Jeffery Allen - Rails Under My Back

Dear Lula Mae,

I am well. I got one tooth out the chair fell on it. I want to see you. I got the book you sint. Sheila read too stories in it. I still got the guitar. I like them when I coming to see you again?

Love Hatch

At the first opportunity, you lug your guitar to school for show-and-tell. (It was either the guitar or your chameleon, Dogma.)

Where you get that guitar?

Down South.

Down South?

Yeah. Down South. My grandmother gave it to me.

What she doin down South?

She live there. You ain’t never been down South?

Nawl. I’m from here.

At the next show-and-tell, Abu presents a drum set to the class— Copycat! Monkey see, monkey do —the price tag still attached. I can play music too. A full set, not the kit with a single planet of drum, but the whole bright constellation of cymbals, tom-toms, cowbells, snare, and bass traps.

Dear Hatch,

Be a good boy. Don’t aggravate your mamma. Racket and confusion her. Learn to play that thing. And jump at the sun.

Love your grandmother

Lula Mae

You lug your guitar over to Abu’s house. Mrs. Harris puts the two of you in the basement and shuts the door.

What we gon call our group?

Third Rail.

At home in your room, you continue to practice. You finger notes and miss them. Fingers snap off strings, soundless. Try again. Fingers jump back, riff-ready. Switch to the right track. Gradually — seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months — you begin to hear it for the first time. Records are black seeds which sprout musical trees. You hack through foliage. Perched birds sing on six twanging limbs.

SO YOU PLAY GUITAR? Uncle John asks.

Yeah.

Bet you ain’t never heard Jimi?

Jimi who?

Listen. Uncle John spins the record.

Sound surprises. You hear a guitarist who is also an orchestra. One man who is six. Oak, cherry, redwood, pine, rosewood, mahogany — six limbs bunched in a single trunk of sound.

Hear that? you say to Abu.

Hear what?

I gotta learn how to play like that.

What? Hear what?

MRS. HARRIS (Geraldine you call her — behind her back) leans over the church piano, her fingers spread web-wide on the keys.

A little gold in the church

A prayer in the name

Her round, flat, black skillet face shows no movement, a black dot of musical notation. Choir-robe sleeves rolled up, her hands run slow across the ivory tracks.

I got fiery fingers. I got fiery hands.

And when I get up to heaven, I’m gon play in that fiery band.

She mixes sin and syncopation, tongue hanging out the side of her mouth, music-thirsty. She keeps a glass of water on the piano but never drinks it. Holy water? She bangs heavy chords. She is a grinder, not a tickler.

Reverend Ransom constructs three-hour sermons to shore up the frailty of his voice. He can’t make print crackle into life. Weak, lengthy sermons that fail to rise above the gold-edged page, to flutter about the congregation’s head and bother them to rise. Though ye have lain among the sheepfolks, yet shall ye be as the wings of a dove that is covered with silver wings, and her feathers like gold. Sermon done, Reverend Ransom leads the congregation in fifteen minutes of song. The congregation is unable to move in their seats — except for an occasional fidget to relieve sore bench butt — never rock wood or transform their stationary pews into musical chairs.

Tough luck. No fun, no terror. You have never attended a service where someone does not get happy, shout, and dance the Holy Ghost. A first for everything.

The choir’s strong voices carry the song. Forked tongues lifting Sheila like meat from the bench. She throws her arms and spine back in a dead man’s float. White-uniformed nurses attempt to pull her back to earth. The song slows. She descends. White-uniformed nurses keep her fast to the bench. Fan her to cool the hot fuel of her spirit. She leaps straight into the air and screams, her eyes rolling one way and her body another.

My dick bigger than yours, you say.

Be quiet, Abu says. We in the house of the Lord. He might hear you.

You got a lil dick, a Christian dick.

Do not let vile words defileth your mouth.

My dick taller than a mountain. Higher than Moses.

Be quiet.

Fatter than the ocean. And deeper than Jonah.

Shut up. Reverend Ransom lookin at us.

My jockstrap slung the boulder that slew—

Children should not talk in church. Brimstone words blister your face. You face them. Reverend Ransom’s finger points antenna-like at you, sounding the depths of your heart. Boy, I shall have words with you.

After service ends, you remove the holy water from the piano, drink it— Ah, still cold —burp, then follow Abu into Reverend Ransom’s chambers. The reverend rises from his desk and moves toward you. His knees drum as he walks. With one look (the all-seeing eye), he takes all that he wants from you, empties you out. You are old enough to know better than to play in church.

You listen to his words. Turn them over in your mind. Study their size, color, and texture. You can use words, too. Yes, Father, you say.

Reverend Ransom blinks. The edges of his black robe billow back in retreat.

Yes! you shout inside. I’ve won! I’ve beat him! I’ve hacked him down. See the blood spilling red rivers into his eyes.

Reverend Ransom steadies his running eyes. Channels them for an attack. So you think you know it all. His hand disappears inside his black robe—

Oh, Lord, he gon shoot me.

— reappears with a dustpan. He holds out the dustpan between his fingers, a dangling apple. A Scout should know a thing or two about performing service.

You take the dustpan from him.

And you — he speaks to Abu. He shakes his head.

Sorry, sir. I tried to guide him.

The reverend shoves a law-heavy broom at Abu’s chest.

Get to work.

Yes, sir.

Guide him with that.

Yes, sir.

You know where to find anything else you need.

Yes, sir.

Reverend Ransom turns his wide, tall black back to you and Abu, a mausoleum. One more thing.

Yes, sir.

The reverend cocks his head over his shoulder without turning around. He burns directly into your eyes, the cleansing fire of the Lord.

Yes, sir, Abu says.

Why you say something? He talkin to me.

Don’t forget the basement.

Yes, sir.

You and Abu work. Work. Abu’s broom switches like a dancer. Your dustpan catches the rhythm.

Why your preacher talk about snot?

He ain’t say nothing bout no snot.

The Lord’s nostrils.

The two of you sweep the aisles, dust the pews, and clean grime from the wings of stained-glass angels.

Abu, why is black people blackest at the bottom of their butt?

Stop.

You know the round cup part. Like a bunch of mud settle there.

Stop. Why you keep sayin that? We in church. You want the reverend to come back?

Is that old shit? Brown shit crusted black?

You blasphemous. I been baptized.

Baptized?

Ain’t yo mamma baptize you? It’s time.

I ain’t no Christian. Christianity the Jew folks’ religion.

No it ain’t. Jews don’t get baptized. They get circumcised.

I’m circumcised and I ain’t no Jew.

Be quiet and clean up.

Aw right, you say, we finished here. Let’s do the basement.

Two narrow flashlight beams lead you to the basement.

Let we sweep, you say. You shine the light.

No, you hold the light. You don’t know how to sweep.