You walked. A lot bright with red dirt. That’s the old negro cemetery. Yall heard of negroes?
Sure, Hatch said. My great-granddaddy was a negro.
Mine too, Abu said.
You walked. Summer burned in your lungs. You saw a pond with lightly starred lilies. You crossed a narrow dry gully. Followed a trail of yellow leaves. Heaviness hung low in the trees. Birdleg overturned ancient stones, exposing green worms wiggling in the footprints of Indians and dinosaurs.
Dinosaurs were birds.
Birdleg, Hatch said, you crazy. Dinosaurs were lizards. Reptiles.
Yeah, Abu said. Giant lizards. Reptiles.
Stupid. Dinosaurs were birds.
How you know?
I know.
You walked in heat without a breath of air. You reeled under the dazzling weight of the sun. Distance melted.
It was moving day. The afternoon white and pure. Birds black and light as smoke in the sky.
Yall wanna see some black squirrels?
Nigga, there ain’t no such thing.
Follow me.
You walked. Birdleg’s legs made a sound like twigs breaking. And when it got cold, his legs would curve into a broken circle. You walked for three days. Damn, Birdleg. We gon walk to China?
Shut up, stupid. We almost there.
Damn. Jesus sparkled, body glazed in warm sweat.
A bridge lifted above a black river. Birdleg started across, the wood creaking, sagging under his footsteps. Jesus put his feet down slowly, unsure if the planks would hold him.
Damn, Birdleg. You tryin to kill us?
You scared?
Nawl. I ain’t scared.
The sun hung low in the branches. Slow shadows on the leaves. Points of grass directed Birdleg to his left. There it was. A little path.
Look. Birdleg stopped, bent his knees a little — a bridge’s creak; no, a rusty sound, like Lula Mae’s lawn chairs — and pointed a chunky finger. A black squirrel.
What’s that black bird?
That’s a buzzard.
A nasty ole buzzard?
Yeah.
Why it nasty?
Cause it full of spirit.
A day bright and clear as the leaves on the green plants which grew low and close to the ground. Dandelions clustered like stars. And the white Afros of milkweeds. Children filled the afternoon streets with their shouts. From the height of the park benches, the Stonewall Aces watched butterflies in the bright colors of girls’ clothing and their floating cheeks. Hair braided tight with colored rubber bands, rainbows.
Man, I’m tireda watchin these silly girls, Jesus said.
Help me down from here, Birdleg said.
The Stonewall Aces stepped down from the benches. Made a net of arms and carried Birdleg to the ground. The Stonewall Aces stretched out in the grass, arms behind heads, watching the treetops, feet to feet, like bookends. The leaves were green and quiet, shimmering in a touch of sun. Jesus stole glances at Birdleg. Birdleg was sitting in his usual position, upright, legs forming a V from the center of his body, his pudgy hands clasped over his preposterous paunch like a protective shell. His mouth was twisted open and his breath came hot and short. Jesus wondered if he were asleep. He slept sitting up. Had to. Cause the stomach could crush him. You imagine him sleeping like normal people, his fat belly rising above the bed, a fish belly-up in the bowl.
Man, I’m tireda watchin these trees.
Okay, Birdleg said.
The Stonewall Aces helped him to his feet, Jesus and Hatch hooking on either arm and Abu shoving from the back. Birdleg moved in the hard afternoon light. Air bright and blinding. The boys followed. They walked along the old tracks. Alert to an occasional train, glittering silver between slices of light. They kneeled low in the green bushes, listening to the asthmatic poppings of pistons when a string of loaded freight cars came pounding along. Kneeled, because, at a distance, freight trains and commuter trains looked the same. Those commuters are deadeyes, Birdleg said. If you got heart and you look hard and heavy, you can see their gun glint.
My Uncle John was a deadeye, Hatch said. Still is.
Yeah, Abu said. He my uncle too. Hatch’s best friend, he was proud to claim blood not his own.
He won a lot of medals.
Yeah? Who he shoot?
Gooks.
The train extended its streaked motion. The tracks curved off into the horizon along a long, white, hot sand road that split the flat green. They followed Birdleg’s scrawny-legged walk through the flying landscape. The beaks of the road ate up the rubber soles of their kicks and unknotted their shoestrings. A stinging thirst clawed their throat.
Damn, Birdleg. We walkin to the moon?
Yeah, Birdleg. Where we goin?
Birdleg stopped, knelt forward, bowed down in exhaustion, hands supported against the forked branch of his bended knees. Pain squeezed the skin tight against the bones of his face.
Birdleg, what’s wrong?
Nothing. Just tired.
Tears ran from his eyes, white, spilling sticky to the concrete. After six or seven hard breaths, Birdleg raised himself and pushed forward.
They walked to the end of a bridge. Climbed down a path under a small trestle where a creek had backed up to form a small pond. Fifteen feet away, a small shanty — a sloping, tar-paper roof, partly hidden by the low-hanging branches of a tree whose name Jesus didn’t know, sycamore, Hatch said—shone white as a bulb.
Who made this shack?
That’s fo me to know and you to find out.
Tell us, Birdleg.
The Stonewall Aces entered the shack, lit by light through holes that peppered the roof. The shack straddled a grass-filled ditch. Each boy made a seat on spike-shaped leaves on the ditch banks. Something was scratched into the wood walls — a fantail connected to a sphere? a fish? Jesus couldn’t say for certain. Tall white sentinels, milkweed watched him from the grass.
Hey, Birdleg, why they call it milkweed? Jesus saw milk in Birdleg’s eyes.
Stupid, Birdleg said. Don’t you know anything?
Jesus studied the milkweed.
Yall loves milk?
Yeah, Birdleg.
Jesus saw flocks of clouds through breaks in the roof.
I loves milk like I loves white folks like a dog loves hickory.
What?
Why you love white folks? Hatch said.
Birdleg looked at him.
Damn, nigga. You got some funny-lookin ears. Jesus cocked his fingers and popped Birdleg’s rabbit-long ears.
Bitch!
A bitch is a dog.
And you a bitch. Listen. Birdleg raised his palms. Yall know how white people got white?
Jesus watched the shack walls, twigs and splinters. A chill wind swept wide through the ditch, penetrating his feet and hands. But the ground was hot under his butt and the grass warm to the touch. And you and Hatch sat fishing before the Memphis River. Feel water thundering near your feet. Hear fish invisible in the water, their shadows rising and turning into thick waves. Hatch afraid to touch the electrified worms.
How?
From drinkin too much milk.
Above the roof, the sun blinked bright, immersed Jesus in a cascade of light. Pearl after pearl. Like the way you cast sinkers of light into the Memphis River.
How you know? Hatch said.
Yeah, Abu said. You lyin.
Straight up, Birdleg said.
ONCE YOU WALKED to the keen edge of exhaustion. Walked until the sun took on strange shape and color. And Sheila met Hatch at the door, squeezing an ironing cord in her angry fist. The sky rained boulders of ice and Birdleg demonstrated how to use a garbage-can lid for a protective shield. Use it as an umbrella — hard iron rain struck lid and ground with a hollow sound. The ice thinned to rushing water. And when the rain stopped, you as a team collected drowned birds. Like the snails you collected in West Memphis. You and Hatch pulled them skinny from their shells. Held the shells to your ears and heard ocean. Frogs burped, drunk.