Jeffery Allen - Rails Under My Back

If anybody ask you who sing this song

Say it was ole Kneel Down Nia done been here and gone

Through the success of her Ship of Beauty (OPEN 24 HOURS), Nia had more money than she could shake a stick at — heck, a whole forest. And money really did grow from trees in her neighborhood, Hombreck Park in North Shore, where they watered the grass — fine-combed lawns sloping in every direction — with the sweat of hard work. Old houses untroubled by the face of modern construction. Occupants raised goats, chickens, and, believe it or not, horses and cows. A little bit of country life for people with city dreams and city habits. Nia lived in a big Victorian house, which she’d purchased for a steal at a government auction, hidden behind a screen of green trees, trees of an age and grandeur rarely encountered in the city. You could relax on a rough-hewn lawn chair, reach for the pitcher of cool lemonade on the raw-lumber table, and watch a marble pond where ducks and water lilies floated, watch the brown green blue yellow life of nature. Nia lounged around in her bathing suit, the ruts of the rattan chair pressed into her fat thighs. She flopped around the house in hemp sandals, purchased in Mexico, hair flying all over her head.

Nia’s success served as both accusation and witness. Sheila had choices. Her life might have gone different. All we have are choices. She realized that now.

By her own account, Nia worked Shaneequa hard. No wrong in that. Someday Shaneequa would feast on the golden fruits of her labor.

What time do you get off?

Two o’clock.

And you ride the train all the way back to Red Hook alone?

Shaneequa nodded. That’s why I need a car. She sat there, pocketbook on her arm, gloves in hand, the butterfly motionless on her back. Looked real. Not metal or ceramic, real. The white shawl wrapped around her head, holding out to the world’s inspection a round dark face with Indian cheekbones and shiny brown eyes. (Sometimes she hid them under a cloud of dark glasses.) The ankle-length dress inches above black calf-high boots, laced loop for loop, the strings taut over the leather.

Are you a Muslim?

No, ma’m.

It’s just the shawl and the dress.

I do it to keep the men away.

Girl, why you wanna do that?

What? Nia said. Girlfriend, don’t you like mens? She flicked her tongue fast and dirty.

How bout some modeling on the side?

Shaneequa turned her face away, the white shawl blush red at the edges. You sound like Porsha. She always tryin to get me to model.

How much longer do you plan to model? You’ll be thirty soon.

Not soon, Mamma. In three more years. You act like thirty is the end of the world.

The boys passed them — Shaneequa’s butterfly fluttered slightly, testing its wings — and found seats at the other end of the car.

Man, he act like a bitch. The boy’s voice mirrored his face, hard and rough.

Word.

See, a ho can pussywhip a nigger.

Yeah.

Look at Jerome. Henpecked. His bitch and her best friend gang up on the nigga.

Birds of a feather flock together.

Yeah, tsetse fly.

The boys shoved around rough laughter.

The train hit a curve — the tunnel tightened around it like a fist — the riders pressed hard against the rim. The boys resumed their filthy talk. Sweat began to sheet Shaneequa’s forehead.

COATED WITH FILTH, electric lightbulbs stretched toward the tunnel’s black mouth. Paint peeled from the walls — scabs from a wound — exposing the white undersurface. Sheila took the stairs slowly. Closer to the street now, sunlight pushed through a window, splattered against the oily walls, a fluorescent river, streaming down the sides and pooling into cracks on the tiled floor.

Heels ticked by clocklike. Night rushed in. Traffic moved, an unguided circle. Buildings flecked with tiny squares of yellow light. Houses hazed in smoke. Each streetlamp provided a small oasis of light. She felt pain in every step. This was the part of the journey she hated, walking under the eye slide of the drunks, drunks who cast foul shadows, crowding in and staring, pushing their breath in your face. Hey now, fine girl. Evil spirits possess bums at night, enter the empty tenements of their souls. She kept her hand firm on the skillet in her purse. Times like this, she wished she owned a cattle prod. Or a stun gun. Maybe even a real gun. It was very dangerous to live even one day.

Man, look at that caboose.

Yo, baby.

Hi, she said. She always spoke. Kept walking.

My, you a pretty one.

Everyone always noticed her good looks. (She was the spitting image of her mother, only a shade or two darker.) The shadow-circled eyes (like women in silent movies), the round face, the glossy black ponytail that heightened her high cheekbones, the thin neck, and the smooth caramel skin. When you smile, Lucifer said, it gives your age away. She thought about it; when she smiled, the lines of her face stretched tight, vibrating with age. But the hands— Yeah, Lucifer said, they give you away too. He kissed them, running their roughness against his smooth lips. She had tried to protect them, snapped rubber gloves over them for forty-four years. Labor bit through. Her hands. Her body part the most like her mother’s. But her sixty-year-old mind inhabited the same body she’d had at seventeen. Gravity had yet to take its toll, come drooping and sagging. And her respectful dresses and blouses hid her burns — not many really, four — one for each limb, each the size of a leather elbow patch, cause Lula Mae had left her baby by an open fire. How? Why? Beulah said that Lula Mae had gone to town to purchase Christmas gifts, while Dave claimed R.L.’s father had paid Lula Mae a visit — and Mr. Albert Post happened along to discover her. For all the years since, Sheila had tried to imagine Lula Mae’s face when she discovered Albert Post ducking her baby in a bucket of water.

Yo, bitch. Why you walkin away?

The walk home seemed long tonight, and she had to will each foot to step one at a time. Step on a crack, break yo mamma’s back.

Give you five dollars if you suck—

Sometimes, after she heard or read about a torched bum, her heart lifted on flicking fingers of flame. Thank heaven for hell. She and Lucifer had moved to this neighborhood to enjoy the deeper currents of life: solitude, safety, sanctuary. Five years ago, Edgewater was the haunt of style and fashion. And the move from South Shore to here shortened her daily commute to work. Then the projects started spilling out roughnecks like sand from a broken hourglass. There was talk of privatizing Red Hook — a group of Japanese businessmen had already put in their bid — converting it into a luxury high-rise. After all, Red Hook was but a short walk from the Gold Coast. Soon, they might be forced to move again.

Bitch.

Keep walking, bitch.

Bitch, you think you better than me or something?

Yo shit still stink.

The city flowed up to her. (There are tides in the body.) An old wish returned. Her thoughts fled thirty years back down the sidewalk. Miss McShan, I don’t want nobody but you. Life struck straight through the streets. I don’t ever want anybody but you. The pavement vanished, slanting away into darkness.

You said, Yes, beneath the splintered scaffolding. Yes, drawn into a ball against the dawn’s wet chill. Fierce summer stars swimming through blue sky. Cause they left you there, in the light’s concentrated pool, perhaps expecting you to spill forth in a bright cascade of silver dollars. They left you there and you said, Yes, and he opened the door, shutting away the outside air. The lock clicked, skin setting off to light. Her eyes watching your eyes. Burning eyes, shoving hot pokers into your face. The heat can carry you to your inward-spinning self. Streaming through you. Lift skin to sky. Ice will flake and sink away.