James Hannah - Sign Languages

Richard climbed the wall and dropped to the other side. For a few minutes he watched everything from the cover of the tall saw-toothed weeds.

November 1969

I came from out of the field, over the barbed-wire fence, to the restroom door. Out of nowhere. Out of the blue. I looked back at the hill, the bare post oaks. Shitty night. I stamped my feet. Two cars on the asphalt circle of the roadside park. I hunkered out to them. A shiny red BMW. Black leather insides. The other an ancient Dodge. Rusted-out fenders. Tailpipe hanging low. Wired with a half-hearted twist of coat hanger. My people always give themselves away.

Later the old man grins. His tongue brown and furry from the Chesterfields. The stumps of his sparse teeth chocolate turning canary yellow at their crowns. I nod. I never smoke. He cackles. Grins. Winks some more. Stomps the pedal to the floor and the Dodge lurches, sputters.

I’ve never owned a car. A house. Only seen one movie. With Burt Lancaster. The Gypsy Moths . That’s how I feel when I’m done and lay on them. Opening my shirt first and raising theirs up. In it Burt Lancaster wears these black stubby wings for the skydiving trick and he blazes down two hundred miles per hour, ears full of wind. His eyes looking right at me. That’s the way I get. Pull my shirt out, hold it wide like moths’ wings. Their eyes turning milky. The Gypsy Moth. Me and Burt Lancaster in a movie I saw in Rock Springs, Wyoming. The wind like an ice pick. The whole town perfect in the roaring wind.

I tell a story from my childhood to the old man whose dash is crammed with crumpled paper. I like to tell my people stories. True ones. Pieces of me in exchange.

Mama had a cat that had no voice. It’d open its mouth wide and cry long and mournful. But no sound. Not the faintest noise. I’d pinch it hard.

On the back porch I punished it. Ran its tail under the rocker. All but break its gray skin under its gray fur. It’d scratch and howl and howl but the only sound was its claws on the linoleum.

I laugh. The old man looks in his rearview mirror. But I don’t need to. I know he sees an empty two-lane road. November day gray like cat’s skin. My people always look out on gray. On rain or low clouds like bruised flesh. Then comes the Gypsy Moth slamming through the overcast. The sun on its back.

TWO CARS ABANDONED

Pine Bluff police towed two abandoned cars from downtown. One, a red 1968 Ford van, was removed from a vacant lot on Biloxi St. The other, a 1951 Dodge, was found parked in an alley alongside the Tower Theater. Both vehicles had been stripped of their license plates. Anyone having information concerning these cars should contact the police department or come by City Hall. If unclaimed, the two autos will go on public auction the second Tuesday of next month.

August 1973

It’s a fully equipped Ford Ranger pickup. I even found some money in the glove compartment. A twenty and some ones. It’s hot outside in this little town, so I drive with the air-conditioner on, the windows rolled up. The cold air blasts my chest. I pat down my shirtfront. It’s a brand new one and so are my pants — Sansabelt like football coaches wear on the sidelines. I’ve bought a new Stetson to celebrate, too.

Because I love summer. Everywhere. But here especially. It brings all my people out in the open. Now I don’t find them just at the post office bundled up, noses red and runny. The funky smell of dirty rooms on them. By the tracks some negroes sit on upturned packing crates and slap knees and talk. And in front of the washaterias old frumpy women and thin ones in cheap cotton dresses lean against car fenders, sit on hoods, drink icy bottles of Coca-Cola.

People out, walking, clothes baskets on hips. A man sitting on the post office steps, tearing open an envelope. A woman with the hood up at K-Mart. I pull in next to her. She’s in stretch pants. Her hips bigger than a mare’s. Her face flushed, sweat dripping as she looks over her shoulder.

Together we do this, jiggle that. My voice geared to this weather so it’s all open spaces and coolness and smiles.

Oh they love me always. And I love them. Who else does? I ask you. Who has the time for this young-old woman with red knuckles, grease across her chin? She hefts herself into my Ford Ranger, asks about the Yellowstone decal on the corner of the windshield. Something I haven’t noticed but like in her. They’re always wondering. They ask childish questions. They’re poor but rich in spirit.

She thumps out a Virginia Slim. Her weight tilts me to the passenger’s side.

I tell her all about Yellowstone as we drive across town in the heat. Past washaterias, post office, street corners, roadside parks, highway cafés where my people come and go in this heat.

Her name is Ruth. She makes a joke about her ex-old man being “Ruthless.”

We turn up the lane to her house, pines arch overhead. She lives alone, she says, pulls hard on the cigarette, fogs my truck, smiles coyly.

We’ll take our time, Ruth. We’ll have days together. A whole week. Despite this heat, nothing’s too good for you.

HOUSTON POLICE ARREST SUSPECT

The Houston Police have located and arrested John Wood Phelps in connection with last month’s brutal murder of his ex-wife, Ruth Mackenzie Phelps of Route 4, Coldridge. Sheriff Johnny Scotts told the paper this was the big break he’d been looking for. “Heaven knows we’ve got a lot of questions to ask Mr. Phelps,” Sheriff Scotts said. Though specific details of the murder have been kept from this community, what has become known has led to some uneasiness in rural households throughout Madrid County.

December 1975

I cried an hour up in my room. And I went out and bought a pint of Canadian Club. I usually never drink when I rent a room in some boardinghouse; I go down and watch TV. It’s that time of year and those people show up on the news, don’t they? Black kids with chestnut eyes and their fat mothers. Old white men, their hair yellow, their chins all stubble and spikes, sunken cheeks.

Yesterday I drank too but it was only some hearty burgundy. We sat and watched TV. This program where lions circle herds and bring down the weak or lame. Wildebeests standing like huge dumb mountains of flesh. Stupid eyes. Looking here and there but seeing nothing important, missing the details that’d save them. Asking for it. Lions coming close to crouch low, their eyes always moving, chests rattling.

Oh God, I pray my knees on the stained oval rug by the bed. My elbows deep into the horrible soft mattress that rises around me at night like mud, quicksand. Oh God, I’m sorry I missed the war. Missed serving at all. I love this country of ours. I have a tiny flag I got from a store. It’s a pin and I wear it on my shirt collar up above where it buttons down. Always on the left side over my heart.

Protect this nation under God from those stupid people who’d bring it down. Those fat black mothers and old men. From people whose cheap plastic laundry baskets are split, fold flat under their arms. Those noisy cars, smoking blue oil, destroying our air. Bless people in strong houses on clean streets with bright streetlights.

I don’t read things. I’ve never read anything except what’s necessary. Street signs. Directions on medicine bottles. On hand dryers: push and rub hands together vigorously. I don’t read the Bible. Only those magnetic-letter signs in front of churches. In the beginning was the word. In my Father’s house are many mansions.

I love this country. I hate I missed the wars. How about those women who take shopping carts home?

Who do you love? All the other Americans. The astronauts who work where it’s clean and clear. The boys in uniform. Mothers whose children are fat, rosy-cheeked, lovable. Thin fathers in suits. People with their own washers and dryers. With new cars.