The rain comes in gray swaths. Hatch and Cosmo cut into a doorway where others have also sought refuge. Hatch’s soggy sneakers fart whenever he wiggles his toes. Cosmo turns, faces the crowd from under his fedora. Spreads his arms wide, greeting the rain. We are gathered here today …
Rain transforms the streets into angry rivers, swirling eddies. Hard wind slaps hats off heads. Hair flattened into a flying wave, Cosmo ducks under an awning, shoves others aside to squeeze in, create his own little bit of space, elbow room. Together they stare out silently into the street at a curtain of performing rain and a swollen gutter. Police officers wrapped in plastic direct almost stationary traffic. Cosmo shivers, building up energy for an illumination, which does not come. A full hour before the rain eases. A mocking peck of blue sky.
Morning light fell slant upon the couch, where Cosmo lay under several layers of blankets, feverish — throat clogged, eyes shut in pain — and holding his stomach like a pregnant woman.
You may be sick, but you better keep an eye on yo brother when he get home from school, Mamma said.
Sure.
Make sure he eats his dinner.
Sure.
And don’t aggravate him.
Sure.
The moment the door shut, he rose from the couch, red robe and slippers flaming about him, and stood rigidly in place, the sole of one foot clamped behind his knee, and the palm of his hand masking his eyes. One cheek black and puffy, the other, colorless and tent taut. The morning opened around him and he stood erect in its center, a stamen.
A ripe day. The sky so near that Hatch drew back from its heat. The sun blinked a drunk’s red eye. Red clouds stumbled. He withdrew into shadow, band upon band, bar upon bar. His hands crimson wings.
Constellations as pale as milk. Stars banged against roofs. Hatch passed the lit windows of houses, perhaps a face or two looking out from them. Then home. The porch glowed with light and softened the darkness. He moved cautiously upon the black stairs. Opened the door. Fire shot through the back of his neck.
The hard wooden floor sagged under his waterlogged spine. He squeezed back burning tears. His legs stiff. His neck stiff, caught in some unseen bear’s honed teeth. How long had he been here? He turned his head and the bear bit harder. Two spotlights gawked down at him from the ceiling. A third fixture cast a cone of light on a large white sheet draped along the long window like a sail and flapping freely. The room was completely bare, all furniture gone.
Punk, get on up. I ain’t got all day.
He could not see Cosmo, only hear him. He explored the back of his neck with cautious fingers, trying to pinpoint teeth, triage physical damage.
Forget yo neck.
My neck is fine!
The unseen bear teeth clamped down.
Then get up.
I ain’t.
Get up.
No. You play too much.
I ain’t playin. Cosmo moved somewhere in the room. He stepped into the cone of light wearing a robe and slippers, the same red robe and slippers from earlier. Eyes wide. Skin taut like burns freshly healed. And the swollen cheek, an unwanted growth. His shadow shimmered against the sheet.
Wait till Mamma see what you done. The furniture.
Cosmo stood there, eyes wide spotlights. He spread a slow grin.
I’m tellin. You gon get a whupping when Mamma get home.
Cosmo watched him for a moment. Then he tightened the cord of his robe. We got some business to take care of.
I ain’t doing no business with you.
Shut up.
You can’t make me.
Cosmo moved across the room with his new walk. Didn’t I tell you to shut the fuck up? Bones creaking, Hatch raised himself to hands and knees. The bear matched his resistance, lodging its teeth into the bone, asserting claim. He tried to rise but found that his legs too had come under new allegiance, chained and posted traps around his ankles. He dragged himself backward into the corner, the most he could do. Cosmo reached him, slapped him upside the head.
Hatch collapsed. I’m gon tell Dad too. He covered his head with his hands.
What! Cosmo flashed a look of pure hatred. His puffy cheek expanded, ready to explode. He leaned forward and slapped repeatedly at Hatch’s wrists.
You retarded — peeping up. You really are.
Cosmo smacked him again, short and sharp. He seemed to calm. And he leaned away from Hatch, slowly, and righted himself, his eyes minus their fierce light, and withdrew back into his empty fixed look. You shut up, or I’ll give you some trouble.
Hatch lowered his hands. And if you do—
Cosmo readied his hand. Look out now.
Hatch guarded his head. He breathed like someone who had been running. He remembered the water pistol. Maybe if he had it now …
Cosmo lowered his hand. Touched the cord of his robe. Let’s get this business outta the way.
Hatch could no longer feel the bear’s teeth in his neck, but he knew it was there, still found it hard to move his legs, impossible to take his feet.
Cosmo moved back to the other side of the room, slippers clapping, and leaning so far forward that he might have fallen flat on his face. He entered the cone of light, turned, and faced Hatch. Spread his arms wide. Welcome brother — speaking with his new impenetrable expression.
Hatch rolled his hands over his chest, searching, certain that the bear was tired out from all of the struggle and activity and had gone into hibernation.
Cosmo squatted on his haunches, the low position propelling more air up into his rising black cheek. He fingered the sheet. Come over here behind this sheet.
I see you, Hatch said. Don’t think I don’t. But the bear had settled into a deep slumber, and his brother watched him, a fading glow, even dull radiance, some unclaimed and impatient skin shape summoned by dim regret — a singular desire to look deed and aftermath stonily in the face and move on.
Same
Boards don’t hit back.
I
His mother’s name was Glory Hope Lincoln. His father had a wandering eye. On a bright summer day, she cut his daddy’s dick off and threw it out the window.
You dead, bitch, Daddy said.
The Lord giveth and he also taketh away, Glory said.
Daddy put his hands over his crotch and went searching for his member. Later, Glory and the cops found him slumped against a mailbox five blocks away.
The officers were all white men, Glory said, but they didn’t arrest me. They knew that it was the Lord himself who had guided my hand. Oh, Jesus is a mighty man!
Glory always told the story to him, her son, Lincoln Roosevelt Lincoln, in the kitchen, a large room, hot and bright inside with sunlight from the big window behind the sink. She sat stiff in her chair — akin in structure and appearance to an infant’s high chair, it was specially built to compensate for her height — her eyes closed, her head back, and her thick gray hair pulled tight into a ponytail, as if someone were trying to snatch her out the window. She was the darkest shade of black, and Lincoln wondered how she could be his mother, since he himself was so light that even a touch of sun made him tan. Her cheeks glowed red, two small furnaces — this woman round and fat from good living.
Lincoln sat in his own chair, tears hot on his cheeks.
Glory opened her eyes and looked him full in the face. Man, she said, don’t lose your head over a piece of tail!
Lincoln could no longer remember when she had first told him the story, but when he was eight, she said, Set your tail down over there, where I can see you. He sat down in his chair.