A rattle of rain, hard, slamming, glancing with wind, big crystal-like drops shattering against the window. Then bright light spoking through the clouds. A rainbow formed, a pot of gold at either end to weigh it down, keep it earthbound. Leprechauns leaped at the colored bands with open hands.
Seated inside the deep tub, he extended his arms winglike, grabbed the hard enamel sides, and tried to pilot the vessel forward. The claw-feet dug porcelain talons into the bathroom tiles.
Boy, soap yo rag real good. Blunt stood near the sink, a big washcloth folded over her palm and hanging down to her forearm like loose pizza dough.
Yes’m.
And soap that rag good over yo whole body.
Yes’m.
And be sure to wash yo elephant snout.
He set three quarters ringing on the counter. Miss Bee’s eyes wandered round in her head. Should he slap them still? He wanted to.
Blunt want some bread.
Miss Bee fetched the bread.
He slapped a nickel on the counter. And give me one of them suckas. Strawberry.
Miss Bee looked him full in the face. Boy, where yo manners?
Ma’am?
Give me.
Sorry, ma’am. May I have a sucka? Please.
Miss Bee dug inside her nose, pulled her finger free, and with the same booger finger shoveled a plastic-wrapped sucker out of the box.
Broccoli-like clumps of squat tightly leaved trees and lanky palms — or so he figures; flora not native to this part of the country, the world — prodigious fronds spilling down like dreadlocks, floppy dog ears. Then black ink-lined trees traced on a thin gray-and-pink-cloud sky. Other trees in the valley, heavy with birds — he discovers three or four rare finds, new species, never before recorded by man — photo-still cows, and white houses hemmed in by blue sky, shining, naked bulbs. He fidgets in his seat, hard to keep still. A big sleek silver bird with streamlined feathers and sparkling talons lifts off into sky against the wind’s resistant slap, light forming a bright badge of achievement on its breast. Earth cannot restrain it. It flies off to somewhere behind the sun.
A farmer leads a lone cow off into a clump of bushes while the other cows stand and look on. Hatch sings,
My dog resembles a badger
My dog resembles a fox
My dog resembles a bear
But my dog most resembles a dog.
He turns his eyes away from the sight. Sealed in, coach sounds.
And get out that road. Blunt snapped her umbrella open to ward off the sun. He moved under its shade and watched Blunt, her false teeth as bright as cell bars, dead person’s hair concealing gray wire springs poking from her bald scalp. Not in use, the fake hair covered a white faceless squeaking Styrofoam head, like a bird perched in a tree, waiting to lift up its hairy wings and flap away. Mouth free, the teeth slept at the bottom of a mason jar like some strange fish.
Just up the road, John Brown sat on his porch, a look of worry creasing his face. It was a rare sight to see him unguarded in the open. His house was a fort, with squat flowerpots under every window — booby-trapped sentinels — and padded curtains. Even the sun was not welcome. A rare sight indeed. You might spy him in his yard, mowing down millions of green aliens with his ancient cutting machine. Blunt greeted him gladly in the hot afternoon. How you dooch?
Fine.
All right. Boy, where yo manners?
How you, John Brown? Hatch leaned out from the umbrella into the sun.
Fine, boy. Jus fine.
Hatch pepped up his step, the sun circling overhead, heat rising from the ground through his sneakers. Trucks and cars went speeding past — the drivers finding time to wave — rippling the heavy blanket of heat, but the air that circulated was no cooler. Blunt hard-breathed behind him.
Boy, slow down. You catch heatstroke.
Yes’m.
And get back in this shade.
Feet raised and her head arched back — chair and body, a curve of wave — Mamma sleeps beside him, lips quivering with the drive of her snoring, breath regulating itself, deep and slow, lines bunched on her forehead. Windows throw even shadows on her face, moving, a tiny black train. Her mouth makes a swampy sound. He builds a nest around her. Piles high all the reasons she should stay.
I wanna shake.
Miss Bee make you a shake.
Nawl. I wanna go to Chinaman’s.
Go on to Miss Bee.
I don’t want no Miss Bee shake.
Boy, why you so hardheaded?
Hatch watched his feet. He could kick her.
Spoiled. Just spoiled. She done spoiled you.
His line of sight traveled the floor to her sandaled toes, the corns like tiny missiles.
Here. Blunt put the dollar in his palm. You get yo float, but you go to Miss Bee and buy some dranks.
I don’t want no pop. Want some tea.
Don’t be so hard-headed.
Suitcases in hand, they moved slowly through the station, their heels clicking on the tiled floor. He stepped over a puddle of saliva. How come Blunt baptize her teeth?
What?
How come she wear dead hair? He watched the tight purse of Mamma’s lips.
Sometimes you think of the silliest things.
They moved through the station, the air heavy and white, coating the tongue and lips like milk, light sifting through the cloth-shaded windows like flour. Mamma’s head bobbed up and down from fatigue.
You need a break, he said. You need rest.
She did not answer.
Blunt smiled as they stepped out the station — an ancient woman, by Hatch’s most recent calculations, a bundle of dried sticks brittle to the touch.
The next morning, Mamma woke with a nosebleed from the heat.
Will you stay? he asked.
You know I can’t.
Why not?
I have to—
You never stay.
She watched him, her chin tucked into her chest, like a boxer.
Hatch quit the house and ran over the dew-filled grass, diamond wetness that vanished in the fingers when touched. Bush and weed reached greedily after him. Gnats bunched into black fists. He mounted his bike, Blunt screaming after him, her words bouncing off his blind back: Boy, slow down. You catch heatstroke. And there was John Brown, standing in his yard, face pointed up at a green canopy of tree. Drawn by the bike’s motion, he aimed his face at Hatch, his chin hard and straight, his eyes sparkling for a moment as if struggling for recognition. Come here, boy. Hatch felt a stirring in the air, a sense of his own weightlessness, a low rising on winged feet. He pumped his legs with all he had and made off. Time flew fast, for he traveled as far as his two legs and two wheels could carry him, to the outskirts of the green and brown world, where he saw, felt, and studied objects and events he believed no other had. (He would speak his finds on one condition: convincing pay.) He returned to his outpost in the dead hours of heat, tired, hunger chewing up his belly, and saw Miss Bee’s familiar slow steps on the road, gravel crunching underfoot. She would be slower still after a full evening of conversation with Blunt. Hey there, boy. Fingers probing his hair, cold snakes. Together, they walked the two splintery planks — swoll up from the heat like two punch-inflicted eyes but bridge sturdy, bridge steady — leading to Blunt’s front yard, Hatch guiding Miss Bee by the angle of her elbow with one hand, his other balancing his forsaken bike alongside him, and Miss Bee singing,
Got on the train