33 Snowfish Page 7

  Curl’s lung frost smell is skanking up the van pretty bad. Boobie still does her, though — even with that yellow crawling under her eyes and her insides dripping all over her dress. It’s cuz that love he’s got for her is stronger than her lung frost. He won’t french her, though, no matter how much Curl begs for it.

  I saw her frenching her hand last night like she wished it was Boobie.

  I guess that’s cool.

  When everything’s all skanked and the trees is dead and you got a lung frost and the snow keeps falling sideways and you don’t got nothing but a sheepskin and a couple of curtains to keep you warm, you can always french your hand.

  A gentle breeze from Hushabye Mountain

  Softly blows o’er Lullaby Bay

  It fills the sails of boats that are waiting

  Waiting to sail your worries away

  It isn’t far to Hushabye Mountain

  And your boat waits down by the key

  The winds of night so softly are sighing

  Soon they will fly your troubles to sea

  So close your eyes on Hushabye Mountain

  Wave goodbye to cares of the day

  Watch your boat from Hushabye Mountain

  Sail far away from Lullaby Bay

  That old nigger man just sneaked up on me with his rusty rifle going, “Go ’head and touch it. Go on.” And his voice was all oily and wack like a voice you hear when you’re hiding on the Metra Rock Island train to Chicago and the conductor is coming to bust your ass.

  My hand is shaking and that old nigger’s eyes is so white it’s like God made them like that on purpose just to scare little kids. And now I got my gat pulled out and I realize that my snap must’ve got stuck again cuz the whole pocket’s ripped and the snap’s jammed in the trigger and now I got my gat pointed at that chicken and that ratty little bird ain’t jumping around like them chickens you see on TV — this one’s staring at me the way a poker player stares at you when he’s got a flush and its eye is all hard and dark like a doll’s eye so I squeeze the trigger three times but my gat won’t fire probably cuz of the snow going sideways and shit and after the old nigger with the rifle sees how wack my gat is he starts moving toward me all slow and evil and he’s bow-legged and skinny and creaky-looking like one of them homeless bummy Rockdale niggers and that makes his moving toward me seem twice as slow and twice as evil so I try shooting the chicken again but my gat just makes that little noise like some bird bones snapping and then the nigger tells me if I do the trigger one more time he’s gonna pull my pants down and paddle my ass so hard with the end of his rifle that I ain’t gonna be able to walk for the rest of my life and his voice is all deep and tired and kinda spooky like he’s been hiding in a basement for like skeighty-eight years and shit so I put my gat back in my leg pocket and he tells me the only thing he hates worse than a thief is a chicken thief and how his wack little chicken is older than me and how he named it after his wife and how he’s gonna tie a rope around my ankle and make me clean his yard and how he ain’t gonna untie the rope till the whole thing is cleaned and how the chicken is gonna watch me and peck on the window if I start messing with the rope and then I look at his yard and there’s all this wack shit in it like tin cans and grocery bags and it’s all wet and slimy from the snow. And now that old nigger’s holding that ankle rope he was talking about like he thought about it with his mind and it just appeared out of that thought and he’s tying that rope all tight around my ankle and he’s the tallest nigger I’ve ever seen like at least seven feet and his hand with the rope is bigger than a clock and that chicken keeps staring at me and then the nigger takes my wrist in his big nasty hand and he touches some blood from where my gat scraped me and he pulls out a snot rag and wraps it around my wrist and makes a knot so it stops bleeding and then he turns around and grabs this big skanky plastic bag and hands it to me and I take it and it smells like something dead was living in it and then he turns around again all slow and creaky like he might fall and he walks back to his little house with the other end of the rope and the light from the window turns all yellow and warm like the light you see in a spoon when there’s some honey on it and the sideways snow starts to come down thicker and through the window I can see that old nigger just rocking back and forth in front of a fireplace and you can see some flames sawing and he’s got the rope tied to the rocking chair now and he’s rubbing his legs like they hurt and the chicken just keeps staring at me with that doll’s eye and then things start to slow down for some reason.

  I think it’s cuz of how you can smell the smoke falling all warm and sweet from the nigger’s chimney and how that yellow honey light is glowing on the window.

  So I back away from the chicken real slow, one, two, three.

  That doll’s eye is staring so hard you can feel it like a bug on your arm.

  Then I do a thirty-three and start to clean the nigger’s yard.

  When I finish cleaning the yard he comes walking out of his house carrying a brown paper bag.

  The snow is still coming down sideways and it looks all wack bouncing off his black-ass head. My hands is cold and my toes is numb and I can’t feel my nose too good and my pants is all wet from slipping in the wetness. I can’t even feel that rope around my ankle no more. I got that big skanky garbage bag half-full of snow and half-full of all that shit from his yard.

  He just stands there with that brown paper bag and stares at me for a second. He’s so tall he’s like one of them burnt trees from that forest.

  He goes, “You like sneakin’ around in folks’s chicken hutches?”

  I go, “No,” and clear some snow out of my eyes.

  The old nigger looks at his big hand for some reason and goes, “Shoo. You must.”

  I don’t say nothing. I just stare at his old oily head.

  Then he goes, “How old are you?”

  I’m like, “Old enough.”

  “Nine? Ten?”

  “Twenty-seven.”

  Then he kind of smiles and goes, “You ain’t even twelve.”

  I just stand there and go, “You don’t know shit.”

  And he’s like, “I don’t, huh?”

  “You’re just a creaky old nigger.”

  “Am I really?”

  “Yep.”

  “Your momma teach you that word?”

  “Nope.”

  “My lord. A ten-year-old chicken thief with a ugly heart. Ain’t never seen that before.”

  For some reason I go, “Wack.”

  And he’s all like, “Goodness gracious,” like he can’t cuss cuz we’re in church or some shit.

  I just stand there feeling that rope cutting into my ankle. The old nigger stands there too and wipes some motor oil off his head with a rag.

  Then he goes, “What do you want with my chicken?”

  I’m like, “Nothin.”

  “You was gonna eat it?”

  “No.”

  “Sell it?”

  “Nope.”

  “You was gonna swap it at the hock shop? They only got one hock shop around here. It’s about thirty miles away.”

  I don’t even know what a hock shop is, so I just go, “I was gonna give it to my friend.”

  “Your friend a chicken collector?”

  “She’s sick.”

  “What she want with a chicken?”

  “She said there’s stuff in its wings.”

  “Stuff?”

  “Yep.”

  “What stuff?”

  “Medicine?”

  “She a witch?”

  “No.”

  Then he tries to crack a joke and shit. He goes, “She got a broomstick?”

  But I don’t even flinch. I just go, “She said birds got medicine in their wings.”

  He goes, “Deuce ain’t gonna do nothin’ but bite her in her fanny.”

  Then we don’t say nothing again. We just stand there and watch each other. I look over at his window and I can see that fire in the fireplace and that yel
low light and the end of that rope still tied to his rocking chair.

  Then the old nigger bends kind of low and looks at that snot rag he tied around my wrist. He pats it a few times with his long, bony fingers. Then he points to my leg pocket.

  He goes, “You got good luck in that pocket?”

  I’m like, “I ain’t got nothin’ in my pocket.”

  And he’s like, “Nothin’ but a half-broke cap gun.”

  “If it worked I’d shoot your old creaky ass.”

  “Lord, I’m sure you would.”

  “I would.”

  “You hateful.”

  “You’re lucky it’s snowing.”

  Then the nigger shakes his head like Sister Blister used to after I’d do something to one of them retards. He shakes it about four times and goes, “Goodness gracious, goodness gracious.”

  Then he points to my other pocket and goes, “What’s wrong with your hand?”

  I go, “I cut it.”

  But he’s like, “I mean the one in your pocket.”

  I go, “Nothin’.”

  “You steal somethin’ from my yard?”

  “Ain’t shit to steal.”

  “You sure?”

  I’m like, “You deaf?”

  And then the nigger pulls my other hand out of my pocket and he looks at it.

  He goes, “You know you got frostbite?”

  I just pull it back and go, “That’s cuz I stuck it in your mama’s pussy.”

  Then the nigger laughs this big scratchy laugh and goes, “Goodness gracious, goodness gracious,” a few more times and then we are silent.

  After a minute he goes, “What’s your name?”

  I’m like, “Why?”

  He goes, “Never knew nobody called Why before.”

  Then he laughs again and hands me the brown paper bag and goes, “You poke garbage pretty fair, Mr. Why.”

  I’m like, “I ain’t no garbage poker.”

  “My yard ain’t been this clean since I can’t remember.” He looks at me for a second. “Where you from, anyway?”

  “Nowhere.”

  “Nowhere, huh?”

  “Yep.”

  “You just up and come out of Nowhere.”

  “I guess.”

  Then he looks at me kind of sideways and goes, “They must make pretty good-looking winter coats in Nowhere.”

  I go, “They must.”

  “I don’t know how you managed to get frostbite with a coat like that.”

  I don’t say nothing after that. For some reason, I open that brown bag instead and there’s a piece of apple pie in it.

  The nigger’s like, “Apple brown Betty ain’t about bein’ petty,” but I don’t know what that means neither, so I just take a big bite out of it and it tastes so good it’s like there’s a radio going in my mouth. There’s cinnamon and raisins and apples and all types of flavors in it.

  He goes, “Don’t eat it too fast or you’ll get jumpy.”

  I take another bite and I put the piece of pie back in the brown bag.

  Then the nigger wipes some more motor oil off his face and I look back at the window. I can see them flames sawing all slow and orange in the fireplace.

  Then he starts holding his side like it hurts and goes, “I could use a extra hand around here. The way my legs give out anymore. You need a job?”

  I go, “I don’t need shit from you, Blacky.”

  He just shakes his head and says, “Little Jimster with a mean shoulder.”

  “My name ain’t Jimster.”

  Then he bends real low and starts rubbing his shins and his face changes like it hurts.

  Then he goes, “You could come by and help me a bit,” still rubbing his shins.

  I don’t say nothing back. I just look at the snow and how it’s piling up so high it looks like the sky’s dropping.

  Then the old nigger scratches his head again and goes, “I’d give you some food. Put a meal in your belly. Toast with jam. Biscuits with sausage.”

  But I just stand there.

  Then he finishes rubbing his shins and stands up straight and jangles some change in his pocket and it sounds like music snow would make if snow could make music, and then he goes, “I might even give you some quarters.”

  But I still don’t say nothing back.

  Then the nigger smiles that big smile again and his teeth light up all white and perfect and he asks me my name again and I go, “Why?” and he just shakes his head and says, “Thanks for cleaning my yard, Mr. Why. Mr. Why from Nowhere.”

  Then he takes the rope off my ankle and tells me to come on by tomorrow and that he’s got a bunch of pennies in jars that he needs to roll, but I don’t say nothing cuz that rope made a red mark around my ankle and it’s still snowing sideways and the snowflakes is bouncing off the old nigger’s head like little white BB’s, and when I start to back away he’s still smiling that big shiny-ass smile, going, “Goodness gracious, goodness gracious.”

  When I got back the whole van smelled like paint. Boobie was changing the baby and the baby was squeaking and swimming out and Boobie’s big hands was busy folding up a diaper and taping them sticker strips down. And his hands looked twice as big, cuz I ain’t never seen them moving over the baby like that.

  You could see Boobie’s breath going and the baby’s breath going underneath.

  The van was snowing. It wasn’t snowing sideways yet, but it was definitely snowing. Them flakes was floating down just like we was outside.

  Curl was in the back under the curtains. She was shaking all fast and electric and clawing at her fingers and her eyes was froggier than ever and it looked like she wasn’t getting no air.

  Her breath was leaking out of her mouth the way smoke leaks out of a ashtray and it was leaking so slow you could see it bending to the left. The light in her eyes looked like it was fading, too. She just kept shaking and trying to not-shake and you could hear that lung frost killing her.

  Boobie pulled back the newspapers cuz the paint smell was so strong. That’s how them flakes was drifting into the van. But with Curl’s lung frost going double and the baby’s TV getting colder, the snow floating in the van didn’t seem right.

  The can of black spray paint we used on the Skylark was rolling around on the floor and the top was off.

  At first I thought Curl was breathing them paint fumes to get lifted. But then I looked on the walls and there was all these little spray paint drawings. I couldn’t tell what them drawings was cuz they was mostly squiggles.

  I went to the back of the van and sat down next to Curl and gave her that brown paper bag with the old nigger’s pie in it. That fish was still on her face looking spookier than ever. She just stared at the piece of apple pie with them big froggy eyes and shook her head. You could tell she wanted to eat it just by the way her eyes got big. But it was like something inside wouldn’t let her. Something that didn’t have nothing to do with bazooka or lung frosts or getting lifted. It was like God wouldn’t let her eat that pie — like he took her stomach away and stuck a dead snake in it instead.

  After a minute her big froggy eyes just closed and she swallowed this little swallow and you could see the muscles jumping in her throat.

  She kept falling asleep and trying to not-sleep and that froggy heartbeat in her eye kept going slower and slower.

  I just sat real close to her and watched how the van was snowing.

  Once Curl opened her eyes and we both smiled cuz it was like we got psychic for a second, and even though that thought we shared was kinda sad and kinda scary and had something to do with how that froggy heartbeat in her eye kept going slower and slower and how that lung frost poison was sinking deeper in her, it was still cool cuz we shared it.

  The next time Curl opened her eyes I offered her the pie again, but she just waved it off like before.

  Then I told her about the old nigger’s little rickety farm and how I tried to steal the chicken and how I had to clean his yard and how I kept slipping an
d how I got snow all up in my crack and shit and she laughed at me and her laughs sounded kind of like crying and then she was eating her laugh-cries and then she was coughing out them laugh-cries that she ate but her coughs was so weak they was more like whispers than coughs. I felt like crying, too, but I ain’t no little bitch so I didn’t.

  I told Curl how that chicken had that doll’s eye and I showed her the red mark that the old nigger’s rope left on my leg, and she put her hand on it and she even rubbed her thumb over the redness for a second and it seemed like she wanted to talk but she couldn’t. I bent my head real close to her mouth so I could hear what she was trying to say, but all she said was, “Little brother, little brother” real quiet and small.

  Then her eyes closed for a while and when they opened again I asked her what all them squiggles on the walls was and she made these little falling movements with her fingers the way snow falls so I went, “Snow?” and she nodded and then she made these other movements with her hands and them movements was like birds maybe so I was like, “Birds?” but she shook her head and did them hand movements again and it was like fish swimming so I went, “Fish?” and she nodded again and smiled, and even though her teeth was kind of dim and skanky it was the prettiest smile Curl ever made.

  Then Curl grabbed my hand with the frostbite and started humming and Boobie held the baby and started even rocking it a little and the van was snowing worst and the Moon was all lopsided and strange in the window like a big skanky shark heart.

  After Curl died, me and Boobie sat in the van and ate our crying. His didn’t make no sound, but mine was all wack like a dog getting kicked.

  When her heart stopped you could hear it the way you can hear the rides shut down when the Joliet Knights of Columbus Summer Carnival ends. The sunflower on her dress looked like it grew; like it used the little bit of life she had left as food to get bigger.