Richmond Noir

by Andrew Blossom

  Can’t call that home. Nobody should.

  Richmond’s labeling all this shifting around revitalization—but I’m not buying it. Pushing us out to the periphery. Forcing us to find a new home every night. Their Downtown Plan has nothing to do with me. Never had Benny’s better interests in mind. When I first met her, couple years back, the boys-in-blue had just busted her lip for sleeping out in Monroe Park. She shuffled her way into Freedom House after curfew, an icicle of her own blood hanging off her chin. Weren’t that many cots left at that hour, so she took the one next to mine. Dropped her plastic bags, all her junk spilling over the floor. I leaned over, thinking I’d lend a hand, getting a slap on the wrist for my troubles.

  Don’t touch my stuff.

  Just trying to help.

  Help yourself is more like it.

  Asked her what her name was. Her jaw refused to move much because of the cold, just enough to keep her teeth chattering, so when she answered—Bethany—I didn’t hear the tha part. Her tongue missed the middle syllable, like the needle on a record player skipping over a groove.

  Sounded like she said Benny.

  No funny stuff now, she warned, brandishing her wrinkled finger like it was a blade. I’ll have you know I’m a respectable lady.

  There have got to be thirty years between us! The hell are you expecting me to do?

  Just better watch it, young man. I’ve got my eye on you.

  Most folks made their way to Monroe Park after Freedom House closed its doors—but that was a trap, if you’re asking me. Used to be a training camp for Confederate soldiers. Military hospital after that. Lot of cadets ended up dying on that patch of land. Too many homeless ghosts out there now. People who spend the night there end up disappearing. Some say this city gives you a bus ticket to any town you want, one-way, no questions asked—just hop on board and bon voyage—but I’m betting that’s a rumor the boys-in-blue spread around town so you drop your guard and follow the brass right into the paddy wagon. Act like some mutt trusting the dogcatcher—transfixed by the biscuit in one hand, not even paying attention to the net in the other.

  Benny’s vote was Monroe. Mouthing off about the handouts down there. College kids managed a meal plan in the heart of the park, serving up soup on Sundays or something.

  Step in there, Benny, I said, and you won’t be walking out ever again.

  You’re just being paranoid.

  Sure shut down Freedom House fast enough—didn’t they? Sure don’t see the Salvation Army marching into Monroe to save the day. I’m telling you, Benny—the police own that park!

  Then where the hell are we gonna go?

  That left Belle Isle. You got the Lee Bridge reaching right over the James River. Just another memorial to another dead Confederate general. Connects the south side of the city to the rest, shore to shore, like a stitch suturing a wound. Got the James bleeding up from that gash, no matter how many bridges there are sewing up this city. But nestled in between the concrete legs of Robert E. Lee, there are about fifty-four acres of public park, all wrapped in water. The river splits, rushing down either side of the isle, its converging currents forming a sharp point at the tip. A real diamond of an island. Only way to reach land is to hoof it. Got this footbridge slung under the interstate, a little baby-bridge suspended from its father. You can hear the hum of automobiles passing along the highway just above your head—but down there, once you’ve set foot onto the island, it’s like the city doesn’t exist anymore. Sound of cars just melts away.

  We’d be like—like our own Swiss Family Robinson down here.

  More like Robinson Crusoe, Benny said, shaking her head.

  No one’ll bother us, I promise. As long as we stay on the far side of the island, away from the footpaths, no one’ll even know we’re here.

  You’re crazy, you know that?

  No more missions, no more shelters, I said. We’ll never have to set foot on the mainland again.

  Yeah, yeah—just lead the way, Friday.

  There are ruins of an old hydroelectric plant tucked away on the far side of the island. Closed its doors in ’63, the electric company gutting out all the iron, leaving the concrete behind. Nothing but a husk now, all empty. Good for a roof over your head when it gets raining. We set up camp in one of the old water turbine rooms. Have to crawl through this hatch just to get in. The air’s damp down there. Soaks into your bones if you’re not bundled up enough. But the walls keep the cold wind from nipping your nose. Made that room a hell of a lot better than sleeping in some refrigerator box. The generator was long gone, the rotors removed, leaving behind this empty shaft as big as any room in those mansions you see lined up along Plantation Row. We’re talking ballroom here. Perfect fit for all of Benny’s stuff She hefted a whole landfill’s worth of accumulated junk along with her. A dozen plastic bags busting open at the seams, full of photographs. Toys. Anything she could get her hands on.

  Home sweet home, Benny said. Started decorating the place right away, slipping her pictures inside a rusted wicket gate like it was some sort of mantelpiece. All the shorn cylinders were now full of photographs, every severed duct a shelf for her past.

  Who’s that? I asked, pointing to this one black-and-white snapshot. Cute little brunette smiling for the camera. She looks familiar to me.

  Who do you think?

  You’re telling me that’s you?

  Damn right I am.

  Didn’t recognize you under all that baby fat.

  Yeah, well—they fed me better back then.

  The island’s supposed to be vacant once the sun sets. Every day, like clockwork, this ranger comes to lock up the footbridge. Not like that ever keeps the kids away. Teenagers always sneak in after dark, building bonfires. Spray-painting the walls.

  We had a whole novel’s worth of graffiti wrapped around the place. Couldn’t really read what it said. The words were barely there anymore, losing their shape. Tattoos fading into your skin, reminding you of different times. Times when those tattoos would’ve meant something. An eagle, a globe, and an anchor. Semper Fi. Nothing but blue lines now, wrapping around your arms like ivy overtaking a statue.

  First time Benny saw the ink on my forearm, we were trying to keep each other warm while those teenagers broke beer bottles against the other side of our living room wall. Had to keep quiet, holding each other. That’s when she noticed the lower fluke of the anchor, all fuzzy now, diving down deep into my skin. Gave her something to trace her finger along. Watched her run her pinkie over the lower hemisphere of the globe.

  Bet it’s cold there right about now, she said, pointing to where Antarctica would’ve been.

  Colder than here—that’s for sure.

  We were in the thick of December by then, the temperature dropping off into the low thirties. It was only going to get colder the deeper into winter we went. That meant less visitors. Less dog walkers. Less joggers. Less families. Less of everything.

  You know this used to be a prison camp?

  Sure feels like one.

  During the Civil War, I said. Over five hundred thousand Yankee soldiers, right here. Couple thousand at a time, freezing their asses off in the open air.

  You’re lying.

  It’s true.

  The more we talked, the more our breath spread over each other. Good way to keep warm. Our mouths were our radiators now.

  Since when did you become such a history buff?

  They used to march prisoners over the bridge, I said. Corralled them together like cattle. They went through the whole winter out here like that. Freezing. Starving.

  Sounds familiar.

  Slid in next to her. Nestled my knees into the back of her legs, just where they bent. Had my face pressed against her shoulder, breathing into the bone.

  They’d bring a surgeon out to check up on the men in the morning, figuring out which limbs he had to saw off from the frostbite.

  Everybody in this city’s a goddamn Civil War aficionado, she said, inching off wit
hout me. Figured that was the end of the conversation—up until Benny turned back around, asking, So you gonna hold me, soldier? It’s cold out here.

  Yes, captain.

  Fell asleep first. I was always falling asleep before Benny—drifting off to the sound of her cough, these short retorts right at my ear, like some soldier in the trenches, the sound of musket fire just over my head.

  Brought my daughter to Belle Isle once. Couldn’t even tell you when anymore. Years ago. A different life. Packed a picnic and everything. Had to get there early, just so we could lay claim to one of the broad rocks resting along the river. We’re talking prime real estate here. You ended up battling the sunbathers for the best spread. The Battle of Belle Isle.

  Don’t go out too far, hon, I said. You’ve got to be careful about the currents.

  Benny always had to hold me when I woke up. Wrap her arms around me so I didn’t buckle, bring me back to the present tense.

  You’re okay, you’re okay, she’d say. Just another bad dream, that’s all.

  Everywhere you step on this island, there’s another history lesson under your feet. Signs saying what happened at that very spot, almost two hundred years ago. Nothing but plaques in the ground. Never would’ve realized this place could hold so much pneumonia, so much dysentery. That’s Richmond for you. Too much history for its own good. Whole city’s a graveyard. It’s only when you have no home to call your own that you can see this place for what it really is. You’re standing on the graves of men no matter where you step.

  The prison camp had been directly below the highest mount on the island, overlooking the river. I remember bringing Benny up there, showing her the view for the first time. We could see the Capitol building up north. To the west was Hollywood Cemetery, on the other side of the James. Petersburg wasn’t but so far off, if you squinted hard enough.

  Can’t see why those soldiers wouldn’t just swim for it, Benny said, shaking her head. Lord knows I would.

  They’d try, I said. End up getting shot right there in the water. Their bodies would drift downriver. Never set foot on dry land again.

  How do you know about all this stuff?

  I just pay attention is all.

  Pay attention. A good parent pays attention.

  Let’s go down there, she said, pointing toward the north side of the island.

  Where?

  Those big rocks—down there. Where the sunbathers all go.

  I’m not setting foot down there, Benny.

  Why not?

  It’s off limits to us.

  There’s a dam still standing, upstream, left over from the hydroelectric plant. Steers most of the water northward, around the bend and into the rapids. There are signs posted all around the island, warning families about the rapids. Always have a parent supervising swimming children, they say. Don’t let your kids go out too far unattended. A bit of the river’s funneled south through this concrete canal, into what’s left of the turbines. Generated enough electricity to light up half of Richmond back in the day. Benny’s body slipped around the south, into the canal. If she hadn’t been dead when she entered the water, she was once she washed into the turbines. Her green paper gown was wrinkled, clinging to her skin like tissue. One sock on her left foot, nothing on the right. Reminded me of those sheep you see getting their coats shorn clean. Once the wool’s been buzzed off their bodies, what’s left behind seems so much smaller than what was there before. Pink skin. Thin frame. Legs don’t even look real.

  I’m staring at Benny, lying on her side in the turbine—and I can’t help but remember her all bulked up in her jackets, a layer of long johns underneath. She’d just gotten another coat, three sizes too big for her, pulled it out from the lost-and-found at some church. Made her look like a little girl wearing her daddy’s jacket, her hands swallowed up by the sleeves. Now she’s naked. I’m noticing all the bruises I’ve never seen before, the abrasions. All the liver spots and melanomas that were hidden from me. Her wrinkles are full of mud, as if the river has tried washing the years away. I’ve never seen her face so smooth. I can almost imagine what she looked like when she was a girl, like in that photograph. The mud in her hair has dyed the white right out, back to natural brown. Chestnut eyes to match her new brunette curls.

  I see the expression in her eyes, glassed over—those last few thoughts that passed through her mind as she wrestled with the river, fighting for dry land.

  Afraid. She looks like she was afraid.

  I’m imagining her numb hands thrashing through the water, reaching for anything that’s going to save her. She’s wearing some sort of ID bracelet, orange plastic snapped into place. Her arms are so thin, nothing but skin and bones. The bracelet slides all the way up to her elbow.

  Have her listed as DOE, JANE. Bastards even took her name away.

  She’d been complaining about a cough all week. Hacking up phlegm in her sleep. Sounded awfully deep. Whatever it was, it was rooted within her chest, beginning to block her breathing. The air couldn’t reach her lungs without sounding wet.

  Jesus, Benny. You sound terrible. Think you better have that looked at.

  You my doctor now? Where am I gonna go?

  How about a hospital? I asked, pressing the back of my hand against her forehead.

  Hospital? Nah. Need to sleep it off is all.

  It was easy to feel the fever burning through. Felt so warm, I couldn’t help but keep my hand there a little longer than I needed to. Hold onto that heat for a while. Couldn’t help but think about all those soldiers, sitting in the cold. Sickest prisoners were always taken to the hospital just on the other side of the island. They were made to stand and wait until their names were taken. Could’ve been hours before they got called up. If they survived that long, they were led to a ward already cluttered with dozens of others. Sheets were never cleaned. Beds full of vermin. These doctors would rush through the ward like it was a race, seeing who could finish first. I never blamed Benny for distrusting doctors. But there she was, sounding like she was drowning from the inside out. Running her finger along the anchor tattooed on my arm, only sinking deeper into her own lungs.

  I’ll go to the hospital if you let me ask you something.

  Okay, I said.

  Why’d we really come here?

  I didn’t say anything.

  What’s so important about this place?

  I made something up. Something about Civil War relics buried somewhere around here. If we found them, we wouldn’t have to worry over nothing ever again.

  Hope you find them, she said, not buying it one bit, something pink making its way to her lips. Whatever’s buried here.

  Fell asleep first. I was always falling asleep before Benny did. Closed my eyes and found a familiar flame, this burning yellow one-piece, slipping off into the water without me.

  Don’t go too far out, hon, I’d said. Only up to your ankles.

  We’d spread a blanket out across our rock. Lunch was behind us. All we had to do for the remainder of the day was rest next to the river. Take in the sun amongst all the other families. And swim.

  But I want to go out there, Daddy.

  Too dangerous, sweetie. You’ve got to be careful about the currents.

  The what?

  The currents!

  Can’t say how long I’d been sleeping. I didn’t come to until I heard the family from the neighboring rock start shouting. I sat up, squinting from the sun. Couldn’t focus at first, watching this flash of yellow disappear into the river.

  Her body had turned blue by the time I reached her. I dropped to my knees. Pressed my lips against hers and breathed. I tried pushing the air into her lungs. Her chest would expand. Her rib cage was a pair of ambulance doors fanning open. But the air only seeped out, her chest sinking back down again.

  The air wouldn’t stay inside my daughter.

  Benny didn’t wake me up the following morning. Didn’t ease me up from my dream like she usually does. I had to snap myself back. Woke up
and found her just next to me, barely breathing. Her eyes were wide open, staring up at nothing.

  Benny? What’s wrong?

  I carried her across the underpass, back to the mainland. Hefted her the whole way to the hospital, just praying we’d make it. Lost the feeling in my arms fast, but I held onto her the whole time.

  We’re almost there, Benny, I said. Almost there.

  The sliding glass doors parted, welcoming Benny inside. I rushed her right to the front desk, all out of breath. The nurse took one look at us and froze. Stared at me like I was holding up the place.

  You’ve got to help her, I begged. She’s sick with something.

  What’s her name? Do you know her name?

  Benny, all right? Now just do something!

  Spent fifteen minutes in the waiting room. I quickly started to feel like I didn’t belong. Looking over all the wounded, the sick. Everyone waiting for a doctor to call out a name. This little girl sitting next to me was as anxious as I was to get the hell out of there, scuffing her heels along the carpet. Her mom took one look at me and moved her daughter a couple rows over Most folks were giving me a wide berth by then, sitting as far away from me as humanly possible. Then I caught sight of a couple of security guards coming my way. The nurse from the front desk was following right behind them, pointing at me. Panic set into my system, telling me I better act quick. But Benny wouldn’t know where to go. She’d think I left her there, just up and abandoned her. The guards picked up their pace as soon as I stood. I cut them off at the sliding glass doors.

  They followed me as far as the parking lot before giving up. All the while, I just kept saying to myself, Belle Isle, Benny. Just meet me back at Belle Isle.

  Three days I wandered around. Took every nature path I could find, weaving in and out of the woods. I read every marker I stumbled upon until there wasn’t a corner on the island where I didn’t know exactly what had happened. Class was in session. Time for my history lesson. Get up on my Richmond. Wait for Benny to come home.