The Country of Ice Cream Star (23 page)

Her voice come niggling. ‘Companiera, I be First Physician. We get you fix. Can walk?’

I say, feel angry at this imbecile, ‘Ain’t walk. Where Pasha at?’

‘Ice Cream, I here,’ say Pasha anxy.

‘Yo get me, get me.’ I open eyes and look for him. He stood with happy on his face, ain’t guess what he feel happy for. I say, ‘Ain’t leave me, foolish.’

Shut my eyes, and I hear Pasha laugh. I go talking on in darkness.
‘Hurting well, this ain’t no nonsense. Yo, can walk. Nay, why you pull me?’

Can feel how he collect my knees. Then I be dizzied up against him. Swaying start again. Some worry fret in me, I open eyes.

We rocking down a Lowell hall. The doors and numbers stretch like work. Yo beyond, stood at one open door, be El Mayor. His face look enfant scary, like he hear some horror tale. Wear his silky robe like any a day.

Then life begin again in me. I struggle, say, ‘Can leave me down. Nay, seriose. Be bone.’

Look up at Pasha’s face, he frowning like he disapprove. Hold on me firm.

Then can hear how El Mayor come stamping down this hall. The sound come hard on all they simple walls.

El Mayor say close, ‘You leave her down. She say to leave her down.’

‘Ain’t bone to walk,’ say Pasha.

‘Leave her. We attend this. You go with my runner. Answer!’

‘Nay. She–’

‘Answer how I tell you. Ain’t hear nay from you!’

I look to El Mayor, surprise. He staring at my Pasha with untemper fury, brow grit deep. Ain’t seen him in this mood before. A thought suggest, this ain’t my normal El Mayor. Be some dream person.

Here it panic in me, that I never left the NewKing’s hut. Be still there, and dreaming. Pasha ease my legs, while in my terror Deema smile his bags of face. Panic rush into my blood, and I fight onto my weak feet. Hold Pasha’s arm to steady.

Then my mind come clear again. Is quiet real. We be in the center hall, is all their squarish tiles and walls. Door to Carpentry be there, but ain’t no sound of work. A grayish cat sit by this door, look at myself and swish her tail.

El Mayor got both hands up, like he prepare to catch me. First Physician with her croppen head look weary kept. Got duty on her face, and now I recognize a purplish spot on her top lip. Her posies start.

I swallow and say, ‘My Sengles? They–’

‘They here,’ say El Mayor.

‘Yo Driver?’ My voice peak. ‘He here?’

‘Sure, Driver here. He bone.’ El Mayor look past my head and say somewhere, ‘Start a room. Room 209. We come behind.’

Then misery concentrate in me, like lightning find a tree. I look round at Pasha, grab his jacket. ‘Susannah! We leave Susannah!’

‘Hush.’ El Mayor push in somehow. He staring at my Pasha, who go melt away. Can see him press his back against a wall.

I swear in voice, reach back for Pasha. Struggle El Mayor away, but this fight ain’t go far. He arm me round, and I be like a caught bird in a cloth. I say begging to him, ‘Christings here?’

Then something happen at my back. El Mayor hug me at his chest, so hard my face press hurting. He yell, ‘I told you, go! Get off! Ain’t want you now!’

Pasha’s voice say, ‘Ice Cream, I go down now. I be by.’

‘Nay,’ I say in muffle squashing. Yo a pain rise in my head, and all my arms go feeble. Cough somehow, and nose at El Mayor. Then I be liften rough. Some hand be pressing in my hair, poke like it checking fruit. We moving then, must swallow not to puke. My head careen, my pain go blind.

Yo, somewhere in this handling, I remember NewKing Mamadou. The fire cast shadows up, the shadows flying on the hanging objects. Dead Karim lain by. My hand on Mamadou’s warmish blood. Then be like my hurts gone far from me, I crave them back. I grit my jaw and try to fix my mind on nothings. Pains. But through between, my skin keep saying Mamadou and death and never happening again. In this, can hear a door come open, light change painful on shut eyes. Then the world drop by, and nothing be.

26

FIRST RUNNER, ARMY BORN

Be a foolishness of life, how we forget our hurts in sleep – like they unmade there, taken back into the time before. We wake in stupid innocence. Then all pains flash to memory, and every cruelty be fresh.

Yo when I first woken, I lie careless for a minute. Feel my bruises like a sleepy question. Then I startle up in fright. Ware and raise my hands, like I can fight this evil back. Breathe while every knowledge come, and place its separate weight on me.

Feel like I slept a beary winter, but the windows daylight blue. A wooly blanket cover me. Beneath, be bare to unders. Been sweating in the Lowell heat. When I look down myself, be sticky bandages on my hands, like messages from some world that I ain’t want.

On the bedfoot, slung that silver dress. Be like a cloth of murders, draggen here from Army camp. First act, I rise on aching legs and snag this in my hand. Go to the window, open it and cast the dress into the yard. It struggle down on wind, and settle tired on a wiren fence.

Then I lean against the wall and breathe. Say to myself,
Is done. Ain’t need to think on this. Is done
.

Head lost most its pain. I go to the door, feel how my injuries be stiff. Had these limps before, from war, from Money’s bucking ways. Be familiar like a boring friend.

Outside the door, First Runner stand. Even in stillness, child seem quick. Braids tie back particular, and she wear a pockety jacket that lie smooth as polish wood.

She say in duty voice, ‘Companiera Sengle, how your head?’

I swallow nerviose. ‘Ain’t mally.’

‘You seeing clear?’

‘Sure, can see.’

‘Confuse? Ain’t get no trouble thinking?’

‘Foo, leave this.’

‘Nay, I got instructions. Confuse?’

‘Goddamn, ain’t nothing with me. I be bone.’

‘You rest some more?’ Her eyes look hope. Can feel, this save her work.

I sigh annoying. ‘Shoo, must see my Sengles.’

‘Nay.’ She shake her head. ‘Ain’t go till El Mayor come by.’

Now, farther down the hall, I hear a rush of dozen feet. An object dropping heavy, and a boy shout thin, ‘You packing what? Is rocks? Ain’t carry this.’

‘You clumsy, what!’ a girl say back. ‘You got no fingers? Hold!’

Then it remind, we leaving Massa woods. I say in worser nerves, ‘Goddamn, I got to see my Sengles. Be all chores to figure.’

‘Chores be doing.’ First Runner nay her hand. ‘Yourself must wait for El Mayor.’

‘Foo, what I can do? Ain’t going to rest. Be bone.’

She sniff her nose, look some embarrass. ‘Certain … you can wash.’

Truth, I stank of booze and sweat. Can trust, this warry scent offending all their nice indoors. And now that it remind, I feel this pue myself like smelling guilt.

I shrug. ‘Ain’t argue with no wash. Be bone.’

‘I fix this, ya.’ She nod. ‘Instructions.’

Bath be inside the room, it got a petty room itself. Be Lowell kept, so clean it hurt your eyes. First Runner fill the bath for me, and tell instructions while she work. Explain how I ain’t wash my hair, the
cut there be too deep. Put bandages by, explain their boring use. Explain the bath savon itself, how it must wet before it work, like she believe I ain’t seen soap before. Every insect detail been in orders, and she speak these orders. When the orders finish, she stand by with no affection. Watch her eye upon the growing water.

I look to the checker floor, see one tile chip away. Start wondering how the Lowells fix this chip – except they ain’t. All going to leave this place. Will be an evac, left to ants and weather.

When I look again at small First Runner, she be watching me. Drill passen from her face, and she say shy, ‘Yo injuries be cool.’

I take my breath. This be a word of Armies,
cool
. Now it recall, this child been born by them. Run here from the camp, two years before, when she been a troubling eight. Can guess, she raise to love of wounds. All scars respect in Army camp.

I say low, ‘Is truth, they brave.’

She nod, her feeling pass back into duty. Yo I stand there scary. All my thinking run and run, like bees inside.

At last I say, ‘My companiera, sure you known the Armies.’

She flinch, frown on the bath. ‘Ain’t got much memory.’

‘Nay, I only wondern. Simpers liking featherboys? Feel for them like a townie child?’

Her face be solid nothing. Time pass, my question freeze into her stare. Then sudden, she grab into her pocket, take a wrap of cigarettes. Without no word, she slip past to the sleeproom. Come back with a glassen shope, she hold this up and say, without no feeling, ‘For ash.’

I make a sorry frown. ‘Ain’t meant no insult with my question.’

Her eyes come birdly sharp on me, and she say hot, ‘Simpers like the feathers, nay – they simpers
love
the feathers. Simpers slave themself, is
wormen
. Birthing featherboys and give them to this, so they slave … slave someone else. They simpers hating any girl who free, ain’t wormen like themself. Hate their own girlish enfants. They ain’t
people.’
She spit upon the tilen floor, an act no Lowell do. Then she turn to the bath, frown furiose.

I say careful, ‘Sure, be sorry.’

‘You ain’t known.’ She drop her cigarette into the shope, unfinish. ‘Sengle, easy life.’

‘Be pardon.’

First Runner shrug. ‘Ain’t theirs no more myself.’

She crouch and reach her fingers to the water, test its warm. For a minute, she hunch there, tense. Her fingers dabbit in the water. Then she look back and say in stiff respect, ‘Ain’t guest you to a cigarette. Was ugly courtesy.’

‘Be no fault. Yo, I take one gratty.’

She leave her wrap of cigarettes and Lowell matches on the bath side. Set the shope beside, explain how ashes must go in. Pause to wipe her spit off of the tiles and go off, upright quick.

In the heaten water, my cruel morning recollect. I concentrate my work on soaping arms, cigarette in my mouth. But still the skree of littles in the fire return, the feathers swarming. Deema’s ruin head. Mamadou handling up his rifle, falling. Noisy death, and death, and fear that come when fear be too late. Last, my voice say
yes
and small Karim be shot.

Savon stop in my hand. I stare beyond.

Child ain’t done no wrongness to me. Never I say this
yes
. Yo, I sit and live this voice again. I live this
yes
, but in my mind I ain’t say
yes
. Say
nay, he bone. Can leave him. Child be right
.

He frighten, crouch on Mamadou. Here the tears come angry through myself. I huddle in the bath and sob hard grief. Heaten water be a comfort that my flesh resist. Ain’t take this lying help. I cry, and frighten how this crying going to stop, and I be left.

Only when I hear a voice outside, I catch my shamen breath.

The sobbing hiccup in my gut. A knock hit at the door.

‘Ice Cream?’

Is El Mayor. His bossing sound.

I say in raggety voice, ‘Ho, you. Been something happen?’ I start to rise, the water slush around.

‘Nay, stay. Ain’t nothing mally.’

Silence pause. I sit back in my water. It start to cool, feel like a disappointment on my skin.

He call, ‘I come to say, the Christings here. Susannah also.’

‘Christings?’

‘You finish, come by my sleeproom. 124. I tell this story.’

I take a halten breath. ‘I come. Wait – yo, bring me some clothes.’

‘Clothes? Why you need clothes?’

I hear his laugh as he go by.

I leave the bath, and use the towel careful like instructions tell. Use germ wash, but ain’t put on new bandages. Be itching pests. Yo I wash the shope out in my bathen water. Cigarette ends jam stubborn in the drain. I leave them there. Sure, ain’t mattering now, this bath ain’t never use again. Can be, this been the final heaten bath in all the world.

27

BY EL MAYOR HIS SLEEPROOM

‘John of Christ been drunk.’ So El Mayor begin his tale. ‘If he been in normal minds, can be these miseries never start. But Christings argue through the night, and they all drink like buckets. Nor John accustom to this, sure. Gone big and foolish, time he riding out to Army camp. Walk in there yelling wild damnations, how no Christwife live by roos.

‘Can magine how they liking this. Mamadou say, John break the Long Agreement. Now every wife be took.’ El Mayor grimace sour. ‘Then John try hitting Mamadou.’

‘Ho.’ My laugh come scary. ‘Christing war his hands? Like angry rabbit.’

‘Truth, ain’t war for much. The NewKing beat John seven ways. Time John escape, he scarcely stand on feet.’

I fidget at my scabben finger, try to magine this. ‘So where he gone? Ain’t been at Tophet when I come.’

‘Gone nowhere.’ El Mayor shrug unhappy. ‘Was lain in bushes there, all hours. Been only luck, Susannah find him.’

‘Susannah? How, she fled?’

El Mayor nod, troubling. Look to the bed, like he avoid my eyes.

I say reluctant, ‘She been hurt?’

‘Ain’t hurt that we can tell. She cry more than she speak, can comprehend. But got no injury.’

I sigh out perilous. ‘Roo ain’t rape her?’

‘Nay, he rape her,’ El Mayor say heavy. ‘Be no other injury.’

We sitting frogleg on the floor by El Mayor’s fat bed. I be in Lowell working cottons. Skin feel bright with wash. El Mayor wear a silky robe and jeans, look like himself on any a day. One hand stroke nervy on his whitish cat. She rumble in her chest, blink lazy pleasure.

This be a scene of quiet. Simple painten walls and clean. Bed got seven covers, and a fatty chair sit by – is Nampshire goods from Lowell’s farther trading, made with carven paws. Ya, both chair and bed is places El Mayor prefer to corner me, in goatish moods. Ain’t never laugh so well as I been laugh in this sweet place.

Be labor to believe there ever been an Army camp, its booze and chicken dirt, its rape.

And El Mayor say, from his clean respect, ‘It been a day, I tell you this. Shoo, when you come in. All like you was.’

‘Was normal war.’ I touch to my cut lip. ‘Bruises, mostly.’