everyone into the dining room, where a chandelier dripped crystal stalactites of light onto a bench-length table. Porsha cooked us a fine Christmas dinner, Gracie said.

Thank God, cause you put salt in everything.

Turkey and dressing, ham and chitlins (you avoided both, jackal meat), candied yams, greens, and (more) eggnog.

Hatch, Sheila said, you say blessing.

You looked at her. Thank you, O Lord, for these mighty beets that makes you taps you feets.

Sheila squinted her eyes to dangerous dimes. Is not life more than meat, and the body more than raiment?

God, Lucifer said, thank you fo this food we bout to receive.

God is good, God is great, Porsha said. Thank him for this food we are about to receive.

Show the other side of the shield, Uncle John said.

Christ wept, Gracie said.
Blessing the only time she was short-winded about the Bible. God had stamped the Bible on her bosom. And when the wind of conversation rose, the pages turned at blinding speed, and Scriptures blew from her lips.

Jesus dug in, food dangling from the webs of his fingers. Everybody followed, chowed down, chewing, forks and plates clattering—the music of eating. Porsha struggled to keep each diner’s plate full.

Food greased a smile on Uncle John’s mouth. He jabbed his elbow in Lucifer’s ribs. Lucifer, member how she—he nodded in Sheila’s direction—slaved in labor with Porsha?

Yeah.

Go tell it on the mountain, Gracie said.

Slaved. Uncle John watched Porsha now.

Yeah.

No baby should make her mamma work like that. Uncle John shifted his quick eyes. You didn even want to see the baby. Sheila, what you tell him? The doctor?

Jesus ate, face bent over plate, as if deaf to the conversation.

I’ll see her tomorrow, Sheila said. Shoot, after all that sweatin and pushin, I was tired.

Sheila, you was a mess. Eyes all red.
A river of blood vessels.
Blood everywhere. Shit everywhere.

Hatch almost let the huge wad of corn bread and collard greens he was chewing fall out of his mouth in amazement.

Please. Porsha eased her fork to the table. Not while I’m eatin.

Well, I’m sorry. When the doctor say push, you push. Can’t help what comes out.

You was a mess.

Nawl. I was tired. Tired.

But I held it. It felt like a chicken.

Thanks, Dad.

No offense. A chicken. You know, plucked. When you hold it under the faucet.

The slick red fetus.

Tired.

And fell right to sleep.

John, how you know? You wasn’t even there. Out in that car—

The red Cadillac.

—listening to the game.

What you mean I wasn’t there? The first relaxing burp quit Uncle John’s mouth. Sure, I heard the game but I saw the delivery too.

No you didn’t.

Never forget it. Cause that was the night Dip scored two hundred points.

See, Lucifer said. See, you even got that wrong. It wasn’t two—

People be talkin bout how bad Flight Lesson is. Dip smoke him any—

That doctor got it all wrong.

How you gon stop somebody made like Dip?

Yeah. He was tough.

Porsha, you was born eleven-fifteen, not no twelve-fifteen.

Dip. A basketball machine. Man, some mad doctor in a laboratory put him together.

Yeah. With some pliers.

I should know. I was there.

And Ernie’s torch.

Yeah. Ernie’s torch.

I was lookin at the clock.

And some of his oil.

And tall.

I counted every minute.

Yeah. Member that time Dip got hurt and they had to rush him to the hospital on a hook and ladder?

I counted every minute.

Yeah. Now, how you gon stop that?

But Dip used to hog the ball. Selfish. Today it’s about team play. Flight Lesson could average fifty a game easy if he hogged the ball.

Mamma, why would the doctor change the time?

Give me another one of those sweet potatoes.

Porsha forked one onto his plate.

Every holiday, the family rolled onto one topic or another. You knew every stop, every junction, and the final destination.

Yall ready for dessert? Porsha asked.

Bring it on, niece, Uncle John said.

Jehovah, Gracie said. Jehovah.

Porsha brought it on. Served everyone a thick wedge of chocolate cake. Yours tasted paste-thick.
Gracie made this.
You looked at Jesus. Tight lines around Jesus’s mouth told you that Jesus was thinking the same.
Gracie made this.
Jesus finished his cake. And you yours.

Porsha, Sheila mouthed words between bites, when you was a baby, John couldn’t put you down.

Jesus’s eyes grew wide at the strain of listening.

Mamma, how many times you gon tell that story?

A little ladybug on his arm.

You remember that wagon? Uncle John said. I used to pull her around in that little red wagon? Lucifer, you remember that little red wagon?

Um huh, Lucifer said, mouth full. Sure. The red wagon.

Where’d you get that wagon?

The junkman, Porsha said. Mamma, wasn’t it the junkman?

No. Lucifer?

Um huh. His words skimmed above the surface of the conversation.

Gracie helped Porsha stack the thick foul dishes and bear them to the sink.

Come on into the living room, Gracie said.

Radiant with food and spiked eggnog, the family rolled—shiny balls, Christmas ornaments—into the living room.

I’ll be there in a minute, Porsha said. She fanned around in the kitchen.

Girl, leave those dishes. Come out my kitchen.

I’ll be there in a minute.

Lucifer and Sheila sat and shared the love seat. Uncle John sat by himself—with his silver-clicking lighter he fired up a square,
Kool, New Life,
his favorites, ancient as memory—cocooned in the smoke of his cigarette. A mark of space—solitude? contentment?—in his face. Gracie sat down in the rocking chair—her righteous clothing, garments unspotted by the flesh, and grief from her wig down to her shoes; and the red coals of her rouge, yes, cause her small body hid a huge heart, parent of the two small hearts red-glowing her coal-black cheeks—beside him. You and Jesus eased back on the couch.
Dream it to yourself. Smell it. Hear it.
You studied the red stoplight of Jesus’s face. Studied the lamp-glared moons of Uncle John’s spectacles. Studied Lucifer’s yellow glow. Something would happen. You could feel it.

Uncle John unscrewed the bottle cap and Lucifer’s tight mouth.

Pour me another.

Uncle John tipped the bottle.

Don’t forget the boys.

Jesus twitched at the words.

Men, you said. We men.

Uncle John filled each of your glasses. Then drink like men.

Don’t give them too much, Sheila said. One drink.

Ah, Sheila, Uncle John said, when you gon let this boy outa your apron strings?

Liquor dripped from your full glass.

He ain’t in my apron strings.

Let the boy have some fun.

The family told family tales. The tight red lines in Jesus’s face relaxed after a steady soaking of drink. Lucifer’s face snapped a loose rubber-band smile. The Crown Royal—the family heirloom—made shining diamonds of his teeth. You knew what would happen: words would cascade from Lucifer’s throat, and his hands wouldn’t quit Jesus’s back and shoulders.
Boy. Nephew. My nephew.

The empty Crown Royal bottle glinted beyond Uncle John’s reach. I’ll get a fresh one, Uncle John said. He rose from his seat.

Be careful, Gracie said.

What’ll you care? Uncle John said. His voice bubbled with alcohol.

Don’t start, Sheila said.

Wait, you said.

Uncle John faced you, shoulders slouched forward, heavy with alcohol.

You felt the eyes of everyone on you, stage lights. Wait, you wanted to say. Don’t go. Well, you said. Hurry back.

Uncle John quit the room for a new fifth, taking the empty bottle with him.

Porsha screamed from the kitchen, I need some help in here. Gracie and Sheila—twins in the flesh, the same reality-worn hands and dull false teeth (thank God they hadn’t fallen out during dinner) but colored different and haired different—rose and went to assist Porsha in the kitchen.

Lucifer put Jesus’s back into the circle of his arm. Tugged him close. Nephew. The alcohol had kicked in. You been taking care of yourself?

I do alright, Jesus said.

Nephew. Red, I mean. Red, how come you ain’t been around?

You know, Jesus said.

Hey, Lucifer, you remember that time—Hatch began to talk, steering carefully away from dangerous waters.

Red, you look good. Lucifer grinned the words.

—me, you, and Jesus—

I mean, boy, you look good. Rocking to the rhythm of the words.

Jesus leveled eyes of drilling steel. Boy?

Lucifer tugged. Red, I remember when you was—

Jesus jerked free. Boy? What you mean boy? Always got something bad to say about me.

Lucifer didn’t appear to be listening. Slapped him again.

You see a boy you slap a boy. Sarcastic motherfucker.

Lucifer freezes. Struck. You act. Rush forward and manage to drive both arms up into the crook of Lucifer’s elbow, breaking the punch that crunches Jesus’s chin, changing the trajectory so that it does not land cleanly. The blow has enough force to knock Jesus to the other end of the room, flat on his butt. Jesus’s eyes fly wide, blinding metal—shock? disbelief? Motherfucker. Up now, crouched over and running, bald bullet head aimed dead at Lucifer’s midsection. Lucifer catches him around the neck, just like that, a frontal choke hold. Applies pressure.

What’s going on in here? A woman’s voice, or several. The women are in the room now, Sheila, Gracie, and Porsha. Jesus, Sheila says. I shoulda known. Always spoiling the holiday. Don’t I deserve some peace.

Let him go. Let him leave, Porsha shouts.

Lucky yo father ain’t here, Gracie says. Lucky John ain’t here.

Let him go, Sheila says. Let him leave.

He ain’t got to leave, Lucifer says. He grunts, applies pressure.

What are you doing?

I’m gon give the boy what he shoulda had a long time ago. Constricts his thick boa arms.

Let him go so he can leave.

No.

Lucifer—

Butt out.

Eyes glazed with determination—yes, these eyes are hard and bright, flash like Jesus’s diamond earring—Jesus swings wildly, an occasional blow connecting with Lucifer’s thick legs and arms. Punk, lemme go, the words squeezed out.

Stop, you say. Wasted words. You try to wedge your hands beneath Lucifer’s locked arms.

Gon away, Lucifer says.

Let him go. Using the sides of your fists, you pound Lucifer’s shoulder and arms. Let him go!

Lucifer jerks his head to the side and butts you powerfully into the wall. The wall crowds space into your mind. You walk around, meet yourself there. You feel a sudden safeness descend upon you. No doubts, no reservations. You lift the receiver from its cradle, smooth and light to the touch, without texture or weight. Poke digits.

911.

All is quiet, only you and the other voice.

911.

Hello. Yes. Please send a car to … Flame fills your body. Your tongue so dry and weak it can hardly find any words.

Yes. 911.

You answer simple and clean: Violence. Return the receiver to the cradle as if you had never touched it. Open the door loudly to the full and wait. You don’t wait long.