It was night, late. Sometime around midnight, or. Maybe later than that. The clouds, plum-dark and florid, were. Billowing gently across the sky. With myotis bats flying along the ridge. Swooping as they do. Back-and-forth-and-up-and-down-and-around-and-around-and. Hunting. With nighthawks and owls. The birds of the day, the thrashers and wrens and verdins and flickers and quails and roadrunners, were all sound asleep until morning.
The night was quiet. Or. It was supposed to be. It is thought to be by those who fall asleep. I stayed awake to watch the lights of the city down below – the small, round lights of cars in cavalcades, the neon sign of the motel blinking on-and-off-and-on-and… The party at the saloon. And – because we can see for miles-and-miles from our side of the mountain, I could see the faint, soft glow of the sun hovering just-over-the-horizon as well. Just a hint of color and light. Far in the distance. From the places still living in daylight, the sun still shining and bright, because: No matter the darkness overhead, the sun is never truly gone.
And this: That distant horizon, that faraway place where the line of the land meets the line of the sky, this is where Ima says the dead go when they die.
But.
He wasn’t dead. He was just gone.
It was late when I saw him. With the bag in his hand and the hat on his head. I saw his back. And his shoulders straight as he walked away. But not his face. I couldn’t see his face. His face, coming home every night from a long day’s work, was what raised me. But that night – only his back. And I realized, like lightning, like a match just struck and a fire starting to burn from the pits in the northeast crag, that this was written. Meant-to-be. And. Was always going to happen this way.
And that. As many times as he had shown me his face – his eyes, his nose, his beard, his mouth to teach me the things he believed were important, the things he thought I should know, one day his back would have the final say. Take the last word. And. Complete the lesson. And I shouldn’t think too much about it. I should just keep living as I am. Continue to grow and change. Look after Ima and the mountain.
This is what he wanted to teach me all along.
Because we all have to leave someday. The place where people are familiar. The place where sights and sounds and smells and tastes (and touches) are familiar. Leave this place we call home. Go somewhere new where they’ll call you a stranger. You’ll know for certain then what you really have. You’ll know then, when all you have is your body and nothing-else, who you really are inside. And this is an important lesson. I thank him for it every-day.
The City
Spotted: Joaquim Taylor at the jewelry shop on 12th Street buying a wedding ring for the beautiful Ms. Beula B. (soon-to-be) Taylor. Twelve-year-old Gray Gomes painting a swastika on the wall behind Hyman’s Bookstore, having just failed a pop quiz in history class, subject – the Holocaust. A rabbit so thin its ribs can be seen through its fur running seriatim between cars parked along the curb, pleading innocence with the small pat-pat of its paws on asphalt, his mother recently run-over.
Heard: The honk-honking of cars stuck in rush hour traffic. The wind rustling through trees in Washington Park. Mr. Callas selling fruit from his 14th Street grocery, calling, Bananas cheap! Mangoes cheap! Strawberries cheap! Kumquats costly, but fresh just for you… as two dogs, Pits, blue, hungry, fight for a piece of meat in the alley behind, and the danzón plays from the restaurant El Mejillón.
Heard: Cora Coleman from the passenger’s seat of a ‘97 Cutlass on the street saying to her man Rufus, You know what, Rufus? Your mom was right about you.
Saying, You don’t have any get-up-and-go. You don’t have any drive. You don’t have any, oh, how-do-you-say-it? Motivation. You hear me? No motivation, no stimulation, no inspiration…
Rufus frowns as he looks to the street. The car stopped at a red light glowing overhead. I’m driving you around, ain’t I? He says. Talking about drive. Saying I don’t have any drive. We’re driving now, are we not? Whose car you think this is?
Cora opens the door. She steps out onto the street and slams the door behind her. You know what Rufus? She says, pointing back at him with a painted finger. That’s it! She says, And I don’t want to hear another word out of you.
Heard: Cars honking louder now as the light turns to green. Drivers yelling, Go, go, go! with a tangible weight to their words.
Cora looks down at Rufus through the open window. Her amber eyes aflame in the light of the sun. Reflecting on panes of glass in long windows facing the street covered in fingerprints and dust. She pauses for a moment.
It’s over Rufus, she says. You hear me? We’re through. And I mean it this time.
She flips her hair over her shoulder. She turns down 14th Street. Back to her apartment at the corner of Empire above the bodega there. Rufus watches her go. Sitting empty in his car. He holds the steering wheel. So tight his knuckles turn white from the pressure. He takes a breath. He releases his grip and drives on. Cora now disappeared into the din of the city. Time in traffic now measured through sound in quarter-inches as it begins its forward march again.
At the corner store. The old man sits on his chair by the door. White hair, shoulders bent, gnarled hands on his cane. His face a spiderweb of wrinkles as he smiles, watching his neighbors through the window. So many people, he thinks. They cross the street in lines. Hungry, happy, unhappy, with friends and alone. Holding dogs on leashes, jogging in new shirts and shoes, carrying leather kitbags and shopper’s plastic, wiping the sweat from their foreheads and faces. All rushing in such a hurry to wherever it is they need to go. They stumble, occasionally, along the uneven slabs of sidewalk.
The sun is shining through the window, hot to touch on the glass. The neon sign blinks OPEN blinks OPEN blinks OPEN blinks… The old man keeps his eyes open beneath heavy eyelids, his cataracts look like insects crawling against the sky.
His name was Charles once, in a different life. He is called Pops now by everyone who enters the store. Hey, Pops! How you doing, Pops? He likes the sound of this. Like a pillar of the community. An important piece of the neighborhood. Someone they will miss when he’s gone.
He leans his head against the wall. He closes his eyes. He takes a deep breath through his nose. It is the smell of egg sandwiches sold at the counter. The smell of candy and soda and vanilla ice cream. The smell of sneakers with rubber soles. And perfume. The smell of mildew from the old mop sitting in gray water in the back.
He holds his breath in his lungs. Then exhales. Everything he knows from his lungs. It floats through the open door. To the city and the people moving along the street. Then into the mountains beyond.
In the apartment upstairs. Cora Coleman lies on her back with her legs spread, knees bent, fingers through the sheets. Jimmy from down the block moves with a slow and steady pace inside her. His warm breath in her ear, his shorts around his ankles, their bodies slick with sweat from the humidity and the heat outside.
Bet you never had it like this before, he says. Mm-hm. Bet you never had it like this –
Shut up I’m going to come.
Rufus on the front stoop outside cries with his face in his hands. A bottle shatters on the pavement nearby. He doesn’t lift his head. The old man Pops bobs his head by the door falling in-and-out of sleep. He doesn’t think of death. We all live forever – he thinks – with the pain of love in our hearts.
As Mr. Callas stands in the doorway and calls, Bananas cheap! Mangoes cheap! Strawberries cheap! Special sale on kumquats, come inside and see.
On the bridge. Beula B. soon-to-be Taylor stands at the edge of the 11th Street Bridge. She throws her lipstick into the river and watches the water take it away. How far will it go… She watches it bob and dip at the surface for a moment, catch in the branch of a fallen tree, then drift on with the current.
A voice from behind her says, You shouldn’t do that you know.
Beula turns. The voice of a child. She straightens her shirt. Excuse me?
You shouldn’t throw things in the river.
Why not?
Because a duck will choke on it for dinner, the child says. That’s why. Because frogs don’t look good in makeup. And that should be enough. Haven’t you ever seen a beaver?
Yes. Beula sighs. I’ve seen a beaver.
Well, the child crosses hir arms. Your lipstick could poke-its-eye-out.
What’s your name? Beula asks.
The child shakes hir head. I don’t have one.
Beula frowns. Excuse me. Everyone has a name.
Not me. The child says. Not yet. I haven’t decided yet. And my mom says that’s okay – she said I can take whatever name I want. I can be whatever I want to be. There’s no need to rush. So I’m taking my time to get it right.
The child shrugs. Or maybe I can be everything all at once.
Beula looks to the sky. The sun just starting to set. She looks to the gold watch on her wrist. 6pm or so it says. Fake but no one knows. She forgets the pit in her stomach, the irregularity of her heartbeat, the nervous shake of her fingers. No one will ever know. Breathe. If she smoked cigarettes, she would smoke one now. Gross. The smell of her mother smoking cigarettes in the bathroom when she was a little girl. She looks down at the river and takes a breath, fills her chest with city air, calm, she breathes out. Like smoke.
Well what do people call you? She asks.
They don’t, really. The child says and shakes hir head and looks to the ground. Looking to the paint on the sidewalk leftover from bridge construction last year, the broken glass in green pieces, finger heart and handprints left by children when the cement was still fresh.
At school? Beula asks.
The child shakes hir head again. I’m homeschooled.
Homeschooled? Beula frowns. What does your mother say?
She calls me you.
You?
Yes. You.
Hey, you!
Right. The child grins. Hey, you! Come down for dinner! Just like that.
Beula turns back to the water. A plastic cup floats with the current and disappears around the bend ahead with her lipstick. It will go on forever, she thinks. And become the lyrics to some sentimental song they will play at my wedding.
She looks again to the sky. Her hair catches the light. The child stands still for a moment longer, holding hir left arm with hir right hand and digging the toe of hir shoe into the sidewalk.
In the bedroom. Cora lies with her arms behind her head, white sheets wrapped around her waist, her hands around the back of her head. Careful to protect her hair from the pillows soaked with sweat from their bodies. Jimmy stands in the bathroom, flexing his arms in the mirror. He wears nothing but boxer shorts and long white socks pulled halfway to his knees.
The street now quiet outside. Jimmy hums quietly to himself.
Cora calls, Hey Jimmy.
Yeah?
Jimmy.
Yeah I said.
Do you love me?
Jimmy stands in the doorway to the bathroom. Do I what? Sweat runs down his chest. He rests his hands against the doorframe and leans forward, his elbows out like wings from his back.
Serious Jimmy, Cora says. Do you love me?
You know I do.
Yeah? Why do you?
Jimmy leans over and kisses the space between her eyebrows. He tastes the salt from the sweat on her forehead. His mouth dry and rough like burlap. Because you’re so sweet, he says. Because you drive me crazy and I can’t stop thinking about you, can’t stop thinking about you…
Cora frowns. What was that you said?
I said you drive me crazy. What you think?
Cora shakes her head and points to the door. No, Jimmy, she says. Get out.
I was giving you a compliment.
Get out Jimmy. I mean it.
Come on Cora.
Don’t you talk to me about drive. Don’t use that word. You know better. It’s too soon. You know it’s too soon. Rufus and me were in love earlier today and we broke up because of that word drive. Because I talked to him about drive. Get out, Jimmy. I don’t want to see you right now.
Jimmy frowns and shakes his head. His clothes on the back of the wicker chair in the corner. He pulls his slacks to his waist and buckles his belt. He pulls his shirt down halfway across his chest and looks back at Cora, You sure about this?
She crosses her arms. Jimmy sighs and shakes his head again. He turns and walks downstairs, cursing beneath his breath, where the old man is sitting alone by the door.
Hey, Pops, Jimmy says. How you doing?
Hey there Jimmy, the old man says. I’m doing just fine, thanks for asking. How about you?
Been better, Pops, Jimmy says and sighs. Been better.
He walks out onto the street. He sees Rufus wiping his nose on the front stoop and says to him, She’s crazy as Christmas, you know that don’t you?
Rufus lifts his head and says, Don’t you talk about her that way.
Oh fuck you Rufus.
Yeah fuck you too Jimmy.
Jimmy walks on down the street, kicking at rocks and broken glass. Cora leans out through the window to watch him go. Naked above the waist. Her skin glows in the fading light of sunset. Shines with the sheen of a sunset queen. Rufus thinks. In the warm summer air. The evening breeze picks up again through the trees and blows Cora’s dark hair across her forehead. Rufus waves at her from the street below and she sighs, smiles and waves back down at him. She pulls her body back in through the window, pulls the window closed, and falls face-first to the bed.
Felt: Heat. Hunger. Heartache. Heavy as it draws the day to a close. It is a familiar ennui, the result of endless summer days, staid in its apathy and indecision, that spreads now throughout the neighborhood.
Mr. Callas steps back inside. His voice hoarse from yelling. He stops and winks at the old man sitting by the door, Tomorrow will be a better day, he says, yessir. He sinks into the swivel chair behind the register and puts his feet up on the counter. He crosses his arms behind his head.
The old man smiles from his seat by the door. Yes indeed, he says, We are all tall and happy tomorrow.
What was said: Tomorrow will be a better day.
What is known: Tomorrow will come as it does.
The End
There is dust in the food. Grit between my teeth. As always there is. And grime between our toes. The water in the mountain is the last we have. Our homes are at risk. The sun comes closer every day and it will burn us where we sleep. The face of the mountain no longer on our side. All humans will perish, it tells us. We who for so long have lived in the mountain and worshipped its light. But no one is innocent anymore. And the world must heal without us.
The grit between my teeth is familiar. Ima stands at the window watching the sky. Blue skies turn to dusk. Lilac clouds, golden sun, black shadows cast from ascetic trees like ghosts haunt the dirt. The sound of cars passing on the road. She watches the clouds as they bring the night and then pulls back inside like a shadow to look at me. She doesn’t say anything yet. She doesn’t need to. And she doesn’t eat – she hasn’t been eating. I tell her she needs to eat, but she doesn’t listen to me. I tell her there’s no reason to starve. Maybe she knows something I don’t.
The land is the color of sand, the color of grass, the color of cacti, ghost plants, red pancakes, fox tails, and the flowers that do not yet have names. The color of the sky reflected on the water that used to flow here. But the earth is color as it was meant to be. We failed the earth when we added colors of our own. When we forgot to honor the colors that were here already. So now there is no water to reflect the sky and the flowers are dying as well. Soon there will be no flowers, no cacti, no grass at all. Only sand. And we cannot live on sand alone.
The first time I died, Ima tells me, the sun flared its great, fiery disc and swallowed the whole world in a moment. And everything that had been was then no more. The second time I died, it was at the hands of a grand, dark army, their bayonets through my stomach and heart. And when I fell their boots marched over my corpse as though a body that falls never stood. Then came the pandemic. The disease that ravages a body from inside out and leaves it unrecognizable in blue-green and harlequin hues. And then I starved – that endless space beneath my ribcage hollowed out and empty, my arms and legs turned to thin and brittle matchsticks and used to light a fire, my ashes carried away by the wind. And finally, there came a loneliness and despair, the deep depression that leads to an end by my own hand.
The last time I died, Ima says, there was nothing left of me: I could not move my fingers, blink my eyes or think any final thoughts at all. And everything then was peaceful, calm, still, and black.
The last time I died, Ima says, I went to heaven, because this is where I believed I would go.
While I will soon follow my father down to the city below.