Insurrections (9 page)

The woman collapsed. She lay on the ground unmoving, a wet spot expanding outward from her crotch.

Casey looked into Kwayku's face, hoping to see something other than what he saw: a stare of revulsion and pain. It looked like a fright mask, forever molded into an expression of rubbery distress. And Casey couldn't help it, or even explain it, but it brought him laughter. He laughed like hell until burning water spilled from his eyes onto his cheeks.

Daddy's pissed. I can tell 'cause I can hear his gloved fists slapping the punching bag downstairs. It's a flat plapping noise. The louder the sound, the more pissed he's become. He says every day he punches the bag is boxing day, but today is actually Boxing Day.

I would stay out of the basement, away from my punch-drunk father and every delusion he's used to sew himself together, but my mother's sent me to descend into his Hades to deliver a message.

He notices me and begins to speak as he punches the bag, breathing hard between phrases.

My father, he says, used to always tell me about the day after Christmas. How he and Grandma and Grandpappy and all the kids would head out to the beach. Can you believe that?

He stops to catch his heavy breath and then starts punching and talking again.

We suffering in arctic weather—the goddamn river's frozen and shit—and I bet your grandfather is swimming with tropical fish right now. When I was a kid, all he did was tell me about it.
Look, kid, the days before you got here was the best, and now all we do is watch our breath steam
. Now he's back where he wants to be. Happy fucking Boxing Day!

Daddy is in one of his moods, that steady persistent low-level blue. Every word is a bomb filled with cynicism. I'm always surprised by the burn of his napalm.

That morning I woke early to catch some cartoons in the basement. My father says I'm too old for cartoons, so I didn't want him to see me slink downstairs. As I rounded the corner and approached the stairhead,
I saw Daddy with his gloves hanging about his neck from a set of black strings.

Stay up here, kid, he said. I'm about to beat that thing till it cries. Yep, gonna be down there a while.

He doesn't need to say,
I don't want you around
. His shrug, the curt dance of his eyes, they speak for him.

Daddy's blue moods never care about anyone. Every minute when he's like this I'm in a four-dimensional world made of endless time: hours lain next to hours, hours stacked atop hours into the sky. This broken man, reeling from daily compromise. Sarcasm and boxing the only things keeping him together. As for me, I'm one of many chains round his neck that hold him in a cold, tiny basement of mediocrity.

My father is shirtless and slick with sweat, swaying before the punching bag. He leans into his maroon opponent, clinging to the thing like he needs it in order to stand. Ref, he shouts. Ref! This motherfucker tried to bite my ear.

Dad.

Say hello to Tyson, kid.

Dad, Mom said there is not enough tofu for all of us, and it's your turn to cook and wash the dishes.

I'm the heavyweight champion of the goddamn world and that woman wants me to eat bean sprouts? I need some red meat. A steak or something.
I'll eat your children
.

He bares his teeth and shakes his head and lays rapid-fire blows into the punching bag.

It's vegetarian day, Dad.

Seriously, kid, tell your mother to go jump in a lake.

I can't tell my mother to jump in a lake. When I'm back upstairs, I tell her he's on his way.

Later when my mother sends me back down into the dim, cold basement, Daddy is Muhammad Ali standing over Sonny Liston. He's Mike Tyson coming into the ring like a vicious animal. Then he's Tyson whimpering after losing to Buster Douglas.

His whimpering stops being a joke and crosses over into real tears, his face a rain-slicked street at midnight. He leans into the bag like Tyson leaned into Don King after his loss to Douglas. I rarely saw my dad embrace my mother the way he's hugging that bag. I don't know whether
to turn and tiptoe back upstairs or to go to him, hug him in the way he says men are not to hug.

Dad, I say.

When our eyes meet, he squares his slumped shoulders and throws a weak set of punches at the bag.

Tyson in 'ninety-one, he says. Good impression, huh? He wipes his tears with his forearm and punches the bag again and again and again.

Nicolette fingered the cuts above her eye and the tender spots along the side of her face. Her shoulder ached, as did her back, which had absorbed the shock.

The train pushed away, clanging along the tracks. She thought she could still hear voices hooting at her.

The baby was okay, though. Cried some, but he was okay. There were rips in his yellow blanket and smudges of black dirt and grease splotched all over it. She had fashioned the blanket into a sling to hold the baby. There was dirt about his face, which she brushed off. The river lay just down the slope. She washed her hands in it and cleaned off her son—making sure to get the dirt out of every little crevice and crack—and then she tended to her wounds.

Nicolette grumbled as she washed, shaking her head, thinking angry things and spitting them from her mouth. Nothing could be done now, but in the future she'd heed what her mother had said about trusting strange men. He looked so honest, she thought, as she shook dust from her sweater and jeans.

What's a girl like you doing out here on these rails alone? he had said after lifting her onto the slow-moving train through the open train door. I'm not going to bust you. Let me help you out.

He was nice at first, offering her a private corner in the dusty car. The gentle rocking of the train lulled her into a peacefulness she hadn't felt for some time. But soon he was grabbing at her sweater, his friendly smile turning wide and sinister. Sounds rising all around her, the baby whining, men laughing and hollering, calling her filthy names. Strange hands
reaching for her. As she rolled away from the rails, the men chuckled and screamed.

She again touched the raw wounds with her free hand and wondered what they looked like, whether they would leave scars. Nicolette could still hear the hollering and laughing tumbling about in her ears. Men having fun could sure sound menacing sometimes.

Nicolette walked along the track, looking out at the dark waters. The jagged rocks squeaked loudly beneath her feet. She had left her bag, which held almost her entire world, with the men on that southbound train. Her stuff would soon be in Port Yooga and she'd be here.

Just down the embankment was Cross River, a town she had hoped to bypass. She looked up. Overgrown branches like groping arms reached for her. She looked to her back. No one would ever take advantage of her again. They'd get theirs one day, she thought. All of them.

The baby bawled, wailing punctuated by staccato stabs. She bounced him gently in her arms and spoke soothingly, which only seemed to agitate him.

Her face ached as the chilly wind blew against it, and her shoulder ached and her feet ached. The cold stabbed pinpricks through her sweater. Nicolette thought of the baby's delicate flesh and pulled him closer. The temperature could only drop at this time of night. The pain in her back made her stop. Why did the men have to act the way they did? She wrapped the blanket more tightly around her torso and kept hiking, trying not to think of the miles of track in front of her or the miles of track in back of her.

Down the hill, beyond the brush, Nicolette spotted a fire. She walked toward the light as if a voice inside it called her. The baby had quieted, his bright eyes staring up at her. Twigs cracked beneath her feet. She crouched behind a bush and peered into the flames. Watching fires burn had always soothed her, but never more so than now. Her limbs needed rest. Her mouth needed water. Her fingers needed heat.

A man sat alone by the flame. The baby waved his brown limbs and struck a high note. The man looked up.

Who's out there?

Nicolette moved toward him. Hello, she said. There was a tremble in her voice; she hoped he hadn't noticed.

Girl, you're all beat up, he said, looking at her sadly. I been there.

I fell.

The man winced. Look like you been hit, he said.

She shook her head. I fell.

Them bruises ain't from no fall; a man did that to you. Boy, they getting more savage along these rails. You lucky they didn't do worse. I heard some stories.

Can I sit? she asked. I'm tired.

Sure. You look like a tough girl—

I am.

But ain't no girl tough enough to be out here all alone with a baby. Don't you have a man?

Just this little one here.

Nicolette felt uneasy. Foolish. Saying too much had gotten her hemmed up so many times. She lied: I'm meeting some people in town.

Water? He passed Nicolette a large jug and she took a long swig followed by another long swig.

Thirsty, huh? Bet you hungry too, mama?

She smiled at the man. The firelight flickered across his face, casting shadows and orange light. His nose was twisted and his upper lip slashed; his eyelids looked puffy and his skin lay thick and leathery. He touched his face, trying to obscure the ruddy splotches on his swollen cheeks.

Gotta be careful out here. Every nigga you meet ain't on the up and up. I'm only telling you this 'cause you're young. Girls trust niggas too much when they young. I may not look like it, but I used to be a tough guy. Greatest slapsmith the Southside ever saw. Used to brawl with the best.

The man showed off his red, thick, scarred hands. Nicolette looked down at her son. He had turned toward her chest and fallen sleep.

Look at these. Ever seen this, huh? That comes from twenty years of slapboxing. I won the World Brawl four years running. Got knocked slapdrunk in the fifth match. Ain't never recover. They call me Slapfest. Heard of me, huh?

Nicolette shook her head, still eyeing his hands. Once upon a time, a man's hands flew toward her face. Slaps and punches. They looked nothing like the slapsmith's hands. Those hands were soft and thin. A manly vein bisected the backs of both of them, but the nails always stayed bright and clear, neatly and obsessively polished, rounded and filed. Sometimes
grabbing hold of the baby was the only thing that could make those hands stop swinging, and then later when he was onto her, even that couldn't stop him. What kind of woman am I, she would think, using a baby for a shield?

Girl, you never heard of Slapfest? Know what the World Brawl is? No? Well, I guess that makes sense. You on the train, so I guess you coming from out of town. It's okay, you don't have to tell me where you coming from or nothing about you if you don't want. I ain't nosy.

Yeah, I'm a tough guy. Only lost the World Brawl that one time 'cause the nigga cheated. He punched me! Punched me four times in the face and nearly knocked me the fuck out. Ref said he ain't see it. Can you believe that? You not supposed to be punching nobody when you slapboxing! In the papers they called it some win-at-all-costs shit. Said any professional woulda done the same thing, but to me it's a matter of integrity. Who you is is shown by what you do when you desperate. I was getting him. He only punched me 'cause he was desperate than a mu'fucker. Pardon my language.

He stood and swung his arms wildly, ducking his face from a rain of imaginary blows. Blap! Smack! Blap! I slapped that nigga like, Smack! Blap! Blap!

The child turned and cried in his sleep. Nicolette bounced and shushed him to make sure he didn't wake to see all this.

A man approached. An even older man. He had friendly features, and his cheeks and chin were dotted with scraggly gray hairs. The slapsmith paused. Then he held up a frying pan. Like my pan?

It looked old and gritty, flaky and burnt, a veteran of many fires, cast-iron heavy. Nicolette nodded again and looked around for an out. She eyed the approaching man cautiously. He was tall and skinny like one of the men from the train. Perhaps she could break for it. Up the grade and back to the tracks. But with tired limbs and a baby? There was no cause to run yet, anyway.

Hey Daf, the slapsmith called to the man, who sat and rested a cloth bag next to the fire.

Hey there, Daf replied. And who is the lovely lady?

Why, I never got her name, the slapsmith replied.

Nicolette. And this little guy's Gabriel. I say Gabby, though.

Gabby's eyes opened slowly and he blinked and blinked and yawned
and blinked. The baby stretched and watched everyone with suspicion, which made Daf and his friend smile. Gabby's eyes shut—slowly like little falling curtains—and he settled into a shallow sleep.

Gabby's a nice name, Daf said. Real nice. Hello Gabby and Nicolette. My man isn't bothering you guys, is he? No? That's good. You guys hungry?

As ever, Nicolette said.

Daf rested the cast-iron pan atop the fire and began laying out bacon strips. Nicolette said she would feed Gabby while Daf prepared the food. She walked off to get some privacy, lifted her sweater, and pressed the drowsy baby to her nipple.

What a pleasant surprise, she heard Daf say. He cracked an egg atop the sizzling meat. How often do we get to entertain guests?

Remember that guy who knocked me down in the fourth match during the last World Brawl and I couldn't get up again? She and that guy share features, don't you think, huh?

That was a long time ago, 'Fest. Those days are gone.

She felt the men watching her as they chattered back and forth. She shut her eyes and sucked in a wisp of air. Fully in the moment, just her and Gabby. She imagined herself and the baby as the shadows that exist for only an instant near a flickering flame. But then the men's chattering threw her from the moment. Daf's friend made little sense. Nicolette looked about at the menacing trees. Peacefulness, she realized, was synonymous with vulnerability. She became sad and then scared. And she asked herself why again she had failed to heed her mother's words.