Matthew Boehm The congregation stands. Facing forward now Demosthenes, Demosthenes; I, in turn,
Endymion How does she come for you? Does she scream? perhaps she whispers Can you smell her? Can you see her? Taste. You, my bastard hordes, are not the first.
Cross Ties Sometimes, on a normal day, Dad would speed up just a little before we crossed the tracks, as long as I promised not to tell Mom. As the little Nissan wagon would speed into the heart of the city, the anticipation would slowly churn in my stomach. As the railroad lights grew closer, the bubbling anticipation would tighten into a small know that exploded in a ticklish whirl when the car launched skyward off the crossing below. The whirling butterflies that spread outward from my stomach to the rest of my body would collect in my throat and produce a joyous scream. This prolonged scream would eventually subside, giving way to a choking laughter that echoed throughout the wagon. My father's bright smile would stare back at me from the rearview mirror. He knew how much I loved speeding through the tracks. But this day was different. Dad slowed the car down to a creeping pace as we approached the crossing ramp, and with the engine barely audible at this speed, the silence in the car began to press on me. Mom was with us today, and no one had spoken since the drive had begun. My parents' blank stares were fixed on the road ahead; they had ignored my question for over ten minutes. Unbuckling my seat belt, I leaned over the seat divider and whispered, "Hey mommy, is this where Cleveland lives?" "He probably lives somewhere out here," mom replied nonchalantly. "Sit back and keep that seat belt on." Discouraged, I returned to the confines of the seat belt and turned my thoughts to Cleveland. Cleveland Harris was my best friend in fourth grade. He and I were always on the same team and we sat next to each other at lunch every day/ He was really funny; he could beat anyone in the fourth grade in the crack wars, a lunchroom game consisting of "your mama" and "you so fat" jokes. He invited me to spend the night with him once, but Mom said no. She said his house was too far away. Even when Cleve's mom offered to pick me up and drop me off, Mom said I should spend the night with someone from our own neighborhood. I strained my eyes against the gray blur of the passing scenery, hoping to find Cleveland in one of the many windows of barbershops and run-down filling stations that we passed. I saw an old man curled up under newspaper on the doorstep of a pawnshop, but Cleveland was nowhere to be found. He was probably at home watching cartoons. My eyes began to hurt, so I twisted around in my seat and stared out the back window at the sleek blue Caddy that was following us and tried to make out the faces of my grandparents through the bright reflections that played across their windshield. I couldn't see them, but I was willing to bet they were talking about something really interesting or listening to I-95 on the radio. They weren't stewing in this awful silence, that's for sure. I turned back around, settled into a strong pout, and waited until the car pulled into Rosa's driveway. Rosa Williams was Grandpa's housekeeper when he was a little boy. She lived with him and my great-grandparents in that big old house on Redmont Circle. Grandpa told me Rosa used to sing to you a lot or play games with him when she didn't have too much work to do. When grandpa grew up, he married my grandma and my mom was born. They moved into another house, and Rosa's daughter, Inez, began working for my grandpa. She raised my mom from a little baby to a young woman. Once, Inez caught my mm doing some new dance she'd learned at school and spanked her silly. I thought that sounded funny; moms don't get spanked! Mom said it was true enough, that Inez was one tough cookie. I never met Inez, so I didn't think I should have to get all dressed up and go to the memorial service. But mom said Edwina would be there, so I gave up Saturday morning cartoons and squeezed into my dress shoes, which were about two sizes too small. Edwina, Inez's oldest daughter, was our housekeeper, and Grandpa told me she does the same type of chores that Rosa used to do at his house when he was my age. Edwina hadn't been to the house since Inez's accident, but I'd kept my room clean anyway, because Mom said that would make things easier on Edwina. My foot sank deep in the grass when I stepped out of the car, and I noticed that the garden was overgrown too. The Cadillac pulled in behind us, and Grandma stepped out of it carrying a green bean casserole. She gave me a quick smile, but she didn't seem very happy. When everyone had prepared their somber faces, we walked up the stairs through the screen porch and into the house. Several men and woman were chatting quietly in the living room, but all conversation came to a grinding halt when we walked through the door. It was dark and hot, and it didn't smell like our house at all. There was a musty, stale odor, like every thing had been wet two hours before we arrived. The small living room was cluttered with brass and plastic ornaments, and the beige-colored carpet seemed to mold around my feet. Across the room, several dark faces stared down at me in wonder. I looked down at the Sunday shoes that were crushing my toes, but I could still feel the hot stress of all those strange people burning on my forehead. A disturbing sound, like an injured dog might make, escaped from the back of the room, and I looked over and saw Rosa. Hidden partially by the faint afternoon shadows, the corpulent, formless body slowly emerged from the corner and stretched its fat arms out in our direction. Rosa was a large woman, and the wheelchair that creaked beneath her seemed barely able to support her weight. Without making any noticeable effort to do so, she started rolling mysteriously forward, ghostlike, and another haunting groan crept out of her wide, dark mouth. Grandma looked briefly at Grandpa before walking carefully toward the wheelchair, her own arms outstretched as if she planned to pass the casserole dish to Rosa. Her trembling arms betrayed her otherwise calm appearance, and her voice quivered as she said, "Rosa! I'm so sorry, dear. I know what you must be going through." She let the remark linger briefly, looking back to us for support we could not give, then continued. "Well, I brought you a little casserole, nothing special, just some green beans. I remember how you used to love green beans." Grandma turned and smiled brightly at all the guests, as if to formally present the casserole to all of them. "Thank you so much, Mrs. Dunbar. You don't know how much it means to me for you to come out here like this. You so nice, you all so nice," Rosa managed in return before another series of violent sobs shook her enormous body. "Let me just put this in the kitchen and…" Grandma's sentence trailed off as she walked briskly out of the room. Rosa continued to shake, and the wheelchair rocked back and forth beneath her sorrow. As Grandpa began to approach Rosa, Mom and Dad found seats on a couch nearby. Grandpa seemed confused as to what he should be doing, but he finally decide to set his large right hand gently on her trembling shoulder. Without warning, she lunged forward and grabbed his hand, pulling it close against her face, and began to cry earnestly upon him Grandpa's right arm went tense and rigid, and his bulging eyes begged the wall behind her for help. Pressing his hand firmly to her wet and swollen face, Rosa cried, "Y'all always was too good to me. You took such good care of me. Inez loved you all so much. She always said, 'You lucky you met them Dunbars, Mama. They take good care of us.' She was right too. You helped her out when nobody else would. She was right, Inez." Letting go of Grandpa's hand, now slick with tears and mucus, Rosa began a slow rocking motion, silent save an occasionally soft, sad whimper. Grandpa staggered back, retreating into the shadow of a side room, holding his right hand away from his body. Rosa's whimpers were growing n volume, and I was beginning to feel frightened. I turned my eyes from her and focused them on the room surrounding me. Every tabletop was filled with bright ornaments of animals and angels, and a miniature Statue of Liberty stood tall and proud next to the rotary phone. A large airbrush of Jesus hung above the mantelpiece, his sad eyes forgiving and accepting. I had never been to Rosa's house before, but I talked with her on the phone all the time. She would call once a week, and I could always identify her tired voice. When I asked her how she was doing, the reply was always the same. "Not too good, sugar. I don't feel well at all. Is your daddy home?" Dad would always claim to be busy at something when she called. He said all she ever did was ask for money, and she wasn't really that sick. She sounded sick though, her baritone voice heavy and distant, her sentences short and broken. "Rosa, you remember our oldest son, Peter? Edwina's taking good care of him for you. Go over and say hello to Rosa, Peter." I looked back at Edwina and the boy, but they had disappeared into the kitchen. My mother's entreating glances assured me that I wasn't getting out of a visit with Rosa. Ignoring the urge to turn and run from the house, my legs carried my body through a sea of carpet, and before I realized what was happening, I stood alone and afraid next to the trembling mass of sorrow in the dark shadows of the corner. Rosa lifted her head up, and I gazed into her face. The same wispy strands of gray-white hair that were pulled over her head were also scattered sparsely across her second chin. Her mouth was partially open in an expression of slight pain, and the smell that issued from its depth burned in my nostrils. Her left eye, though filled with a liquid gray, seemed empty and useless, and I remembered that she had lost her vision in that eye many years ago. But with her right eye she seemed to size me up, before looking directly into my eyes and seizing the soul within. "Oh, baby!" look at you, growing up so handsome, just like your daddy! You ain't forgot ol' Rosa, have you? No, no, of course not. No my Baby! Come here and give ol' Rosa a hug!" She pulled me deep into her, and her amply breast kept giving way until she had drawn me completely inside of her. The heavy blanket that covered her one remaining leg smelled heavily of mothballs and mildew, but her smell was pleasant now, and her skin was warm. Her clutch tightened, and my breath began to fail somewhere. On the outside of her unyielding embrace, I heard her whisper to me, and the sound was soft and tender, like a simmer breeze. "Sometimes, baby, sometimes Jesus takes us before our time. Sometimes he'll come for you without a hint or a warning. He came and took Inez already; no tellin' who he'll come for next. You got to be ready, baby - you got to get that soul ready for Jesus. You got to do what's right, baby. You got to do what's right!" When she released me, I could feel the smile that swept across her troubled face warm within my own. My gaze was locked into hers for what seemed like an eternity before the others diverted her attention and I wandered out of the room. Even now, in the dark hallway that lay adjacent to the living room where the mourners were gathered, I could hear her soothing whispers echoing inside my mind. As I walked to the kitchen, I noticed Grandpa in the bathroom, scrubbing his hands frantically, scrubbing some unseen spot of filth off his person. Several strands of hair had come loose from his crown and dangled down near his nose. I looked up at him and wondered if he was ready like Rosa said. He turned and saw me watching him. A grimace took his face as he slammed the bathroom door closed. Haunted by this vision, I continued to amble down the hallway until I came to the kitchen. Smells of fried cooking drew me to the counter, where platters of collard greens, black-eyed peas, and fried chicken sat next to Grandma's green bean casserole. I gabbed the biggest drumstick I could find and took a bite, filling my mouth with the savory chicken. The chicken was still piping hot, and I jumped into hysterics, breathing quickly through my wide-open mouth in an attempt to cool the food. Someone laughed heartily behind me, and I turned to see the black boy who had held Edwina's hand clutching his stomach with one hand and a drumstick with the other. "These things are sure hot!" he laughed. "I did the same thing when I bit into mine. You got to blow on it for a while." He demonstrated, blowing gently on his drumstick in a circular motion before tearing off a large piece with his teeth. He was about my height, but he weighed a little more. Beneath the dark matted curls on his head sat two shining eyes that glistened when he laughed. "Your name's Peter, right? Mom's told me about you. I'm James." He wiped his hand on his gray dress pants before extending it to me. Shaking his hand, I said, "Hey, nice to meet you. Sorry about your grandma." He grew sad for a moment, and the eyes that had glistened only moments ago threatened to overflow with tears. I decided to change the subject, and asked quickly, "How come Edwina never brings you to the house?" His expression changed from sadness to wonder. "I got to go to school on the weekday's silly! I can't come to your house. And in the summers, I don't stay in town. I go to my auntie's in Gadsden. Besides, you never invited me." "Oh," I said. He was right. I had heard Edwina talk about her son countless times, but I had never thought of playing with him. James laughed. "Where's your house at, anyway?" "Forest Hills." "Where's that at?" I thought for a moment before answering, "Past the railroad tracks and up the hill." James' eyes grew wide when I mentioned the tracks. He smiled again and looked around to make sure no one was listening. Leaning forward, his voice now a daring whisper, he asked, "Want to see something really cool?" I followed him out the back door and into the overgrown kingdom of the backyard. We fought through the waist-high grass until we reached the fence that held Rosa's yard in. James stepped through a missing plank in the fence and disappeared into the greenery on the other side. I paused, looking back at the house, wondering what my parents would think of my tromping through overgrown lots in my dress clothes. James' head reappeared from the green, and he looked at me oddly. "You comin' or not?" he asked. I exhaled deeply, and followed him through the fence. The sun disappeared, and we started fighting our way through the dense forest of shoots and bushes the enveloped us. A few minutes passed, and we emerged from the forest into a long, narrow alley, littered on both sides with broken bottles and overturned trashcans. James kept the pace sharp, his thin legs and fat knees moving briskly several feet in front of me. He stopped to pick up a tennis ball that had faded to a gray, and bounced it back to me, laughing. We bounced the ball back and forth between us as we made our way down the dirty valley. A gray alley cat stopped and stared down at us from atop the fence. "We're almost there. Come on." James increased his pace, and after cutting through two yards and scaling an iron fence, we stood triumphant at the base of the railroad tracks. "There is it," James cried, pointing in the glimmering distance. We walked closer, and I could see that the dog had been dead for quite some time. Its mangled skeleton lay bare in the hot red sun, and the black-and-white fur that had once hung shaggy and dirt-crusted on its skin now lay in clumps on the ground, encircling the skeleton like a halo. Scavenger flies circled the corpse, occasionally diving down to rest on a rib bone before returning to their meaningless flight. I was mystified by this picture of death, and an overwhelming curiosity led me to poke at the lifeless mass with a nearby stick. "How did it die?" I asked, my utter amazement revealed in the shakiness of both my voice and my extended hand. "It was probably just trying to cross the tracks," James answered. He stood proud above me as I continued the exploration, cramming the stick into different joints and cavities, lifting this bone up, pushing that one over. In the center of the rub cage, a sharp, flat bone collapsed under the pressure of the stick. I reached in and grabbed the yellow bone, holding it up in the sunlight for a closer view. "Can I keep this one?" I turned my pleading eyes to James. He had walked up the mound of dirt that elevated the railroad, and now looked down at me with a funny smile. "It ain't mine," he said. Placing the bone in my coat pocket, I ran up the mound and joined him on the tracks. With our arms spread wide, we tried to talk the iron rails like balance beams, teetering left and then right, and laughing at each other's expressions. As we approached the house, I could hear my father's whistle and my mother's voice over the fences and houses that separated them from us. Mom's voice sounded scared. James and I looked at each other in fear before pushing through the back fence, and Edwina stood behind them. Their eyes were straining over the fences into the sea of alleys and houses that surrounded Rosa's house, calling out our names with anger. "Dad, I'm right here!" We're right here. We just walked down to the railroad tracks." I tried to make my voice seem confident and unafraid, but my father's reaction told me I had failed. "YOU DID WHAT!? You walked down to the railroad! Are you kidding me, Peter?" The volume of his yells has increased dramatically. I looked down at my Sunday School shoes, and realized once again that my toes were hurting. The black-and-white shoes fell under a great shadow, and I looked up to see Dad's figure looming above me in anger. "Peter, you don't just go to the damn railroad tracks! Do you have any idea how dangerous that is? HUH? Don't you understand you can't go traipsing through this type of neighborhood? It's very dangerous! You could get hurt very badly, killed even!" He was breathing heavily now, and veins bulged on the sides of his reddened face. From the porch Edwina called out, "James, you know better than to drag company down to those nasty railroad tracks." "But momma," James pleaded, "It's just right down the alley. You know I go there all the time!" Edwina's voice was shaky and unsure as she replied, "I know you do, sweetie, but, well, you shouldn't ever take company down there, you understand me? And of all the days. I'm sorry, Mr. Dunbar, he'll be punished for this. James, get in the house!" James' eyes had grown dark with confusion, and when he turned them on me they were brimming with anger and hurt. My own eyes were filling with tears as I watched him disappear inside the house. Why was all of this happening? Dad turned to Edwina, and with an iciness in his voice, said, "Edwina, please give Rosa my final condolences. I feel deeply for both of you. However, this unfortunate episode has worn me out, and I think we'll probably just head on home now. Could you tell our parents that we have gone on? And Edwina, I trust we'll see you on Monday morning?" Edwina's eyes had grown cold and distant, but she replied in a polite voice, "Yessir, I'll be there bright and early." The same pressing silence sat heavy in the car on the way home from Rosa's. It hung like a wet dense fog-cloud and choked in my throat, and I struggled to stop the incessant raindrops that fell from my cheeks. My father stopped the car at a red light, and my mother turned around and tried to soothe me with her voice. "Peter, it's okay. You didn't know any better, but now you do. You just can't play around in neighborhoods like that, honey. It's dangerous. We only yelled because we were afraid. We don't want anything bad to happen to you. When you go playing around in unsafe places it worries us, ya know, baby?" The light turned green and Dad sped up to cross the tracks. The ticklish feeling never came as we flew through the crossing, and as I ran my hand over the sharp contours of the bone in my pocket, I grew sad for the poor dog who had died crossing the tracks.
Haiku Arabian sands
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