Gods of New Orleans

by AJ Sikes

  Aiden didn’t know what his pa meant exactly, but the sound of his voice said the old man was itching for a fight.

  “I-I don’t know, Pa. I got paid, though. I got fifteen cents for‌—‌”

  “Fifteen cents!”

  Aiden just about jumped out of his skin and stood there shivering while his pa shook and fumed where he sat.

  “You got fifteen cents, did you? A whole fifteen cents? And how’d you get it, huh? What’d you have to do for them damn coloreds? Huh? You call yourself a Conroy and you’re working for the dark man like he’s the boss and you’re the flunky. Is that what’s got you so happy?

  “And you come in here asking me. Me! Al Conroy! You ask me what’s going on. What’s happened to your old man. Well I’ll tell you what’s happened.”

  “Pa, what’s this all about? I just said you should get cleaned up a little. Before Ma comes up for a break. I didn’t mean nothing by it, Pa. I just‌—‌”

  “Yeah, you just. You just. It’s your job, son. That’s what happened to your old man. You work for them now. Them and the way they live. The things they do. It’s like I always knew would happen.”

  “Whaddya mean, Pa? Like what would happen? I got work, and sure, yeah, it’s working for the‌—‌well, for colored folks. But they treat me fine, Pa. Their money spends same as yours or mine. And now it’s mine. See?”

  Aiden reached into his pocket and pulled out the coins, holding them for his father to see, but the man’s eyes didn’t waver from the distant stare that had fallen over his face.

  “Pa? C’mon, Pa. You see . . . .”

  But he could already see it in the man’s eyes. The way they aimed low and drooped in his face, falling like his heavy cheeks that sagged around his tired mouth, all stubbled and worn from crying and moaning day in and day out. Aiden spilled the three nickels onto the table, then reached out to grab his pa’s mitt that hung down by the side of his chair.

  His father’s hand felt cold, stiff like a dry branch that was ready to snap.

  “I’m still here, Aiden. Sure thing. I’m still here. Shouldn’t be‌—‌Shouldn’t have to see me . . . Should be somewheres else. Just forget about me, son. Just forget . . .”

  “Pa?” Aiden said, letting go his free hand and reaching for the man’s shoulder. For a second, he felt something there, the meat and bone of where his dad’s arm joined up with the rest of him. And then Aiden’s hand dropped to his own knee, falling right through his old man’s body.

  Aiden didn’t scream. He didn’t cry out or whimper. He just let the tears fall as his pa faded into nothing and disappeared from sight.

  Chapter 20

  Brand looks up at the rickety staircase. Barnaby and his pals all told him to go on and do it, to deliver the mail. Then they shambled off to Metairie and he hasn’t seen them since. Brand wants to do the job, but he can’t. For two days straight he couldn’t do it, and now he’s here at the bottom of Conroy’s stairs with the envelope feeling like a lead balloon tied around his hips.

  Upstairs, Al Conroy is going out like the worst of ‘em. Brand feels the old man slipping into the street, down into the pathways of mud. And he can feel the kid up there, too. Waiting.

  Does he know? How can he know? I didn’t know when the god came for me back in Chicago City.

  Brand puts a hand in his pocket and touches the envelope. He wants to open it, but Barnaby’s face shows up like a ghost in his mind, flapping its eyelids over those empty holes, and Brand swears he hears the flapping of feathers, too, like some great mythical bird about to come down and rip out his liver. Brand takes his hand out of his pocket and puts it on the railing. He lifts a foot to the bottom step.

  A dull hum comes to his ears from the room below the stairs. The kid’s mother is in there. Working hard and earning what she can. She’s doing right by her son, sure enough. Any dope can tell she loves the kid and doesn’t want to see him hurt.

  But Brand remembers the woman. He remembers the time she came by the Daily Record to “meet Aiden’s employer.” The way she looked at the delivery men who’d come in with the rolls of newsprint and the barrels of ink. Ink as dark as the skin on some of those men, and the kid’s mother skewing her eyes any way she could so she didn’t have to look at them.

  Brand shakes his head and stares up at the door on the landing above him.

  He heaves a deep sigh into his chest and lets it out. Halfway to empty, Brand doubles over and starts coughing. He has to step back into the alley and lean against the wall to keep from falling over. Down the way, at the alley mouth, a horse and buggy stops and the driver sends a bent eye and a few sideways words in Brand’s direction.

  “Go on then, fella. Spit it out,” the driver says and laughs as he whips his nag to move along.

  Brand does spit, but he’s careful to wait until the driver can’t see him do it. He knows his place in New Orleans, same as it’d be if he was back in Chicago City.

  Bottom of the barrel. World’s got no use for old war dogs. Even ones like me who showed the world what war really is and finally got ‘em to call it quits.

  Brand takes a deep breath to clear his head and his chest. He remembers the men he photographed in the trenches. He remembers their stories, the ones they told him before going over the wall and into the meat grinder.

  The creak of a door breaks him from his stupor and Brand spins around to see the Conroy kid aiming a pair of red-rimmed eyes at him from up on the landing. He’s standing there in the morning air in his shirtsleeves and with no hat on his head.

  It’s just like Brand figured it would be. The kid stands there with those ghosts of the god circling him and he doesn’t even know it. Brand stares at Conroy for a solid silent minute, which he counts in his head while he watches the god make its way into the kid’s chest.

  He has no idea how bright his eyes look now, Brand thinks.

  “How’d you know we was here, Mr. Brand?” the kid asks. Brand runs a hand down his face and pulls on his whiskers before he answers.

  “Same as I knew where you were back in Memphis,” he says. “You remember me. As long as that’s still true, I’ll be able to find you when I need to.”

  The last few words don’t get past the kid’s ears. “What do you mean, need to? What’d we do now? Is this about Pa going out? You know where he is, don’t you?” he says, making Brand think he should’ve just dropped the envelope and ran off.

  But you gotta to stick around. Do the job right if you’re gonna do it at all.

  “Easy, Conroy. Easy,” Brand says. “Yeah, I know about your old man. But it’s not what you think. At least‌—‌”

  “Well what is it then?” the kid asks, coming down a few steps. He’s got one hand on the railing and the other on the wall, but Brand sees the kid’s careful not to hold on too tight on either side. The wood’s rough, and Brand figures the kid’s gotten more than a few bites from splinters and old nails. He’s learned to watch out for his own skin.

  “It’s‌—‌” Brand starts to say, but can’t get the words out yet. The envelope is heavier now, even heavier than yesterday, and it’s going on three days since he got it. But it’s not so heavy that Brand can’t move his feet, and so he does, backing away from the staircase where the kid’s standing like he’s ready to take a swing at anyone or anything that gets near him.

  “Well what is it?” the kid says. “What d’you know about my old man, Mr. Brand?”

  “I know your old man’s not the same man he used to be. He hasn’t been the same since the night he fell down the stairs and got himself stained with the street.”

  Brand can tell the kid’s hot under his shirt, even in the chill morning. There’s a fire burning in Conroy’s chest, and if Brand isn’t careful, that fire’ll come out and burn them both down.

  “Stained? What do you mean?”

  “I mean he’s one of them now. Or will be soon.”

  “One of who? You mean like you? But he ain’t killed hisself. He just vanished,”
the kid gets out. Then the tears come, and Brand can tell they’ve got twice as much behind them as they did before.

  “I’m sorry, Conroy,” Brand says. “I couldn’t stop it, and even if I could’ve, that would’ve just made it worse on all of us.”

  “Why?” Aiden says, still shaking and shivering with his sobs. But that fire’s still burning hot inside him, so Brand plays it slow and even. The envelope feels like a block of lead, dragging him down, so he leans against the wall and tries to forget why he’s really here.

  “Your old man . . . he was marked,” Brand says, jabbing a finger at his own hand to remind the kid about his pa getting stabbed. “I’ve seen it in the other fellas. And they’ve told me as much. After a man gets marked, it’s only a matter of time before he goes wrong, starts doing things to make other people forget about him because he can’t bear to remember himself.”

  The kid looks at him with something like confusion on his mug, but his eyes are shining now, bright with flame that dries up the tears in a flash.

  “Yeah? And what else? You know it all, is that it? Because you’re one of them, so you get to know everything about how it all works. Is that it?”

  Brand wants to tell the kid to cool it, just like he used to back on the mooring deck in Chicago City, when the kid and his pals would pitch a fit over who got the best-paying beat for the morning edition.

  “Look, Conroy, I’m not‌—‌”

  “How about Aiden? My name’s Aiden. I think you can remember that, can’t you? Can’t you?” he asks, and the tears are coming again, but slower this time, more like Brand figures they should come. Steady and strong, but only because the tap’s been left open and the kid just doesn’t know how to shut it. Not yet anyway.

  “Okay, Aiden. Sure thing, I can remember your name. Just like I remember your pals from back in Chicago City. Pete Gordon and Ross Jenkins. Remember them?”

  The kid sniffs and wipes a hand over his face. He takes a few more steps down, so he’s almost eye level to Brand now, but still a little above him.

  “Yeah,” he says. “I remember Digs and Ross. They were good guys.”

  “Ain’t that the truth, hey?” Brand says, feeling a smile creep up his face, but only letting it get halfway there. The kid’s not ready to smile yet, or at least isn’t showing signs of it.

  “My pa didn’t like me working with Jenkins. He said he was mixed. Passing white, but wasn’t really. Is that true?”

  Brand can’t hide his surprise. The kid is hot all right. Hot and sharp and ready to cut through anything.

  “Yes. It’s true, Aiden. But you knew that already. And so did Digs Gordon. You both knew it, and you didn’t say anything to anyone.”

  The kid shakes his head. “No. I didn’t have to, though. My ma figured it and I heard her telling Pa that night, after she came by the Record to meet you and the other fellas. She told him and then he told me he didn’t like it. Just like he didn’t like the gig I got now.”

  Something lights up in the kid’s face. It isn’t fire this time, but more like a lightbulb going on.

  “That’s why, isn’t it? That’s why he’s gone. Because of the gig I got. But I had to get work, Mr. Brand.” The kid’s face goes plain and in a second it’s like he hasn’t been crying at all. His eyes get sharper, and his mouth stops shaking like it’ll jump off his face. “I had to earn something so we could make it here. Ma’s only getting a fin a week down in the sewing shop, and she spends all day in there, sun up to sun down.”

  “You and your folks got it rough,” Brand says, nodding and aiming his eyes at the kid’s feet now. “No question about it. And yeah, maybe your pop didn’t care much for the job you’re doing. But that alone wouldn’t have done it.”

  Brand lifts his eyes, testing the waters. He can tell the god’s working its way into the kid, making him into whatever it needs him to be. So far so good, though. The kid’s still in charge of himself and won’t go lighting into Brand like a flamethrower if he makes a bad step.

  “Your old man went on a bender a short while back. Some of the other fellas were there. Saw him do it. Then he landed himself on the street, slipping down those stairs you’re on. The gods figure the street is where he’d rather be, and today’s the day he got set up with his own little corner of New Orleans to call home.”

  “The gods,” the kid says and throws a sniff at the sky. “You mean the ones you work for?”

  “That’d be them,” Brand says, wondering if now’s the time to spill it, but he holds the words on his tongue and finds new ones to share. “You know, it isn’t like I can send word up the chain that they should do things different by your old man.”

  “Where is he now?” Aiden asks, his voice raising with each word. “Where’d he go? Where’s my dad?”

  Brand feels his face go glum as can be. “He’s on the street, Aiden. Probably down a few blocks and over a few more. Could be anywhere, but usually a fella starts out near enough to where he goes out. Least that’s how I’ve heard it. If your old man plays his cards right, he’ll be in the same place everyday unless he’s running messages. Just like me and the other fellas.”

  “Well how come you’re not out there, too? How come my dad has to sit in the gutter, but you get to‌—‌”

  Brand watches the kid stew and chew on whatever’s going through his mind. It’s clear enough he expects an answer, so Brand thinks for a second, trying to put the words in the right order. “I came here . . . so I could be with you when it happened. No kid should have to watch his old man slide into the street on his own. I’m sorry I was late,” Brand says, hoping the kid’ll buy it straight. He doesn’t, though.

  “C’mon and spill it, hey? What else?”

  Brand puts his hands at his sides and looks Aiden in the eye. “I’m sorry, Aiden. I shouldn’t have waited, but . . .”

  Brand takes a step back at first; he can feel the kid wanting to take a swing at him. “You know how I earn my keep now. Playing the mailboy. Right?”

  “Yeah. Like the fellas back in Chicago City. Only you’re not gonna turn into a monster, are ya?”

  “No, Con‌—‌Aiden. No, I’m not. But . . . Well, maybe you’ll think differently after you see this.” Brand reaches into his pocket and feels the heavy envelope. He pinches it with two fingers, but it’s like a brick and he has to put his whole hand in to lift it free.

  Aiden closes his mouth as Brand lifts the envelope out of his pocket. “This . . . this is for you,” he finally says, holding out the message.

  Aiden’s eyes round in fear, and then grow tight with rage. He flings himself down the stairs and shoves past Brand on his way down the alley. Brand tries to catch at his coat or scarf, but his fingers only grab empty air. At the alley mouth, the kid stops short, with one foot aimed forward and his trailing leg fishing around for a place to land, like he wants to come back but has to force himself to do it.

  “You should tell your ma, at least,” Brand says to the kid’s back.

  “You tell her,” the kid says. “Tell her I went to the church to pray for my pa.”

  And then the kid’s gone, out the alley mouth and down the stem, leaving Brand with an envelope in his hand and the taste of bile in his mouth.

  Chapter 21

  Emma wrapped her coat around her to keep the chill away, but it didn’t matter how much she pulled or tugged. The evening air off the Gulf was still cold and sly enough that it found a way in and set her shivering. Another mixed couple sat a ways down the streetcar on the opposite bench, and a lone man stood at the far end, near the conductor’s box. The other couple chatted while the car sliced and scraped on the rails as they went around corners and took curves.

  New Orleans slid past the windows, a blur of brick and stone and ramshackle wood. Eddie’s arm went around Emma. She leaned against him, careful not to put too much pressure on his chest or side. He’d healed up pretty good in the two weeks since they left Chicago City, but he was still sore in places, and it was almost a sure thing
one of his ribs didn’t knit right.

  Good luck earning enough for a sawbones to fix it right.

  Bacchus set them up with his doctor that first night, but he’d made no further offers for another visit to the man’s clinic. He’d given Eddie work playing with a band at shows in the Ninth Ward, leaving Emma on her own at home for a week of lonely nights full of worry. Then last night Bacchus came by and told Eddie to spiffy up for his next gig. He even gave Eddie a new suit and shoes.

  “Gotta look the man when you in my gala house, Mr. Eddie Collins.”

  They were on the way to the gala house now, for a heel kick like they used to have back home. Emma didn’t know what was so special about the house or the dancing that it had to be called a gala. Bacchus was big time in New Orleans, but so far she hadn’t seen him do anything that rivaled the mayor’s events back in Chicago City.

  “Gig like this bring real money in,” Eddie said as they sat in the rocking and swaying streetcar. “Not like them little shows I been doin’.”

  Emma just nodded. So tonight they’d find out what real money was in New Orleans. The thought gave her only a little comfort.

  Until now, Eddie had been playing for whatever change he could get. It was okay money. Eating money. Rent money, for their place and for the mooring deck Bacchus had moved the Vigilance to. The tavern where Eddie usually played in the Ninth Ward was just like Hardy’s place, standing beneath a mooring deck. The Vigilance still hung there. Emma could see the ship in her mind, bobbing on its tethers like it wanted for all the world just to fly again.

  As the streetcar rolled on, Emma thought about the airship and the first time she’d set foot in it.

  The first time she’d ever shot a man down.

  The ghosts of her life in Chicago City had begun eating at her in the past week. Eddie had work. They had a roof, and they could eat okay. But everything Emma could claim now came from Eddie, and rich man’s daughter or not, she wasn’t used to being so dependent on someone else for survival.