Jeffery Allen - Rails Under My Back

Distance steadily shortens between himself and the light’s point of origin. He discovers that he is actually part of the light, caught, a red worm on a bright line.

THE SKY MOVED IN WINDOWS. Windows without screens. Lean forward and look out and feel you are peeking over a mountain’s edge. Jesus was thankful they were shut on this hot day. He stood very still. Here, one might stand forever and watch the world go by. Cars zooming across the highway. Birds circling above boats bobbing on the river (one of twelve). And the river itself reaching away into the horizon’s gaze.

I said Buildin One.

No, you didn’t. You said first building.

Same thing.

No. Big difference. Jesus turned and surveyed the cramped, narrow room. Ancient walls that had seen no paint for decades. Mushroom-shaped water stains. Exposed heating pipes dripping like a runny nose. He suddenly felt he was submerged, in a submarine.

Make yourself comfortable. No Face was kicked back against the couch, his feet on the coffee table, his shoe heels run-over, completely flat. His one eye followed Jesus’s every move like a surveillance camera. He was as tall as Jesus — Jesus hadn’t noticed this the night before — but all muscle, the legs and arms of his red jumpsuit swelling like pressurized pipes. He had groomed the previous night’s mustache into a fine streak of soot.

Jesus flopped down on the love seat.

Where you park?

I didn’t.

What?

I took the train.

You ain’t drive?

Jesus looked at him, hard.

Yeah, No Face said. What am I thinking about? Fine car like that. Round here.

A single stream of sunlight, bothered by flecks of dust, flooded the room. Spread a bright patch like a tablecloth in the middle of the floor. Jesus squinted at the stark whiteness. Shadows spotted the walls.

Nice earring.

Jesus fingered his diamond stud.

Where you cop?

Downtown. At the Underground.

My nigga. No cheap stuff.

Word. You’ll get one too. Look in the Cracker Jack box. Save your prizes.

What?

A woman entered the room from a box-sized kitchen. Like his cousin Porsha in age — late twenties — but not in appearance. Black and skinny. Legs thin as wineglass stems. I can’t dick nothing skinny. Ah, No Face’s mamma. A legend. Word had it, she once coldcocked a Disciple with her Bible and saved No Face from getting smoked.

This is Jesus.

The woman looked at him.

Boy, where yo manners? Lula Mae said. Can’t you speak? Cat got yo tongue?

No, ma’m.

Lower yo eyes. Don’t look at me like that. I’ll slap that frown off yo face. Gracie may stand fo some sass but I won’t.

We bout to handle our business, No Face said. Take them over to Mamma Henry or Mamma Carrie. No Face talked with a nervous, jerky flow of words. Take yoself too.

She looked at him for a moment. Soon as I get them ready.

Well, don’t take all damn day. Stay in the kitchen til yall ready. Me and Jesus need some privacy.

She sailed out of the room and, once in the kitchen, shuffled across the linoleum in red cloth slippers, moving cautiously as if she didn’t know her way around.

Who those mammas you mentioned?

Just these two old bitches that babysit them crumb snatchers sometimes.

Jesus could see No Face’s mother through the kitchen door, washing the face of a little boy. Several breadboxes lined up like shoes along the counter.

Yeah, these BDs ran a train on her daughter and threw her off the roof.

Jesus looked at No Face.

Mamma Henry. Threw her daughter off Buildin Three. I sexed with her.

Who, Mamma Henry?

No Face looked at Jesus. Funny. Real funny. It’s all good though. No Face grinned.

Jesus watched the woman. Where yo daddy?

Something flitted across No Face’s mouth, jaws. He handlin his business.

In the kitchen, the mother extended a white plastic teacup to the boy. Go see if Mr. Lipton can put me a lil dish soap in this cup.

The boy headed out the door without a word.

Damn, that’s how yall do it in the jets? Give and borrow soap?

It’s cool. See—

Yall that po?

No Face’s one eye widened, shocked, trying to see if Jesus had truly insulted him. You don’t know me from Adam.

Yall some real country niggas — Jesus shook his head. Country. Thinking: Country like Lula Mae, who always buy that thick nasty syrup. Mole asses. He and Hatch wouldn’t touch it. Too thick. Mud. So Lula Mae would give Jesus a coffee cup. Go ask Miss Bee for some syrup. Say please. And he’d go get a cup of thin buttery Log Cabin syrup and share it with Hatch.

A knock on the door. The mother hurried from the kitchen to answer it. A little girl, about six or seven. My mamma, she say can you give her some sugar.

I’ll bring some. I’m fin to come see her.

Who that? Jesus said.

My sister.

Yo sister?

My play sister.

The mother stepped back into the room, one hand on the shoulder of each child. She looked at Jesus. Looked at No Face, expectant.

Go now, No Face said. Later, I make you straight.

She opened the door with no change of expression.

Nice mamma you got, Jesus said.

No Face looked at him, face working, as if trying to decipher Jesus’s statement.

The doings of No Face’s life circulated all over the city like the sewers. Everybody knew how No Face the Thief ran with a Stonewall unit, Keylo and Freeze, way way on the wild west side of South Lincoln. A coupla ole niggas — well, not real ole, late twenties — two jacks who always kept an inch beyond reach of the law’s long arms. When they got high or bored, they would flip on him, take turns beating his ass, further damage to his already ruinous anatomy.

Where yo play daddy?

No Face looked at Jesus. He at work.

What bout yo smoked-out sister who suck dicks?

Ain’t my sister. A slender thread of something in his voice.

I heard—

I don’t care what you heard.

Jesus saw something in No Face’s one good eye.

I ain’t got no sister like that. You don’t know me from Adam.

Whatever. Anyway, a blow job don’t mean blow.

No Face tried to adjust his eye patch, fingers thick with anger. Tell you who my daddy is. My real daddy.

Who?

No Face was blank.

Where yo real daddy?

I already told you.

Tell me again.

Where yours?

Nigga, I ain’t the one who frontin.

Who say I’m frontin?

Then what you doin hangin out in Stonewall?

Another stretch of silence. Aw, man. You don’t know me from Adam. Those my peeps. Where you come from?

From out my mamma’s ass.

What?

A round smelly hole.

No Face chuckled. You got to be somebody. Ain’t nobody born naked. People.

People? We all People round here.

Jesus watched No Face hard. Nigga, you ain’t no—

Why you always be wearin red? Who you represent?

Myself.

Yourself?

Jesus nodded.

It’s like this. If you stand for something, you should show it.

Jesus said nothing.

You got to represent something.

The words sounded across the entire length of Jesus’s mind. Jesus red-rolled up one sleeve and revealed two lines of scars running up his forearm.

No Face cleared his throat with a scratch of sound. How’d you—

A Roman shanked me.

Man! No Face’s eyes traveled the length of the scar. Look like a railroad.

Check it. Jesus nodded. See, you up here doin all this frontin at Stonewall, but I learned from the source.

What source?

You know.

Tell me about it.

Jesus thought hard and fast, brain working. Bright wings fluttered in his dark mind. Birdleg, he said. I used to roll with Birdleg.