Make you some breakfast.
Mom
Damn!
He returned to his room, stuffed a carefully chosen assortment of compact discs, cassettes, and books into Mr. Pulliam’s green army bag, and quit the house.
Knife-edged. Everything sharp, brilliant in the light. Cooler than yesterday. But less breeze. The air soft under hurrying clouds. (Hard to believe this the city of icy lake wind.) Birds drew heavy lines on the sky and the sky swayed with their loud noisy weight. A bird broke the line and dropped, stunned to the porch. Deceived, it had flown into the porch window that held the sky’s reflection. Damn. He wanted to kick the red bloody thing but his shoes refused. His feet required motion.
A radio whined on the horizon.
Have you heard
The rumors the wind’s blowin round
Tewenty thousand miles up in the shy
Something’s going down
Get out of your grave
Dance in the street
Get up and go, learn more than you know
Practice what you preach—
Somebody’s bustin Jimi, he said. Somebody’s bustin Jimi.
He danced, marched to the beat, both asleep and awake. (John said that grunts learned to snooze between footfalls.)
He had sat up most of the night and watched dawn define the city with disconcerting swiftness. Sat, wavering between one plan and the next, his thoughts like loose shots. In the morning, he would ride out to Eddyland to see if John’s cab was parked in his driveway. Check the garage. Break into it if he had to. An image floated up and remained like stagnant water in his memory: Jesus’s teeth marks in the leather dashboard of John’s gold Park Avenue. The shape of anger and absence. He would ride to Union Station and talk to T-Bone. Better yet, he would return to Red Hook and—
He tries to recall the plan now, a course of action as sure and certain as a man-made river. That river had dried up and evaporated in his sleep. He can see and feel it around him, ticker tape on cool city wind. In the city today, everything is new: hotels, clubs, restaurants, stores, and the buildings that house them, streets and the markers that name them. New. He can find few spots he knew only a few days ago. He remembers the city small and unreal inside the small square window, like a miniature model of itself. He remembers slow descending circles.
The roar of the engine brought a hot flush of relief. He was leaving Memphis, the South, for good. The plane taxied. Pure speed. The rush of takeoff. Try as he might, he could not help grinning broadly, broad as the plane’s wingspan. Pure speed and the plane lifting into the air. He kept his open eyes trained out the small square window. Amazing how the large world shrinks in seconds. The plane found its altitude, leveled off, settled, cruised. Its shadow rippled over the white clouds like a black twin. A plane in flight offers the illusion of stationary life. You don’t see motion. Your body feels it. And when you do see the motion, you act under the illusion that the plane flies slowly. White and distant, the sky moves and remains. This surprising lesson flew home with him.
Memphis last night and the city this morning. He had few facts but many feelings. There remained no trace of the former wish to see and save. The old desire like an early dream from distant centuries. No will to pursue and no fear of being pursued. Faith and intuition were both useless. What was left? A sense of flying longing. John had sailed off the edge of the world. Lucifer and Jesus had followed him. Not the smallest part of their existence reached him this morning.
ABU PEERED THROUGH THE ANGLE OF OPEN DOOR with yellow eyes, eyes topaz from the smoke of Boy Scout campfires.
Damn, nigga. Why yo eyes so yellow?
What? Abu rubbed them, his round belly bouncing once, twice.
You still sleep or somethin?
Nawl. I was — Smokin some weed?
Ain’t had none in a while. So you back in town?
Nawl. I’m still gone.
Funny. Real funny.
We got in last night.
Good. Abu looked like he wanted to say more. He didn’t.
So, what’s up?
Oh, same ole. Hey, you know the concert still on?
What?
Spin.
Word?
Abu nodded.
Man, I had forgot all about that.
They canceled it last night because of the flood. Now it’s tonight.
Word?
Word. They even added an act. Klanfeds. That country rap crew.
So you got the tickets?
Right here. Abu patted his shirt pocket.
My nigga.
On point.
How much I owe you?
Abu told him. He gladly paid it.
He followed Abu down the hall. His mind moved. He wanted to ask, You heard anything? — meaning You heard anything about John, Lucifer, Jesus? Wanted to ask but how could he? For all he knew, Abu was none the wiser. He had to keep it that way.
Damn, where you get that bag? Abu’s yellow eyes looked with high interest at Mr. Pulliam’s green army bag.
From my grandmother’s house. Ain’t it the hype?
The bomb.
Hatch held the heavy green canvas bag to his chest and patted it like a burping baby. I brought some joints I want you to hear.
Cool …
They continued down the hall.
Your folks here?
No.
They at work?
No. Darnell here.
Darnell?
Abu nodded.
In all the years Hatch had known him, Abu hadn’t spoke more than ten words about his father. Darnell traveled the country selling sports gear from his car trunk at rock-bottom prices; he came to the city once every two years or so, bringing Abu a pile of jerseys, T-shirts, caps, warm-up suits, gym shoes, you name it, bringing the old, scarred broken words of his life.
The long hall opened into the living room, where Darnell lounged on the couch with his woman (a girl really, Hatch’s age or a little older), a baby snug in her lap. Darnell was just as Hatch remembered him. Youthful face. Thick arms and a tree-trunk neck protruding from a Cubs T-shirt. A tight Bulls baseball cap trying to contain his thickly wrinkled, near-bald head.
Hatch, what’s up? Darnell rose from the couch.
Hey, what’s up.
Don’t I get a hug?
Sure. Hatch leaned in for the hug. Darnell squeezed him powerful and tight.
Darnell pulled back and opened the circle of his arms. Son, how bout another hug?
Abu gave him one, like a sigh, no force behind it. Darnell slapped him heartily on the back with his big-ass hands.
Hatch, it’s so good to see you. You look good too.
Thanks.
Giving the women hell, I bet.
Hatch smiled. So when you make it in?
We arrived in town last night. Stayed at the Zanzibar.
Oh yeah? How you like it?
It did the trick, cause we went there for only one thang.
Darnell, stop, the woman said.
Damn. How was it?
Well, round one went quick. That first nut always quick. Niggas lyin talkin bout they went two hours. Yeah right, two minutes.
How many rounds yall go?
Well, round two, she had me on the ropes—
Darnell, you so nasty.
— but I came back, wit one of these and one of these. Motioning and twisting his hips. Now, round three—
The woman held up the baby to shield her embarrassed face.
— she got the better of me. I tried to run, but she wouldn’t let me out of bed. She said, Come back here.
You got any children? Hatch asked, changing the subject, immediately realizing that he’d asked a stupid question.
I got more than Moses.
Hatch forced a laugh.