We catch you in the park again — next time, we’re arresting you.
Where’s Benny?
Fed a few loose teeth to the pigeons, spitting them to the ground like bloody bread crumbs. Watched the birds scurry up, pecking away. Must’ve been hungrier than me.
Not gonna tell you again.
What’d you do to her?
I blacked out after that. It gets a little patchy from here on. Memories begin to blend together; it was pretty difficult to tell whose history was whose anymore. I woke up in a waiting room. Could’ve been there for hours, staring up at the ceiling. Hum of fluorescents might as well have been flies buzzing about my body. Felt this fire inside my stomach. An oil lamp had busted open in my belly, kerosene leaking from my spleen. Nurses hovering over my head. None of them liked the smell of me.
One of them said, Got another homeless here.
Speaking like I don’t understand English.
Humana? Unicare?
Acting like they couldn’t hear me. Where’s Benny?
Blue Cross?
What’d you do with Benny?
Kept hearing the same word, over and over — Insurance? Insurance?
All I had was an eagle and an anchor.
Another asked, Name?
I answered right back: Lieutenant J.T. Ketchum. Company M, Richmond artillery.
She called out, This one’s a vet, I guess.
Damn right I’m a vet. I served my country. I fought at the Battle of Belle Isle. I have defended this city my whole life. I have given Richmond everything. My daughter. My best friend. I’ve got nothing now. What’s left of me to give?
My colon, apparently. Had something hooked up to my side — I could feel it. A plastic bag. Reminded me of one of Benny’s bags with all her junk. One of Benny’s bags was attached to my abdomen, itching like a son of a bitch. Every time I tried scratching, some nurse slapped my hand away.
Just trying to help, I said.
Help yourself is more like it, she shot back, easing a needle into my arm. Suddenly the room went all soft. My tattoos felt fuzzy. The eagle on my forearm sank deeper into my skin, its talons dragging the earth down with it.
Just when you think you’ve got nothing left to give, there’s always something more for this city to take away. Even your history. I’m back at the prison camp. Gangrene’s lingering in the air. Rotten cheese. Got to keep the flies off — otherwise, they’ll lay their eggs in my wounds. Neglected men everywhere, suffering from exposure. Fingers and feet lost to frostbite. Typhoid fever. Dysentery. My miserable comrades are dying all around me as the morning shift takes over, new nurses asking the same questions — Anthem?
What’d you do to Benny?
Carefirst?
What’d you do to my friend?
Clothes are gone. My shoes are gone. Got me in this green paper gown now.
Green paper gown. Green paper gown.
I’m in a wheelchair, rolled out into the parking lot. It’s morning. Sun’s just rising. An ambulance pulls up in front of me. I’m told to hold my colostomy bag as it drops into my lap. Feels soft inside. The guy behind the wheel’s asking for an address.
Where you want to go? You got to give me an address, pal.
Only address that’s coming to mind is Freedom House. On Belvidere.
There’s no shelter on Belvidere anymore, he says as we drive off. Shut that one down a long time ago.
The ambulance stops. Back doors fan open. I’m met with the winter sun. I can see my breath fog up before me. I see the James.
I see the river.
Richmond could’ve cared less about Benny. She was just another blip of banal city bureaucracy. They dumped her along the river — up and dumped her as far away from themselves as they could, hoping the currents would carry her the rest of the way. What happened to her must happen in that hospital all the time. Because here it is, happening to me.
The driver won’t let me keep the wheelchair. All I get is my colostomy bag. He tosses a Ziploc next to me, full of photographs. None of these faces look familiar. Can’t tell if they’re my family or not. I slip the edge of the pouch between my teeth, carrying it in my mouth as I crawl across the rocks. My green paper gown softens in the water, adhering itself to my body like a second layer of skin. The river’s cold — but before long, all feeling is gone. I know I’m moving, I know I’m on my back. I can see my arms pushing through the water. My colostomy bag must be keeping me afloat, bobbing along the surface. Everything I own is inside.
A few photographs loosen themselves from the Ziploc between my teeth, floating along the water without me. Suddenly I’m surrounded by spinning pictures, swirling over the surface, moving downstream. One of them floats up in front of me. Black-and-white. Cute little brunette smiling for the camera. Reminds me of someone I used to know. Lost her in this river, long ago. Never been able to get her back. And here’s history repeating itself again. Like getting caught in a whirlpool. Sucking me under. Looking at that photograph, bobbing through the water — I’m watching my daughter swim downriver with me, the two of us drifting along together.
That’s Richmond for you. This city’s built upon bones. What isn’t buried simply washes downriver. It’s a matter of hitting the right current. Ease myself to the southern side of the James. Keep to the right and I’ll make it.
Got to make my way back to Belle Isle.
Got to head home.
A Late-Night Fishing Trip
by X. C. Atkins
Oregon Hill
It was around the hour when the sun began to sink into the James River and the lights of downtown Richmond came on and made the city look as big and grand as it wished it could be. The air was warm and thick. It made me think of maple syrup. There was a small breeze that picked up when I pushed my good foot on the accelerator. One arm hung out the window, the other with a hand on the wheel and a smoke between the knuckles. I was driving into Oregon Hill and I wasn’t happy about it.
Denby and Reggie Baker had just moved into the neighborhood. Cheaper rent, they told me. If you happened to be meandering through on a shiny afternoon you might see why. Oregon Hill was a dirty place and it was a nasty place. It was a place where stray cats could raise families. The gaunt houses were packed together and looked like the trees out in front of them: old, tired, and resentful. The porches sagged into themselves like wet cardboard, and Confederate flags hung with no wind to give them false glory. The lawns, if they had anything growing in them at all, grew wild and unkempt. Random objects stuck out from these yards, rusted machinery that had long since ceased to operate, children’s toys. There were families here, white families, that hadn’t yet moved out into the depressing alcoholic counties beyond Richmond, and they had a hell of a chip on their shoulders. The nights were deathly quiet but there was always something moving, shadow-to-shadow, and whatever it was knew when there was someone in the neighborhood who didn’t belong. It was the feeling I had every time I paid a visit. And every time it felt like I was sneaking in.