Rion Scott - Insurrections

All those books, she thought the next morning, debating whether to go to work or to stay home. How could I possibly stand the scent of all those books?

VI

In Marcy’s basement, they crowded around the glowing television set. Marcy sat on Casey’s lap for a bit before moving to the floor. Naked body parts and nondescript faces writhed about the screen. Soon, though, the sound of fucking smothered all speaking, except the words Kwayku dashed off as he sat on a beanbag chair in the corner laughing a raspy laugh and slapping his thigh. The group barely heard him, engrossed as they were in the sweaty gyrations on the television screen. Kwayku took his hat from his head, leaned forward, and placed it on Marcy’s. She clutched the brim and pulled it down.

This looks good on me, she said. Don’t you guys think so? Everyone responded with mumbled, distracted affirmatives. There was a figure on the screen who was more penis than man.

He call that little thing a dick? Kwayku said, pointing at the screen. He unfastened his belt. The metal buckle jangled. That ain’t a dick. He unbuttoned his pants and clawed at his zipper, pulling it down slowly. Marcy stared, her mouth open. Casey leaned forward. Wayne frowned. This is a dick. He shoved his hand into the opening at his crotch.

Kwayku! Wayne yelled.

Kwayku eased his hand out of the opening, leaving his penis inside. He laughed and pulled his zipper up. It sounded as if he was barking.

Man, he said in a gruff growl, I was just joking.

Kwayku boy, Marcy said, shaking her head and smirking a bit. You’re out of control.

Wayne stood. Man, I’m getting the fuck out of here before I see some shit I don’t want to see.

Casey also rose. Yeah, man, I’m out of here.

Kwayku nodded at them. Peace out.

Rich, you coming? Wayne asked.

Man, we watching the show, Kwayku said.

Yeah, we watching the show, Richard mimicked.

My parents aren’t gonna be home for a couple hours, Marcy said.

I gotta get home, Wayne said. What are y’all staying here for?

Aww, these niggas want to ruin our good time, Kwayku said, rising from the beanbag. Richard rose too. The group ascended the staircase, making their way to the front door, Marcy at their backs.

You guys don’t have to leave, Marcy said again as the boys stood outside her front door.

So, um, yeah, uh, I’ll see you in school tomorrow, Ms…. um… What’s-her-name’s class, Casey said.

Behind him Kwayku and Richard mumbled to each other. Richard bounced the basketball against the concrete before throwing a mock shot to an imaginary basket.

Bye Casey, Marcy said, leaning toward him. The edges of their lips collided. She hugged Wayne, Richard, and Kwayku, and the group walked off.

Somewhere during the silent stroll, Kwayku noticed that his head was bare, and he let out a howl.

Damn, I forgot my hat at Marcy’s house.

Get the shit tomorrow, Wayne said.

Naw, dog, I need my hat. Rich, come back up the street with me.

Why don’t you call her and have her bring it to school? Wayne asked. But it seemed Kwayku and Richard were halfway up the street by the time Wayne had finished his sentence.

Rich, Wayne yelled. You better get your ass home. When your mother calls, I ain’t lying for you.

See y’all tomorrow, Kwayku said. The sound of the basketball tapping against the ground became lighter and lighter before it faded.

Casey thought of Marcy’s face and realized that instead of the kiss he had received, he would have preferred the hug his friends got. Her hugs were deep and soulful. That’s simply the way she hugged, solidly with her entire body pressed tightly against the other person. It was a nice hug.

Soon Casey and Wayne passed the playground.

Ain’t that your mother? Wayne asked Casey as they cut across the Wildlands Forest Elementary playground. Casey looked up expecting to see his mother, but instead Lady MacBeard strolled slowly by. Casey dropped his backpack in a rage, scrounging through the dirt at the edge of the blacktop for the perfect rock.

Lady MacBeard sidled up to the boys, swaying back and forth, one side of her old face drooping. Casey rose, his hands empty. He scowled at her, watching the yellowish bump on her lip and the long wavy hairs that curled into her mouth.

The woman’s head was still bandaged, and there was a brown spot where she had bled through the gauze. She emitted a scent like rotting cheese.

Y’all know where Sycamore Lane is? she asked. I’m trying to find Sycamore Lane.

No ma’am, Wayne said. I’m sorry. Sycamore Lane ain’t around here. That’s closer to the library downtown, right?

Casey shrugged.

Fillafil…

This bitch want a falafel? Casey said to Wayne.

Shut up, Wayne replied.

There’s no need to be rude, the woman said. I’m looking for my boy Philly Phil. Have you seen Philly Phil? Philly Phil. Fillafil Fillafil Fillafil Fillafil…

Can’t say that I’ve seen him, ma’am, Wayne said.

Bless your hearts, she said, walking off. Y’all look just like my Philly Phil.

When she was again in the distance looking something like a specter, Casey bent and snatched a smooth, heavy stone from the ground.

Bet I can hit that crackhead right in that brown spot on the bandage.

Man, Casey, Wayne said as he walked. Stop being stupid. Ain’t no one here to show off for.

Casey stood upright, dropping the rock, and followed his friend.

VII

Everyone, including Joan, blamed her decline on what happened to Phil. His baby heart stopping suddenly in the middle of the night as if he were an old man with a poor diet and a pack-a-day habit. That was in the October before her last Christmas at the Cross River Downtown Branch Library. Really it started before that — long before — in the basement of her Southside house. The place was always in motion. What times those were. The people that came in and out. The jokes. The drinks. The music. That smoky basement. Just as the party started getting old, Joan’s husband came one day with tiny white rocks, a butane lighter, and a glass pipe. What a brief intense dizzying derangement. Slipping from yourself for a few moments. That’s how she described it and little by little, each time, less and less of her returned.

After Phil left, her husband disappeared into the wilderness of the Southside. He’d be gone for days at a time. The parties ceased, and the people who had once come in and out passed the house without so much as a glance. Once in a while Joan would spot them when she peered out the window, and they would just shuffle by.

But mostly, Joan sat for hours in her favorite spot on their old living room couch where she once breastfed Phil. It felt sometimes like he was resting in the crook of her arm. Other times, her breasts would drip milk and she’d sit with a throbbing ache in her chest. Her husband went away and returned, a different person each time, as if trying on new identities: laughing, angry, sedate, violent, arms swinging, stoic. Sometimes he brought the rocks home with him. Sometimes Joan would have to go out looking for rocks of her own.

Joan returned to work and seemed normal until one day she no longer glowed lavender.

Bit by bit, her husband stripped the house of everything from the copper wires to the front door. There’s a market for anything if you look hard enough.

At work, Joan heard the librarians whisper. Not like their normal whispers, these whispers were sharp hisses. The whispers were ice picks at Joan’s eardrums. Why didn’t they just pull her aside, grab her, shake her, say what they had to say? Instead they whispered until whispering would no longer do.

Why don’t you take some time? said the gray-haired librarian who managed the branch. Phil just — I don’t think you’re ready.