Jeffery Allen - Rails Under My Back

And Cotton, he is the owner of two-walking beings that eat the animals. You and me.

A blast of organ.

Yes, Sparrow. Man who holds dominion over the earth.

But Gawd is the owner of heaven and earth.

Who collects our rent.

He is the owner of the seas.

He is the owner of the fish in the seas.

— buoyant, floating on the hands and prayers and amens of the congregation, the congregation that Rivers and Sparrow shared, as they shared snatches of sermon and prayer from the cup of fellowship, as they shared tithes and choirs, as they shared watching eyes; the preachers formed the Deacon Twelve, twelve deacons who spent every moment peeping through the bush of righteousness to observe the activities of every brother and sister of the church and to carry reports of sin back to Rivers and Sparrow so they could wash those sins in the waters of sermon; Gracie put in work for the church, visiting the sick, preparing meals for the hungry, adding the thin reed of her voice to the choir, and teaching the Sunday school class.

Christ taught and his teaching was so powerful that it mastered all nature. Birds flew about him and settled into the nest of his hair. Fish left the water and sprang into the cool waters of his lap. Tiger and lion lay down next to sheep. Wind and river flowed upward to his upraised hands. Pebbles followed his steps. Cause Christ made new roads from his winding shawl, white clean roads. If we stay clean, we keep wax out of our ears, and then we can keep our ears to his path. Do you all understand?

No one spoke.

Let me put it like this. Do not be misled. Bad associations spoil useful habits. Do you understand?

Yes, Miss McShan.

Lucifer, explain the passage to the class.

Well, you shouldn’t hang around wit no bad niggers.

The class laughed.

Crude, but good. The Good Book says, A wise person will listen and take in more instruction, and a man of understanding is the one who acquires skillful direction. If any one of you is lacking in wisdom, let him keep on asking God, for he gives generously to all and without reproaching; and it will be given him.

Miss McShan?

Yes, John.

Do God come before my granddaddy?

The devil come befo Pappa Simmons, that no-church heathen. The Good Book speaks, Gracie said. And the word is living and its flesh never ages like the flesh of anyone’s daddy, or, uh, granddaddy. Do you all understand?

Yes, Miss McShan.

Good. Let us sing.

He’s got the whole world, in his hands …

— in his pants.

John, what did you say?

Just singin, Miss McShan.

He lyin, Lucifer said.

Nigga, shut up.

Both of you quit. Let us sing.

Raise me up

Take me higher

Lift me out of the fire

Raise me to higher ground

So I can see

Turn the key

— And my dick don’t get too tight to pee.

John, what did you say?

NEAR THE CLOSE OF A HOT DAY — a lean, white spring — he sat, book in hand ( Man and Mestizo ), before an open window of Uncle John’s Eddyland apartment, killing time. A vapor trail hung in the air, chalk-white. The window commanded a view of a long vista of riverbanks that cut into the horizon. The river like a plate of metal, reflecting the yellows of the day. Hills — he remembered these same hills from a dream when he was a kid (under Gracie’s roof, lying in bed next to Jesus), but he couldn’t remember the dream — that gradually flattened toward the river. Hills? Well, not exactly. A few ridges rising out of the flat plains. Lumps in the carpet. And the state line beyond the river. One world outside and one world inside.

From the window, he could see over the wall at the end of Canal Street to the busy avenue that ran two miles to the riverfront. Canal Street ran eastward to the lake. A broad and restful street between two rows of large buildings. Ran past little shops and delicatessens, boutiques and department stores. Tourists moved with tired confusion in the blazing heat. Shoppers walked stiffly and lazily between the thick traffic, like marionettes, clutching their packages and bags against their bodies to guard against swift-fingered and swift-footed thieves. He observed their rich and faultless clothes. Noticed the shape of their hats and the box of their shoes. How they carried their hands. Niggas drove by in streamlined bombs of cars, sound systems flinging music out into the street. The edge of the building cut Fifth Avenue off from his view. Well into the evening, yet the sun still well above the horizon. Earlier, the day felt like rain, but now the air was uncommonly clear. The world glowed. Windows sparkled. Rooftops shimmied and danced. A passing fire engine clogged his ears with alarm, cutting light from the siren’s revolving red eye like laser beams on the ceiling and walls.

A wind sucked the shops out and he breathed the smell of fried chicken, chitlins, candied yams, and greens. The horizon clicked, turned. Noise and light lowered. He thought he could hear the bright sound of the river.

The sun couldn’t reach Uncle John’s side of the street. The apartment was completely dark and Hatch could barely make out furniture in the shadows. One wall, squares of mirrors that multiplied the reflection of any who stepped through the front door. A plain black doormat, hard as a board beneath your feet. A blind television.

Hatch was pissed. Patience expired. The plan: Uncle John would quit work early — he drove a cab seven days, twelve hours a day minimum, from seven in the morning until seven at night; some weekends, Hatch helped him wax and polish the cab until it glowed like a UFO — and meet Hatch here by five-thirty. Here it is, damn near six and the concert start at seven. He probably chasin some woman. Puttin on dog. Or fuckin round wit Gracie. Fuckin Gracie.

Why’d you get married?

A dog don’t like a bone, Uncle John says, but he likes what’s in it.

Can’t understand why Uncle John continue to deal with her, put up with her ugly face and ways. A married woman, Uncle John says, she the sweetest thing in the world.

Hatch was pissed. Yet one glance at Uncle John’s face made him forgive much. Canal Street had become the room so he hadn’t heard a door rusty on the hinges, the click of key in lock, song rolling in thick waves off tongue

Mean little girl

You should kneel down on yo knees and pray

I want you to pray to love me

Pray to drive yo sins away

Hatch.

Uncle John.

Sorry I’m late. Uncle John smiled. His eyes moved behind the spectacles, which magnified them and camouflaged his fatigue. Tiredness showed in his shoulders.

Hatch felt Uncle John’s smile in the muscles of his own. That’s okay.

Slow day. Uncle John approached, a certain stiffness in his walk, moving in rhythm to his thoughts. You know me and some of the guys at the dispatch tryin to start our own service. He snatched Hatch in close for a hug. They embraced in a room of melting walls. They were the same height.

Hatch drew back. Let’s go.

Give me a minute to wash up.

The concert start at seven.

I jus need a minute. See, we jus need some capital and—

What?

The cab service.

Oh. That’s all you talk about.

You got to put in the work if you want the rewards.

Them Jews gon give you some money?

Which Jews?

Gracie’s. Them people she work for. The Sterns.

No.

You ask em?

I ain’t waste my time. I got better fish to fry. In a single gesture, Uncle John shed his clothes. Hatch turned to the window.