by Bill Cheng
There was a pop, and a jet of gray water gushed through the embankment. Shouts rose up and a wave of men raced toward the break. They shored it up with their bodies, crying more men, more men. The air cracked and the ground trembled. The water ripped through them like paper, sending them into the air, into the mud. The river burst forward and the levee crumbled under it, tearing through the camp, through forest, rising up in a great yellow wall, driving close, fast, screaming like a train, its roar sucking up the sky, a voice crowning open like the Almighty, through Fitler and Cary and Nitta Yuma, acre by acre, through cornfields and cotton rows; through plantation houses and dogtrots, wood and brick and mortar, through the depots and churches and rail yards, through forest and valley, snapping boulders through the air. Houses rose up, bobbed, then smashed together like eggshells. Homes bled out their insides—bureaus, bathtubs, drawers, gramophones—before folding into themselves. The people scrambled up on their roofs, up trees, clinging to one another. The water blew them from their perches, swept them into the drift, smashed them against the debris. They bubbled up swollen and drowned, rag-dolling in the current, moving deeper and deeper inland, toward Issaquena.
WHEN THE FLOODWATERS CAME, ELLIS lay sprawled in his chair, smothered down in sleep. In his dream he could hear his boy call for him—Daddy, Daddy—up through the depths, his voice crashing, warm at first then a jolt of panic. Each call came brighter, sharper—Daddy, please Daddy—hoisting him up through miles of dreaming. His eyes opened into the bright noise of the world. The floorboards were dark and swollen at his feet. Water bubbled up through the planks. Daddy. Wake up, Daddy, he heard, and he saw Little Robert beside him tugging hard on his flannel shirt.
I’m awake, Ellis said, his voice hoarse. He rose unsteadily to his feet. They watched a rocking chair slide on its legs. The water was climbing. The boy threw himself around his father’s waist and out of habit Ellis touched the back of the boy’s neck.
Go get your mama, he said.
Ellis wrapped up what food he could in newspaper and crammed their clothes into carpetbags and satchels. Quick now, he called to his son. Robert was waiting with his mother, holding her hand. She was dressed in her powder-blue church dress with a straw sun hat fit over her head.
Ellis moved toward her.
Etta, he began, but then he heard the house crack under his feet. Come on, let’s go.
He unlatched the front door and the water sluiced through, soaking his lower half. Ellis grunted, pushed through the doorway, and out onto the porch.
Beyond the steps, the floodwaters prickled moodily over the surrounding country. The dogwoods were stunted, their fluffed heads bowed over the water. Toward town, houses had broken free from their foundations and were bobbing in place.
Daddy.
He turned and the boy’s eyes started to glass. He sent Robert inside for a rope and made a yoke around his waist, tying one end to his wife and the other to his son.
Stay close together, he told them.
Ellis went in first. He lowered himself slowly off the porch, into the rush of water. He bit down on his yell and tried to shake the ice from his head. A piano floated by and he swung to the side and let it pass. He balanced his bundle on his head and looked up at his wife and son.
Just like a bath. That’s all it is, he said.
He motioned for Robert to come down next. Then Etta. Her dress flowered up around her, and she held her hat down against her head. Oh, she said. They shivered and hugged themselves, the slack of the rope floating up between them.
They waded against the current toward the telegraph poles in the distance, to Rolling Fork. Every now and then Ellis would cry out left, left, right, right and he could feel the tug against his waist, the knot biting into his hip as they dodged the flotsam. Pebbles churned in the yellow soup, hitting his legs and ribs and stomach.
Midday, the rain stopped and the sun broke through into the clean sky. The waters washed against them in thick moody rolls. Around them, people lay on their roofs, blankets spread out under them. The air buzzed with their crying. One man called out to them in a high ragged voice. Ellis watched him over his shoulder, jumping up and down and swinging his arms.
Boy! You there!
Robert looked over.
Don’t pay him no attention, Ellis said.
Hey! Where you going?
There was a crack and a crown of water splashed up some feet away from Robert.
I’m talking to you!
Another crack, and Robert winced. He kept his head down and they trudged forward.
THEY’D GONE FOR HOURS THROUGH the numbing waters, their heads drooped and the space behind their eyes, deep and sonorous. Ellis felt the walls of his skull tensing. The waters stretched forever, smothering the roads and fields and district lines. Roof shingles drifted in the distance. He only dimly knew where he was, sighting out the tips of landmarks that peaked above the waterline. Robert was guiding his mama along, taking wide strides through the muck. He could hardly keep his eyes open. Ellis squeezed the bridge of his nose. The cave of his head yawned vast with air. He willed his legs forward but they refused.
Ellis shut his eyes. He did not know how much longer they could go on. He could make out a noise in the distance. It was a song, coming through warm and brown. He opened his eyes and across the water he saw a boat skimming between the rooftops, and the man in it, pulling his oars back and singing toward the sky.
I’m only going over Jordan, I’m only going over home, the man sang. I’m going there to see my Father, going there no more to roam.
Hello, Ellis called out.
The man let the oars hang loose in the water.
Hello!, the man answered.
The man paddled toward them, pulling up the water in white lashes. He was youngish—handsome with a thin sprinkling of hair on his sharp chin. How do you do? the man said. He extended out his hand. Name of Stuckey.
Ellis lifted his own hand up from the water, wiped it on his shirt, and shook it. I’m Ellis Chatham and here’s my family. We been crossing over from Issaquena County.
Looks like you Chathams are wet in a bad way.
Was wondering if you could carry us some, Ellis said.
You don’t say.
The man’s tongue worked something over between his teeth. He leaned against the gunwale and flicked something away from his hair.
What you got in them satchels?
The muzzle of his pistol rested over the lip of the boat. Come on now, let’s see them.
Just some food, Ellis said. Clothes. What little we got. We’d be happy to trade some—
The man gestured with his gun. Get in, he said.
We ain’t looking for no kind of trouble, Mr. Stuckey.
The boat, the man said.
Ellis wedged his hands under Robert’s arms and lifted him up. He set the boy down on the boat floor. Etta was next. Stuckey pulled her up by her arm, the heel of his boot anchored to the transom to keep from falling. Her dress clung to her thighs and she plucked the sticky cloth from around her legs. Her hat flipped off her head and went into the water. On board, her legs gave under her and she crawled to Robert, gathering him into her arms and cooing into his ear.
Well, well, Stuckey said. He reached for Ellis and heaved him in.
Looks like I caught me some duckies.
The rowboat was wide and long. The Chathams set themselves up at the stern-side bench. Stuckey went through their sacks, throwing their clothes and keepsakes carelessly on the puddled floor. He found the loaf of bread and tore into it, his breath squeaking through his nostrils. He snorted, swallowed, and tossed the rest to the Chathams.
Stale, he said, wiping his mouth.
Ellis stared at him.
Go on. Eat, Stuckey said, opening up another satchel. Son of man, eat thy bread with quaking and drink thy water with trembling and c
arefulness.
Ellis broke the loaf into pieces and handed a piece to the boy. Robert ate slowly and quietly, nestled in between his mama’s arms.
What you going to do with us?, Ellis asked.
The man stood up. Etta tightened around the boy.
Row, the man said.
STUCKEY HUNG HIS HAND OFF the side of the boat, letting his fingers slice into the water. They were in the basin, where the water had gone high-deep. Beneath, dogtrots and lean-tos hung in the water—neither floating nor sinking. Now and again, something would bubble up to the surface. A chair. A table. A blouse. He skimmed up the blue wad of cloth, then spread it open. It was small. A girl’s. He looked at it amused, then set it back in the water.
You know, friend, if there’s a heaven, I hope it’s a dry one.
Ellis had stripped off his shirt—a thin skin of sweat greased his body. With each stroke, he let out a breath. Behind him, Etta was still clutching the boy, shivering, staring back at the man.
Stuckey sat up.
You a man of God, friend?
Ellis kept on with his paddling.
That’s all right. You don’t have to tell me. Me, my daddy was a pastor outside of Tunica. Tiny little place. A flock that wasn’t more than a sheep and a half. He made me say verses and passages every night at supper. It got so’s I’d turn hungry every time someone read from Corinthians. That man used to go on and on, about the angry God and the loving God.
Stuckey leaned forward.
Now which one of those you believe in?
Ellis lifted the paddles up and let the boat drift. He stared hard at the man. The sun had started setting and was bruising pink overhead. Mosquitoes skimmed along the surface of the water, and he could hear the creaking of bust-up houses shifting beneath them.
Stuckey shook his head.
You said you from Issaquena County? You hear about that boy they hanged two months ago? Fourteen. Was off fooling with some plantation owner’s daughter. A real beauty. A real lily as they say. Well, right before they strung him up, they got the rope round his neck, they ask him why he’d done it. You know what he said?
Ellis clenched his face together. The tendons in his shoulders tightened.
Love! You believe that?
Stuckey laughed.
Now, I done a lot in my time. Don’t even start me to talking. But go near a white woman? Never. I’d never be that reckless. Shoot.
Stuckey opened his arms and swept them over the boat. In the distance, a train lay on its side, figures huddled on top of the boxcar. Telegraph poles had collapsed together in a nest of crucifixions, their cables willowing into the dark water.
I mean, will you look at this mess?
It could’ve been the ocean for all Robert knew—the water going on and on forever in every direction save for the small stitch of telegraph line in the distance. They rowed over a switching station, and he looked over the side to see the trains underneath.
There’s nothing to see, Stuckey said. He was lying across the length of the boat, his hat tipped over his eyes. He crossed his legs and Robert could see the soles of his boots, worked and muddy.
Robert’s mama had fallen asleep holding him. Her head was slumped against his shoulder, her chin hooking down from behind. She breathed slow and deep.
He could feel himself slipping off as well, watching the rhythms of his father’s rowing—the muscles in his back crimping on every stroke, the greased sheen of his body with the sun on his neck. There had not been any crying or wailing for hours. There was not another soul. Only the oars patting the water.
Robert stood up suddenly, tearing free from his mama’s hold. He stared out toward the horizon, shading his eyes against the light. He had heard it. Like a piece of wire humming. Ellis held the oars midpaddle. Stuckey lifted the hat from his face. They looked out together. The clouds were spread thin over the horizon, the underbelly gone red and raw. The others had heard it too. Muffled and small, but it was there all the same. A voice. A human voice traveling out across the water.
He rolled his head back and set his arm over his eyes.
Well, Stuckey said. Go on then.
They spotted a slice of high ground where the sun dissolved into the water. They rowed toward it, watching it grow by degrees into a grass jetty—a narrow arm of land, slanting up into the hill country. A man on the banks hollered out across the water, Lord Lord Lord! Show mercy for us the poor and the sinful.
The man’s shirt was unbuttoned, his preacher’s collar splayed open. Around him were piles of white cloth. It wasn’t till the boat had almost touched land that Robert saw that they were men and women done up in baptismal robes. Their heads were pressed into the grass as they moaned and twitched. Men in tan uniforms were stepping carefully among them, touching their wrists or feeling their foreheads, then scratching their notes out on their clipboards.
The boat floated into the shallows and Stuckey stood up.
You get off here, he said. He pointed to their bundles. These you won’t be needing anymore.
Robert climbed out of the boat and waded toward the shore, his mama and his daddy following behind him. His legs were stiff and he was so tired he felt like he would fall through the earth.
He looked behind him. Stuckey was already at the oars. He smiled back at Robert, lifting up one hand to wave. Then he took up the paddles and worked them back, sliding out toward the dark water.
Wash the devilment from your souls!, the preacher cried. From gambling halls and cathouses! He has seen our wickedness!
Robert felt his daddy’s warm hand graze the back of his neck.
He has seen our wretchedness! Let us be clean! Take the Devil from our souls!
Over here!, a voice called out. Three men in uniforms came running toward them. They pulled the Chathams up from the bank, one by one, and wrapped them in blankets. Robert’s mama sat down on the grass. The men tried to lift her up, but she closed her eyes and shook her head.
The men looked at each other. Then they took out their clipboards and started in on their questions. Ma’am, what’s your name? Do you know your address?
His mama only stared, holding the blanket tightly around her front. His daddy tried to say something, but a man in uniform stood in front of him.
Sir, sir. I need your attention a moment.
Robert listened to the way they talked, those cramped, pinched voices. They were young and extraordinarily white, whiter than most white men he’d seen. There wasn’t any kind of burn on their noses or faces or necks, just pale apple flesh.
Son, you need to tell me your name, son. Before we can help you, we need to know your name. For the chart.
Robert, his daddy said. Answer the man.
The man wrote something down on his sheet.
Sir, I need this young man to speak for himself.
That’s my boy Robert, his daddy said. He’s only eight.
Sir. Please.
Tell him, Robert. It’s all right.
Sir, another man said. I need you to pay attention to me. You can talk with your family later but for right now, you need to talk to me.
Now hold on there, his daddy said, standing.
Sir.
Now hold on.
Sir. Sir, please, sir, they said.
The men circled around his daddy. Their hands were up in front of them, as if they were afraid he might pounce.
Robert watched the scene. More men in uniform charged down the hill past them toward the water. People were still coming in—some on boats, or pieces of wood yoked together with twine. They called out for help and the white men would splash down after them.
When he turned back, his mama was gone, the print of her wet body still on the grass. He looked around. The white men were moving swiftly from one person to another. They went around carrying blankets and urns of coffee. A
woman was crying, cradling a bundle in her arms, and one of the men was trying to take it away. Robert kept looking. He saw his mama walking past the preacher, toward the water’s edge. No one else noticed her as she moved among them, stepping over their prostrate bodies, her blanket dragging in a tail behind her. Robert’s daddy and the men were still arguing. Robert got up and ran after her.
He caught up with his mama at the flood bank and slipped his hand quietly into hers. She looked at him as if trying to place who he was, then she shifted her shoulders and cinched up the blanket tightly around them both.
Farther down the bank, a man was howling, beating his head with his fists. He rushed out into the water and it took four men to pull him back. A terrible wail escaped his body and he struggled in their arms before finally going slack.
Robert’s mama squeezed his small palm.
Serves them right, she said.
Robert put his hand in his pocket. Dora’s stone was still there. The preacher’s voice gathered in some far-off part of his mind like silt. Years later, he would think back to this moment, holding the stone—its smooth black surface digging into the meat of his palm, the water still sticky on his skin. Love, the man had said. Will you look at this mess?
PART TWO
HOTEL BEAU-MIEL
(1932)
Augustus Duke wiped the pollen from his goggles and cranked hard on the gearbox. The A-Model kicked forward, churning yellow air under the tires. There were flowers on the roadside—whole bouquets of roses, irises, carnations—dried into fists. The smell followed him all the way to the Big Farm. It was in the air, in the hollows of his nose and mouth, puddled up in the jaw of spit. He watched the Farm rise up from beneath the road, the acres of plowed earth and wood houses behind a six-mile stretch of chicken wire and guard towers. Up at the gate, he turned off the engine. A guard came out from the guardhouse and met the car. His uniform was unbuttoned and his undershirt was matted with sweat.
Help you?
Duke unstrapped the goggles, massaging the red circles around his eyes. He showed him the envelope from his pocket. The guard turned it over, read the name, then frowned.
