Lucifer thought about something courteous to say and thinking found nothing.
What about you?
Me?
Why are you going to New York City?
To see my brother.
He lives there?
No. Well, not exactly. It’s a long story.
Well, we’ve got fifteen hours, I believe.
Lucifer said nothing. Nothing to be told.
I understand, the preacher said. The necessities of blood.
Yes, Lucifer said, not knowing what else to say.
What’s your brother’s name?
John.
John. The preacher broke the word between his fingers. John. Be kind to your brother, for he is just a ship in the ocean of time searching for a harbor.
Lucifer studied the preacher’s wrinkled skin, legends or biblical passages written beneath it. So the preacher thinks he’s a prophet.
I’m sorry. I’m not trying to pry.
No need to apologize.
I like to talk. The first sign of old age is all the talking cause you can’t do much else.
Lucifer attempted a laugh.
Where you from?
Lucifer told him.
Oh yes. I often preach there. You know Mount Zion Church?
I used to know one called that, years ago, but it’s probably not the same church.
It probably is. The preacher was looking directly at Lucifer’s forehead. A red stalactite reflected in his white eye. Ah, the red widow’s peak. He had forgotten to shave it.
Excuse me, Lucifer said. He tried to rise from his seat.
You see — the preacher’s wing tips flopped like catfish — I got a few years—
I’ll be right back.
— but I try to travel and spread the truth.
That’s good, Lucifer said. Excuse me. I need to use the bathroom.
Maybe before God calls me home — the red eye was looking into a new country — I’ll carry the gospel to another land.
The solid front of words knocked Lucifer back into his seat. The preacher must be deaf. All that screaming in church. That would be nice.
I’m from Memphis. Live there, that is. Born in—
Memphis? My wife’s from there.
Maybe she knows my church. Here’s my card.
Lucifer took it. Thanks. Pretended to read it. Buried it in his shirt pocket.
Being that your wife’s from there, you’ve visited?
No. I’ve never been down South. Well, except when I—
You should visit.
I plan to. The world sped past. Lucifer wanted to sit here quietly and alone and watch it. Perhaps study his map of New York City. (So long since he’d been there.)
Memphis used to be a nice place. Now everybody got bars on their doors. The world’s changed so.
Yes.
We hurt ourselves. Cain killing Abel. If we had any sense we wouldn’t be stealin from other po folks. Socrates said, Teach your mouth to say no. Black people are petty thieves. That’s the message of Jesus and the ten lepers.
Lucifer didn’t know the parable.
But we still got some good folks in Memphis. You should visit.
I plan to.
Come by my church anytime.
Thanks.
You and your wife. You can stay with me.
Thanks.
My wife ain’t living. God called her home.
Sorry to hear that.
She had bad kidneys. She had to drink one beer a day and keep her insides clean. By the time she lay back on her deathbed, she developed a round belly. Everybody thought she was pregnant, about to give birth to our sixth child. But you see, God been good to me.
Oh no. Here it comes. Forcing me to go to church, right here on this train. Then he’ll shout Lord! and pass around his collection plate. Why does everyone want to talk religion to me? Lucifer was tired of the small predictable truths, gilded platitudes, humming homilies.
I got married in 1933. My wife was nineteen. We were married for forty-five years. God been good.
Lucifer smiled.
I was born in 1910. That makes me how old?
Lucifer told him.
And I still got my health. And I have plenty to live on. I collect rent on three houses I own. I get eighty-five dollars a week from my congregation. And I get eight hundred eighty-nine dollars a month in pension.
What sort of work did you do? Why did I ask that?
Railroad.
Oh yeah? One of my wife’s uncles — he thought about And’s relationship to Sheila: his wife’s great-aunt’s husband — worked for the railroad.
Which railroad?
I’m not sure. But he always talked about it.
I started out working in the roundhouse. That’s where all the trains come in. I polished parts and kept the engines shining. Then they promoted me to switchman. My job was to open and close the track. I made forty cents an hour in 1941. In September I got a raise to fifty cents. In December I got promoted to seventy cents. Not bad money in those days.
Not at all.
Would you take my bag down? The preacher pointed to the luggage rack above their heads.
Sure.
The preacher adjusted his legs to allow Lucifer to stand. Lucifer slid the suitcase — old and heavy; It’ll last forever—from the overhead rack, balancing his body against the moving train — the train was spinning through Pennsylvania; Lucifer could see the drift of it all, the black face of a ridge, then stretched land below tree-covered mountains — and gently placed it on the preacher’s lap.
Thanks.
No problem. Lucifer retook his seat.
The preacher snapped the latches and disappeared inside the open suitcase. Placed two wedges of tinfoil on the suitcase — a makeshift table — and began to unwrap them. Have some. A pork chop sandwich blazed from the preacher’s outstretched palm.
No, thank you.
Are you sure?
I already ate.
The best time of my life was when I was struggling. The preacher took an anxious bite from his pork chop sandwich. God has been good to me.
Not God again. Lucifer wanted to tell the preacher to shut up about God. He mouthed a silent prayer for God to shut the preacher’s mouth.
He gave me five children. The preacher chewed white words. And almost a sixth. The preacher started on a second wedge of sandwich. My wife could make one chicken go far. And as we sat at the table, each child would tell a story. The preacher disappeared behind his open suitcase. Reappeared with a triangle of tinfoil. His careful fingers opened it. Revealed a piece of sweet potato pie with raisins. Have some.
No, thanks.
I taught my kids the importance of instruction. The preacher ate the pie with three bites. I always told them, Do your best. The preacher brought a handkerchief white to his face. Cleaned his mouth and hands. Picked orange string from his teeth. Sucked his fed teeth. You have kids?
The preacher’s question ran through Lucifer’s life like an accusing voice. Yes, Lucifer said. Two. A son and a daughter.
We were poor but my wife always kept the children clean. There’s no excuse for not keeping yourself clean.
The preacher’s voice strapped Lucifer in tightening circles of anger. Would you like something to drink? I could go to the dining car and—
No, thanks. I got something right here. For the third time, the preacher leaned into his open suitcase. Leaned back into his seat with a mason jar full of tea dark as the old leather suitcase. Buoyant cubes chimed against the glass. The preacher unscrewed the lid. And when we could, my wife made each child their favorite dish. The preacher tilted his head back. Drank slow and deep, his long throat working the liquid. He screwed the lid back on the jar. Things were bad. The preacher folded the tinfoil into neat squares. We had five kids to clothe and feed. Returned the squares and the mason jar to his suitcase. We had two girls in college. And the bill collectors threatened to throw me in jail. The water was up to here — the preacher held the edge of his hand before his nose — but God didn’t let me drown.