by Andy Duncan
That Monday morning after the premiere, I was back in the steel. I was early. If I had anything to work out with myself—about being up there again—I wanted to do it alone. As one floor after another dropped past the elevator, I took deep breaths, bounced my lunch sack against my leg in a steady rhythm. Clearing the neighboring buildings, into the light of the sunrise, warmed me, and the higher I went, the better I felt. I felt back to normal when I shoved open the door and stepped off the elevator.
There was no one else on Thirty. Oh, Joe Diabo was waiting for me, all right, as I half expected he would be, but he wasn’t on my floor. He was about ten feet west of it, beyond the farthest beam, farther out than anyone in the Fred F. French Building has reached to this day. He was hanging in the air above Fifth Avenue, at eye level with me.
I knew he was standing on nothing, because nothing was out there to stand on, but I still wanted to look down at his feet, see if his toes were pointing toward Fifth, like toes on a crucifix. I fought that urge. I didn’t want to look in that direction. I just looked him in the eye.
Joe Diabo spoke to me, but too faintly to hear. Part of me wanted to step closer, to hear him better, but I was already farther toward the edge than I wanted. Somehow I had left behind the platform in front of the elevator, and stepped onto the beam. I kept looking into Joe Diabo’s eyes, because I knew if I looked away for a second, when I turned back around he might be closer, a lot closer, and then I’d get in the way of myself for sure. So I held his gaze as I slowly sat down on the beam and hooked my right arm around the nearest support, which was one of the struts of the forge. The sharp edge against my bicep woke me up a little. Joe Diabo’s eyes were the saddest I ever saw.
He spoke again, and now the wind was toward me, off the Hudson—I caught a whiff of fish, and the breweries in Union City—and I could hear his voice now, thin and far away. It wasn’t English.
“I’m sorry, Joe,” I said, though he was still talking. “I can’t understand you. I wish I could.”
I wanted to say more, to tell him about that Saturday-night Wild West minstrel show, and the foolish story I had made up. But the funny thing was, the longer I listened to Joe’s voice, the better I understood it. I’m not sure it ever turned into English, not entirely, but it turned into something I could understand.
“I’m sorry, Eddie. I’m so sorry. Say it’s all right, Eddie.”
I actually laughed. Well, it wasn’t quite a laugh. It was more like the sound Orvis makes when he’s punched in the gut, all the air leaving at once. “Sorry for what, Joe? You got nothing to be sorry for.”
“I’m sorry I fell,” Joe said. “But I was good, wasn’t I, Eddie? Except for that? I did a good job before, didn’t I?”
He was still out there, but I couldn’t see his face anymore, on account of crying. Mohawk men don’t cry, but I cried then.
“No one better, Joe,” I said. “We all know that. And it don’t matter that you . . . It don’t matter. You’re still the best, Joe. You and I, we’ll always know that. I won’t forget it, Joe.”
The blur in the sky that was Joe Diabo began to fade then, like the fire going out at the end of the day. I swabbed my left sleeve across my eyes to clear them, and Joe Diabo was gone, and I was just sitting there, against a cold forge. Anyone stepping off the elevator would have thought, look at DeLisle, goldbricking. I stood up and got busy.
We had a new guy, of course. He came up with Tom and Orvis. D. B. Lachapelle, his name was. I don’t know what the D. B. meant. He was from Caughnawaga village, too. We knew his people. He was young, like a boy. A large boy. Short but wide-shouldered, muscled.
“Eddie Two Rivers DeLisle,” I said. “Glad to know you.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. DeLisle,” the kid said, wringing my hand. “It’s an honor to work with you.”
I looked at Tom, who was grinning, and I looked at Orvis, who was handing over the gun. Joe Diabo’s gun.
“Just until lunch,” Tom said.
So we went to work. Tom plucked out of the coals the reddest rivet he could find, and tossed it into Orvis’s bucket. D. B. yanked out the temporary bolt. Orvis stuck the red-hot rivet into the hole, and D. B. braced the dolly bar and yelled, “OK.” I leaned on the hammer until the red tip bloomed flat against the beam, and then I lifted the gun and wiped my forehead and grinned in the high breeze. That one wasn’t going noplace.
Beluthahatchie
Everybody else got off the train at Hell, but I figured, it’s a free country. So I commenced to make myself a mite more comfortable. I put my feet up and leaned back against the window, laid my guitar across my chest, and settled in with my hat tipped down over my eyes, almost. I didn’t know what the next stop was but I knew I’d like it better than Hell.
Whoo! I never saw such a mess. All that crowd of people jammed together on the Hell platform so tight you could faint standing up. One old battle-hammed woman hollering for Jesus, most everybody else just mumbling and crying and hugging their bags and leaning into each other and waiting to be told where to go. And hot? Man, I ain’t just beating my gums there. Not as hot as the Delta, but hot enough to keep old John on the train. No, sir, I told myself, no room out there for me.
Fat old conductor man pushed on down the aisle kinda slow, waiting on me to move. I decided I’d wait on that, too.
“Hey, nigger boy.” He slapped my foot with a rolled-up newspaper. Felt like the Atlanta paper. “This ain’t no sleeping car.”
“Git up off me, man. I ain’t done nothing.”
“Listen at you. Who you think you are, boy? Think you run the railroad? You don’t look nothing like Mr. George Pullman.” The conductor tried to put his foot up on the seat and lean on his knee, but he gave up with a grunt.
I ran one finger along my guitar strings, not hard enough to make a sound but just hard enough to feel them. “I ain’t got a ticket, neither,” I bit off, “but it was your railroad’s pleasure to bring me this far, and it’s my pleasure to ride on a little further, and I don’t see what cause you got to be so astorperious about it, Mr. Fat Ass.”
He started puffing and blowing. “What? What?” He was teakettle hot. You’d think I’d done something. “What did you call me, boy?” He whipped out a strap, and I saw how it was, and I was ready.
“Let him alone.”
Another conductor was standing outside the window across the aisle, stooping over to look in. He must have been right tall and right big too, filling up the window like that. Cut off most of the light. I couldn’t make out his face, but I got the notion that pieces of it was sliding around, like there wan’t quite a face ready to look at yet. “The Boss will pick him up at the next stop. Let him be.”
“The Boss?” Fat Ass was getting whiter all the time.
“The Boss said it would please him to greet this nigger personally.”
Fat Ass wan’t studying about me anymore. He slunk off, looking back big-eyed at the man outside the window. I let go my razor and let my hand creep up out of my sock, slow and easy, making like I was just shifting cause my leg was asleep.
The man outside hollered: “Board! All aboard! Next stop, Beluthahatchie!”
That old mama still a-going. “Jesus! Save us, Jesus!”
“All aboard for Beluthahatchie!”
“Jesus!”
We started rolling out.
“All aboard!”
“Sweet Je—” And her voice cut off just like that, like the squawk of a hen Meemaw would snatch for Sunday dinner. Wan’t my business. I looked out the window as the scenery picked up speed. Wan’t nothing to see, just fields and ditches and swaybacked mules and people stooping and picking, stooping and picking, and by and by a porch with old folks sitting on shuck-bottomed chairs looking out at all the years that ever was, and I thought I’d seen enough of all that to last me a while. Wan’t any of my business at all.
When
I woke up I was lying on a porch bench at another station, and hanging on one chain was a blown-down sign that said Beluthahatchie. The sign wan’t swinging cause there wan’t no breath of air. Not a soul else in sight neither. The tracks ran off into the fields on both ends as far as I could see, but they was all weeded up like no train been through since the Surrender. The windows over my head was boarded up like the bank back home. The planks along the porch han’t been swept in years by nothing but the wind, and the dust was in whirly patterns all around.
Still lying down, I reached slowly beneath the bench, groping the air, till I heard, more than felt, my fingers pluck a note or two from the strings of my guitar. I grabbed it by the neck and sat up, pulling the guitar into my lap and hugging it, and I felt some better.
Pigeons in the eaves was a-fluttering and a-hooting all mournful-like, but I couldn’t see ’em. I reckon they was pigeons. Meemaw used to say that pigeons sometimes was the souls of dead folks let out of Hell. I didn’t think those folks back in Hell was flying noplace, but I did feel something was wrong, bad wrong, powerful wrong. I had the same crawly feeling as before I took that fatal swig—when Jar Head Sam, that harp-playing bastard, passed me a poisoned bottle at a Mississippi jook joint and I woke up on that one-way train.
Then a big old hound dog ambled around the corner of the station on my left, and another big old hound dog ambled around the comer of the station on my right. Each one was nearbouts as big as a calf and so fat it could hardly go, swanking along with its belly on the planks and its nose down. When the dogs snuffled up to the bench where I was sitting, their legs give out and they flopped down, yawned, grunted, and went fast to sleep like they’d been poleaxed. I could see the fleas hopping across their big butts. I started laughing.
“Lord, the hellhounds done caught up to me now! I surely must have led them a chase, I surely must. Look how wore out they are!” I hollered and cried, I was laughing so hard. One of them broke wind real long, and that set me off again. “Here come the brimstone! Here come the sulfur! Whoo! Done took my breath. Oh, Lordy.” I wiped my eyes.
Then I heard two way-off sounds, one maybe a youngun dragging a stick along a fence, and the other maybe a car motor.
“Well, shit,” I said.
Away off down the tracks, I saw a little spot of glare vibrating along in the sun. The flappity racket got louder and louder. Some fool was driving his car along on the tracks, a bumpety-bump, a bumpety-bump. It was a Hudson Terraplane, right sporty, exactly like what Peola June used to percolate around town in, and the chrome on the fender and hood was shining like a conk buster’s hair.
The hound dogs was sitting up now, watching the car. They was stiff and still on each side of my bench, like deacons sitting up with the dead.
When the car got nigh the platform it lurched up out of the cut, gravel spitting, gears grinding, and shut off in the yard at the end of the porch where I was sitting. Sheets of dust sailed away. The hot engine ticked. Then the driver’s door opened, and out slid the devil. I knew him well. Time I saw him slip down off the seat and hitch up his pants, I knew.
He was a sunburnt, bandy-legged, pussel-gutted li’l peckerwood. He wore braces and khaki pants and a dirty white undershirt and a big derby hat that had white hair flying out all around it like it was attached to the brim, like if he’d tip his hat to the ladies his hair would come off too.
He had a bright-red possum face, with beady, dumb black eyes and a long sharp nose, and no chin at all hardly and a big goozlum in his neck that jumped up and down like he couldn’t swallow his spit fast enough. He slammed the car door and scratched himself a little, up one arm and then the other, then up one leg till he got to where he liked it. He hunkered down and spit in the dust and looked all unconcerned like maybe he was waiting on a tornado to come along and blow some victuals his way, and he didn’t take any more notice of me than the hound dogs had.
I wan’t used to being treated such. “You keep driving on the tracks thataway, hoss,” I called, “and that Terraplane gone be butt-sprung for sure.”
He didn’t even look my way. After a long while, he stood up and leaned on a fender and lifted one leg and looked at the bottom of his muddy clodhopper, then put it down and lifted the other and looked at it too. Then he hitched his pants again and headed across the yard toward me. He favored his right leg a little and hardly picked up his feet at all when he walked. He left ruts in the yard like a plow. When he reached the steps, he didn’t so much climb ’em as stand his bantyweight self on each one and look proud, like each step was all his’n now, and then go on to claim the next one too. Once on the porch, he sat down with his shoulders against a post, took off his hat, and fanned himself. His hair had a better hold on his head than I thought, what there was of it. Then he pulled out a stick and a pocketknife and commenced to whittle. But he did all these things so deliberate and thoughtful that it was almost the same as him talking, so I kept quiet and waited for the words to catch up.
“It will be a strange and disgraceful day unto this world,” he finally said, “when I ask a gut-bucket nigger guitar player for advice on autoMO-bile mechanics, or for anything else except a tune now and again.” He had eyes like he’d been shot twice in the face. “And furthermore, I am the Lord of Darkness and the Father of Lies, and if I want to drive my 1936 Hudson Terraplane, with its six-cylinder seventy-horsepower engine, out into the middle of some loblolly and shoot out its tires and rip up its seats and piss down its radiator hole, why, I will do it and do it again seven more times afore breakfast, and the voice that will stop me will not be yourn. You hearing me, John?”
“Ain’t my business,” I said. Like always, I was waiting to see how it was.
“That’s right, John, it ain’t your business,” the devil said. “Nothing I do is any of your business, John, but everything you do is mine. I was there the night you took that fatal drink, John. I saw you fold when your gut bent double on you, and I saw the shine of your blood coming up. I saw that whore you and Jar Head was squabbling over doing business at your funeral. It was a sorry-ass death of a sorry-ass man, John, and I had a big old time with it.”
The hound dogs had laid back down, so I stretched out and rested my feet on one of them. It rolled its eyes up at me like its feelings was hurt.
“I’d like to see old Jar Head one more time,” I said. “If he’ll be along directly, I’ll wait here and meet his train.”
“Jar Head’s plumb out of your reach now, John,” the devil said, still whittling. “I’d like to show you around your new home this afternoon. Come take a tour with me.”
“I had to drive fifteen miles to get to that jook joint in the first place,” I said, “and then come I don’t know how far on the train to Hell and past it. I’ve done enough traveling for one day.”
“Come with me, John.”
“I thank you, but I’ll just stay here.”
“It would please me no end if you made my rounds with me, John.” The stick he was whittling started moving in his hand. He had to grip it a little to hang on, but he just kept smiling. The stick started to bleed along the cuts, welling up black red as the blade skinned it. “I want to show off your new home place. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, John?” The blood curled down his arm like a snake.
I stood up and shook my head real slow and disgusted, like I was bored by his conjuring, but I made sure to hold my guitar between us as I walked past him. I walked to the porch steps with my back to the devil, and I was headed down them two at a time when he hollered out behind, “John! Where do you think you’re going?”
I said real loud, not looking back: “I done enough nothing for one day. I’m taking me a tour. If your ass has slipped between the planks and got stuck, I’ll fetch a couple of mules to pull you free.”
I heard him cuss and come scrambling after me with that leg a-dragging, sounding just like a scarecrow out on a stroll. I was holding my guitar closer
to me all the time.
I wan’t real surprised that he let those two hound dogs ride up on the front seat of the Terraplane like they was Mrs. Roosevelt, while I had to walk in the road alongside, practically in the ditch. The devil drove real slow, talking to me out the window the whole time.
“Whyn’t you make me get off the train at Hell, with the rest of those sorry people?”
“Hell’s about full,” he said. “When I first opened for business out here, John, Hell wan’t no more’n a wide spot in the road. It took a long time to get any size on it. When you stole that dime from your poor old Meemaw to buy a French post card and she caught you and flailed you across the yard, even way back then, Hell wan’t no bigger’n Baltimore. But it’s about near more’n I can handle now, I tell you. Now I’m filling up towns all over these parts. Ginny Gall. Diddy-Wah-Diddy. West Hell—I’d run out of ideas when I named West Hell, John.”
A horsefly had got into my face and just hung there. The sun was fierce, and my clothes was sticking to me. My razor slid hot along my ankle. I kept favoring my guitar, trying to keep it out of the dust as best I could.
“Beluthahatchie, well, I’ll be frank with you, John, Beluthahatchie ain’t much of a place. I won’t say it don’t have possibilities, but right now it’s mostly just that railroad station, and a crossroads, and fields. One long, hot, dirty field after another.” He waved out the window at the scenery and grinned. He had yellow needly teeth. “You know your way around a field, I reckon, don’t you, John?”
“I know enough to stay out of ’em.”
His laugh was like a man cutting tin. “I swear you are a caution, John. It’s a wonder you died so young.”
We passed a right lot of folks, all of them working in the sun. Pulling tobacco. Picking cotton. Hoeing beans. Old folks scratching in gardens. Even younguns carrying buckets of water with two hands, slopping nearly all of it on the ground afore they’d gone three steps. All the people looked like they had just enough to eat to fill out the sad expression on their faces, and they all watched the devil as he drove slowly past. All those folks stared at me hard, too, and at the guitar like it was a third arm waving at ’em. I turned once to swat that blessed horsefly and saw a group of field hands standing in a knot, looking my way and pointing.
