Jeffery Allen - Rails Under My Back

Beam me up, Scotty.

Where your father? Jesus really wanted to know.

Ain’t you already asked me that?

Ask you again.

No Face looked at him. He gone to work.

Jesus took off his shoes and removed the hot, wet socks. He put the socks inside the shoes and placed them neatly in front of him.

Turn off the lights.

No Face did.

Now close the shades.

Why?

Jesus looked at him.

No Face rushed over to the shades, snapped them down one after the other. Know any stories? Word, I heard you can tell some good lies. Tell me one.

Tell you bout the time yo mamma sucked my dick.

Hey, can’t you stop talkin bout my mamma? Show me some respect.

Jesus didn’t say anything for a moment. Then he told a lie about the nigga who could catch his own farts, the only story he could remember at the moment. No Face laughed all the while, uncontrollably, twisting and shaking, slapping his knees.

Know any more?

Jesus thought about it. Should he tell one of John’s war stories? See, West-side was tired of humping. So he shot himself in the foot. One problem. The bullet ricocheted off his anklebone and hit him square in the forehead. Wait, that was one of Lucifer’s stories. The one or two he told. John told this: Water. We wanted water. Our feet was burnin after all that humpin. So we was beaucoup happy when we saw the resupply choppers flyin in. Beaucoup happy when we saw those choppers drop us down some buckets, some buckets of what we knew was some good cool water after a long thirsty hump. So we hurried up and opened one bucket and another and another. Fuck. Ice cream. Those lifers had brought us buckets of ice cream. Can you believe that? So we took off our boots and started stompin marchin in that ice cream. Humpin all over again. No.

Come on.

I said I don’t know any mo. Damn.

No Face went silent.

Jesus blew the trumpet. It hissed. Light began to glow in his chest, particles of smoke creeping outward through his bloodstream, penetrating muscles and bones, washing his stomach hollow, his whole body slipping inside it, a pit where heat and light coiled around him, a nest of snakes.

He closed his eyes.

THE AIR CONDITIONER HUMMED like a speeding train, you snug in the bed under a winter blanket, staring at the ceiling, which seemed strangely close. You heard the creaking of Lula Mae’s sleeping bones from across the hall. Smelled her odor (Ben-Gay). Took stock of the day’s wrongs. Wrongs inside of wrongs, this onion that you peeled from one layer of stink to another, from one eye-watering sight to another. Each wrong deed joined like stones on a path.

Hatch?

What?

You sleep?

Sound like I’m sleep?

Lula Mae mean.

Yeah.

Real mean.

Yeah.

Let’s fix her.

How?

We gon walk home.

Kinda far, ain’t it?

A million miles.

Oh.

We can make it.

You sure?

Positive.

Okay.

You packed your bags, you and Hatch. Moved ghost-silent through the house, sensing the presence of the attic far above — the roof slanting inward with the pitch of the rafters. You unlocked the front door — it always stuck when you tried to open it; the rusty hinges were informants — and moved out into the black reaches of night. You stood on the front porch, where a yellow light burned — a swarm of insects — and saw a world in full bloom. The sky like a dark open flower. A full-eyed moon. The sound of covert crickets. And the short, discontinuous fire of lightning bugs. When they hold they breath, Hatch said, they fire come on. When they blow it out, they fire go off. Heat. Yes, even the nights were hot in West Memphis. Dark forgot its connection to cool. You waded out into the night, waded, then dolphin-leaped the fence, a red arc of light. Damn! Hatch said. He lifted the silver cuff that latched gate to post. You waded. Hands jammed in your pockets, head thrust forward, you scowled down the empty road. Stepped onto the red noisy gravel. Luggage dragged you to the corner. Dragged too by the pulley of a fresh act.

Hatch’s eyes began to water.

Why you cryin?

He did not answer. You turned to see Lula Mae giving chase with a switch.

SUNLIGHT AROUSED JESUS from sleep. He pushed himself upright on the couch, and sat there, groggy, trying to clear his head against the growing hum of morning traffic.

Damn! His flesh luminous with heat. His feet cold. He looked down at them. No shoes. He could see No Face, fuzzy, cloudy, dim. No Face! he screamed.

No Face’s black eye patch glowed like the barrel hole of a fired gun. I be dog. We fell asleep.

Nigga, what the fuck!

Some powerful shit. No Face’s head hung suspended between his knees, a heavy balloon.

Every inch of Jesus’s skin was alive, seeing, watching himself move in a dream. Bitch, what did you put in that weed? Jesus grabbed No Face by his collar and jerked him to his feet.

Nuthin. Somebody had stuck a red moon and a black moon in his face where the eyes should be. I told you I—

You can get hurt like that, seriously hurt. Hardly getting the words out, throat clogged with hate, each word anger-clotted.

But—

Jesus shoved him back on the couch. The sunlight scorched Jesus’s socked-but-shoeless feet. Where my goddamn shoes? Once again he snatched No Face up from the couch.

No Face pointed. Red color began to bleed from his eye. He adjusted his black patch. Over there. By the couch. Jesus pushed No Face down like crumbs off of a table. Mamma musta put them over there while—

Jesus quickly shoved his warm shoes on his feet. I ain’t never heard of no Buddha making nobody sleep like that. Pass out. He checked his pockets. Found everything in order. I mean, it’s tomorrow already. I mean. He sat down on the couch.

The pipe on the coffee table had been cleaned of ashes.

I be dog.

Where’d you get that shit?

From Keylo. He musta gave me some of that crazy shit. Whacked. Nigga always be jokin around.

You lucky I don’t … Jesus rested the words.

It’s cool, No Face said. We’re cool. Hey, you wanna watch some TV?

No.

We can watch some.

Bitch, do it look like I watch TV?

No Face studied the words, magnified them under the lens of his one eye. Well, what you wanna do?

Jesus felt a hole in his stomach, growing and spreading. His hands ran an orbit around his belly. Got anything to eat?

Sure.

He followed No Face to the refrigerator. Watched him open it. Almost threw up when he saw old cooking grease inside a mason jar, brown and gray like a rotting limb.

See anything you want? If you don’t, we go down to Mamma Henry’s house. She keep our meat in her freezer. And Mamma—

I know, Jesus said. I can’t wait.

They took out some leftover meat loaf and ate it cold and fast, then drank milk, right from the gallon jug, sharing swigs until the plastic container was whistle-empty.

You can take a shower. No Face’s anxious eye watched Jesus. I got some clothes you can wear. We go shoot some hoop.

Jesus looked at him. You lucky to be alive.

No Face directed his good eye somewhere else.

Real lucky.

Look. The eye returned. I got some of my own shit.

I don’t wanna try no mo of yo shit. I mean—

You don’t know me from Adam. I told you, that wasn’t mine. Keylo gave me that. Look, I’ll take you to my kitty so we can smoke us some real—

Nawl. I don’t wanna smoke no mo.

Cool.

You lucky to be alive.

We can pick up some oysters.

What?

Oysters. Wit hot sauce.

That’s what you like?

That’s what I like.

Funny. Spokesman used to eat that.

Who?

Never mind. Jus somebody from back in the day. You don’t know him.