Abu’s spit sizzles to the grass.
You spittin in my yard? Uncle John says.
Sorry.
Man, that’s some nasty shit. Around where we eatin.
Sorry.
Uncle John, you say, you know I don’t eat no pork.
You mean to tell me you ain’t gon eat none of them ribs, the way you like barbecue. And I know you like ribs.
You say nothing.
That’s what I thought.
This barbecue sauce smell like it got honey in it.
It does.
Uh, that’s nasty. I don’t eat honey. Bee’s vomit.
Uncle John sticks his finger in the barbecue sauce. Pokes his sauce-covered finger between his closed lips, lollipop-like. Taste good to me, vomit and all. His eyes blink behind his glasses. So you an Eagle Scout now?
That’s what they say.
How does it feel?
I don’t feel it. Besides, I’m through with the Boy Scouts.
Me too, Abu says.
I thought you liked it. The camping part at least.
Man, forget that. Sleeping in that cold cabin. No toilet. If you got to take a shit, you gotta get out of yo warm sleeping bag and go out into the cold forest. Man, fuck that.
Yeah. Fuck that, Abu says.
Abu, you ain’t gon get your eagle?
Why should I?
He ain’t finished, you say. He courtin this honey. Cards, flowers, money — everything. Courtin. Tryin to earn him a Pussy Merit Badge. You salute Abu, two fingers formed in a razor-sharp angle at the forehead.
What? Uncle John says. He faces Abu. Courtin?
That’s right.
Bout time, Dave says. Abu, you better get you some pussy before you turn eighteen or you’ll go crazy. And that ain’t no lie. Is it, John? Serious, Dave sucks his Canary, breathes it like oxygen.
Shut up, Dave, Uncle John says. Talks to Abu: Why you look all sad?
I ain’t sad.
That bitch got you singin the blues?
Don’t let the sun find you cryin, Dave says. Sings:
I wanna get close to you, baby
Like an egg to a hen
Like a Siamese twin
Like fire to smoke
Like pig to pork
Like a bug to bed
Like the hair on yo head
She ain’t got no hair, you say.
Uncle John and Dave stir the heavy air with their laughter. Wide-eyed, Abu looks for somewhere to hide.
What’s her name? Uncle John asks him.
Elizabeth Chew, you answer.
Hey, I was askin him. Air closes over the words. Uncle John studies you for a moment — long enough to snap you shut — then turns back to Abu. So what’s the deal?
Nothing, Abu says. Hatch jus talkin shit.
Yo mamma.
Ah fuck—
Hey, it’s okay. Uncle John circles Abu’s back with his arm. You watch Uncle John and Abu, still, together, frozen, in the same instant of time. Listen — Uncle John speaks softly, heart to whispering heart — forget all that courtin stuff. You don’t sweep a bitch off her feet. You knock her off. He squeezes Abu closer, an inch deeper. His glasses reflect two clear walls that shut him and Abu off from the rest of the world. Remember, you treat a woman like a queen. But she got to realize, you a goddamn king.
SEE YOU, I wouldn’t want to be you. Hatch opened the door to the absolute strength of streetlights.
Later. Abu stood, the scrim of the black doorway behind him. Garden leaves cut the wind to singing.
Hey, remember to practice that beat. Hatch hummed the tune to himself.
I will.
I’m serious.
Abu rubbed his chin.
Listen with your heart.
That’s jus the problem. Abu’s voice spun in the late spring night. I do listen with my heart.
Hatch thought and heard. Night birds pushed beyond the limits of their wings.
Sure you don’t want to sleep here tonight?
Why should I? Hatch said. Then I gotta go all the way home in the morning and change clothes.
That’s true. Well, you should take a cab home. It’s rough out there.
Who got money for that? I ain’t scared. I’ll meet you back here tomorrow.
Okay.
Early. Seven o’clock.
Okay.
Seven o’clock. Cause the ticket window open at eight.
Bet.
Early. You better be ready. Don’t you be sleepin or I’m gon slap yo ass awake.
Nigga, you the one who forgot to buy the tickets yesterday. Abu placed his hand on the doorknob, tugging it behind him.
I already explained that.
No problem. We good.
Ah, right. Later.
Oh, Abu said, I almost forgot. T-Bone said he want to see you.
The words held the door open. T-Bone?
Yeah.
Where’d you see him?
In Union Station, where he always is.
We gotta pass through there tomorrow. Man, that nigga can talk yo ear off.
He says it’s serious.
Serious? What he want?
I don’t know.
Nigga, he says it’s serious and you almost forgot?
Sorry.
Damn … Well, what he say?
Something about Uncle John and Jesus.
Uncle John and Jesus?
Yeah. And Lucifer too.
Anything else you forget?
No.
You sure?
He ain’t say nothing else. Cept he got to see you. It’s serious.
27
CLOUDS CREATED PURE LIGHT. Lucifer stared out the small window and sifted through the white dark. Still heat — he could feel it through the glass — frozen smoke. A stalactite forced its hot point into his open mouth. He drank cold liquid that curdled in his hot stomach. Coughed. Covered the window with his white insides. He vowed, I’ll never let a plane fly me again, fly me again. Live or die by these words.
The plane descended. White fanned out. Clouds thinned. Objects formed, stained with shadow colors. Ah yes, there was the sun, still. The plane sank through yellow-waved light. Features of landscape took position in Lucifer’s mind. The city began to appear small, wavering, but distinct, a photograph quickening to sight, taking on text and texture in the fluid of development.
Wrong in transit, Lucifer entered the hollow ringing city. Changed. A trembling at the edge of cool awakening. The other world still warm in his mind. He felt like a man who sees a house he knew as a child: how much smaller it seems, the vast spaces of memory narrowed to the present reality.
SHEILA STOOD IN A SEGMENT OF LIGHT framed by the door. Home. He stepped into his own self-portrait. He had spent months digging a place for her inside himself.
He pulled her close. Her kiss measured to deliver the remembered warmth and wetness.
You’re back, she said. She spoke into his shoulder.
Yes, he said. I’m back.
Lucifer rose at the first breath of sun and scrubbed his body until his skin sparkled. The old dark self floated in the white tub, jellyfish-fashion, dirty tentacles seeking what they’d lost. He pulled the rubber stopper. The old self lengthened and fought. Thinned. Lost its battle against centripetal motion (force) and circled down the drain. He ammonia-cleaned the tub twice so nothing was left. He had changed change. He was home now and could resume his life, leave the old Lucifer behind. But he would spend his remaining days fearing that he might change. Pain in his neck looking over his shoulder, watching for the old wet self that would slip him back into the world he’d left.
LUCIFER FINISHED LOADING THE LUGGAGE on the plane, returned the trolley, and loaded up for another run. Ben, the new supervisor, was leaning into a stack of luggage, a salt-covered radish in hand. He held up his other, radishfree hand. Lucifer stopped the trolley.