Jeffery Allen - Rails Under My Back

Hatch lowered his eyes.

YES, THAT LEE. Webb’s old body laughed, an avalanche of spasms that began at his head and ended with his feet.

A snake bout the only thing I’m fraid of. Once I went hunting with this white man and he picked up this snake.

Pool, he says, I’m gon put this snake on you.

You better not, I says.

He threw it on me.

I shot him in the arm.

I HAD THIS COUSIN who killed him eight crackas. He was out on this little island in the middle of the lake, hiding in this woodpile. Every time a cracka raise his head, he blow it off. They sprayed the island with a plane.

ONCE, MY WIFE CALL THE COPS ON ME. Four cops. They say, Your wife say you pulled a gun on her. I tell em, Take your hats off in my house. They say, Where’s the gun? Don’t put your hand on it. I tell them, Sit down. Don’t stand over me.

I BOUGHT MY HOUSE in Crownpin. White folks look at me but I just look at them back. The first night, the man next door come ring my bell. He says, I’m not like them. I’m not prejudiced. I slammed the door in his face. We were best friends after that.

THE EL STOOD ON WOOD ARMS above downtown Central, the Loop. Fire engines roared down State Street, curved wings of red water onto already wet sidewalks. Wooden horses — knee-deep in water — dammed-off streets that imitated rivers. Cops helped lay black roads of fire hose. Firemen waded in high black fishing boots. Aimed eel-thick hoses. Other firemen floated, red rubber duckies.

Divers had been inspecting all twelve rivers. The first reports suggest that wood pylons broke through the freight tunnels. The freight tunnels run twenty feet beneath the rivers.

The freight tunnels were used to cart messages and materials from building to building. Then streetcars were housed there.

The mayor has formed a team of engineers. They want to plug the tunnels with sandbags, then stick a rubber bladder in each. Work may begin as early as midnight tonight.

All subways are closed. Expect partial service on the Els by morning.

The mayor has declared a state of emergency. CE has shut off all power in the area. Firemen are relying on small generators. Water threatens the structural integrity of many of the buildings in the Loop. The Underground is completely underwater. Small colored fish swim there.

Well, Pool said. Ain’t that a mess? I guess you better be getting back.

I can wait a while.

Wait? Look at that mess. Webb nodded at the blinking blue screen. If you don’t leave now, no telling when you might get back. What you gonna do, fly over all that water?

Hatch said nothing. He thought about it. I still got to get through Central, he said. They shut the subway down. I’ll have to take the bus. Think I can make it with all those streets closed off? He wished that he could answer the question for Webb. No. You won’t make it. No was the answer he needed. A question had brought him here. Webb was close to answering it. He was sure.

Maybe, if you leave now.

It’ll be dark soon. It’ll be dark soon but I can still try.

You can try it if you want.

Maybe, if I leave now.

Maybe.

Before it gets dark.

Before it gets dark.

Yeah. It’ll be dark soon.

Well, you know, you welcome to stay here.

Hatch felt the words nest in his skin. You sure?

You welcome.

Thanks. His insides settled. He felt new space inside, space for the time he needed. I’ll go back in the morning. They should have things together by then.

Call your mother and let her know you alright.

I will.

Call her now. Don’t let yo mamma worry.

Hatch lifted the receiver to his ear. It felt cold, an ice compress. The line rang and rang, swelled into his brain. He counted the number of rings, hung up the phone, and settled back into the inner harbor of the couch.

No answer?

Hatch shook his head. Guess nobody there. She probably didn’t make it home from work, with the flood and all. Got to come all the way from the suburbs.

You know her work number. You know it. Call her at work.

Hatch dialed another number. Let it ring a few times. Counted the rings. Hung up the phone. Nobody there, he said.

You sure?

Hatch nodded.

What about yo daddy? I know yo daddy worry, way he talk about you.

The words startled Hatch. Lucifer talk about me? Webb was wrong, his memory mixed up, one of those things old people do. I didn’t even know he had a son. Lucifer never spoke his name to others. Webb probably meant Uncle John. Uncle John talk bout me all the time.

Call yo daddy at work.

At work?

Yeah.

Hatch thought fast. Maybe they had to go down South to see my grandmother. Yeah, that’s it. They had to go down South to West Memphis to see my grandmother Lula Mae. She sick.

Oh yeah?

Yeah. Cancer.

Sorry to hear that.

Thanks. That’s where they went. They go down there every two weeks or so. Hatch watched his own truth in Webb’s eyes and face.

Well, try again later. Jus to be sure.

I will.

GIVE ME A COPPER, the bum said, and I’ll tell you a golden story. Camouflaged in the city’s dirt, the bum sat with the building at his back, his legs straight before him. (Lucifer had almost stumbled over them.) A cardboard sign hung biblike from his neck: I’M A VET.

Sorry, Lucifer said.

You look like a military man. Are you a military man?

Lucifer continued walking, silent in the slanting sun.

You are a military man. I can always tell a military man.

Sorry. Lucifer moved on. A plague of hot asphalt and city sizzle. New York, New York. The Big Apple. Back again. You brought me back. Called. There’s an ocean of time between Lucifer’s present and previous visits. The first many years ago. He left John and Gracie at the hospital after the doctor birthed them something that looked like a head of red cabbage. He pulled his savings from the bank (vet pay) and bought a plane ticket. He grinned broadly at the rush of takeoff. Speed hummed through his body. He settled into it. The stewardess — they were still called that then — smiled in the steam of the coffee she’d prepared. Neither female warmth nor coffee warmth relaxed him. He hated planes. Anxious boredom. He never knew if the plane was moving until it came to a stop. The plane hummed through a sea of clouds. New York was there somewhere beneath that sea. What would he see on descent? The Empire State Building? The Twin Towers? The Statue of Liberty? The Chrysler Building? The question vanished. He saw a swash of green and thought it green ocean, but as the plane descended, he recognized green-painted roofs. He saw what looked like houses, scattered over blocks of neighborhoods, but as the plane dropped closer, he saw these houses were really tombstones.

High windows steamed bright light. Thick crowds of people edged through blocks of concrete on concrete. Traffic flowed in slow coils. A big machine. Yes, New York was a big machine.

No one understood machines better than Spokesman. This was his city. He was the person to see. With Spokesman the facts were always the same. Facts. Spokesman was always willing to sit you down in a corner of his thoughts.

Give me that shit say dynamite on the label, John said. I feel like something powerful tonight.

Dallas passed John the 40 Acres, John’s and Dallas’s favorite cheap wine. John tilted the bottle to his lips, one hand on the bottle, one on the wheel. It was in a car that John felt most at home.

Spokesman put his hand out the window, feeling the wind.

Pebbles shot up under the car and clinked. The road before them was one long curving surprise as John’s red Cadillac zoomed through the hot white light of afternoon into tepid evening shade. Drinking and talking and philosophizing. Voices bubbling with alcohol. Spokesman said something and Lucifer said something and Spokesman nodded and smiled his approval and Lucifer felt like a bird flying above the car.