C. Morgan - The Sport of Kings

Half-distracted with machinations and manipulations, all manner of chaos on the tip of the rapscalliest tongue, Reuben swung round in the dark and peered hard at Allmon. “Come again, little nut? What business is this? Are we speaking of the pale lily and her get? Were you by any chance the sire?”

Allmon weaved and stumbled back against the aluminum siding of the building, huddling under the meager eave, burrowing into his jacket against the weather, against reality. He shook his head.

“But…” Reuben sidled. “You expected you were?”

To nod is to die. Allmon nodded.

Reuben hopped forward one step with utter delight. “The bitch! The lascivious cotton candy cunt!”

Allmon mumbled, “I signed papers … with Forge…” He wanted to stopper his mouth, stop talking, but was wholly unable.

Reuben inched closer, his voice careful, but his blinks rapid as a hummingbird’s wings. “You made a deal with the White Father? Of what nature, pray tell? Blackmail? Revenge?”

Allmon felt too sick to respond; he stared down at the ground, which could be a bed if he would only let his knees buckle.

Reuben winks at you: “Revenge it oughta be.”

When Allmon spoke, the world whirled. “Stay away — from the … Henrietta. Something wasn’t right between…”

Reuben leaned close. “Henrietta. This was the nubile Aryan?”

Allmon’s hands were a horror when they gripped his head. His hands nodded his head.

Reuben reared back, his eyes all astonishment and his breath blooming white in the gelid air. He made a sputtering noise of pure delight. “By God, Almond Joy’s got nuts! You’re a meddler and an entrepreneur — more enterprising than a soul might have guessed! See, my brother, you had a dream. First you rifled for it in the silver drawer, then you swallowed it down with a dry little cracker! Impressive, I’m sure.” He cocked his head. “Twilight striving notwithstanding…”

Anger suddenly doused grief and drunkenness. Allmon lurched around toward Reuben. “How come you can’t talk like a normal fucking human being? Who the fuck do you think you are?”

Reuben waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, I ain’t what I am — unlike you, so faithful and true, even in your conniving! But never mind, the hygiene of your heart is questionable, and I wholeheartedly approve! Did you study the art in prison, or did you come by it naturally like an atavic tic? From the dam or the sire, pray tell?”

Jesus. Jesus Christ, he was drunk. He—

“Use your words, soldier!”

“My momma died when—”

“Died! Of what? Tell Reuben! Was she murdered? How marvelous!”

“Lupus. Kind of like lupus … We ain’t had health insurance.”

“Murder, indeed! Give me every gruesome detail! And tell me all about prison while you’re at it! I’ll have no more of your wily reticence. I just love a good comedy.”

But even four sheets to the wind, Allmon wouldn’t go there. That’s where they tear out your heart and stuff you with newspaper and wood chips. No. He tried to stand tall against the aluminum siding, and when he inevitably began to tilt, Reuben was suddenly there like a post beam to prop him up with both hands. Allmon was sloppy and spitting as he spoke. He tried to dredge up something old, something sure, something that would tether him to life. “Ten years from now, look for me. I’m gonna make something of myself. You know what I’m saying? I’m making … me, there … this world, all these racist motherfuckers—”

“Their very lives do learn us hate,” Reuben chided, “but you’re behind the times, my friend. It’s no longer the man but his very house.”

“I’m gonna be standing in the front of the house — grandstand. You see the suits they wear? When’s the last time you saw a black dude with money—”

“Why, last time I gazed upon myself in a limpid pool.”

“I’m serious—”

“Yesterday, I’m sure.” There was flint about Reuben’s amusement.

“Well, not me!” Allmon cried suddenly, anguished. “Not you!”

Reuben reared back. “Not me? NOT ME?” Now he leaped away from Allmon’s side, so he nearly collapsed to the ground before he could catch himself, stumbling and clutching at the corrugated siding. Reuben pointed a finger in his startled face. “Mind now, young whippersnapper, I’m richer than Mansa Musa! I’m stronger than Shaka! Wise like the magi! The only irons near me are under my boots!”

“You ain’t nothing but a jock,” Allmon snarled.

Reuben’s wily face was distorted by mortal offense. “Nothing but a jock? I’m nothing you can even imagine, you fucking river rat! Not with your borrowed dreams! I am the Defender of Myself, wizard of the saddle, untutored genius, the first with the most!” He thumped his pony keg chest, strutting before Allmon. “You’ve never seen mischief like me! I subvert and invent! I never relent! I resist and supersede! Confabulate and fabricate! No one knows my name — or my history! Hallelujah and fuck you! I piss on family and order, I lie and I counterfeit! No mother made me, I bore my own damn self. I got a contraband brain and Napoleonic balls. Twenty-nine horses shot out from under me, and still I ride on. Can I get a goddamn Amen!”

“Amen!” came a shout.

Allmon tried to formulate a vicious reply, something to put the arrogant jock in his place, but he was suddenly riding wild waves of resentment and nausea. “Oh shit,” he gagged, and began to stumble forward, away from the building.

“Heavens to Betsy,” said Reuben mildly, stopping short as Allmon dropped to his knees, coughing at first, then retching the contents of his stomach into the dry winter grass.

Reuben blinked a few times, then edged over and leaned down. “Oh,” he sighed, patting Allmon absently on the back, his speech gone suddenly cool, “what am I going to do with you, my little wingnut? What am I going to do with you?” He looked out into the surrounding woods, which were pitch-black, laced with frost and punctuated with the yellow eyes of animals. “I’m sure I’ll think of something.”

* * *

Finally, Samuel in his arms. It was true that at first he had seen only his color — a dark shock, an intrusion. But day after day, the more he stared at this child, the more he found the old revulsion shifting. Dark, unformed flesh transformed to something more complex, more significant than a mere body, transformed into a structure yielded by human effort but sui generis in its construction, a product of ingenious architects. Look at the smooth stone of the forehead, the nave widest at the fat cheeks, the flying buttress nose, stained glass eyes. Admit it, Henry, you stand before a mystery, an immensity, and inside this building you will find something previously unnamed, something that until now you never wanted to know. Something other than yourself.

“Oh, just look how happy he is to see you, Henry! He certainly recognizes his grandpa.”

Henry blinked unsteadily in the warmth and glow of the Miller kitchen. Ginnie was preparing him a cup of peppermint tea as he cradled Samuel after his two days of travel, what had seemed like a two-year separation. How his life had changed in such little time. He was nearly stupefied by it, but it was there nonetheless, as plain as any other fact.

As she dropped a tea bag into a mug, Ginnie said, “Henry, you can leave Samuel with us anytime. It was wonderful having a baby in the house again — wasn’t it wonderful, Roger?” She turned to her husband.

“It was.” Roger nodded.

Uncomfortable color rose into Henry’s cheeks. “I … I can’t impose upon you more than I already have.” He turned to survey the room, possibly seek out Samuel’s overnight bag, but Ginnie just batted at his hand. “Oh, I’m not letting you run off just yet. You need to eat after traveling. Plus, I need someone to play checkers with. Roger has a three-game limit, and that just won’t suit.”