He shut his eyes tight, but he couldn’t get rid of that image of the fleshy white hand crawling up Dora’s skinny thigh. It was as though, losing Dora, he’d lost everything: his work, his money, his pride.
Reggie and he were ambling toward Bailey Court.
‘Can you keep your mouth shut about something?’ Jerome asked.
‘Wh-why?’
‘Well, can you?’
‘’Course.’
‘I knew this girl,’ Jerome began. He already regretted it. It was like he was giving Dora away.
‘And?’
‘Never mind. I was just thinking … I mean … did you think white girls’ skin is cold too? Like an Eskimo’s?’
Reggie gaped at him. At least he didn’t laugh. Reggie always knew when something was important.
‘She was warm. Her blood was warmer than mine.’ Jerome was talking more to himself than to his friend.
‘Was she pretty?’ Reggie asked.
‘It’s not about that. We were friends. She’s gone.’
‘Where to?’
‘Doesn’t matter.’ They were in front of Reggie’s house. Mammio spotted them from the kitchen and waved. Jerome waved back.
‘Nobody knows, right?’ Reggie asked as they went in the back door.
Jerome shook his head.
‘Good.’
-
‘Homesick’ (1993)
We were there at the beginning of trust and faith and respect behind closed doors we used to speak to each other in the soft tones of the rainbow smiling through the river’s mist cooling the warmth and passion of time waiting for us to come home.
-
AKRON, OHIO, 1960
Mud Bottom
He stood on a thick branch, about fifteen feet above the still, black water, naked except for his underwear. He wanted to learn how to swim.
He looked up at the translucent sky … If I don’t come back up, they’ll find my clothes, he thought fleetingly.
He crouched, and the branch bent with him. He looked out across the water. Wispy, glistening threads floated in the air. He saw small, shiny insects leap over the water’s surface. Wild ferns on the opposite bank, thin stripes of bright green moss between the rocks. It was so quiet and beautiful here. Even the birds and crickets seemed to be holding their breath.
It was his first time here. He thought of his father. It wasn’t hard to picture him in this place, sitting on a smooth round boulder at the water’s edge. Licking his trumpet’s mouthpiece. Rubbing his hands over his thighs, to wipe off the sweat before starting to play. Languid sounds echoing off the still water. The water was black glass. The highest notes evaporated at once. It was hardly a melody, just a string of notes. Who did he play for? Nobody could hear the music except him.
Or did he want Jerome to come listen? Was he afraid to ask?
The water looked deeper and farther away now. The woods were Daddy’s. And when he could swim, they would be his. Then it wouldn’t be dangerous to come here anymore. Good thing Mama didn’t know where he was.
He counted to ten, out loud. One two three four five six seven eight nine ten. He took a deep breath, shut his eyes and jumped.
Jerome heard the wind rush in his ears before he hit the water with a smack.
Eyes wide open. Blackness. The silence dull and deathly. The air in his lungs pressed painfully against his ribs. His throat hurt. He flailed his arms. Felt the slimy clay on his feet. Feet up, quick, quick. If only the water weren’t so black and opaque. This must be what being blind is like. Move your arms. That’s it. Up. Swim. Come on. Arms up. Toward what looks like a puddle of white floating above.
He pushed the heavy water aside, and suddenly there was light. Air. He spat out the last of his breath. Sucked new, fresh air in. The bright white hurt his eyes. The water felt soft and tepid against his skin. He allowed himself to sink a little, and the water slowly closed above his head. Eyes shut. He waited for a moment before pushing himself back up. Again. He floated. Thought of all those tiny invisible fish and creatures and plants down there in the darkness. The sucking mud at the bottom of the lake. He paddled lazily to the bank. He could hear the soft ripple of the water tingle in his ears. He grabbed hold of a bush and pulled himself out.
-
‘Rhythm Magic’ (1996)
Listen
Can’t you hear the naked mornings
And the raindrops on the windowpane as the high leaves you
Rhythm magic
The music of the word
Now you hear it
Now you don’t
Now you feel it
Now you won’t
-
AKRON, OHIO, 1960
The Hatchet
The puddles in the road disappeared as soon as he got nearer. It wasn’t water at all. It hadn’t rained in weeks. There was only the reflection of the bright sunlight on the black asphalt, the quivering of the air above it. He trudged further. Western Auto Supply was farther than he thought, a few miles outside of town, along the highway. He had asked Reggie where he could buy a pocketknife.
‘Daddio buys his tools at Western Auto.’
‘What do I want with tools?’
‘They also sell hardware and car parts, that kind of thing. I’ll bet they have knives too.’
Reggie didn’t ask what Jerome needed a knife for.
Jerome was thirsty. His throat was parched and he tasted dust. Hopefully Western Auto sold Coke too.
The gust of a passing truck nearly knocked him over. He was focused on the green wooden building in the distance and didn’t hear it coming. He tried to make out the letters on the sign: it should say ‘Western Auto’. He would try to hitchhike back. But not now. He couldn’t bring himself to talk to anyone, not before he had his knife.
He paused. Turned his cap backward to shield his neck from the sun. Felt the warm money in his pocket. Sweat ran down his back. He started walking again. One two three four. One two three four, he counted to himself. He glanced down at his once-white canvas sneakers. The dry, rough grass that crackled under his feet. The monotonous rhythm of his own footsteps relaxed him. He might as well have been out on some everyday errand. An errand for his mother. Although
