In Love and Trouble Read online

  “Here,” she cried, snatching up the baby and handing him to Sarah. “Make him well. O my lawd, make him well!”

  Sarah rose from her seat by the fire and took the tiny baby, already turning a purplish blue around the eyes and mouth.

  “Let’s not upset this little fella unnessarylike,” she said, placing the baby back on the bed. Gently she began to examine him, all the while moaning and humming some thin pagan tune that pushed against the sound of the wind and rain with its own melancholy power. She stripped him of all his clothes, poked at his fibreless baby ribs, blew against his chest. Along his tiny flat back she ran her soft old fingers. The child hung on in deep rasping sleep, and his small glazed eyes neither opened fully nor fully closed.

  Rannie Toomer swayed over the bed watching the old woman touching the baby. She thought of the time she had wasted waiting for the real doctor. Her feeling of guilt was a stone.

  “I’ll do anything you say do, Aunt Sarah,” she cried, mopping at her nose with her dress. “Anything. Just, please God, make him git better!”

  Old Sarah dressed the baby again and sat down in front of the fire. She stayed deep in thought for several moments. Rannie Toomer gazed first into her silent face and then at the baby, whose breathing seemed to have eased since Sarah picked him up.

  Do something quick, she urged Sarah in her mind, wanting to believe in her powers completely. Do something that’ll make him rise up and call his mama!

  “The child’s dying,” said Sarah bluntly, staking out beforehand some limitation to her skill. “But there still might be something we can do. …”

  “What, Aunt Sarah, what?” Rannie Toomer was on her knees before the old woman’s chair, wringing her hands and crying. She fastened hungry eyes on Sarah’s lips.

  “What can I do?” she urged fiercely, hearing the faint labored breathing from the bed.

  “It’s going to take a strong stomach,” said Sarah slowly. “A mighty strong stomach. And most you young peoples these days don’t have ’em.”

  “Snooks got a strong stomach,” said Rannie Toomer, looking anxiously into the old serious face.

  “It ain’t him that’s got to have the strong stomach,” Sarah said, glancing down at Rannie Toomer. “You the one got to have a strong stomach … he won’t know what it is he’s drinking.”

  Rannie Toomer began to tremble way down deep in her stomach. It sure was weak, she thought. Trembling like that. But what could she mean her Snooks to drink? Not cat’s blood—! And not some of the messes with bat’s wings she’d heard Sarah mixed for people sick in the head? …

  “What is it?” she whispered, bringing her head close to Sarah’s knee. Sarah leaned down and put her toothless mouth to her ear.

  “The only thing that can save this child now is some good strong horse tea,” she said, keeping her eyes on the girl’s face. “The only thing. And if you wants him out of that bed you better make tracks to git some.”

  Rannie Toomer took up her wet coat and stepped across the porch into the pasture. The rain fell against her face with the force of small hailstones. She started walking in the direction of the trees where she could see the bulky lightish shapes of cows. Her thin plastic shoes were sucked at by the mud, but she pushed herself forward in search of the lone gray mare.

  All the animals shifted ground and rolled big dark eyes at Rannie Toomer. She made as little noise as she could and leaned against a tree to wait.

  Thunder rose from the side of the sky like tires of a big truck rumbling over rough dirt road. Then it stood a split second in the middle of the sky before it exploded like a giant firecracker, then rolled away again like an empty keg. Lightning streaked across the sky, setting the air white and charged.

  Rannie Toomer stood dripping under her tree, hoping not to be struck. She kept her eyes carefully on the behind of the gray mare, who, after nearly an hour, began nonchalantly to spread her muddy knees.

  At that moment Rannie Toomer realized that she had brought nothing to catch the precious tea in. Lightning struck something not far off and caused a crackling and groaning in the woods that frightened the animals away from their shelter. Rannie Toomer slipped down in the mud trying to take off one of her plastic shoes to catch the tea. And the gray mare, trickling some, broke for a clump of cedars yards away.

  Rannie Toomer was close enough to catch the tea if she could keep up with the mare while she ran. So alternately holding her breath and gasping for air she started after her. Mud from her fall clung to her elbows and streaked her frizzy hair. Slipping and sliding in the mud she raced after the mare, holding out, as if for alms, her plastic shoe.

  In the house Sarah sat, her shawls and sweaters tight around her, rubbing her knees and muttering under her breath. She heard the thunder, saw the lightning that lit up the dingy room and turned her waiting face to the bed. Hobbling over on stiff legs she could hear no sound; the frail breathing had stopped with the thunder, not to come again.

  Across the mud-washed pasture Rannie Toomer stumbled, holding out her plastic shoe for the gray mare to fill. In spurts and splashes mixed with rainwater she gathered her tea. In parting, the old mare snorted and threw up one big leg, knocking her back into the mud. She rose, trembling and crying, holding the shoe, spilling none over the top but realizing a leak, a tiny crack at her shoe’s front. Quickly she stuck her mouth there, over the crack, and ankle deep in the slippery mud of the pasture and freezing in her shabby wet coat, she ran home to give the still warm horse tea to her baby Snooks.

  Entertaining God

  I

  John, the son. Loving the God given him.

  THE BOY HUFFED AND PUFFED and swatted flies as he climbed the hill, pulling on the rope. He stumbled on the uneven ground, a pile of grit and gravel collected in the toe of his shoe. He could not stop to empty out his shoe, nor could he stop to rest, because he did not have the time. It was getting late in the afternoon and there was a chance the gorilla would be missed. He hoped he would not be missed until at least tomorrow, which would give him time. He jerked on the rope. He would have to reach the top of the high hill very soon or the gorilla was going to fall down and go to sleep right where he was.

  “C’mon,” he said encouragingly to the gorilla, who looked at him with dreamy yellow eyes. He had been talking to him soothingly all the way but the gorilla was drowsy from the medicine the zoo keepers had given him and did not reply except to grunt sluggishly deep in his throat. He hoped to have better luck with him when he woke up tomorrow.

  All around them now were trees and grass and vines and he hoped the scenery was pleasing to the gorilla. It was pleasing to him, and he was himself a person; who did not need trees and grass and vines. There was a faint drone from the direction of the highway as cars whizzed to and fro around the outer edges of the zoo. They sounded, he thought, like wasps or big flies, as he swatted at the gnats that were hanging around his face. Behind him he felt a tugging on the rope as the gorilla cleared the air in front of his face, too, but with a sluggish petulant swipe, and his black plastic eyelids had started to droop.

  The boy leading the gorilla was young and very lean, with exceptionally black skin that seemed to curve light around his bones. The skin of his face was stretched taut by the pointed severity of his cheeks, and this flattened his nose, which was broad and rounded at the tip.

  There was a wistful gentleness in his face, an effortless grace in the erect way he held his head. It was not apparent, in his stride, what he had suffered. Those first days at the zoo, when he stood crying in front of the gorilla cage, had left no lines of agony on his face. The hour of his deliverance was not stamped forever on his forehead; when he embraced the God that others—his mother—had chosen for him.

  The boy tugged hard at the rope; they were going over a big lump of ground that was a half-submerged rock. The gorilla stopped abruptly, sniffed resentfully at the boy, and without further notice sat down on the ground. The boy pulled the rope once more but the gorilla didn’t budge an
d instead stretched himself out sullenly and fell asleep. Soon he began to snore, which caused the boy to stand over him and look wonderingly into his open mouth. It was deep rose and pink inside, trimmed in black, like a pretty cave. His big swooping teeth were like yellowed icicles and rusty stalagmites. There was a sturdy bush nearby to which the boy fastened the end of the rope, looking back momentarily at the mouth. Then he raked together leaves and grass and branches to make the place where they would spend the night more comfortable. Then he took from under his shirt half a loaf of rye bread and a small bottle half full of red wine. He laid them carefully underneath the bush around which he had tied the rope. Then he left the gorilla sleeping as he walked away from their campsite to try to figure out where they were.

  They were still within the grounds of the Bronx Zoo, that much he knew, for they had not yet come up against the high fence that surrounded the zoo. However, it was not his intention to get outside the zoo, so this did not bother him. He hoped that if the zoo keepers missed the gorilla before nightfall they would think he had been taken out of the area, for that would keep them safe until he had got what he wanted from the gorilla, and the gorilla would have received the kind of homage he deserved from him.

  He satisfied himself that he would be able to spot searchers if they started up the hill toward them. There were trees and shrubs and vines and large boulders, and if necessary—and if he could arouse the gorilla—they could move about and lose anyone who came after them. But for the present he was not worried for he did not expect the gorilla to be missed until feeding time tomorrow and by then everything would be over.

  The boy walked back to the gorilla and sat down on the grass. Dusk had begun to fall while he made his survey and now it was quite dark. Like a drunken old man the gorilla snorted and grumbled in his sleep. The boy supposed it was the medicine. Each year about this time the gorillas in the zoo got a dose of something to protect them from diseases and it doped them up for a couple of days. That was how he had been able to get this one out of his cage without bringing down the whole zoo; gorillas could be noisy when alert.

  The boy smiled down at the black hulk of fur next to him. He looked in awe at the size of this beautiful animal. Gently he rubbed the gorilla across the back of the neck and the gorilla snorted, then sighed in complete comfort and abandonment like a huge sleepy baby. The boy stretched out next to him, laughing out loud. Soon he fell asleep and as the air got cooler toward the middle of the night he snuggled closer and closer to the clean warm fur of the big ape.

  He slept dreamlessly and greeted the slow windless dawn with keen anticipation. The gorilla was still asleep, but less peacefully now. The boy thought the medicine must be just about worn off. He stood on the lump of ground over the head of the gorilla and looked in the direction of the zoo buildings and of the building from which he had taken the gorilla. All was quiet, the forest all around was still. He listened intently, waiting. Soon the birds began to chirp and the wind stirred, moving the leaves. The very air seemed alive. It was like singing or flying and the boy felt exhilarated. He stretched his hands above his head as high as they would go as he greeted the sun, which rose in slow distant majesty across a misty sky, nudging clouds gently as it made its way. The boy stared straight at the sun through the mists, delighted at the sunlike spots that stayed in his head and danced before his eyes.

  The gorilla began to grunt and rake his blunt claws against the ground. The boy watched him with eyes shining with great pride. He turned away as the gorilla sat up and began picking at his coat, and proceeded to gather small twigs and moss with which to start a fire.

  The gorilla sat upright, grumpily watching and picking at his hide, his bleary eyes clearing gradually like the sky. He sniffed the air, looked around him at the forest, looked in stupid bewilderment at the open sky which extended on and on in blueness the farther back he reared his head. He rolled his giant head round on his neck as if chasing away the remains of a headache. He pressed lightly against the place on his buttocks where the big hypo had gone in. He grunted loudly and impatiently. He was hungry.

  The boy went about building the fire with slow ritualistic movements, his black hands caressing the wood, the leaves, his warm breath moving the fine feathery dryness of the moss. His wide bottom lip hung open in concentration. From time to time he looked up at the gorilla and smiled burstingly in suppressed jubilation.

  Soon the small fire was blazing. The boy sat back from it and looked at the gorilla. He smiled. The gorilla grunted. He turned distrustingly away from the fire, then turned back to it as the boy went over to the bush, took the bag with the bread in it and walked back toward the fire. The gorilla began to fret and strain against his rope. He smelled the bread as it came from the wrapper and made a move toward it. The rope drew him up short.

  “Just you wait a minute, you,” the boy said softly, and gingerly held the bread over the flame. In a second he leaped up as if he had forgotten something important. He put the bread down and untied the gorilla. He led him to the shallow rise overlooking the fire and gently pushed him down. The gorilla, as if still doped and continually wringing his head on his neck, sat tamely. The boy resumed his toasting of the bread. As each piece of bread was thoroughly blackened he dropped it into the flames. Then, as the bread burned, he bowed all the way down to the ground in front of the gorilla, who sat like a hairy mystified Buddha on the shallow ledge, his greedy eyes wide in awe of the flames. Each time the boy took out a new piece of bread from the bag and the odor of rye reached him the gorilla made a move forward, slowly and hopelessly, like a turtle. The boy kept toasting the bread, then dropping it in the fire, then bowing his head to the ground. The gorilla watched. The boy mumbled all the while. When he got to the last piece of bread he halted in his prayers and reached behind him for the wine. He opened the bottle and the scent, like roses and vinegar, wafted up in the air and reached the gorilla, who became thoroughly awake for the first time. The boy bowed his dark woolly head to the ground once more, mumble, mumble, mumble, then toasted the endpiece of bread. Then, holding the bread in his hand, burned to a crisp, he poured the half-bottle of wine into the fire. The gorilla, who had watched everything as if spellbound, gave a gruff howl of fierce disapproval.

  With his back to the sodden embers the boy bowed on his knees, still mumbling his long fervent prayer. On his knees he dragged his body up to the gorilla’s feet. The gorilla’s feet were black and rough like his own, with long scaly toes and straight silken hair on top that was not like his. Reverently, he lay the burnt offering at the feet of his savage idol. And the gorilla’s feet, powerful and large and twitching with impatience, were the last things he saw before he was hurled out of the violent jungle of the world into nothingness and a blinding light. And the gorilla, snorting with disgust, grabbed the bread.

  2

  The life of John’s father, another place, ending.

  John’s father had heard that in that last miserable second your whole life passed before your eyes. But he and the plain black girl who was his second wife moved into the moment itself with few reflections to spare. When they heard the twister coming, like twenty wild trains slamming through the houses on their block, she grabbed the baby and he the small boy and hardly noticing that the other moved each ran toward the refrigerator, frantically pulling out the meager dishes of food, flinging a half-empty carton of milk across the room, and making a place where the vegetables and fruits should have been for the two children to crouch. With no tears, no warnings, no good-byes, they slammed the door.

  Minutes after the cyclone had leveled the street to the ground searchers would come and find the children still huddled inside the refrigerator. Almost dead, cold, the baby crying and gasping for air, the small boy numb with horror and with chill. They would peer out not into the familiar shabby kitchen but into an open field. Perhaps the church or the Red Cross or a kind neighbor would take them in, bed them down among other children similarly lost, and in twenty years the plain black gi
rl and the man who was their father would be forgotten, recalled, if even briefly, by sudden forceful enclosures in damp and chilly places.

  This, too, the future, passed before his eyes, and not one past life but two. He wondered, in that moment, only fleetingly of the God he’d sworn to serve and of the wife he held now in his arms, and thought instead of his first wife, the librarian, and of their son, John.

  He had married his first wife in a gigantic two-ring ceremony, in a church, and his wife had had the wedding pictures touched up so that he did not resemble himself. In the pictures his skin was olive brown and smooth when in fact it was black and stubbly and rough. He had married his wife because she was light and loose and fun and because she had long red hair. After they were married she stopped dyeing it and let it grow out black. Then, with the black unimaginative hair and the discreet black patent-leather shoes she wore, the gray suits she seemed to love, the continual poking into books—well, she was just no longer anyone he recognized.

  After he quit the post office he became a hairdresser. He liked being around women. Old women with three chins who wanted blue or purple hair, young tacky girls who adored the way platinum sparkled against black skin, even stolid reserved librarians like his wife who never seemed to want anything but a continuation of the way they were. Women like his wife intrigued him because the duller he could make them look the more respectable they felt, and the better they liked it.

  But living with his wife was more difficult than straightening her hair every two weeks. He could conquer the kinks in her hair but her body and mind became rapidly harder to penetrate. He found the struggle humiliating besides.

  John, unfortunately, had been too small to hold his interest. Which was not to acknowledge lack of love, simply lack of interest.

  The plain black girl he married next was a sister in the Nation and would not agree to go away with him except to some forsaken place where they could preach the Word to those of their people who had formerly floundered without it. He too changed his name and took an X. He was not comfortable with the X, however, because he began to feel each morning that the day before he had not existed. When his anxiety did not subside his wife claimed an inability to comprehend the persistent stubbornness of his agony. He knew what it was, of course; without a last name John would never be able to find him.