Whenever he left her, she kept the pain of his absence locked up in her chest. But she could open it anytime she wanted, like a jewelry box, and watch the pearl-sparkling images inside. Her buried life.
Her thoughts were in advance of her body and she quickened her steps to overtake them. She found a quiet tree and stretched out beneath it, her back against the hard, rough trunk. Her bright red sandals and scarlet stockings made her thin legs look bigger. Two red rails that ran to Tar Lake. Trunks and trees made a black lacework around the island. Gray shadows and morning leaves. Silent light in shafts on bright grass. The morning sky bloomed above the blue horizon where black-bodied buildings formed a jagged wall. The city. Babies leaped high in the water, high above the city, like black dolphins. Birds studied their reflections in black water. For a long time she sat thinking.
It had been a week now since John had stepped out of her life forever (never to return), made her a ghost in a strange house where she would spend her remaining hours and days wandering. Perhaps she had driven him too deep inside herself to bring him back.
How slowly the water appeared to move. Lagging. Three steps behind the world. She recorded things never before perceived. The veining of each leaf and babies upon them like black locusts.
John gripped the steering wheel like an eagle gripped captured prey, Jesus and Hatch chirping in the back seat of his fast-flying red Eldorado. Flustered and afraid, she fluttered about with protecting wings.
John, please slow down. Can’t you slow down?
Who driving?
I’m gon be baptized, Jesus said.
Why? Hatch said.
So I can save.
Save what?
Reverend Sparrow lifted Jesus high into his arms, kneeled down before the claw-foot bathtub, and leaned the boy across his arms, light, a shovel slanted above dirt. Except a man be born of water and of the spirit, he said, he cannot enter into the kingdom of God. He dipped Jesus into the water.
He heard his pleas even before his face broke the water’s surface. John, help me! This preacher tryin to drown me.
John rushed forward and shoved Reverend Sparrow against the wall. The water sucked Jesus in. She heard the separate sounds of the water work on his body. John swooped him up kicking and blowing and blinded. She watched the clean waters, unmoving in the tub.
THE TREE LEAVES were too far apart to give any shade. The sun stood still and burned. Her black skin took on the orange glow of coal. Wet wind crawled off the ocean. Her body felt like dry ice, hot and cool.
A spirit must answer to his right name. Gracie tested the belief. She called John by his true name.
What? He put those brown eyes on her. What you call me? he said.
Nothing. She alone understood John’s secret forms and transformations. And he made her part of that secret world.
I ain’t think so. Deep eyes now upon the deep water.
She walked over to the railing and stood gazing down at the lake, gray, and slightly choppy in the wake of a distant tug. The lake was like a vast stage under the glare-filled sky above, and the boardwalk and beach, seating for the audience. She was unaware of the blazing sun, absorbed completely, caught up in the play of the washing waves.
Look, he said.
She looked. Saw what he saw, what he wanted her to see. Lined up like train cars, several objects rushed through the water below.
Rats, he said.
Vile, she said. Vile. She turned her eyes away.
He chuckled. For a long time he watched the water and said nothing. You know what?
What?
Dave, that sonofabitch remember everything. You know what he told me?
What?
Dave, well he told me that him and Sam drove out there to California to pay R.L. a visit.
Don’t believe nothing Dave says.
So they visit him, thinking that ole pretty R.L. was fast enough to keep one foot ahead of the fast life. No, Dave said. That wasn’t the case. Caught. His whole world tied up, tied up in Christmas tape.
Gracie listened with greedy ears.
All scarred up.
Scars?
Yep. His arms.
Gracie said nothing.
So Dave said. So there was ole pretty R.L. all pretty and fancied up and ditty-bopping down the street out there in pretty California and noddin so bad he couldn keep his hat on.
TAR LAKE MOVED with laser swiftness. Babies swam, raising their legs like powerful oars, the rush of their bodies parting the rushing water. Black riders came in off the lake beckoning for her red toes. New waves rose wildly, their height massed against the horizon, against the city. She could hear a battle far off, thunder and shouting. She could smell the ride of sin. Babies ran up trees, black squirrels. Shall two know the same in their knowing? All her life, she had believed that no two were closer than she and John. He had brought her into the world and she him. Entire with each other. Now she knew, their lives had never really touched. She was alive without equal.
She starts for the house in the serene extinction of light at sunset. The ground grows lighter and her feet move to meet it in the air. John passes up the white, wide walk, flight bag in hand. He looks at her with his marksman eyes. Touches her on the face and hands. She opens her mouth to speak, but he sends an answering smile before she can form the question.
The house receives them. Light, creaking, a house of twigs, a bird’s nest. The floor rises under her feet. Rolls and pitches, rocks, a spray of witch’s feathers. She sinks back, wet, weak and trembling, head expanding, the carpet moving under her feet. Pushes herself up to try again.
53
DEATHROW STANDS in the lobby of the Waldorf-Astoria holding his penis.
Why are you holding it? she asks.
I thought it was my shadow.
THE PARTIAL VIEW can reveal the strongest colors of the whole. North Park quilted in deep green through the window. Cloudy trees arching high in air. Huge bird nests built like penthouse apartments in tall treetops. She thinks she can see all the way to Red Hook. Buildings small, red, and hard in the distance. Fossils.
Red flickered in her eyes. Candle flame memories of Deathrow. She thought of herself, there (Memphis, West Memphis, Fulton, Houston, the South) and here, as holding on to him. She concocted scenarios where they would meet again. So certain that he would return to her on her return to the city.
Should she even be thinking about love now that Lula Mae was gone? And how should she feel about Lula Mae’s death? How had it changed her? Did it diminish her life or increase it? She greased her hands with Vaseline and slid them prayer-fashion into the Lazarus 1 patent pending, thinking that she might have gained the power to levitate.
She had not.
She cleaned her hands, grease-free. Pressed a button on a mummy-shaped remote control and popped on her bubbled black TV, bright sight and sound. A drive-by shooting, the flood, the storm overseas. Hammered cadences ripped at her as masked and camouflaged entities transformed the desert into a huge movie set. Scaffolding, prefabricated structures, false fronts, precise machines. Rockets springing up over the horizon like toy snakes released from a can. Ah, here was a possibility. Perhaps Deathrow had been drafted — Do they still draft young men? — and stamped into a soldier.
With the television for company, she flipped through her stack of unopened mail. Bills, announcements, invitations, catalogues, and more of the same. A glossy postcard glowed like a priceless tempting jewel.
Decided on Bahamas instead. The water is green. The sand is pink. I’m chillin. Enjoying conch fritters. Fried plantains. Strawberry daiquiris tall as mountains. Yum. Yum. And riding John Canoe at every opportunity. Need I say more?