The train squeezed to a stop at Union Station, vast, blazing. The car emptied and filled. Continued. The car’s tubular insides mirrored the saxophone curve of Elsa’s neck. The car’s bounce, the float of her breasts.
How’s your Mexican girlfriend? Porsha said.
Puerto Rican. I told you, she Puerto Rican mixed wit—
Whatever. How come you didn’t invite her to Christmas dinner?
Well—
He hidin her, Uncle John said. In the doghouse.
He planned to meet Elsa today after his visit to Inez’s.
Why don’t you come over, Elsa said, her voice small and inviting inside the phone.
I’m sposed to spend the day wit my grandmother.
She needs the whole day?
It’s just that I don’t get to see her but once a month.
You know, Dad will be at the parlor.
I know. He’s there every day. People never stop dyin.
A soft laugh bounced from Elsa’s lips. He pictured them. It gets better, she said. Mamma will be there too.
Is that right?
She has to vacuum out the coffins, comb hair, apply makeup, paint fingernails, dress the clients, flower arrangements, that kind of stuff. Help Dad out.
I see.
So I’ll be all alone, nobody here but me and Raoul.
Raoul?
My cat.
But that would be later, much later. He had a long ride to Inez’s house in Morgan Park, the southernmost part of Central. A long ride. Elsa was hours and miles away. He flipped his book, Man and Mestizo, open. As he read, he began to feel a comfortable place inside himself where he could peek out and judge safe from penetration. Two half-pint hoodlums snatched the book from his hand, Kleenex out of a box, and frog-jumped onto the platform. They boldly flashed him their sign, thumb and index fingers curled ino a C, then blazed an escape, feet drumming across the platform fast and heavy as rainfall, nylon jackets billowing behind them as if the policing wind were clutching and tugging at their backs.
Slow-moving silence. Hatch stirred in his seat. He could feel the eyes of the other passengers on him. His tongue dry and stiff in his mouth, a dead rat. A bad way to start the day.
He closed his eyes and invented his own darkness. And he roamed in this private space while the train pushed like a diver through tubular black. It rose — he saw it and felt it — and tilted him out of his thoughts. The morning pushed hot through the moving window. Opened him. The train sped. Distance changed kind. He tried to ignore the melting of familiar landscapes: crowded streets, a river lake-still and lake-steady to cast reflection, and the sun-catching skyscrapers and flag-decked buildings at the city’s heart.
The train spat him onto a wooden El platform. He spiraled down three flights of stairs to earth. The light was slower here in Morgan Park. The sun sprayed lazy light in banks of red discs. Through the hot grit of day, he took deep-reaching steps for the bus stand.
AHHHHHHHHHH
Shut up.
Ahhhhhhhhhh
Shut up. I’m tellin you.
Ahhhhhhhhhh
Wait til we get home. I’m gon whip yo butt. You won’t be hollerin tomorrow, no sir.
Ahhhhhhhhhhh
What you cryin for? Talk. I don’t understand what you sayin.
Ahhhhhhhhhhhh
Ahhhhhhhhhhhh. I can holler too. Ahhhhhhhhhhhh
Ahhhhhhhhhhhh
No sir, won’t be hollerin tomorrow. I’m gon tear yo butt up … Don’t stop now. Might as well finish cryin. We got only three more blocks.
The toddler resumed crying.
Shut that baby up, Hatch said. In floating bus space, he rocked slightly in his seat.
What? You come up here and make me, punk.
Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
Jus get the fuck off.
You make me, punk. Bitchass nigga.
She exited the bus. Stood on the sidewalk, hand on hip, and screamed at him, head jerking to the words. Still not satisfied, she hoisted the toddler above her head, champion weight lifter, then ran toward the bus, as if she would throw the toddler through the window. The bus pulled away.
Dumb bitch. He said it to himself. Fuckin hood rat. His seat offered no comfort. Inez live too damn far away. Too damn far. A long train ride, then a long bus ride. Shit. A flow of streets unfurled behind him. Sunlight angled across the river. The sprawl of the city and the sun like its glowing heart. With sniper-sensitive sight, he followed birds through the bus window, black images through blue sky, flying well and very low, with a calm, favorable wind. To his left (in the distance), the Central River pulled its drying legs together. To his right (near), Tar Lake stirred under a slow flood of sun. Formless substances afloat, each separate from the other, but each also kin to water, the element which will, in time perhaps, dissolve them into a new solid identity. A ship sailed for some unknown destination. I know everything about that ship. By simply stretching out his hand he could touch it. Ship lights bubble up and bob on night water. Anchors and chains ring, cowbells. Awaken you as Uncle John slips in silence through Gracie’s front door. Moves like a bat in the dark, as he navigates the steps to Gracie’s bedroom. Dallas’s drunken ghost knocks and bumps against the stairs behind him. He peeps into the room where you and Jesus sleep, the hall light glowing behind him, and Dallas’s ghost too, his eyes fired and twisted.
Gracie’s house was completely surrounded by Tar Lake. Though the lake was but a short walk from the house, Uncle John would pack his fishing gear in the trunk of his yellow cab — well, back in the day he drove a red Eldorado, then the green Cadillac, then the gold Park Avenue — park Hatch and Jesus in the back seat, and drive the few blocks to the lake. We don’t wanna walk. We like to ride. Hatch, Jesus, and Uncle John would play their favorite game, hide-and-seek. The boys would race down the hill toward the water, arms windmilling, and dive down into the tall grass. Uncle John would sneak up on them without a sound. Then Jesus would snag a black worm onto a rusty hook. Cast his bait. Motionless rod and motionless line in the current. Hatch would relax with a book and cast his thoughts into the black water. His fingers could handle the toughest guitar strings, but not twisting, slippery worms. Uncle John would ready his rod, clean the horsehair line—stronger than wire, he said — polish the gold-colored hook with his silk handkerchief, then tug on the bait, a red-snapping fiddler crab. Patient—Patience catches a fish, he said — he might spin a tale or two. I remember this one time. This time, once, when this guy got shot. The bullet made his clothes catch fire. The weirdest shit. The bullet hit him in the thigh. A flesh wound. But his clothes caught fire. And the fire burned him crisp. He would catch small, green, finger-thick catfish. Be careful of them whiskers. Cut you like a razor. He would clean his catches right there at the lake, nail a hammer through a head and pull off the skin in a clean stroke, easy as removing a sock. Now, if yall really wanna catch something, we gotta drive down to the Kankakee River. One night, Uncle John bought Gracie a bowl of goldfish, which she placed on the fireplace mantel next to Cookie’s photograph, commanding a watery view of the living room. Uncle John, why they call them gold? Ain’t they orange? She gave Hatch a few sparkling fish to take home with him. One jumped like a pole vaulter out of the bowl he had carried all the way from Lula Mae’s lil house in West Memphis. He stood and watched it. Felt sea spray in his belly with each flop of the fish’s tail. Felt his heart jump inside his ribs. For hours he watched it, beating out its rhythm.