Jeffery Allen - Rails Under My Back

Man, I’m tireda watchin these silly girls, Jesus said.

Help me down from here, Birdleg said.

The Stonewall Aces stepped down from the benches. Made a net of arms and carried Birdleg to the ground. The Stonewall Aces stretched out in the grass, arms behind heads, watching the treetops, feet to feet, like bookends. The leaves were green and quiet, shimmering in a touch of sun. Jesus stole glances at Birdleg. Birdleg was sitting in his usual position, upright, legs forming a V from the center of his body, his pudgy hands clasped over his preposterous paunch like a protective shell. His mouth was twisted open and his breath came hot and short. Jesus wondered if he were asleep. He slept sitting up. Had to. Cause the stomach could crush him. You imagine him sleeping like normal people, his fat belly rising above the bed, a fish belly-up in the bowl.

Man, I’m tireda watchin these trees.

Okay, Birdleg said.

The Stonewall Aces helped him to his feet, Jesus and Hatch hooking on either arm and Abu shoving from the back. Birdleg moved in the hard afternoon light. Air bright and blinding. The boys followed. They walked along the old tracks. Alert to an occasional train, glittering silver between slices of light. They kneeled low in the green bushes, listening to the asthmatic poppings of pistons when a string of loaded freight cars came pounding along. Kneeled, because, at a distance, freight trains and commuter trains looked the same. Those commuters are deadeyes, Birdleg said. If you got heart and you look hard and heavy, you can see their gun glint.

My Uncle John was a deadeye, Hatch said. Still is.

Yeah, Abu said. He my uncle too. Hatch’s best friend, he was proud to claim blood not his own.

He won a lot of medals.

Yeah? Who he shoot?

Gooks.

The train extended its streaked motion. The tracks curved off into the horizon along a long, white, hot sand road that split the flat green. They followed Birdleg’s scrawny-legged walk through the flying landscape. The beaks of the road ate up the rubber soles of their kicks and unknotted their shoestrings. A stinging thirst clawed their throat.

Damn, Birdleg. We walkin to the moon?

Yeah, Birdleg. Where we goin?

Birdleg stopped, knelt forward, bowed down in exhaustion, hands supported against the forked branch of his bended knees. Pain squeezed the skin tight against the bones of his face.

Birdleg, what’s wrong?

Nothing. Just tired.

Tears ran from his eyes, white, spilling sticky to the concrete. After six or seven hard breaths, Birdleg raised himself and pushed forward.

They walked to the end of a bridge. Climbed down a path under a small trestle where a creek had backed up to form a small pond. Fifteen feet away, a small shanty — a sloping, tar-paper roof, partly hidden by the low-hanging branches of a tree whose name Jesus didn’t know, sycamore, Hatch said —shone white as a bulb.

Who made this shack?

That’s fo me to know and you to find out.

Tell us, Birdleg.

The Stonewall Aces entered the shack, lit by light through holes that peppered the roof. The shack straddled a grass-filled ditch. Each boy made a seat on spike-shaped leaves on the ditch banks. Something was scratched into the wood walls — a fantail connected to a sphere? a fish? Jesus couldn’t say for certain. Tall white sentinels, milkweed watched him from the grass.

Hey, Birdleg, why they call it milkweed? Jesus saw milk in Birdleg’s eyes.

Stupid, Birdleg said. Don’t you know anything?

Jesus studied the milkweed.

Yall loves milk?

Yeah, Birdleg.

Jesus saw flocks of clouds through breaks in the roof.

I loves milk like I loves white folks like a dog loves hickory.

What?

Why you love white folks? Hatch said.

Birdleg looked at him.

Damn, nigga. You got some funny-lookin ears. Jesus cocked his fingers and popped Birdleg’s rabbit-long ears.

Bitch!

A bitch is a dog.

And you a bitch. Listen. Birdleg raised his palms. Yall know how white people got white?

Jesus watched the shack walls, twigs and splinters. A chill wind swept wide through the ditch, penetrating his feet and hands. But the ground was hot under his butt and the grass warm to the touch. And you and Hatch sat fishing before the Memphis River. Feel water thundering near your feet. Hear fish invisible in the water, their shadows rising and turning into thick waves. Hatch afraid to touch the electrified worms.

How?

From drinkin too much milk.

Above the roof, the sun blinked bright, immersed Jesus in a cascade of light. Pearl after pearl. Like the way you cast sinkers of light into the Memphis River.

How you know? Hatch said.

Yeah, Abu said. You lyin.

Straight up, Birdleg said.

ONCE YOU WALKED to the keen edge of exhaustion. Walked until the sun took on strange shape and color. And Sheila met Hatch at the door, squeezing an ironing cord in her angry fist. The sky rained boulders of ice and Birdleg demonstrated how to use a garbage-can lid for a protective shield. Use it as an umbrella — hard iron rain struck lid and ground with a hollow sound. The ice thinned to rushing water. And when the rain stopped, you as a team collected drowned birds. Like the snails you collected in West Memphis. You and Hatch pulled them skinny from their shells. Held the shells to your ears and heard ocean. Frogs burped, drunk.

Birdleg, where rain come from?

Stars. Stars are holes in the sky that let the rain through.

That’s not right, Hatch said. Rain falls from clouds.

Yeah, Abu said. Rain falls into the clouds way up from Mars cause the devil be beating his wife and God squeeze the rain from the clouds.

Clouds ain’t no sponges, Hatch said.

Know where babies come from? Birdleg tested.

From they stomach.

Out they navel.

Out they testine.

No.

Where, Birdleg?

A bubble of water. Inside a bitch’s stomach.

BIRDLEG WOULD CLEAN HIS HANDS in dog slobber. Walk right up to a dog and put his hands under the slobbering faucet of mouth.

Damn, nigga. That’s nasty.

Shut up. Know what’s really nasty?

What?

Blackbirds. Buzzards. They drip vomit. That’s why you always see them flying in a circle.

Why?

Stupid. Ain’t you never looked in a sink and seen a drain? The water flying in circles?

What?

Birdleg had a way with dogs. His footsteps summoned them like drums. One snap of his fingers could make a raving dog heel. Two snaps could sic the dog on an enemy. Bear witness:

Stonewall Aces rolled proud and true through the red valley, the jets above reflecting menacing shadows. A rival crew rolled forward, six or seven big boulders, and blocked the path. Red-tied bandannas, threatening, gallows rope.

Damn. What yall sposed to be?

Natty lump lump lump.

Bitch plus three.

The four tricks.

So, nigga. Speak up.

Yeah. Represent represent.

Represent.

Well … Who yall—

Yo mamma, Birdleg said.

Bitch, I’m gon kick yo ass.

Birdleg stooped, rested his palms on his bent knees. Jesus must have blinked, because when he opened his eyes a pit bull shot out from between Birdleg’s skinny ankles. Destruction took over. A black blur of violence, snapping teeth and crunching bones. Like a matador’s cape, red bandannas bringing out the anger bringing out the hate bringing out the violence in the pit bull. And red blood drew more attacking teeth.

Stupid. Bulls are color-blind. All animals are.

Dogs too?

That’s right. Yo mamma too.

The red boulders dissolved into black dust that took to the air, filled the sky. Justice done, the pit bull ran for Birdleg’s skinny ankles and disappeared, yo-yo yanked back up into Birdleg’s stomach.