Stories (2011) (63 page)

“I got to fight,” “Lil” Arthur said.

“You got to do nothin’. This storm’ll wash your ass to sea.”

“I got to, Papa.” Tina said, “Maybe yo papa’s right, baby.
You ought to come.”

“You know I can’t. Soon as the fight’s over, I’ll head on
out. I promise. In fact, weather’s so bad,

I’ll knock this McBride out early.”

“You do that,” Tina said.

“Lil” Arthur climbed on the wagon and hugged his mama and
shook his father’s hand. Henry spoke quickly without looking at “Lil” Arthur,
said, “Good luck, son. Knock him out.”

“Lil” Arthur nodded. “Thanks, Papa.” He climbed down and
went around to the back of the wagon and threw up the tarp and hugged his
sisters one at a time and shook hands with his brother-in-law, Clement. He
pulled Clement close to him, said, “You stay out of my sister, hear?”

“Yeah, Arthur. Sure. But I think maybe we done got a
problem. She’s already swole up.”

“Ah, shit,” “Lil” Arthur said.

4:03 P.m.

As Henry Johnson drove the horses onto the wooden bridge
that connected Galveston to the mainland, he felt ill. The water was washing
over the sides, against the wagon wheels. The horses were nervous, and the line
of would-be escapees on the bridge was tremendous. It would take them a long
time to cross, maybe hours, and from the look of things, the way the water was
rising, wouldn’t be long before the bridge was underwater.

He said a private prayer: “Lord, take care of my family. And
especially that fool son of mine, ‘Lil’ Arthur.”

It didn’t occur to him to include himself in the prayer.

4:37 P.m.

Bill and Angelique Cooper moved everything of value they
could carry to the second floor of the house. Already the water was sloshing in
the doorway. Rain splattered against the windows violently enough to shake
them, and shingles flapped boisterously on the roof.

Bill paused in his work and shuffled through ankle-deep
water to a window and looked out. He said, “Angelique, I think we can stop
carrying.”

“But I haven’t carried up the—”

“We’re leaving.”

“Leaving? It’s that bad?”

“Not yet.”

Bess was difficult to hook to the buggy. She was wild-eyed
and skittish. The barn was leaking badly. Angelique held an umbrella over her
head, waiting for the buggy to be fastened. She could feel water rising above
her high-button shoes.

Bill paused for a moment to calm the horse, glanced at
Angelique, thought she looked oddly beautiful, the water running off the
umbrella in streams. She held Teddy close to her. Teddy was asleep, totally
unaware of what was going on around him. Any other time, the baby would be
squalling, annoyed. The rain and the wind were actually helping him to sleep.
At least, thought Bill, I am grateful for that.

By the time the buggy was hooked, they were standing in
calf-deep water. Bill opened the barn door with great difficulty, saw that the
yard was gone, and so was the street. He would have to guess at directions.
Worse yet, it wasn’t rainwater running through the street. It was definitely
seawater; the water of the Gulf had risen up as if to swallow Galveston the way
the ocean was said to have swallowed Atlantis.

Bill helped Angelique and Teddy into the buggy, took hold of
the reins, clucked to Bess. Bess jerked and reared, and finally, by reins and
voice, Bill calmed her. She began to plod forward through the dark, powerful
water.

5:00 P.m.

McBride awoke. The wind was howling. The window glass was
rattling violently, even though the windows were raised. The air was cool for a
change, but damp. It was dark in the room.

The madam, wrapped in a blanket, sat in a chair pulled up
against the far wall. She turned and looked at McBride. She said, “All hell’s
broken loose.”

“Say it has?” McBride got up, walked naked to the windows.
The wind was so furious it pushed him. “Damn,” he said. “It’s dark as midnight.
This looks bad.”

“Bad?” The madam laughed. “Worst hurricane I’ve ever seen,
and I don’t even think it’s cranked up good yet.”

“You don’t think they’ll call off the fight, do you?”

“Can you fight in a boat?”

“Hell, honey, I can fight and fuck at the same time on a
boat. Come to think of it, I can fight and fuck on a rolling log, I have to. I
used to be a lumberjack up north.”

“I was you, I’d find a log, and get to crackin’.”

A bolt of lightning, white as eternity, split the sky, and
when it did, the darkness outside subsided, and in that instant, McBride saw
the street was covered in waist-deep water.

“Reckon I better start on over there,” he said. “It may take
me a while.”

The madam thought: Well, honey, go right ahead, and I hope
you drown.

5:20 P.m.

“Lil” Arthur was standing on the porch, trying to decide if
he should brave the water, which was now up to the lip of the porch, when he
saw a loose rowboat drift by.

Suddenly he was in the water, swimming, and the force of the
water carried him after the boat, and soon he had hold of it. When he climbed
inside, he found the boat was a third filled with water. He found a paddle and
a pail half-filled with dirt. The dirt had turned to mud and was beginning to
flow over the top of the bucket. A few dead worms swirled in the mess. The
world was atumble with wind, water, and darkness.

“Lil” Arthur took the bucket and poured out the mud and the
worms and started to bail. Now and then he put the bucket aside and used the
boat paddle. Not that he needed it much. The water was carrying him where he
wanted to go.

Uptown.

5:46 P.m.

Uptown the water was not so deep but it took McBride almost
an hour to get to the Sporting Club. He waded through waist-deep water for a
block, then knee-deep, and finally ankle-deep. His bowler hat had lost all its
shape when he arrived, and his clothes were ruined. The water hadn’t done his
revolver or his razor any good either.

When he arrived at the building, he was surprised to find a
crowd of men had gathered on the steps. Most stood under umbrellas, but many
were bareheaded. There were a few women among them. Whores mostly. Decent women
didn’t go to prizefights.

McBride went up the steps, and the crowd blocked him. He
said, “Look here. I’m McBride. I’m to fight the nigger.”

The crowd parted, and McBride, with words of encouragement
and pats on the back, was allowed indoors. Inside, the wind could still be
heard, but it sounded distant. The rain was just a hum.

Beems, Forrest, and the two oldsters were standing in the
foyer, looking tense as fat hens at noontime. As soon as they saw McBride,
their faces relaxed, and the elderly gentlemen went away. Beems said, “We were
afraid you wouldn’t make it.”

“Worried about your investment?”

“I suppose.”

“I’d have come if I had to swim.”

“The nigger doesn’t show, the title and the money’s yours.”

“I don’t want it like that,” McBride said. “I want to hit
him. Course, he don’t show, I’ll take the money. You seen it this bad before?”

“No,” Beems said.

“I didn’t expect nobody to be here.”

“Gamblers always show,” Forrest said. “They gamble their
money, they gamble their lives.”

“Go find something to do, Forrest,” Beems said. “I’ll show
Mr. McBride the dressing room.”

Forrest looked at Beems, grinned a little, showed Beems he
knew what he had in mind. Beems fumed. Forrest went away. Beems took hold of
McBride’s elbow and began to guide him.

“I ain’t no dog got to be led,” McBride said.

“Very well,” Beems said, and McBride followed him through a
side door and down into a locker room. The room had two inches of water in it.

“My God,” Beems said. “We’ve sprung a leak somewhere.”

“Water like this,” McBride said. “The force . . . it’s
washing out the mortar in the bricks, seeping through the chinks in the wall .
. . Hell, it’s all right for what I got to do.”

“There’s shorts and boots in the locker there,” Beems said.
“You could go ahead and change.”

McBride sloshed water, sat on a bench and pulled off his
shoes and socks with his feet resting on the bench. Beems stood where he was,
watching the water rise.

McBride took the razor out of the side of one of the shoes,
held it up for Beems to see, and said, “Mexican boxing glove.”

Beems grinned. He watched as McBride removed his bowler,
coat and shirt. He watched carefully as he removed his pants and shorts.
McBride reached into the locker Beems had recommended, paused, turned, stared
at Beems.

“You’re liking what you’re seein’, ain’t you, buddy?” Beems
didn’t say anything. His heart was in his throat.

McBride grinned at him. “I knew first time I seen you, you
was an Alice.”

“No,” Beems said. “Nothing like that. It’s not like that at
all.”

McBride smiled. He looked very gentle in that moment. He
said, “It’s all right. Come here. I don’t mind that.”

“Well . ..”

“Naw. Really. It’s just, you know, you got to be careful.
Not let everyone know. Not everyone understands, see.”

Beems, almost licking his lips, went over to McBride. When
he was close, McBride’s smile widened, and he unloaded a right uppercut into
Beems’s stomach. He hit him so hard Beems dropped to his knees in the water,
nodded forward, and banged his head on the bench. His top hat came off, hit the
water, sailed along the row of lockers, made a right turn near the wall, flowed
out of sight behind a bench.

McBride picked Beems up by the hair and pulled his head close
to his dick, said, “Look at it a minute, ’cause that’s all you’re gonna do.”

Then McBride pulled Beems to his feet by his pretty hair and
went to work on him. Lefts and rights. Nothing too hard. But more than Beems
had ever gotten. When he finished, he left Beems lying in the water next to the
bench, coughing.

McBride said, “Next time you piss, you’ll piss blood,
Alice.” McBride got a towel out of the locker and sat on the bench and put his
feet up and dried them. He put on the boxing shorts. There was a mirror on the
inside of the locker, and McBride was upset to see his hair. It was a mess. He
spent several minutes putting it in place. When he finished, he glanced down at
Beems, who was pretending to be dead.

McBride said, “Get up, fairy-ass. Show me where I’m gonna
fight.”

“Don’t tell anybody,” Beems said. “I got a wife. A
reputation. Don’t tell anybody.”

“I’ll make you a promise,” McBride said, closing the locker
door. “That goddamn nigger beats me, I’ll fuck you. Shit, I’ll let you fuck me.
But don’t get your butthole all apucker. I ain’t losin’ nothin’. Tonight, way I
feel, I could knock John L. Sullivan on his ass.”

McBride started out of the locker room, carrying his socks
and the boxing shoes with him. Beems lay in the water, giving him plenty of
head start.

6:00 P.m.

Henry couldn’t believe how slow the line was moving.
Hundreds of people, crawling for hours. When the Johnsons were near the end of
the bridge, almost to the mainland, the water rushed in a dark brown wave and
washed the buggy in front of them off the bridge. The John-sons’ wagon felt the
wave too, but only slid to the railing. But the buggy hit the railing, bounced,
went over, pulling the horse into the railing after it. For a moment the horse
hung there, its back legs slipping through, pulling with its front legs, then
the railing cracked and the whole kit and kaboodle went over.

“Oh Jesus,” Tina said.

“Hang on,” Henry said. He knew he had to hurry, before
another wave washed in, because if it was bigger, or caught them near the gap
the buggy had made, they, too, were gone.

Behind them the Johnsons could hear screams of people
fleeing the storm. The water was rising rapidly over the bridge, and those to
the middle and the rear realized if they didn’t get across quickly, they
weren’t going to make it. As they fought to move forward, the bridge cracked
and moaned as if with a human voice.

The wind ripped at the tarp over the wagon and tore it away.
“Shit,” said Clement. “Ain’t that something?”

A horse bearing a man and a woman, the woman wearing a great
straw hat that drooped down on each side of her head, raced by the Johnsons.
The bridge was too slick and the horse was moving too fast. Its legs splayed
and it went down and started sliding. Slid right through the opening the buggy
had made. Disappeared immediately beneath the water. When Henry ventured a look
in that direction, he saw the woman’s straw hat come up once, then blend with
the water.

When Henry’s wagon was even with the gap, a fresh brown wave
came over the bridge, higher and harder this time. It hit his horses and the
wagon broadside. The sound of it, the impact of it, reminded Henry of when he
was in the Civil War and a wagon he was riding in was hit by Yankee cannon
fire. The impact had knocked him spinning, and when he tried to get up, his leg
had been ruined. He thought he would never be that frightened again. But now,
he was even more afraid.

The wagon drifted sideways, hit the gap, but was too wide
for it. It hung on the ragged railing, the sideboards cracking with the impact.
Henry’s family screamed and lay down flat in the wagon as the water came down
on them like a heavy hand. The pressure of the water snapped the wagon’s wheels
off the axle, slammed the bottom of the wagon against the bridge, but the sideboards
held together.

“Everybody out!” Henry said.