Jeffery Allen - Rails Under My Back

As newborn babes desire the sincere milk of the Word that they may grow thereby, you gather at the table of my sermon.

Take yo time.

Let us sit at the Lord’s table. His breasts are full of milk and his bones are moistened with marrow.

Preach.

Brothers and sisters, one of ours has fallen but we must keep the bread of life fresh.

Fresh he said.

The breath of prayers and sermons floated in the air. He has made his bed in darkness, but as long as I am in the world, I am the world’s light. Hatch’s breath grew fat. He concentrated on producing his thick music. Yes, I’m pressing on the upward way. New heights I’m gaining every day. Our Father, lover of my soul, let me to thy bosom fly. Gabriel will wrap you up in his wings and fly you out of the storm. He felt the wings of an angel hard-flapping overhead. Shall we gather at the river where bright angel feet trod? The assembled roared in front of him. Laughter touched him from behind. He turned his head to investigate. There he saw a woman among the odor of roses, standing in the doorway of the hall leading to the undertaker’s office and holding a red-and-black sailor’s cap on with both hands so that the winds of Hatch’s music would not blow it off. Dark hair spilled in deep folds. And smiling. The coiled spring of Hatch’s guts twisted and raised him from his seat. He was lifted up in a sea of music, pouring out of him, churning and eddying about him in warm spirals, burying him in a glittering shower.

Later that night, Hatch loaded his instrument and effects into Uncle John’s trunk.

Uncle John, take these home for me.

What? Do I look like an errand boy?

I know I drive a cab but—

A fille. I met this fille. Elsa.

Uncle John smiled. Show her who’s king. He kicked the cab into yellow motion. The sound of its backfiring faded at the end of the street.

HATCH AND ELSA cleared the last ashes of music from the chapel.

I like the way you play. Elsa brushed her hair back from her forehead. Her eyes were bright.

Thanks.

You play with a band? Her eyes burned two nails in his heart.

I got my own band. He had to unpin the words.

Your own band?

Yeah. Third Rail.

Nice name. I sing a little.

Oh, yeah. Well, we need a backup singer.

I don’t sing that well.

Don’t hang your harp upon the willows.

Elsa smiled. So you’re a poet too.

Could be. Could be.

FREEPORT? MY SISTER WENT THERE. Well, just for one year.

I should talk to her.

Elsa had moved their conversation to the seclusion of her father’s office. Are you lookin forward to going to college?

Yes, I am. I plan to study accounting, then I’ll do my year of mortuary school.

Massive furniture, shadow presences in the room.

It runs in the family?

I guess so. My dad wants me to do a year or two at the seminary.

The seminary?

Yes.

Bet you already know how to preach. Yo father sure can.

I really want to be a model.

A model?

Yes.

Why you want to be model?

What do you mean?

You’re a talented individual. Why waste your talent?

She thought it over, fingers at her ruminating chin. Are artists born or made?

Made.

So, how’s that different from modeling? Natural talent.

He thought about it. My sister’s a model.

Now I know I have to meet her. Are you going to introduce us?

Well, she’s not that kind of model.

What kind of model is she?

NOBODY IN OUR FAMILY HAS A GRAVESTONE. Nobody.

Why not?

No money.

Money? They aren’t that expensive.

No?

No.

We don’t even have a car. My sister does. And my Uncle John. Hatch thought it over. People in my family barely get a decent funeral.

You have to watch what funeral home you choose. Have you ever heard of Sleepytime Incorporated?

I’ve seen them all over the city.

They are nationwide. They have a warehouse where they stack all the bodies. They’ve lost a body or two here and there.

What?

Yeah. A coupla times they tried to convince a family to have a closed-casket funeral because they had lost the bodies. Empty casket.

Damn.

And they also do mass incinerating.

What’s that?

When they put more than one body in an oven at a time. Like they might cremate a baby with an adult. Or two kids together. The ashes get mixed up. The family thinks they have Bill’s ashes, but Bill’s are mixed with Sue’s, Larry’s, and Baby Tom’s.

Damn.

It happens all the time.

I know one thing. They don’t do no good funerals down South.

Next time somebody in your family dies, let us handle it.

WHAT’S YOUR SIGN?

Cancer, Hatch said.

Pisces.

Two fish. My sister a Pisces.

Oh. Then she must be a good woman. Elsa smiled.

Hatch returned it. An easy silence in the room. He looked at his watch. Wow! You know how long we’ve been talking?

I can imagine.

Let’s do something.

You like Chinese food?

My favorite.

I know a restaurant.

At the restaurant, Elsa showed him how to eat shrimp fried rice with chopsticks. There was something magical about it, working the sticks like puppet handles and seeing the rice rise on invisible strings to your mouth.

Let’s have coffee, Elsa said.

Coffee? That’s for old folks.

So we can talk.

Okay.

I know a place where they have quality coffee.

MY GRANDFATHER, MY MOTHER’S FATHER, was a cigar maker in Puerto Rico. He died long before I was born. But my father’s father died a few years ago. He had a funeral home down South and he had pictures of the old days and was always telling stories. He had two horses that pulled the funeral procession. The horses would cry if someone was going to hell. And they would stop twice if someone was going to heaven.

Hatch and Elsa blew laughter back and forth between them.

Who gave you those? Elsa’s fingers reached out and seized his dogtags. Blind to him, they had slipped out of the V of his open collar.

Lucifer.

Steam rose like a white bird. Her fingers made two hot wafers of the metal.

Lucifer? She studied the dogtags closely. The hot metal sizzled and sang.

My dad.

Was he in the army?

Yeah. He and my Uncle John.

She studied the tags. Red shadows played over her light brown face, two small red coffins.

This is good coffee, he said. They were drinking thick brown coffee in thimble-sized cups.

Thanks, she said. She released the tags. They went instantly cold.

He sipped. She sipped. He tried to keep his reckless eyeballs in check, keep them from surveying the saxophone curve of her neck, the float of her breasts.

Who learned you this coffee? he said.

My mother.

She the Puerto Rican half of the family?

She laughed, molasses-thick laughter that sweetened the air.

Am I that funny?

No, honey. She took his hand into her own. The sheen of his skin seemed to add a shimmer to her own. She gave his hand a light squeeze, then returned her own hand to her lap. Give me your cup.

My cup?

Yes.

He handed her the thimble. She upended the cup, dumped the sediment into her saucer. She peered into the hollow. Let me read your future.

My future. You believe in that stuff?

She parted her lips, a light smile. She looked into the cup. He leaned forward to see what she saw. Patterns. There were actually patterns inside the cup.

Well, what you see?

Your future.

Well?

A bird.

LET’S GO TO THE PARK.

The park? he said. It’s winter.