Jeffery Allen - Rails Under My Back

The full-length mirror returned her reflection. Coal-black eyes burned between inflamed cheeks. Coal-black body made the mirror steam. Yes, she liked what she saw.

She separated her garbage, tin and aluminum in one bag, plastic in another, glass and bones in still another. Tuesday. Today is Tuesday. Recycling day. I must stick to routine. North Park was the only square of the city with a recycling program. PRESERVE THE FUTURE. Funny how today’s milk came packaged in yesterday’s plastic. She put the garbage in its chute and the valuable waste in the recycling bin. Routine.

She hurried up her belongings. Hurried out her loft.

The sun held in sharp relief against the sky, though the stars still shone. (Today, the stars would be visible until noon.) Gnats swarmed in red light. She fanned them away from her face. Deathrow swarmed inside her. All flesh is insect-harboring grass. I must put myself out of his reach. Ah, a new day. A new rooster crowed. Forget Deathrow. By this road they would come to understand each other more clearly. She moved with arrogant rhythm through the chessboard streets, sidewalks red in the sun and black in the shade.

A dog barked pointed teeth. She rooted, held her ground. What’s with these dogs? The dog trotted off, tail waving batonlike.

She took the rushing ride out to Inez’s house.

WHY WOULD INEZ WANT TO SEE HER? What could be so important? She couldn’t remember the last time she had visited Inez. In the old days, in the real old days when it was possible to tell Uncle John anything cause she was the black apple of his brown eye, every Sunday Uncle John would drive her — in his red Eldorado (or was it the black Cadillac?) with power locks and windows, custom items in those days; the two of them blasting along at dangerous speed, car mistaking itself for plane, shouted curses and angry stares from fellow drivers reminders of their passage; they passed a river; she held her breath, figuring that if the car crashed into the water she’d be prepared — to Inez’s house to visit Pappa Simmons. Pappa Simmons could talk. The body was weak, decaying — he had barely enough strength to walk to the kitchen, the bathroom, or the bedroom without George’s assistance — but he watched you with intense cold eyes, very black, sparkling like lumps of coal. He could see forwards and backwards, he could lift you up on the fork of his tongue, carry you to the heights of witness and testimony. He was the only adult on Lucifer’s side of the family who would talk and tell, though he had little to say about Lucifer’s and John’s father — Inez testified, the boys resulted after an indiscretion, though the father was around long enough to pass down the peas of his name — though he rarely mentioned his wife — they met at the church picnic, her sitting beneath a chinaberry tree, mouth greasy with the last of her fried eel — the only two black spots in his memory.

Sunday was the nervous thread that pulled her through the week. The vibrating pulse that awaited the hour when Uncle John would arrive.

Now, Pappa, John would say, don’t talk my niece’s fool ear off.

Two things I always been good at, Pappa Simmons said. Work and talk. I reckon I’ll dig my own grave. Might even preach my own funeral. He faced Uncle John. Uncle John returned his unturning stare. Junior always been big on eye work, he said. He work when you lookin. Body blind when you ain’t.

They remained then, looking at each other, looking, directly, for longer than they would ever again.

EACH SUNDAY, she rose early, with the first tentative fingers of sunlight, and fled the warmth or coolness of her bedcovers to catch the train— Relax, Sheila. I’m gon ride wit her the firs few times myself. She be alright. Shoot, I been ridin the El since I was what? … nine. And she eleven. Or damn near. Sides, George said he’d drive her home. Instead of gettin on my case you need to ask George why he won’t pick her up —safeing it, as Mamma had instructed, meaning that she boarded the car with the most people and sat near the engineer in the shut metal cabin. She wasn’t scared. Riding the train unattended couldn’t be any more dangerous than riding attended in Uncle John’s speeding Cadillac. So she took the hour ride from South Shore to Morgan Park, a land of un-city light, light that belonged someplace else where palm trees circled sand and sand ringed ocean black with unblinking sharks.

Inez would be departing as she was arriving. She took in the surroundings with a slow familiar glance. She wanted to be a stranger to it, wanted to see it with fresh first eyes. Adventure.

How’s my granddaughter? Inez said. Porsha entered the circle of Inez’s open arms. Inez hugged her tight, then pushed her at arm’s distance for observation. Inez had a round face with a short triangular nose. Why, didn’t yo mamma dress you pretty today. Look jus like a doll.

Thank you, Inez.

Inez carried a healthy portion of yellow flesh. Not fat or skinny but properly proportioned to age and build. Gravity was doing its work. You came to go with me to church? I can’t get these two heathens to set foot in a church.

Well …

Pappa be here when you get back.

Inez, Pappa Simmons said, can’t you see that girl don’t wanna go to church?

Like I said, Porsha, Pappa be here—

Leave her alone!

Inez, you want me to drive you to church? George said. Pappa be okay until I get back. Porsha will look after him.

I can drive myself.

Okay. Inez. Jus tryin to help. George eased himself out (to the garage, to the basement, to somewhere) with his newspaper, reading glasses — thick lenses, fogged like pop bottles — and low-volumed radio whispering a baseball game or country music. He listen to all that hillbilly music, Hatch said.

Inez gave Porsha a kiss. I’ll see you when I get back.

Okay, Inez.

Why, ain’t you pretty today. She gave a final look. Now, where’s my purse? And my keys? Singing as she searched.

And the angel’s wings will hum

Thou kingdom come

Inez, Pappa Simmons said, what kingdom is that?

Read yo Bible, Inez said. Pappa, you too old to be so blasphemous. Hope you don’t find out bout that kingdom no time soon.

Red clusters of canvas and boats slow-sailed on Tar Lake. The sun projected images on the bright-covered glass. Names, locations, places. The window became a moving map lit with places she’d never been, with names she’d heard roll off Pappa Simmons’s tongue: Cairo, Gimmerton, Rains County, Thrushcross, Misketuch, Mobile, Sabine Hall. Names she could find on any map or globe and some she could not. Ah, she liked the way they sounded. Liked the way Pappa Simmons said them.

Pappa Simmons came to her now, bright and sparkling like a swimmer stepping out of a pool.

His skin was white as shell, and his eyes, completely white.

Inez, you asked, is he an Indian?

Part.

Which part?

Inez laughed.

George, you said, is he an Indian?

About as much as I am.

She liked the way white skin wrinkled at the corners of his eyes and mouth — little rivers running back to their source — probably from too much talking.

I may be white but I ain’t no woogie.

I know, Pappa Simmons.

You know why I’m so white?

No, Pappa Simmons.

I got hurt a little.

She said nothing.

When I were born.

What happened?

Aunt T saw me and ran alligator-quick to the swamp. It took them four days to find her. He paused. Mamma saw my color, and she wiped me and wiped, with a clean rag, using her spit, searching fo my color.

PAPPA SIMMONS SAT STRAIGHT AND RIGID in a cane chair on the raised screened patio downlooking the backyard, grass-covered, with a patch of vegetable garden — sun-filled furrows — parallel to the concrete walkway parallel to the garage, trees hanging in green suspension, the steady whir of insects and the birds chipping at the green marble pond, he holding a newspaper like a sacred script, lowering it and putting his intense eyes on her. She looked far into them.