Breath steam out my nose. Run for the street? He tag me before I make the sidewalk. Crawl under the house? Take forever and a day, plus I scrape up my knees something awful.
The cat hiss behind me. Yeah, you right, cat. Thank you. You too kind.
“Take what you need,” the dude say. “But just let me—” He trying to have a conversation. But I been sent to Joe Blackman Juvenile—the JBJ—once. Queen Elizabeth Two asked me who am I to turn my nose up at a few months of free housing? But I ain’t trying to be in nobody’s kennel just for free grits. That’s bird shit, that.
He still talking. He step forward. I step back and go. That’s it. Run for your life, girl. Hit the fence. Jump like a jackrabbit with your tail afire. On the other side, I don’t see that cat nowhere.
* * *
• • •
Best burger I ever have. I can borrow fruit from the froufrou market before the tie-dye-shirt people see me. I can borrow a bag of chips from the scuzzy corner store before the door I come through swing close. Fast hands. Fast feet. Try and catch me. But I can’t fry up a wad of meat and serve it nice on bread with crunchy onions and ketchup like this. Takes money, that. My first hot food since sunup a week back.
Make me think the man upstairs back on my team. But who knows? He probably sitting on the bleachers, shaking his head, checking his watch. Fifteen years of living, and we still ain’t on good terms. Just glad to be home, me. Still, this ain’t nothing like a proper house. The roof an overpass. Headlights peek through the gaps above. The walls is wet with oil and sparkly from cigarettes tossed out of windows. The floor was a cardboard flap, but now, in my tight corner, I have me this bedroll. I laid it out like a magic carpet fixing to take me to Zion.
They was some doodads tucked in the bedroll, a lighter, a metal cup, junk like that. There was a picture of a girl, that ain’t junk. It hang on a chain. She got happy cheeks and I-love-you-forever eyes. I wonder what she wanted from whoever she was looking at.
Queen Elizabeth Two call this place her province. I guess she can call it whatever she want ’cause she been here since Jesus was a badass child, flipping tables at the mall. But Queen Elizabeth Two don’t really live here. I don’t really live here neither. The fifty-leven other people in tents and sleeping bags under this bridge, moaning and shouting in the cold, they don’t really live here neither. It’s a nobody home.
Someone grab my shoulder, but I duck out of it. I don’t like fingers touching on me.
It’s the dude from the driveway. How he find me? Ain’t like I left my address. Looking up his legs like looking at two tree trunks. He could squash me like a cockroach and that would be that.
“I came to see you.” The dude sit down.
“You crazy,” I say. He say he not crazy. He Sergeant. Not Sarge, but Sergeant. He don’t like when people call him Sarge. He didn’t fight the Taliban for no abbreviations. “I borrowed some stuff from your car,” I say and dump the comb, the lighter, and some other doohickeys between us, toward the bottom edge of the bedroll, near his feet. It’s not a busy night in the province. Once I get to my feet, I can run in any which way I choose. “Was holding it for you.”
“That wasn’t my car,” he say. “The owner out of town, far as I can tell. I been using it to keep from freezing my tailpipe off. How you put up with this frost, small as you are, I can’t even figure.” He shake his shoulders.
“Cold ain’t never bother me.” I wipe my nose with the back of my sleeve. My fingernails sorta blue. Maybe it is extra chilly tonight. He ask where my folks that look out for me are. I tell him I’m my own folks.
“I was trying to say to you before you ran off that it’s all just stuff,” he say. “You can have it. But the one thing I need back is that picture.”
“Picture?” I ask. “I ain’t take no picture.” I take a lot of stuff, but I don’t have anything I like. And, I like the picture. Really, I don’t want to give the picture back. Still, something about the look on his face, more sad than mad.
I hand over the picture that was tucked under my thigh, and he squat down and lay it on the bedroll, all nice like. He flip open the lighter. A flame spring up in the dark like ta-da. Sergeant stare like there ain’t nothing in the world except for that picture. Nobody ever look at me like that.
“You like her?” I ask.
“I’m guessing I do, but she dead and long gone.” He lean closer to the picture, but he ain’t smiling. I wonder why he don’t just hold the picture in one hand and the lighter in the other, but his other hand still tucked into his pants pocket like back in that driveway. Lame arm.
Normal people trouble enough. Last thing I need is get caught up with a crazy, cripple-arm man. I hop up and walk away. Sergeant call after me. I could turn on the jets. I ain’t think the big lump couldn’t catch me. But before I know it, he right beside me.
“Where you going?” he ask.
“You got your stuff back.” I go around a frozen puddle. A boot stuck in the middle of it. “Leave me alone, you damn fool.” Sergeant frown like I just called his mama ugly, and I feel kind of bad for him, but the only person I even tolerate a little is Queen Elizabeth Two and that’s just ’cause she can’t actually talk.
Something crash nearby. Those two old drunks in top hats slap-fighting by one of the concrete pillars. They must have got into it again over a bottle of malt liquor and dropped it.
“You should go to a shelter,” he say. “It ain’t right out here.” It ain’t right in the shelters neither. People scoot up on you when they think you sleeping. Try to use your body like a pillow or worse.
Queen Elizabeth Two stumble our way. She dragging three or four blankets from her shoulders and carrying a lantern. Her tiara almost fall off, but she catch it. Then she do hand motions.
“What, she hungry or something?” Sergeant ask. But I know her signals. Hand to heart for badge. Fingers to eyes for look out. Thumb over shoulder for scram.
“She say it’s time to get out the province. The man here.” And, sure enough, a pack of vans parked on the corner. Men in blue wander into the province, long, black sticks in hand. They coming to protect and serve us. Somebody scream. Cars pull up on the street, blueberry lights flashing everywhere.
Sergeant put his hand on my shoulder.
“Man, I don’t know you.” I punch his hand away.
“You ever hear of going with the flow?” he ask.
“No,” I say. We run straight.
We almost out of the province when a voice yells something about a freeze warning. Next thing I know, men in blue all around us. One of them grab my collar. They grab Sergeant, too. He muscles his way closer to me. His breath hot in my ear.
“Break for it when I say,” he say.
“What?” I say, but he shove me away and rear up like a grizzly bear. I spin out from under the man holding me and run. Wind in my ears. Feet slapping concrete. Flying is the best feeling they is. I’m clear down the block. I stop by a dumpster and look back. The men got sticks in they hands, and they pounding Sergeant like bongos. He on his knees. They don’t know he just a one-arm crazy man. They don’t know he was only in the province ’cause I stole his ghost girl picture. It take four of them to get him cuffed and dump him in the back of a car. Sergeant bump the car door like he trying to get out, but he locked in. The men in blue go back to collecting people.
What I know? You never go back. When you run, you keep running till your lungs feel like a big bruise. You run till you fall on your face from tired. Then you get up and run till you all by yourself and men with fat fingers can’t touch you or slobber on you or call you they pretty little thing. And I know God sitting on that bench, his arms folded, figuring that he know what I’m going to do. I’ll say screw Sergeant, me. Sergeant got himself in this mess. Sergeant get himself out. But Sergeant the reason I ain’t going back to the JBJ or whatever fucking hole they wa
nt me in.
I run back and check the door of the car he in. Wouldn’t you know it! The damn thing ain’t even locked from the outside. Sergeant make a goofy grin. Here I is, Sergeant. Let’s fly.
* * *
—
There enough abandoned houses that we find one not very far away. It’s an upstairs downstairs place, but we flop on the wood floor in the front room. Lights flash across the curtain. I open his lighter. He ask how I got his lighter back from him. Fast hands. Fast feet. It ain’t nothing to take what I want if I want it enough. Sergeant face look like old pizza, but he say don’t worry, baby, he done took worse from better.
I sit with my back on the wall. He fumble in one of his jacket pockets and pull out wrapped-up, biscuit-looking things.
“Ever have Russian tea cake?” he ask.
“No.”
“Well, you in for a treat.” They look kinda dry, but I eat some. So tangy and sweet on my tongue. I done stole plenty of sweet treats, but they ain’t never taste like this. “Thanks for helping me.”
I shrug.
“I’m heading to Texas to find work,” he say. “They say the money is good there about now.”
“What you going to do with one arm?” Sergeant look down at his arm. My face get hot. I’m a dumb fool, me.
“You ought to come along.” He lay on his back and put his good hand under his head. “I’ll look out for you. When the last time you had a real roof over your head?” This ceiling leaking, a wet patch go from one end to the other. Other than the JBJ, I can’t remember when I last slept inside. I ask him why he want to lug me around.
“Everybody need family,” he say. “That picture was my daughter.” I ask what happen to her, but he just stare at the ceiling.
A bit of tea cake left in the wrapper. I pinch that piece and put it in my mouth. It taste sweeter than its size. My mouth full of happy. I feel like I done lived in the province, where it’s hard, cold, and smelly, my whole life. Is Queen Elizabeth Two family? Those two old drunks? The men in blue? The room green from the liquor billboard across the street.
“Imma go with you,” I say. But Sergeant already sleep. He snore like he mean it. With his mouth open, teeth showing. I kick his lame arm. His belly go up and down. This ain’t hardly what I want, crawling to Texas with this one. I can do bad by myself.
Sergeant jacket sprawled out to the side of him and that jacket got so many pockets full of goodies, I can hardly believe it. A pair of gloves. Too big, but warm. A flask full of water. I can use it. A roll of dollars. I find that girl picture and hang it round my neck. Time to run. Can’t let my luck run out with this crazy, cripple-arm bum. I need a new spot where I ain’t got to worry about nobody but me. Maybe I find something crosstown by the river. Watch the ships come in. I go to the door with Sergeant jacket rolled under my arm. The jacket huge like what they use to cover bodies in the province till the takeaway truck come. I don’t need it for the cold, but it’ll keep the rain off. Sergeant groan, lift his head, and clunk it on the floor. Damn fool. Can’t he take care of himself for ten seconds? I bring the rolled-up jacket and stuff it under his head so he won’t kill himself dreaming.
I stand over him, play with Sergeant lighter, watching that flame wink on and off. Then I curl up and use his dead arm for a pillow so I can sleep. I can fly tomorrow.
Election
I read the script verbatim, always starting with the line, “My name is Simone Winters and I’m calling because Roland Chereau cares about our town and you.” I’d make twenty calls each hour, thirty if I had a lot of hang-ups. Roland wore crisp banker’s suits with wingtips. One morning, he came to the campaign office with a vase of flowers, flowers not specifically for me, and yet flowers he placed right in front of me. As if the others wouldn’t notice.
He made me one of his special assistants. I’d go with him to debates and fundraisers. Afterwards, I’d stand next to him trying not to make eye contact, my arms stiff against my sides. His tangy cologne in my nose. Each morning, I awaited his call. He’d rented an apartment on the outskirts and that’s where he’d call for me to meet him at.
The last time I went to the apartment was the day after Roland won the election. We lay in bed. He was happy. So was I, of course. I knew better, but a part of me believed he would leave his wife and kids due to his newfound strength. He wouldn’t care about the media questions. I was twenty-one years old and raindrops tapped against the window as if they were trying to get my attention.
The night before, during his victory speech, Roland’s supporters hung on to his words for dear life. He spoke about how together they would solve all their problems once and for all. I asked him if he believed everything he said.
“No,” he said. “But it makes folks feel better when I say those things. Part of the job description is to make people believe.”
“Should I believe you love me?” I asked. Immediately, I regretted myself.
Roland was quiet for a few seconds, staring at shadows on the ceiling. He turned my way and I knew he was about to say something, so I put a finger over his lip.
The Sparer
I used to bully this kid. Braces. Always sick. Small and a whiner, too. Carlos’s family lived in a shack lit by candles; they couldn’t afford to keep the lights on. His mama was a maid and left early on weekends to get to the hotels downtown. Those were my favorite days because we’d play in the field next to his house. He’d watch us from his bedroom. Eventually, he’d come out so I could bust him in the mouth. Sometimes his sister, Lametra, gave me the eye, but I never took any trouble over it from their mama. I brought hell to that kid.
I came home from middle school one day and Carlos’s house was empty with the lights on. I went up to the porch, and sure enough the inside was cleared out down to the cheap tile, which made sense. After all, his mama was a maid.
In college, I caught fights on the TV at the corner bar. I was watching intensely one night, when my buddy jabbed me.
“Look like you seen the girl of your dreams,” he said, “the way you eyeballing that set, Eddie.”
I told him that when I was younger I used to own Carlos, the wiry one in the red trunks. Everybody, my future wife included, was sure I would become a famous boxer before long. My buddy just laughed and poked my belly.
Years later, I was downtown with the family, just before I lost my good job. Carlos came strutting up the street, a full-grown man. I recognized him even in his expensive suit with a fine woman on his arm. I stopped him and asked if he remembered me. He gave me the once-over and said he sure did.
“We used to spar together,” I told my kids. My wife looked at me with this real hopeful look on her face.
The boxer gave us each a nod and cracked his knuckles. I stepped back.
“That never happened,” he said, and walked off with his girl.
Catch What You Can
Mama say you got to help her quit drinking for good this time. She promise five bucks for every bottle of booze you find around the place you live. You find a pint in an empty cracker box and another wrapped in plastic in the toilet tank. You find nine whole bottles. You going to be rich.
The bottle hunt is payback for what Mama owe you.
Yesterday, she raid your dresser drawer and take your grass-cutting money—a couple rolls of one-dollar bills—to the Time Saver and buy booze. Some people buy gum or cinnamon toothpicks every time they go. She get whiskey. She say she must have dropped the rest of your money coming out of the store. No telling with her. You don’t care what happened. You just want your money.
“Put what you find on the counter in the kitchen.” Mama sit at the vanity you pulled from the dumpster.
Papa always say people foolhardy to go casting off valuable property. Papa himself found a silver money clip by the manager’s office. He gave it to you.
Mama jab her cheek with a brush th
at look like a squirrel tail. “I didn’t think there’d be a whole party’s worth of alcohol.”
“Thought there’d be a lot more,” you say. The baby in the place downstairs crying. That little rat never shut up. You wonder how many little rats in the complex.
“Thought there’d be more? You a funny one.” Mama stand and pinch your cheek. “At least my period over.”
“Ugh.” A nasty taste wash up the back of your throat. You’ll never understand how Mama wasn’t born with the part that keeps other people from saying shit like that.
“Oh, my baby, you must be hungry.”
“Don’t call me that. It don’t sound right.”
“You still my baby.” Mama smile big.
You ain’t trying to be her baby. The fridge empty. The pantry empty except for Mama’s nasty-ass sardines. Your stomach empty, and Mama done got skinny. She looking like a plastic mannequin. You trying to be the richest fourth grader at Fannie C. Williams Elementary. You trying to eat.
“We’ll get something to eat out.” Mama smooth her wrinkly skirt.
“Out?” you say. “Where you going?”
“I’m going to get me a job,” she say. “The only way I’m going to quit drinking that stuff is if I find something to do. You coming, too.” She sling her purse on her shoulder.
“No, I ain’t. I got money to make, yards to cut.” Papa always say summertime in New Orleans is a grass cutter’s dream. It be hot as a skillet, but the grass don’t burn on account of how much it rain. You can stuff your pockets cutting lawns that never stop growing dollars.
“I need you with me.”
“You can’t work,” you say. “You’ll lose that government money you just got.”
“So? I went most of my life without it. I can do that again.”
“It ain’t bright to give up free money.”
“Welfare making me sick,” she say. But you thinking being broke making both of you sick.
The Ones Who Don't Say They Love You Page 8
