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 as soon as this thought passed through his mind, he felt his stomach cramp up. Keep on walking, he told himself. Another couple hundred yards. He looked at the green store up ahead, which seemed to swim in the rippling, dusty air.
He had thought long and hard about his decision. Even brought it up with Mama.
‘You’ll do no such thing,’ she said. She just laughed when he announced he was going to kill Daddy.
‘He’s gotta stop coming around here! What’s he good for? He should just beat it!’
‘Watch your mouth.’
‘How come you put up with it?’
‘One day you’ll understand.’
‘I’m bringing in the money now, aren’t I?’
‘I know, son. That’s already bad enough. But your father can’t do any different. Try to remember that. He loves you kids. He’s your father.’
‘Father,’ Jerome repeated. But the word didn’t jibe with reality.
He was close. He could read the letters on the enormous sign. Red neon lights with the words ‘Western Auto’. But being daytime, the lights were out. The green wood paneling looked more faded from close up; here and there the paint was peeling off. There was a gas pump out in front. A beanpole of a white kid leaned lethargically against the railing of the veranda.
‘You lost?’
Jerome shook his head. ‘I thought it was closer. I walked.’
The boy laughed, showing his teeth. He was about eighteen, had greased-back black hair, and wore a red bandana around his neck. He looked like a faggot. Jerome wasn’t sure if he worked here or was just hanging around.
‘I gotta get something to drink.’
‘Got any money?’
‘Why wouldn’t I?’
‘Dunno.’ The boy shrugged and sauntered over to the store entrance.
‘Do you sell jackknives?’
‘What?’
‘Pocketknives. I need one.’
‘You come walking all this way for that?’ The boy stopped and turned toward him. ‘What do you need a knife for?’
‘Boy Scouts. I’m a Boy Scout.’
‘I don’t think my father’s gonna sell you a knife.’ The boy stood his ground, legs spread.
‘Not just any old knife. A pocketknife.’
‘Go in and have a look.’
Jerome took off his cap and wiped the sweat from his forehead. He took the money from his pocket and counted it. Three dollars and fifty-six cents. ‘First something to drink,’ he mumbled to himself.
‘What’s that?’ the boy asked.
‘A drink,’ Jerome said, as he stepped onto the veranda and went into the store.
A couple of nights earlier his father had forced his way into the house, yet again. Broke a pane in the front door. The key still happened to be in the lock.
Mama was in the kitchen, reading. The younger children were already in bed. Jerome was undressing in the bathroom when he heard the breaking glass. He knew right away what was up. He put his pants back on and went out onto the landing. His father stood in the middle of the living room, unaware that his son was watching him. His arms dangled aimlessly along his tall torso, his skittish eyes scanning the room.
‘Where are you?’ This was how it always started. No answer.
‘You can’t forbid me coming into my own house. I’m a black man. This is my house.’ He went off toward the kitchen. Jerome snuck down the