Hey, Ben said. He was twice Lucifer’s age but half his height, his small head heavy under a high patch of steel wool.
Yes, sir, Lucifer said.
Try to load those bags a little faster. Ben bit a plug out of the radish.
The directive held in Lucifer’s easy attention. Yes, sir. He put his shoulder to the wheel. No more hesitation and procrastination. He would perform well — the need smashed him in the chest — show Ben that he could pull his weight. Besides, he would be off work soon, go home. Sheila would stroke his tired back to life.
Hey, did you hear me? Ben said. I already asked you once. You tryin to make me look bad?
No, sir.
Well step to it.
Lucifer stepped to it. His body spoke speed.
You must be a smart aleck or something. One of these young black fools who think the world owe them grits and gravy. The sun beat through the hangar window against Ben’s painful white shirt. Get the black molasses out yo black ass.
Lucifer leveled his eyes.
One side of Ben’s face moved. Look, he said, I’m fifty-four years old. And I tell my wife when she’s fucking up. I’m sposed to be closer to her than to you?
YOU SLEEP GOOD AT NIGHT? Lucifer said.
I sleep like a baby, John said. That’s how you win.
What happened over there?
You tell me, bro. John wheeled the world with his hand.
No, you tell me, Lucifer said. I was jus a leg, a grunt. Unlike Spin, Spokesman (with his quick brain), and John (with his flashing remarks and insults), he hadn’t walked the universe and returned with a constellation of sparkling medals. They had volunteered and could have chosen easy jobs, but their young foolish blood guided them to the most remote channels of danger.
What’s to tell?
That world had left a green patina on Lucifer’s memories and thoughts. But John, anchored in still waters, refused to budge from the present and ponder what he had done or what had been done to him. He and John never exchanged stories. (He bided his time to wait for those moments when he could eavesdrop on John passing stories to some interested listener.) That green world opened hollow and silent between them, a fertile space for speculation and imagination.
John trumpeted his horn and parted rows of moving metal. Stupid fuck! Learn how to drive. You ever heard of the Man?
Yes, the Man. He wears a white suit.
Vest and all.
He drives a white—
— Cadillac. He drinks—
— milk. He—
Words bounced back and forth between them: the evolving and endless story of the Man and his quest for a golden cotton field. Each morning, they would invent some new detail, add some variation, and laugh.
SCREAMS WARNING. Images flit batlike across the moving window. Running evidence of all he had witnessed. A long time between joints in the track. He would hear and feel the click, then a year would go by.
A change in the speed interrupted the current of his sleep. The window dazzled in the morning. The sun, a big bald head. Lucifer touched half-awake fingers to his forehead. Ah, his red — his fingers felt color — widow’s peak had grown back during the night. He would have to shave it. Had he brought his shaving kit? His teeth felt pillow-heavy, coated with sleep. Had he brought his toothbrush? His bones cried from the stiff cold. He shook until his vision ran. He rubbed his legs to start the blood circulating again. He sorely needed refreshing. He rose — he was so stiff that he could barely lift himself out of the seat — and walked to the dining car, balancing himself with his hands against the shaking train. Ah, much more pleasant here. A room steamy with heated voices. He ordered a stiff drink. Downed it. Almost immediately, the whiskey burned in his belly, spread throughout his body, and he imagined himself a lamp, skin aglow. Bone-white flecks floated on the drink’s surface. He relaxed in his seat, his eyes alive with seeing. Glassed in by reflections of the countryside. Sun walked in a field. Swam in the slow bend of a river. Cows stood in a motionless line. Ah, rest your weary eyes. (A carrier pigeon would lead him to John’s hidden nest.) Slow, smooth, roll. Oiled rails ticking underneath. Speed would hold until the end.
AN OLD MAN sat in the seat opposite his, profile stamped by white light. His back facing the forward motion of the train. He directed his age-weakened eyes at Lucifer. Hi. He extended his hand, perfectly pointed and ridged, a flint arrowhead. I’m Reverend Van.
Lucifer took the hand, hard and cool as money. The reverend shook firm and sharp, machinelike. Lucifer Jones.
Glad to meet you.
You too. The reverend switched his long thin legs to the left, like a gate allowing a ship (Lucifer) to enter dock. Lucifer sat down in his seat—How did he know that I was sitting here? How did he know that I wanted to sit down? — and tried to be comfortable. Every nerve in his body alive. Strangers steel us.
Hope you don’t mind me sitting here? The reverend returned his legs to their original position. The gate closed; only the reverend could open it.
Not at all. Lucifer’s skin was hot. Fire stirred about him.
My car was too cold. So I decided to change.
Lucifer watched the moving words lift from the reverend’s long phallic neck. He’s a preacher. I’m riding with a preacher. Not what he had imagined: a long, quiet ride, the steady soothing rumble of the train.
Looks like we gon share this ride. The preacher’s right eye was completely red, a broken blood vessel.
Yes.
I’m always happy to make a new acquaintance. The preacher’s Dobb — ah yes, tight-fitting to hide his preacher head — sat on the empty seat next to him. Preacher-typical. His egg-shaped head contained the secret yolk of life.
Me too. Lucifer tasted his teeth. Whiskey had failed to burn away the sleep. He would have to brush them.
Where you headed?
New York.
Me too.
I knew it. Jus my luck.
I’m attending my brother’s funeral.
Sorry to hear that. Bet you gon preach his funeral. Probably be around to preach mine. Preachers never die. The preacher smelled like the past in his dark — black? brown? — three-piece suit. I bet he’s had that suit twenty-five years. Lucifer heard the tight heart beating inside his vest.
He lived on Amsterdam Avenue. You know where that is?
Uptown. Probably in Harlem.
Yes. Harlem. His wife gave me the address. The preacher fisted his left lapel and threw open his blazer, revealing the shiny vest. His free hand searched in the small vest pocket. Discovered a strip of paper luminous with grease stains. He handed — lines ran like dark roads on the old man’s palm — Lucifer the paper. There. The preacher’s finger indicated numbers scrawled across a bus transfer. Lucifer pretended to read them.
I see. Lucifer nodded.
She told me to take a cab from the train station. Said it should cost no more than eight dollars.
Probably so.
Sounds like you know New York City.
Not really.
You ever been to New York City?
Once or twice. New York and Home: two cities sailed together; he dreamed about one while he lived in the other.
Furrows in the earth last for three months. Furrows in the water come back together.
Lucifer sought slow understanding. The preacher’s serious mood would not taint him. He would not allow it. Damn if he would.
I probably won’t even recognize him.
Who?
My brother.
Oh.
He never sent pictures. He wrote or called me once a year. That was about it. We had no reason to see each other. This will be the first time he ever heard me preach. And I’m sure he’ll be listening. Sure. He moved to New Orleans in 1928. Then Memphis for a few years, then Chicago, then Detroit, then Los Angeles, finally New York City, Harlem. He hated the world.