Black Water Rising

by Attica Locke

  He remembers looking around the courtroom every morning and not recognizing a soul. His friends all stayed away, treating his arrest and pending incarceration as something contagious. He was humbled, almost sickened with shame to see the women from the church, women he did not even know, show up every day, taking up the first two and three rows in the gallery. Never speaking, or making a scene. Just there, every time he turned around.

  We got you, son. We’re not gon’ let you fall. His own mother hadn’t come to the courthouse once, hadn’t even come to see him in lockup.

  He didn’t know Bernie then or her father, didn’t know the church or God. He was a young man full of ideas that were sim­

  ple, black and white. He liked to talk big about the coming revo­

  lution, about the church negro who was all show and no action, who was doing nothing for the cause . . . a word spoken one too many times, worked into one too many speeches, until it had lost all meaning for Jay, until it was just a word, a shortcut, a litmus test for picking sides.

  Well, he’s not on anyone’s side anymore. Except his own. There are other American dreams, he reasons.

  One is money, of course. A different kind of freedom and seemingly within his reach. If he works hard, wears a suit, plays by the new rules.

  His dreams are simple now. Home, his wife, his baby. He watches Bernadine, moving to the music, wiping sweat from her brow, pasting stray black hairs against her bronze 12 Attic a L o c ke

  skin. Jay stands perfectly still, lost in the sway of his wife’s hips. Right, then left, then right again. He smiles and leans over the cooler for a second beer, feeling the boat moving beneath his feet.

  An hour or so later, the cake cut and the food nearly gone, Jay and Bernie are alone on the deck, trading the hot, humid air inside the cabin for the hot, humid air outside. At least on the deck, there’s the hope of a breeze as the boat travels west on the water. Bernie leans her forearms against the hand railing, sticking her face into the moist night air. Jay pops the top of his Coors. His fourth, or maybe his fifth. He lost count somewhere near Turning Basin, the only spot between downtown and the Port of Houston where a boat can turn around on the narrow bayou. They are heading back to Allen’s Landing now, but are still a few miles from downtown. From the rear of the boat, Jay can see the lights of the high-rise buildings up ahead, the head­

  quarters of Cole Oil Industries standing tall above the rest. To the rear of the boat is a view of the port and the Ship Channel, lined with oil refineries on either side. From here, the refineries are mere clusters of blinking lights and puffs of smoke, white against the swollen charcoal sky, rising on the dewy horizon like cities on a distant planet.

  Between the refineries and downtown Houston, there’s not much to look at but water and trees as the boat floats through a stretch of nearly pitch-black darkness. Jay stands next to his wife on the deck, following shadows with his eyes, tracing the silhouette of moss hanging from the aged water oaks that line the banks of the water. He finishes his beer, dropping the can onto the deck.

  Bla c k Wat er R isi n g 13

  They are about to head back inside when they hear the first scream, what sounds at first like a cat’s cry, shrill and desper­

  ate. It’s coming from the north side of the bayou, high above them, from somewhere in the thick of trees and weeds lining the bank. At first Jay thinks of an animal caught in the brush. But then . . . he hears it again. He looks at his wife. She too is star­

  ing through the trees. The old man in the baseball cap suddenly emerges from the captain’s cabin, a narrow slip of a room at the head of the boat, housing the gears and controls. “What the hell was that?” he asks, looking at Jay and Bernie. Jay shakes his head even though he already knows. Some­

  where deep down, he knows. It wasn’t an animal he heard. It was a woman.

  The old man ducks into the main cabin. A few seconds later, Jay hears the music stop . . . then silence, nothing except the soft whisper of water lapping against the sides of the boat as they creep slowly along the surface of the bayou.

  The old man emerges from the main cabin. “Y’all heard something?”

  “Over there,” Bernie says, pointing to the brush along the embankment.

  Jay strains to make out any buildings behind the trees, try­

  ing to place where they are. He makes quick calculations, judg­

  ing their distance from downtown with his eyes, trying to gauge how long they’ve been drifting westward. But in the darkness and with his drunken sense of time, he can only guess. They are somewhere near Lockwood Drive, near Fifth Ward, that much he can tell. He can see part of the Freedman’s National Bank clock from here, rising high behind the trees. It’s late, he real­

  izes, just shy of midnight.

  He’s had a couple of cases come out of Fifth Ward. Property disputes and petty theft. But also fistfights and holdups and one 14 Attic a L o c k

  kid who knifed another one just for playing his music too loud. Jay knows they are floating through the back side of the one of the roughest neighborhoods in the city.

  Bernie turns to her husband. “Something’s wrong out there, Jay.”

  Behind them, there’s another scream, a howl really, a plea. A woman’s voice, shaped into two very distinct words: Help me.

  Jay feels a slight flutter across his chest, a tiny hiccup of dread.

  Bernie’s voice drops to a whisper. “What in the devil is going on out there?”

  The old man disappears into the captain’s cabin. A few seconds later, he emerges carrying a flashlight. Bernie and Jay clear the narrow deck, giving him room to pass as he starts for the rear of the boat. He shines the weak light into the brush on the north side of the bayou, calling out into the dark­

  ness, to a face none of them can see. “You okay out there?”

  There’s no response. The old man waves his light through the trees. They’re traveling at an even clip, creeping slowly, but surely, farther away from her. The old man calls out again.

  “Hey . . . you okay out there?”

  A gunshot cracks through the air.

  Jay’s heart stops, everything going still. He has a fleeting, panicked thought that . . . this is it. He actually looks down to see if he’s been hit, an old habit set off by firecrackers and bad muf­

  flers, a holdover from his other life.

  There’s a second shot then. It echoes and rolls across the air like thunder.

  The old man lets out a low, raspy moan. “God in heaven.”

  Bernie mutters a prayer under her breath.

  Jay grabs for his wife’s hand, pulling her toward the door to Bla c k Wat er R isi n g 15

  the main cabin, away from the open deck. Bernie yanks her hand free of his, the movement strong and decisive, the force of it caus­

  ing her feet to slide a little on the slick surface of the deck. She steadies herself on the railing, turning to face the old man in the baseball cap. “Sir, I think you’d better turn this thing around.”

  The old man in the baseball cap stares at Bernie, sure she’s not serious. “I can’t,” he says to her and Jay. “The bayou’s too narrow.

  ’Sides the basin, ain’t no place to turn her around ’til we get back to Allen’s Landing.”

  “Then stop the boat,” Bernie says.

  The old man shoots a quick glance in Jay’s direction, making it clear that he intends to take no instruction from the pregnant woman, not without her husband’s say-so, which only infuriates Bernie. “Stop this boat,” she says again.

  In the end, the old man relents, starting on his own for the captain’s cabin.

  Jay grabs his arm. “Don’t.”

  “Somebody’s in trouble out there, Jay!”

  “There are two people out there, B,” he says. “The girl and who or whatever it is she’s running from.” He’s picturing a street fight or a knock-down, drag-out between lovers or something worse . . . much, much worse.

  “Leave it alo
ne,” he hears himself say.

  Bernie stares at Jay, her voice hushed. “What is the matter with you?”

  Her disappointment in him, no matter how it cuts, is not the point.

  “Somebody’s shooting out there, B,” he says. “You got me and him on this boat . . .” he says, pointing to the only other able body on board, a man almost seventy. “And my wife,” Jay adds, lower­

  ing his voice to match hers, trying to get her to see it his way. “I, for one, am not willing to put you or myself at risk to step into 16 Attic a L o c ke

  some trouble we don’t know the first thing about. We don’t know that girl, don’t know what kind of trouble she brings,” he says, hearing the cynicism in his voice, hating it, but feeling pressed to speak it anyway. The oldest con in the book, he thinks to himself, is the damsel in distress, the girl with the flat tire by the side of the road, the one with a boyfriend waiting in the weeds to jump you as soon as you stop to help. “Just leave it alone,” he says. Bernie stares at him for a long, painful moment, squinting around the edges of her eyes, as if she’s trying to place him, someone she used to know. “Oh, Jay,” she say with a sigh.

  “We’ll call the police,” he says, deciding it just then. It’s a good plan: clean, simple, logical.

  The old man is sheepish, slow to move, shuffling the ball of his right foot on the deck’s floor. “We ain’t got a city license to run this thing after hours.”

  “What?” Jay says.

  “Oh, God,” Bernie mumbles.

  “Call the police, man,” Jay says firmly.

  The old man sighs and walks to a dirty white phone that’s smudged with oil and grime and resting outside the door to the captain’s cabin. He lifts the phone, what looks more like a walkie-talkie or a CB receiver. He dials, then pauses, listening, straining, it seems. Jay and Bernie wait, watching as the old man punches the buttons on the phone a few times. Hearing nothing, he finally slams the receiver in its cradle. The phone, apparently, is not working.

  “Fucking Jimmy,” the old man says.

  There’s another scream, closer this time.

  Bernie grabs the flashlight from the old man’s hand, swinging the cloudy white light toward the embankment in time to see a flash of motion in the trees, a rustling in the brush. They watch as a body drops, rolling zigzag down the steep bank, bumping Bla c k Wat er R isi n g 17

  up against weeds and uneven soil. It rolls all the way down the embankment, then . . . it disappears. Jay hears a quiet splash, a sucking sound, the bayou swallowing something whole. Then . . . nothing. For what seems like an eternity. Bernie looks at Jay. He can hear his own heartbeat, low in his throat.

  A moment later, a ripple breaks the still water, its waves spread like arms offering an embrace. “Somebody’s moving out there,”

  the captain mumbles.

  There’s a burp and gurgle of air. Something surfaces on the water.

  Jay hears splashing, then a cry, hoarse and starved for air. Bernie waits for no one’s permission. She marches into the captain’s cabin. The old man makes a move to stop her, then thinks better of it. Bernie can barely fit her body inside the small captain’s cabin. She has to reach past her belly to touch the key sticking out of the control board, turning it to the left. The engine sputters, then falls quiet.

  No one on the deck moves, no one says a word.

  Bernie and the old man are both looking at Jay. He moves quickly, without a word being said, removing his watch, but not his wedding band, thinking to himself that this is one of those times when being a man, or rather trying to play the part to any convincing degree, trumps his better judgment. He’s not exactly a big guy to begin with, and the years have softened his once wiry frame. He kicks off his shoes, then lifts his shirt from his pants, past the slight paunch around his middle. He starts to take it off, but changes his mind. He makes an awkward climb onto the deck’s railing, takes a deep breath, holding it tight and precious in his chest, and jumps.

  The water is warm and bitter. It comes in everywhere, in his mouth and throat, through his clothes. Beneath the black sur­

  18 Attic a L o c ke

  face, the bayou is alive, pulling at him, tugging at his arms and legs. He feels twigs and leaves and what he hopes are only fish brushing against his arms and legs. He has some vague sense of the light from the boat, but his eyes are burning. It’s impossible to see clearly. He moves blindly through the darkness, reeled in by the sound of her voice.

  When he feels something stringy in his hands, tangling around his fingers, he knows he’s found her; her hair is in his hands. She’s gurgling, spitting and coughing. He wraps an arm around her sternum and pulls. He turns toward the boat, momentarily disoriented by the white light shining in his eyes. He pulls and swims, swims and pulls, until his legs burn, until his arms ache, until he is sure they will both drown. Within a few feet of the boat, he pushes harder, past what he thinks is his limit. When he reaches a thin ladder at the back of the vessel, he strains to lift her body overhead. The captain reaches over the side of the rail­

  ing to help lift the woman, weak and limp, onto the boat’s deck. Jay is bent over, his hands on his knees, trying to line up one breath after another, trying not to pass out. Out of the corner of his eye, he gets the first good look at the woman he carried across the bayou, the life he’s just saved.

  She’s white and filthy.

  There’s black dirt coating her skin, dead leaves clinging to her arms. She’s terrified, shaking, staring at a room full of black faces, each of whom is staring back at her. The boat’s cabin is still and quiet except for the AC unit buzzing in the window and the drops of water raining off their bodies, hers and Jay’s.

  “He follow you?”

  It’s his first question, before her name, before he asks if she’s okay.

  Bla c k Wat er R isi n g 19

  She can’t, or won’t, speak. She sits on the edge of one of the folding chairs at the table, her teeth chattering, blue and yel­

  low balloons swaying incongruously over her head. Bernie, in the other seat, reaches across the table for a stack of wrinkled paper napkins. She offers them to the stranger, who is soaking wet. But the woman won’t let go of her purse long enough to take one.

  “Are you okay?” Bernie asks gently.

  Jay’s eyes skim the woman’s body, her arms, her legs, her face.

  She has not been shot, he sees right away. The skin beneath her neck is red and swollen, but Jay can’t be sure if that was his doing—when he grabbed her in the water—or someone else’s. Other than that, there isn’t a scratch on her. She looks up, aware that Jay is watching her, and tightens the grip on her purse, as if she half-expects him to make a clean snatch and run away with it. He senses this white woman is afraid of him. He ignores the insult, stuffing his rising anger, an emotion that will in no way serve him.

  “Where is he?” he asks.

  Still she doesn’t speak.

  “Where is he?” Jay asks again, harder this time.

  “I don’t know,” she says, opening her mouth for the first time, her voice sweet but raw, like a rusty church bell swinging on its hinge. “I ran, I just ran.”

  Jay, still thinking there’s a gun somewhere close by, turns to the old man in the baseball cap. “Start the boat,” he orders the captain. “Now.”

  The old man slips through the cabin door, and a few moments later, Jay hears the engine start. He turns back to the woman.

  “What happened to you?”

  She lowers her eyes, her face taking on a hot, crimson color. 20 Attic a L o c ke

  She is too shamed, it seems, to look him in the eye.

  “He attack you?”

  “Jay,” Bernie says softly. She shakes her head at her husband, a silent suggestion that whatever went on behind those trees, maybe this woman, terrified and shaking, is not ready to say it out loud, in mixed company no less. Jay nods, backing off, but he doesn’t take his eyes off the stranger. She lost her shoes some­


  where in the water, but Jay can tell by the cut and fabric of her dress that it isn’t cheap. She’s also missing an earring. Its twin is round and gold with a diamond in the center. There’s a diamond on her ring finger too—right hand, not left—a rock three times bigger than the one Bernie is wearing. Her purse, the one she won’t let go of, has little G’s printed all over it. It’s Italian, Jay knows, like the ones those rich insurance company lawyers carry into the courtroom.

  Eyeing the clothes and the rock, Jay asks, “Where were you?”

  “Excuse me?” the woman says, a surprising edge in her voice.

  “Where were you coming from?”

  She stares at him blankly, as if she doesn’t understand the question, but Jay catches an unmistakable flash of recognition in her copper-colored eyes. He thinks she knows exactly what he’s asking: what was a woman like you doing in a neighborhood like this, ’round about midnight, alone?

  She cuts her eyes away from Jay, turning to Bernie instead. “Is there a washroom I can use?”

  Bernie points to a swinging door across the room. It stops short of the floor, offering little privacy except for a small painted sign that says occupied, a smiley face drawn inside the O. Bernie offers the paper napkins again. The woman is slow to move, her body stiff, like a broken doll, held together at this late hour by sheer will, as if she’s afraid that any tiny motion might break her Bla c k Wat er R isi n g 21

  in two. And she won’t let go of her purse. Bernie reaches for the handbag, as if to set it on the table for the woman. But the move startles her. She lets out a small cry in protest, her eyes alight with a kind of panic. Bernie lets go of the purse instantly, and the bag tumbles from both their hands. They all watch as it falls onto the floor, landing with surprising softness. Its mouth open to the room, the purse, Jay sees, is empty. It contains nothing, not a lipstick case or a book of matches, not even house keys or a few coins. Like her missing shoes and earring, it seems the contents of the woman’s purse were lost somewhere in the bayou. Lost, or dumped, he thinks, the word occurring to him unexpectedly, lodging itself stubbornly in the back of his mind, like a sharp pebble in his shoe.