Insurrections (5 page)

As I walked, I noticed two squirrels scurrying ahead of me. One chased the other, so I assumed they were a male and a female. The pooling rain would be a problem for them, I imagined, but instead of troubled, they looked carefree. It reminded me of the story my mother used to tell my brother and me when we were children about the boy who willed himself into a squirrel rather than live a difficult life. I really don't know what my mother was trying to get at with that story, but I loved it. Stephen loved it more than I did. I figured my speech to my brother would involve squirrels somehow. I tramped through deep, dirty puddles and the water collected inside my shoes and I thought I could hear my socks squishing beneath the weight of my steps.

I walked underneath awnings and beneath the eaves of houses. I stooped over like an old man. It was all so ridiculous, and I stopped preparing my speech to address the stupidity of my gait. I straightened my back and raised my head to the glowing gray. As soon as my walk was somewhat automatic, I took my mind from it and returned to thinking of what I would say to my brother. About a block or two down the road, a man in a black rain-beaded bowler hat and matching umbrella called my name. He looked hazy in the rain. I didn't at all recognize him.

The bowler-hatted man told me his name and it still didn't sound familiar, but he spoke as if we were friends.

Say, jack, where you heading to in this storm? he asked.

Going to see my brother, I replied.

Yeah? How's he doing?

Man, I haven't talked to him in like months. He lives his life, I live mine.

You have his face.

He has my face. We have our mother's face.

And your mannerisms. It's like you're the same person.

I assure you—

Let me ask you something, jack.

I really got to run.

It'll only take a second.

Okay, but make it quick.

Okay. He paused without saying a word. The rain rapidly splattered against his umbrella, making a clopping sound. I let out a frustrated sigh and he continued: So, would you like a ride to the Southside? It's pouring and it's a long walk. I haven't seen Stephen in a little while and I'd really like to see him.

Well, man, I appreciate it, but I need to clear my head and I got some real brotherly shit to say to him, I replied. It's kind of personal, so I'll need to talk to him alone. You understand, right?

He took a step toward me, in a way that was meant to be menacing, but it didn't really scare me. Some rain from his umbrella splashed into my eyes.

Listen, jack, said the bowler-hatted man as I snapped my eyes shut and wiped the water from my face. When I opened them, a woman wearing a black veil over her face and a black hijab that nearly covered even her feet strolled up to us and he stopped talking.

She held a bright yellow umbrella spread out overhead. The bottom of her garb was damp.

Do either of you have the time? she asked softly, and I became transfixed by the watery brown and green pools of her eyes. The rest of her body was totally covered, except for her hands with their soft, slender olive fingers. But her eyes were two celestial bodies. I wanted to ask her if her eyes were real. Instead I simply looked at my watch and, as coolly as possible, told her the time.

She chuckled. Mocking me, I thought. She said with a serious voice, You're not going into that mess, are you?

I have to. My brother . . .

Yeah, he's a superhero, the bowler-hatted man said.

She cut him a frowning glance—I could tell by her knotted brow—and turned her shoulder to him, cutting him from the conversation.

You should leave it to the professionals. Ordinary people get lost on the Southside on regular days. Just imagine a day like this. Your brother will be fine.

You know my brother?

Everyone knows your brother.

He's like a cold or something, the bowler-hatted man said. He comes around to aggravate everyone once in a while.

That's not how I'd describe him, she replied. Sometimes he's a good man. And then sometimes he's a good man high on drugs. He's helped enough people over the years that everyone knows where the real Stephen lies.

I wish I knew where he's lying right now, the bowler-hatted man said. Shit, wherever the fucker is lying, you know he's lying.

Listen, she moved closer and whispered and I thought she whispered my name. Be safe. Keep your brother safe. Don't let anyone take advantage of him. You know what I mean, right?

I nodded, though I wasn't sure what she meant. She smiled. Of course, I can't be certain, but I knew then that she had smiled. She thanked me and walked off.

The bowler-hatted man and I watched her disappear into the pouring rain. The curtain of water made her look wavy as she strolled into the distance, holding herself upright instead of hunched over like me.

Damn A-rabs, the bowler-hatted man said. He looked at me knowingly, preparing for me to share his sneering disgust, but I remained stone-faced.

Where were we? he asked.

I was leaving, I said.

I walked from him and he called after me. Better get under this umbrella, he said. It's raining. Don't be an asshole. You'll regret not riding with me.

Some blocks from where I had seen the bowler-hatted man, I noticed the woman's yellow umbrella just ahead of me. She strolled all alone in the rainstorm. So unreal. Mythical somewhat. Had to remind myself that she's no myth. Just a woman like any other. Which made her more mythical.

After the twin towers fell, back when my brother drove a taxi, he stuffed a bunch of them into his cab and drove them home for free. Groups of guys from some of the projects, and even folks from the college and Uptown, yelled filthy things and threw rocks and even brandished weapons, but Stephen never backed down. Drove every inch of every street in Cross River for free on this mission. He did that for a couple weeks until it seemed like the coast was clear. That was the one time he made me proud. I spent those weeks drunk.

I wondered if my new obsession was one of those Muslims he helped during that time.

She crossed the street; I needed to go straight, but I crossed with her. She took me down a narrow road. She knew I was there behind her, but she didn't look back. And the day became like any other day because I forgot about my brother. She walked slowly, and when she came to her door, she lowered the bright yellow umbrella and with a bump of her shoulder stumbled inside.

I spent a great deal of time deciding whether to knock or to just go. The rain didn't matter to me, as I could get no wetter. Nearly an hour passed, and I came up with a compromise: a quick look and then I'd go. A light was on in a room on the east side of her house. I remembered my brother, and I moved to get one last glance at the woman before going on my way.

I crept to the window and peered over a bush. What I saw startled me, and I gasped. She had removed her head covering and her face veil. The woman's gorgeous black curls rested on her shoulders. She began removing the rest of her clothes, and part of me, deep in my animal heart, wanted to stay, but we weren't ready to be that intimate, so I eased away from the window. Too late: she turned. Perhaps my vision had burrowed into her flesh; perhaps our connection on the level at which all human minds are connected deepened at this precise moment.

It occurred to me that I wasn't myself. Not in her eyes. In those eyes, I was a creep. A common Peeping Tom. A flash of fear pulsed in my chest.

I eased backward and dashed through the puddles. When I looked back, she was at the door. Robed. Face uncovered. Out of respect, I looked away. She called my name. It was unreal. And if it was truly real, then it was all wrong and I wanted no part in making this woman violate herself in this vulgar way. I'm like Stephen with his touch that turns all to shit.
I'm scared to admit that it's a family trait, and I wanted—and still want—no part of it. So I ran, splashing rainwater on my legs, chest, and back as her calls faded behind me.

The showers slowed to a drizzle, and when I reached the Southside, the rain that had fallen for most of the day had stopped. The river that once knew its place now escaped its bounds. Part of the Southside, the lowest part of the Southside, was gone, replaced with a putrid brown lake. I waded in up to my calves. A dead squirrel floated by. In the distance: a drowned shaggy black dog. My brother's out there in the muck, alive or dead, I thought. I stood in awe of the brown waters, shaking my head at the enormity of it all. A black Jeep with a canoe strapped to the top pulled up, and two men hopped out and walked toward me. I recognized one of them as the bowler-hatted man that I had spoken to earlier. The other man wore a black leather jacket and had beads of sweat or rainwater dotting his bald head. When he got close, I had to look up to gaze at him.

A third man, a squat man with dark glasses, hung back untying the canoe from the top of the Jeep.

You ready? the bowler-hatted man asked.

Thinking of no better response, I nodded. We set out into the water, the two goons paddling—the squat man in front and the tall man in the back—and the bowler-hatted man and I in the middle locked in an awkward silence. The tops of street signs peeking from the water, partially submerged houses, and neighborhood landmarks guided us toward my brother. The statue of the town founder, Ol' Cigar, on his horse stood as a heroic presence on normal days. This day, however, it looked as if the horse was struggling in a pathetic attempt to keep his nose above the water.

Your brother is a good guy, the bowler-hatted man said, he's just made some bad, bad choices.

I didn't say anything at first, but then I said this: He came down here to help these people and became one of them.

The tall bald man gave me a sharp glance. I don't know why I said what I did. It was a half-thought-out comment. But there was nevertheless some truth in it. Down here is where people hop out with guns and take your money, and then for sport they take your life as if whatever thrill they get from murder is more important than any plans you had for the
next day. I don't regret what I said. People live like animals on the Southside. There is such a breach I often can't understand the language of the people here no matter how hard I listen. The two goons talked, but I only nodded and pretended I was listening intently, as I had no understanding of their words. Even when the bowler-hatted man spoke to them, I listened, but it made no sense to me.

What had my brother gotten into? What had he gotten me into? There were rumors that he'd run afoul of the Jackson Crime Family. But I never believed that. Most of those guys had been rounded up by the cops or wasted in family rivalries with the Johnsons or the Washingtons or with themselves. There wasn't much money in gambling or protection to be made in Cross River. The most reliable drug customers were dying off. The Jacksons that remained had crossed the bridge to do business with the Italians. All of that was probably bullshit, however. What the hell did I know about organized crime? Just what I heard from know-nothing know-it-alls or half read in newsmagazines or what I saw in movies and heard in rap songs. I was out of my depth, and I imagined my brother was too.

People waved and shouted from rooftops. I wished we could stop and rescue them all. Bring food or water. We ignored them as if their cries were silence. We passed the bodies of floating cats and dogs, mostly cats. Dead insects floated by, and dead rats and pigeons, but they all deserved to be dead. I imagined myself shot and tossed overboard, floating next to them. The men were paddling in the direction of my brother's place. A human body floated face-down in the distance, his white T-shirted back an island.

Maybe that's your brother, the bowler-hatted man said. The fucker had a smile in his voice, sounded excited. I scowled at him. It might have been my brother, though; I couldn't deny that. The body was the right size. The right shape. The right color. I wanted to jump from the canoe and swim to the floating man. We got close enough to flip the corpse. The nose looked like a smashed mushroom sitting there on his face. His eyes filled with redness. Face puffed out, all bloated and cracked. A sad case, but not my brother.

We passed the next several minutes in silence. The light crept out of the sky, making it a darkening gray. I spotted my brother first on the top of a roof with two other men. I didn't dare say anything. Didn't want
to alert the bowler-hatted man and his goons to Stephen's existence. He waved his arms and jumped, calling out to me. Expressionless, the men turned their heads toward him and paddled in his direction.

Stephen's face had become gaunt and pockmarked with scars. He had a bulge in his pocket that I took for drugs but could have been anything. My brother, a mass of bones and baggy flesh and hair and eyes that were too big for their sockets. A mess of parts that didn't quite fit. His garments were too big for him. Dirt-caked jeans drooped and bunched at his ankles. A flannel shirt lay askew at the shoulders. He looked like a boy wearing his father's clothes. I told myself I had never seen him looking so bad, but that's untrue. This was his natural state. I always looked the other way, but now I couldn't turn from him.

He smoked a cigarette, looking again like a child doing an adult thing.

Big brother, he said, all this water and I'm thirsty as shit. Didn't God promise he wouldn't flood the earth again?

When have you ever known God to keep a promise, the bowler-hatted man replied.

What are you doing with that asshole? my brother said sharply, pointing with his smoking hand.

I stood to cross from the canoe to the rooftop and felt a hand on my shoulder. I stumbled and tripped onto the roof. The goons yelled and cursed. The two men sitting behind my brother pointed and laughed at my clumsiness.

What the hell are you doing? the bowler-hatted man screamed from the canoe. You almost capsized this shit. You are as dumb as your brother. Don't share his fate, motherfucker.

Threats always put steel in my spine. There is something about an asshole trying to make himself bigger by acting like a tough guy that brings out the thug in me.