Jeffery Allen - Rails Under My Back

Men, you said. We men.

Uncle John filled each of your glasses. Then drink like men.

Don’t give them too much, Sheila said. One drink.

Ah, Sheila, Uncle John said, when you gon let this boy outa your apron strings?

Liquor dripped from your full glass.

He ain’t in my apron strings.

Let the boy have some fun.

The family told family tales. The tight red lines in Jesus’s face relaxed after a steady soaking of drink. Lucifer’s face snapped a loose rubber-band smile. The Crown Royal — the family heirloom — made shining diamonds of his teeth. You knew what would happen: words would cascade from Lucifer’s throat, and his hands wouldn’t quit Jesus’s back and shoulders. Boy. Nephew. My nephew.

The empty Crown Royal bottle glinted beyond Uncle John’s reach. I’ll get a fresh one, Uncle John said. He rose from his seat.

Be careful, Gracie said.

What’ll you care? Uncle John said. His voice bubbled with alcohol.

Don’t start, Sheila said.

Wait, you said.

Uncle John faced you, shoulders slouched forward, heavy with alcohol.

You felt the eyes of everyone on you, stage lights. Wait, you wanted to say. Don’t go. Well, you said. Hurry back.

Uncle John quit the room for a new fifth, taking the empty bottle with him.

Porsha screamed from the kitchen, I need some help in here. Gracie and Sheila — twins in the flesh, the same reality-worn hands and dull false teeth (thank God they hadn’t fallen out during dinner) but colored different and haired different — rose and went to assist Porsha in the kitchen.

Lucifer put Jesus’s back into the circle of his arm. Tugged him close. Nephew. The alcohol had kicked in. You been taking care of yourself?

I do alright, Jesus said.

Nephew. Red, I mean. Red, how come you ain’t been around?

You know, Jesus said.

Hey, Lucifer, you remember that time — Hatch began to talk, steering carefully away from dangerous waters.

Red, you look good. Lucifer grinned the words.

— me, you, and Jesus—

I mean, boy, you look good. Rocking to the rhythm of the words.

Jesus leveled eyes of drilling steel. Boy?

Lucifer tugged. Red, I remember when you was—

Jesus jerked free. Boy? What you mean boy? Always got something bad to say about me.

Lucifer didn’t appear to be listening. Slapped him again.

You see a boy you slap a boy. Sarcastic motherfucker.

Lucifer freezes. Struck. You act. Rush forward and manage to drive both arms up into the crook of Lucifer’s elbow, breaking the punch that crunches Jesus’s chin, changing the trajectory so that it does not land cleanly. The blow has enough force to knock Jesus to the other end of the room, flat on his butt. Jesus’s eyes fly wide, blinding metal — shock? disbelief? Motherfucker. Up now, crouched over and running, bald bullet head aimed dead at Lucifer’s midsection. Lucifer catches him around the neck, just like that, a frontal choke hold. Applies pressure.

What’s going on in here? A woman’s voice, or several. The women are in the room now, Sheila, Gracie, and Porsha. Jesus, Sheila says. I shoulda known. Always spoiling the holiday. Don’t I deserve some peace.

Let him go. Let him leave, Porsha shouts.

Lucky yo father ain’t here, Gracie says. Lucky John ain’t here.

Let him go, Sheila says. Let him leave.

He ain’t got to leave, Lucifer says. He grunts, applies pressure.

What are you doing?

I’m gon give the boy what he shoulda had a long time ago. Constricts his thick boa arms.

Let him go so he can leave.

No.

Lucifer—

Butt out.

Eyes glazed with determination — yes, these eyes are hard and bright, flash like Jesus’s diamond earring — Jesus swings wildly, an occasional blow connecting with Lucifer’s thick legs and arms. Punk, lemme go, the words squeezed out.

Stop, you say. Wasted words. You try to wedge your hands beneath Lucifer’s locked arms.

Gon away, Lucifer says.

Let him go. Using the sides of your fists, you pound Lucifer’s shoulder and arms. Let him go!

Lucifer jerks his head to the side and butts you powerfully into the wall. The wall crowds space into your mind. You walk around, meet yourself there. You feel a sudden safeness descend upon you. No doubts, no reservations. You lift the receiver from its cradle, smooth and light to the touch, without texture or weight. Poke digits.

911.

All is quiet, only you and the other voice.

911.

Hello. Yes. Please send a car to … Flame fills your body. Your tongue so dry and weak it can hardly find any words.

Yes. 911.

You answer simple and clean: Violence. Return the receiver to the cradle as if you had never touched it. Open the door loudly to the full and wait. You don’t wait long.

You called—

Yes.

What’s the problem?

Over there. You point.

They push winter into the house — nightsticks drawn, two black men, faces underneath the shadows of their caps, smelling of tough black leather. You don’t shut the door behind them. No reason to.

Hey, let him go. Cop hand slides to holstered pistol.

Can’t you hear? The second cop approaches Lucifer, slowly.

Not him, you say. The other one. He started it.

Okay, let him go. Lucifer squeezes Jesus’s head and neck still harder. I said let him go. A final squeeze — for good measure — and he does. Jesus drops into a crawl.

Praise the Lord, Gracie says.

Please take him. Please take him outa here.

One cop holsters his nightstick and bends low to examine Jesus. Jesus slaps his hands way. Rights himself, yellow face now purple, even the freckles. Bitch — swings for Lucifer. The other cop nightsticks him to the abdomen.

Don’t hurt him, Gracie says.

Jesus drops to one knee, like a sprinter, holding his stomach.

Just take him outa here.

Never again, Sheila says. Never again.

Well, you shouldn have let him come in the first place, Porsha says.

Don’t blame me. I ain’t let him in.

A cop knee-pins Jesus to the floor. A strong cop arm jerks his arm to the small of his back. Snaps cuffs on both wrists, then hauls him to his feet. Jesus comes up choking, a cop on either side of him.

You want to make a report?

Transformer, Jesus says when he can speak. His face has resumed its normal color, a red road map of veins. He lifts his chin slightly, looks Hatch full in the face, his own face tightening. Transformer.

Shut up, the cop says, heavy, male.

Snitch. Jesus lurches forward. The cops pull him back.

Just relax. The cops apply muscle.

Jesus frowns, gash-deep.

My hands were tied, you say. You made me, you say, the words with life of their own.

Uncle John enters the room, paper bag in arm. Like beheaded chickens, two glass necks poke out from the open end of the brown paper bag. Uncle John and Jesus lock their eyes on one another. Uncle John’s mouth expands, marshaling words behind the tongue.

But know this, Gracie says. Head bent back, neck craned and looking up into Jesus’s face. That if the good man of the house had known in what watch the thief would come, he would not have suffered his house to be broken up.

Uncle John shifts the bag from one arm to the other — the two bottles inside the bag knock together — the only sound in the room. Uncle John’s chest moves deep and slow, feeling and measuring every breath.

Who then is a faithful and wise servant, whom his lord hath made ruler over the household, to give them meat in—

Shut up! Uncle John says. His chalk-white teeth scrape the blackboard of Gracie’s flesh. She shudders.

Take him, Uncle John says. Take him, he pushes the words out, somewhere and let him cool off, he says.

Jesus flashes his eyes at Uncle John.