Jeffery Allen - Rails Under My Back

I float like gravity.

Got thirty-six babies that call me daddy.

I’m the man to be.

The man to see.

That nigga was a lion, John growled. A lion. Them Muslims popped him. You dig? He was startin to steal they fire.

That’s crazy. They need to put you in Manteno. John, turn the car around.

I know it’s crazy cause I popped him.

Nigga, you couldn pop a piece of toast.

What you know bout poppin?

Know more than you and yo mamma too.

Still don’t mean you know who popped the pretzel. So what you talkin bout?

Look, the three workers who fingered the Wizard were black.

So? Ain’t no Muslims in—

Hell if they ain’t. They be in all sorts of places, jus like yo mamma’s stanky draws.

Yeah. On yo mamma’s teeth.

Damn. That’s cold.

It was a setup. They fingered Oz.

Like a bulldog finger a cat.

Nawl, like a bird dog rub his whiskers.

Dallas, you must be one of those dumb creatures God peopled the earth with.

Yeah. Daddy dumb. Yo daddy.

Well, nobody know who popped the pretzel cause that ginny popped ole Oz.

I’ll taste to that.

Bet the Reverend be gettin his taste. And I don’t mean this. Dallas raised the bottle.

He sho preached a good funeral.

Yeah. I always be smellin hellfire on the Reverend Sparrow’s breath.

That ain’t the kind of taste he talkin bout, Lucifer said.

Bout time that nigga said something. Nigga always be standin round quiet. Cat got yo tongue?

Nawl. He left it in yo mamma’s pussy.

How you gon talk bout my mammy? We got the same mammy.

Shit. Lucifer went silent, amused at how he had entangled himself.

Any dog would snarl over the fine brown bones in his church, Dallas said. Hear Rivers and Sparrow double-team the bitches.

John looked at him, eyes blinking hate. Nigga, who asked you?

Moonlight lay thick on the thick cornfields.

Pull over, Dave said.

What?

Nigga, you deaf. I said pull over.

John curved the car onto the road’s shoulder — gravel fled from the fast tires (you could hear it, feel it tap like drizzle against the windows) — and stopped. Dave took off his shoes.

Nigga, what you doin?

You that drunk?

Corn arms pulled Dave from the car. The three men followed him barefoot into the yellow fields.

HOW’S GRACIE? Lucifer asked.

You gon do what?

Get married.

Why?

Man, I’m pussied out.

I understand that but why her? Kinda ugly ain’t she?

John took a huge ice cube into his mouth. Same ole same ole. His breath winged its way past Lucifer’s nostrils.

You still keep yo keys under her doormat?

Where else I’m gon leave them?

Lucifer wanted to say, Yall been separated what ten years now and still ain’t divorced. Why yall still married? Shit. Don’t see why you married her in the first place. But he left it there. Years ago, Pappa Simmons had advised him and John, Marry a widow or a lady wit kids. She be thankful the rest of her life. But neither had followed his advice. Lucifer married pretty, John married ugly.

What you lookin at? he asked Dallas.

Looking for that nametag on yo collar. Taken.

Man, I’m still free, dick blowing in the wind.

Ain’t what I heard.

What you hear?

You boppin Gracie.

Gracie?

Yeah.

No way, Dallas said.

Where you hear that?

Through the grapevine.

Well, I ain’t gettin it, but I plans to.

Gracie? Dallas said. Aw man you can’t get them draws. She saved.

Yeah, savin it for me.

What you want wit that old stuff?

Ain’t you heard, pussy sweetens wit time.

The overhead fan hummed waves of cool air. John fingered something in his blazer pocket. His lighter? He pulled a box of matches from his pocket, pulled a cigarette, without producing the pack — New Life, still his favorite after all the years — scratched a match on the roughened side of the box, conjured a flame, studied the flame, and finally touched it to his cigarette. He closed his eyes and breathed the smoke in, then smoked the cigarette down without once touching it with his hand. Fired up another. For years, he had been trying to stop smoking. Or so he promised and claimed. Gracie would leave the room whenever he fired up a square. Apparently, his failing eyesight had not curbed his habit. Lucifer recalled hearing that blind people don’t smoke. Seeing the smoke was part of the thrill.

Smoke drifted in the morning light and hung bright and heavy as silk. Lucifer fought a sneeze. He let his gaze drift through the huge room. A good deal of people moving across the thick carpet, wood buckling underfoot, soaked with alcohol. People drinking, laughing, and talking, around a bench-long damask-covered table, light-ringed, sampling plates of canapés, calamari, cheeses and crackers, spinach dip, shrimp and seaweed. Never eat none that shit. They let it sit around for weeks. Get old. Get contaminated. Make you sick. The place was elegant, more in line with top-of-the-line airport bars. A sparkling chandelier, wall scones, tulip-shaped lamps, gilt-framed mirrors and paintings, pastoral scenes quiet and bright with flowers, lakes, and trees, abstracts with lines, dots, and colors. He hated the art, the lack of definition. Like grease stains.

Heard from Jesus? Lucifer heard the boy’s birth, noises like an angry cat.

Jesus is Jesus.

Lucifer didn’t say what he thought. Jesus. All bone. Long and skinny, a red river. Red curse of a son.

How’s Hatch? John asked.

Lucifer pictured Hatch and Jesus in the back of John’s gold Park Avenue, both boys hunched forward as if to hurry the car along. Lucifer, John, Hatch, Jesus — when had they last been together? Lucifer said, You ain’t talked to him?

Sorry I ain’t called. Been busy with the cab project.

How’s that going?

Fine. John let the silence work for him.

How long is the ride to Washington?

Ten hours. Quick. Express.

Lucifer saw his reflection in the window and, looking through the glass, saw a pigeon rise in flight from the pavement, pulsing its wings in the sunlight. You shoulda told me. I woulda made plans to go. Lucifer followed the slow circles of two silent birds revolving high in the air.

Spokesman jus called me. No warning. John’s spectacles followed the bird’s movement. Last night. John leaned his cheek against the greasy windowpane. A fresh shave. Yes, a graying in the lower part of his face.

Why didn’t he call me?

John bright-watched him. Thought he had. Thought you’d be all packed and ready to go.

Why didn’t you call me to be sure?

John slipped past Lucifer’s voice. After Washington, I’m gon spend a few days with Spokesman in New York.

Good.

And Spin.

Lucifer’s heart generated a haze in his chest. Spin?

John grinned.

The shadows in the lounge swam fish shapes. Lucifer peered closely at a painting, black lines crossing into broken planes of violent color. Spin too?

John nodded.

Lucifer gave the painting another look. Somebody actually paid money for that? White folks. What about Webb? And Lipton? You meetin them too? Lucifer was shocked at the violence of his words. He could taste it.

Lipton? That crazy motherfucker? John shook his head. No. A bit of cigarette paper stuck to his lip. He lifted it off with a fingernail, rolled it into a ball between his fingertips and flipped it away. Jus me, Spokesman, and Spin.

FIVE YEARS BEFORE, after they had both been back in the world for twenty years, Lucifer and John shared parallel seats on a train headed for Washington. Seats close enough for them to exchange breaths. Cramped distance. Crumpled sleeping. The slanted seat slanted dreams. Bums lined the tracks like milestones as the train neared its destination, tossing their bottles at the speeding windows. Spin met them at the station in full uniform. He moved easy under a weight of medals. Rallied a detachment, skillfully conducted a running fight of three or four hours, and by his coolness, bravery, and unflinching devotion to duty in standing by his commanding officer, in an exposed position under heavy fire, saved the lives of at least two of them. Squeezed John in a choking hug. Then he hugged Lucifer with equal feeling. John’s stories had failed to capture the lineaments of Spin’s torso; the stories had never risen to his full height or lowered to his full weight. He was too large. No room for him in John’s memory and imagination. The blackness of his beard made his lips look red. This was the man who had once bent over a mine with the ease of a shoe clerk over a foot. At last we meet, he said. Lucifer’s feelings exactly. Spin was forever coming or going. He and John would pass without touching, two stars, an eclipse effect. With a toast that topped the music charts, Spin had pushed himself to another level of life and roamed the world from end to end.