Foreign Soil

by Maxine Beneba Clarke

  De Frankie’s shadow was suddenly visible on the pavement in front of them. Solomon took his cue and addressed her from behind. “Miss, scuse me, miss?”

  The woman turned around to face Solomon, a quizzical look on her face. De Frankie leaped up behind her, putting his arm round her neck in a chokehold.

  “Get off mi. What ye playin’ at?” The woman was a fighter, elbowing back at all six-and-a-half feet, fifteen stone of the man.

  “Keep still.” De Frankie’s voice was calm. Solomon stood there, four feet from the scuffle, marveling at the man’s composure as his grip tightened around the woman’s throat. The woman stared up at Solomon, eyes bulging with fear. Realizing he would be of no assistance, her body wilted and she started sobbing.

  “Where your handsome white prince now?” De Frankie sneered at the girl. “Here, let me give you somethin’ to help him out.” He smirked at Solomon as he bent her down toward the ground, picked up the heavy chains with one hand, flicked the iron collar open and snapped it shut around her neck.

  “Patrol. The Special Patrol!” Solomon grabbed De Frankie by the elbow as the lights of a car cruised slowly down the road.

  De Frankie backed quickly down Francis Lane into the alleyway behind. The white heels of his sneakers flashed in and out of the darkness as he ran.

  Solomon stepped back onto Francis Lane, staring at the sister. She was on her knees now, clutching at the thick, flat metal ring around her neck, tears streaming down her face. She was gasping for breath, despite the metal collar hanging wide enough for easy breathing. The two-meter link-chain attached to the slave pacifier was heavy. De Frankie had made Solomon try the thing on. He knew that for the sister to walk without the neck plate digging into her neck, she’d have to lift the chain and carry it three blocks to the filthy harem flat she shared with that cracker boyfriend of hers.

  The patrol car was getting closer, slowing as it neared them. Any minute now the lights would be on her, and Solomon knew if they saw her they’d catch him too. There wasn’t time to run. Solomon stooped down, gathered up the chain, grabbed the woman by the waist and pulled her into the dark alley. The police car drew level with them, slowed. It sat for a moment with its engine humming. A pale face peered out through the passenger-side window. Shrinking back into the shadows, Solomon could feel the woman’s hot breath against his palm as he clamped it tightly over her mouth. Finally, the vehicle moved on down the road.

  Solomon released the woman and sighed with relief, collapsing against the concrete wall behind him. The woman was crumpled in a heap on the ground. She lifted the chain with her fingers, moaning quietly.

  “Why ye gatta do dis?” she sobbed at him. “Dat udda man insane. Mi know im an dem rebel bin watchin’ mi. Followin’ mi aroun. Is it nat enough we haffi give up everytin an everyone? Ye gatta teyk it off. Please. Teyk de chain off!”

  Solomon straightened up and looked at the girl, begging up at him. He hated her. And anyway, he couldn’t take it off. Bala, the Railton Road blacksmith, had crafted the slave collars in the firing pit down the far end of the squat yard and they were impossible to open without the key. He hated the girl even more because he wanted to have the key. She would have to walk home like that, back to him, through the backstreets, holding that chain. It would have to be cut off her, probably at a hospital. Solomon imagined her sitting in a crowded waiting room full of crackers, the chain gathered up in her lap. He imagined the doctors laughing at her, maybe making her wait longer just for the spectacle of it all. Solomon hated her, and he hated himself. He wanted that key in his pocket. De Frankie was right about him. Much as the thirst kept rising in him, it lulled and peaked, dipped and climbed. And when Solomon’s commitment wavered, Babylon came a-calling.

  Solomon turned away from the woman and walked slowly down Francis Lane.

  Gaps in the Hickory

  for Silvano

  ELLA LAUGHED when Delores said this, rolled them big brown eyes-a hers. “Ain’t nobody roun here gon mess with me, Delores. They knows I can take care-a myself. An sides that, they knows they come anywhere near me, my mama gon hunt them down an break every bone in they sorry body. Sides that too, they all seen me hangin’ roun with y’all an know I got a white lady lookin’ out for me now.”

  Delores warn Ella last time that if she snuck in at night again she was gon confiscate her key, lock her out so she like everybody else an need an invitation to come in an visit. In truth, Delores got no heart at all to do that, an that sweet chile know it damn well. Ella share a bed with one-a her li’l sisters: a nervous thing that wet the sheets jus bout every second night. When her sister get to wettin’, Ella creep out the cold an stink-a their bed an sneak cross the hall to Delores. Set herself up on the mattress that’s stashed under Delores’s bed an stay the night.

  Delores turn to the window, her long silver-gray hair fallin’ from her face. Lef the curtain open last night she did. The sun’s shinin’ yellow on her cheek, so hot it feel like she jus opened the oven an ducked her head in to check on one-a her butter cakes. The crooked gum side her window is standin’ steady, only the slightest rustle-a leaves every now an then. The large red an yellow carnival flags strung up from the telephone pole out her window, they hangin’ limp, like they used-a be livin’ but now they dead.

  Delores sigh, put a wrinkled hand up into the shaft-a light streamin’ in the window. She been tryin’ to forget bout Izzy these last months—that she gone from this world an ain’t never comin’ back. She been tryin’ to keep busy not thinkin’ bout her friend, but now the summer Still done turn up. It’s Izzy’s Still, really—the dead quiet center-a summer. Izzy the one start callin’ it that, way back when they knew each other in Mississippi. Delores can’t get her ole buddy out her mind this mornin’. It’s like the ole woman’s soul is risin’ itself up through the drought cracks in the dirt, walkin’ toward her from out there over the state line where she done been buried.

  Delores rub at her eyes, stretch out. Need a new mattress, she does. She so tall her feet been near hangin’ off the end-a this one for years, an besides that she keep wakin’ with pain shootin’ down her back. She done looked at the shops last week. How these things become so damn expensive? How a simple bed gon break the bank like that? Delores stand up, straighten her long legs an step clear over Ella an her mattress. Chile don’t stir none, so she close the bedroom door hind her, walk cross the hall to the bathroom, lif up her baby-blue nightgown, ease down her knickers an lower herself onto the toilet. She stare down at her white thighs, sighin’.

  Delores make a mental list as she weein’, tally up all the things she gotta do today: for her own self, an for organizin’ the carnival. Damn. She done tole Ella they gon have a Beauty Day together. She cut for time, but Ella been so lookin’ forward to it. First things first, though—her smalls gotta be washed. All the machines in the laundry room broken, so she been cartin’ her bigger clothes to the Laundromat, but not her underwear. She look down at her knickers. They hot pink with purple lace roun the bottom.

  “Too saucy for an ole woman like you,” Ella said when she saw them hangin’ up dryin’ on her balcony last month. Delores don’t pay her no mind. She several years past sixty now, an done with worryin’ bout people talkin’. She gon damn well wear whatever she want. Them saucy knickers restin’ on the bathroom floor now, roun her ankles, half coverin’ them normous feet-a hers. Why she gotta be born with such hoofs, Delores always be wonderin’. Can’t never find women’s shoes to fit the things. She mostly end up buyin’ from the men’s section, replacin’ the borin’ brown laces with pink ribbon.

  Delores kick her knickers off, reach down to pick them up, scrunch them in a ball an toss them cross the bathroom into the pink plastic laundry basket.

  * * *

  Jeanie carry the cane clothes basket into the kids’ room, rest it on top Lucy’s bed. Few thin, sweat-soaked strands-a hair fall loose from her ponytail. Jeanie take a sharp breath in, blow the blond threads outta her eyes. The room’s ho
t, unbearably stiflin’. The summer Still’s here in Mississippi meanin’ business, so ain’t no open window gon offer no respite. Some-a the brightly colored squares on the crocheted blanket spread cross Lucy’s toddler bed, they startin’ to unravel. Multicolored loops-a loose wool ring the larger holes. ’S the way Lucy digs at Izzy’s blanket when she fallin’ asleep: sticks them li’l fingers through the gaps in the thick, woven wool an clutches the thing to her as she driftin’ off. Always with that bastard right thumb jammed deep in her mouth. Damn thumb suckin’s bucked out the chile’s front teeth. Real looker their Lucy woulda been. Now she’s gettin’ to appear rabbitlike. Jeanie touch the blanket, sigh. She never been one for mendin’. Praise the Lord it’s summer, cause come winter she gon have to find a way roun to fixin’ it, now her mama-in-law, Izzy, passed on. So many things been broken an not made good again since Izzy not roun no more to fix ’em.

  Jeanie tip the washin’ basket on its side. Small jumble-a clean kids’ clothes fall out on the bed. She separate her son’s clothes from her daughter’s: warm rainbow-a reds, pinks, yellows, an purples on the one side, khaki, denim, blue on the other. Jeanie sigh to herself. Lord know what she gon do bout that boy-a theirs.

  She pick up one-a Carter’s T-shirts, fole it in half vertically. She fole both sleeves back together, bring the bottom hem up level with the neckline, place the folded shirt on the bed, start again. Cotton in the next shirt’s worn tissue-thin. Nother spin cycle in their ole top loader it’ll mose likely rip through. ’S what they find at the thrift store these days for wearin’. Been like that a long time, since Jackson los his job. Near four years go now.

  She start on the shorts, foldin’ ’em vertically, stackin’ the clothes in two small piles. These days Jeanie drive halfway cross the county, searchin’ out the smaller charity shops where she ain’t gon bump into folk they know, folk who gon tell Jackson where she been shoppin’. Ain’t no shame in bein’ poor, far as Jeanie’s concern, though sometimes there’s misery in it. Shame oughta be on ’em people who talk. All-a ’em know the welfare don’t go far. Half the households in Newmarket los an income when the meat plant close down, not jus hers. Still, her Jackson has his pride—his damn southern pride—an she guess she gotta least leave him have that.

  Once, years back, Jeanie made the mistake of lettin’ Jackson know they been thrift store shoppin’. Carter proudly show his daddy the new picture books she made sure to get him after the teacher said he gettin’ behind on his readin’. She been in such a hurry to get dinner on the table she forget to take the damn store tags off ’em.

  “Now you listen here,” Jackson hissed at her, after Carter an the baby was tucked up in bed. “I mighta been outta work five months, but that don’t mean my children gotta be playin’ with some nigger’s leftovers.”

  Jeanie’d wanted to ask him what made him think any black their end-a Mississippi was so much better off than them white folk was. Stead she nodded, promised to buy from the Walmart next time.

  Openin’ Carter’s side-a the wardrobe, Jeanie lower the small stack-a folded T-shirts into the second-to-top drawer, open the third drawer an stuff in the two pair-a shorts. She move back to the bed an start sortin’ socks—stuffin’ one inside the other till they all paired off. How Jackson spect her to feed four people an clothe ’em new with nothin’ at all comin’ in she ain’t never gon know. She ain’t one can work miracles. Still, what her Jackson don’t wanna know, she jus gon try her damnedest to make sure he don’t catch wind of.

  Kids’ bedroom’s a peculiar shape. Front wall juts out slanted-like so the window overlook the front door an porch. ’S as if the bedroom’s tryin-a scape from the rest-a the house. From where she standin’, Jeanie can see all the way down the long dusty drive. Out on the front lawn Lucy’s swirlin’ roun in a circle, tangled hair flyin’ out behind her, wigglin’ her shoulders in some kinda showgirl shimmy. Window’s closed, but Jeanie can see Lucy’s li’l mouth openin’ wide in song. Jeanie’s husband’s sittin’ on the porch bench, can-a beer perched nex to him, readyin’ those damn torch sticks-a his to go ridin’. Carter’s on the porch steps, back turned to his sister’s dancin’ ways, talkin’ to his daddy.

  Jeanie gather up the pile-a pink an white socks, pause a moment as she stare out the window at her son. Carter’s doin’ that thing with his nails again. Lord have mercy. Boy’s clenchin’ his fist over an over as he look at his daddy, makin’ red half-moon welts in his palm with his fingernails. Ever since his gram Izzy passed on, her Carter’s been fadin’. Hurtin’. Carter’s skinny white legs swimmin’ in his cutoff army pants, makin’ him look smaller than his nearly ten years. Kid’s skin an bone. Jeanie ain’t seen him eat a full meal in months. Without Izzy roun, she ain’t quite sure how to handle the kid, even though he hers. Can’t figure him for tryin’. Come from nowhere, their Carter had. Least nowhere they ever be willin’ to discuss.

  Out the window, Jackson’s chattin’ to Carter, pointin’ to the pile-a sticks at his feet as he barkin’ at the boy. Carter’s turnin’ away from his daddy, lookin’ down at his own feet.

  * * *

  Delores stop inspectin’ her long, tapered toes an get to finishin’ her business. She flush the toilet, move over to the sink an wash her hands, lean in an stare at her face real close in the mirror. She gettin ole. No matter how much mail-order miracle cream she use on ’em, these wrinkles not gon let up. No how, no way.

  “Y’all starin’ in the mirror again miring yourself, Delores?” Ella push into the bathroom, sit down on the can, the plaits in her hair all stuck out an crooked from lyin’ on one side while she slept.

  “What I tell you bout sneakin’ in here at night?” Delores ask, turnin’ to face the chile.

  “Well, what the Lord teach your damn self in the Bible bout pride a sin?” Ella answer back, pullin’ on the toilet roll. “An here you be, preenin’ in the lookin’ glass anyways.”

  That chile don’t watch her mouth, it gon bring her all kinds-a trouble. Delores shoot her a look like death warmed up, but Ella jus stare back at her with one eyebrow raised up.

  Delores leave the room while Ella’s on the toilet. They all friends in this buildin’, an Delores lived here twenty years now, ever since she leave Newmarket, but you never can be too sure who gon accuse you-a what where there’s a li’l pickney concerned. Whenever Izzy came to visit, she warn Delores bout gettin’ too close to the girl. Only thing much they ever argued bout. Surprisin’, given the years an history an heartache hung between ’em.

  “Y’all need to make peace with your son so’s you can get to see them beautiful grandpickney-a your own an stop takin’ in strays from next door,” Izzy’d scold her. “He’s a grown man now, an it’s gotta be time he saw the truth. Could be it change things between you.”

  “Y’all call my Ella a stray one more time I’m gon throw you off that balcony to meet your maker right here in the middle-a Orleans,” Delores seethe.

  Was all well an good for Izzy to say. She had her grandpickney livin’ right there under her own goddamn roof out in Sippi. Weren’t no way Delores baby would get to talkin’ to her again. Specially not enough to let her see them kids-a his.

  When the toilet flush an the tap start runnin’, Delores open the bathroom door again. She make her way over to the mirror cabinet while Ella dryin’ her hands.

  “Y’all wanna try one-a my face masks this time, Ella?” She slide the bathroom mirror cross, pull a glass jar-a green goop from the shelf, unscrew the top an dig in a finger.

  “Can’t be bothered. Too hot.” Ella screw up her nose.

  Delores get to smearin’ the gunk over her face, smoothin’ it roun with two fingers. Waitin’ for the thing to harden she notice Ella starin’ at her in the mirror, lookin’ at her mighty serious, like she wanna say somethin’ but can’t muster it to come.

  * * *

  Carter’s daddy’s starin’ over at him like he wanna say somethin’ but can’t get it spit out.

  “You gon have a stab at
this, son?”

  “Nah. Can’t be bothered. Too hot.” Carter’s relieved that’s all his daddy asked.

  He watch him draw back his spit, hock it hard. The saliva hurl through the air an arc right off the side-a the porch like a spat cherry pip.

  “No sign-a brawn in you, kid. No fight at all, an you damn near ten.” Carter’s daddy shake his head. “Place like this, you better toughen up real quick. You been mopin’ roun ever since Granma Izzy die. Was already on the cards, Cart. Woman were half shriveled an ready to go anyways. Buck up bout it, eh?”

  Ain’t no buckin’ up gon cover up how much Carter miss his gram. She with the angels now, his mama say. Knowin’ Gram an her contrariness, Carter ain’t so sure bout that prediction. Sides, maybe she even like to be down where the heat is, given how she went an all.

  Cold got Gram Izzy. Least that’s how Carter’s mama say it, whenever anyone ask. ’S odd to think bout it now, with this summer air so thick with bein’ heated it feel like you’re walkin’ through water. Cold got her. Like she was hunted down. Like the cold was some kind-a assassin creepin’ icy an cruel through gaps in the elm an hickory, dodgin’ through the sweet gum trunks till it hit the Mississippi Delta. Carter magine the killer cold burstin’ clear of the forest, headed fast for their cabin as it snag on the thistles, leapin’ eager over the knee-high grass fields an skimmin’ bove the oil-slicked tar an boggy dirt roads. He magines the cold spinnin’ toward them, like the stones he an his ma used-a race over the river come summer. They ain’t gone stone skippin’ since way back fore Carter’s daddy lose his job. Back when there was less baked beans, an everythin’ was better.

  Gram was sittin’ in the rocker in her room when the cold creep up. Slept there mose nights cause she grown not to like lyin’ flat. Her old bones didn’t like it, she said. Cold must’ve unlatched the window somehow, snuck up on tippy toes an strangled her real quiet. Gone near as soon as she close her eyes, the men who came to get her body say. They knew cause it was hard to straighten her onto the stretcher. They lay her on her side, body still curled in sittin’ shape like a question mark, pale skin already tinged gray.