Pilgrims Upon the Earth Page 11

  Are they smoking? Terry said.

  Looks like it.

  You just said you couldn’t.

  It’s not cigarettes, fool.

  Oh.

  The ball passed him, and went toward another set of kids kicking, the whole swath of them on the field. Someone behind said, wake up.

  Terry didn’t play during scrimmage, and was glad of it. The sun had gone cold, and everyone on the sidelines wore new navy sweatshirts. He threw his in a brown metal dumpster in back of the vocational building. The dirty looking kid was on the ground beside him watching the game, and the tall gangly kid sat next to him. There were some others who never played slouched on both sides. The coach stood a few feet away. He turned back from the field and looked down at them.

  Are you watching this?

  They all nodded.

  Pay attention, hippies.

  He turned back to the game. The dirty kid put his middle finger on his forehead and looked at the coach’s back.

  I got your hippie. Damn pirate.

  The tall gangly kid laughed, and Terry did, too. He quickly put a hand at his mouth. The laugh surprised him; he’d felt nothing like that in his throat for a long while. The dirty kid stared at the coach’s rounded back.

  Sonofabitch can’t tell me that.

  A cigarette the coach dropped was still burning. The dirty kid checked to see if he was still turned to the game. He leaned back and picked it up and took a drag. He thumped it down and exhaled. The wind took the smoke away from them, back toward the school.

  There wasn’t any avoiding the fact of them; after scrimmage they stood beside his window. Terry rolled it down halfway. Noah had a cigarette in his mouth already; Francis held a pack close to the jamb. Terry got out, followed them across the lot to a white two-door and got inside.

  They sped past dead soy and cotton, the machine works, the red tin volunteer fire station. Terry rode in the back.

  Noah’s car had a low spoiler on the trunk. The trunk antenna was rusted, broken a point halfway up.

  Francis sat in the passenger seat. His hair was long, and matted, the color of dried leaves, looked sealed with spit or petroleum jelly. He twisted pieces with an index finger, pulled them to his mouth and chewed the ends.

  They parked at an unfinished drive at the back of the neighborhood, dead end on woods, and two framed houses each side, wooden bone and pink cotton, and red and black wire.

  Noah took a joint from the glove box. He put a match on the end and pulled, held his breath when he spoke.

  That’s a nickname?

  What? Francis said.

  Not you, man. I know about your name already Terry

  It’s not from that saint, Francis said. I’m not one for animals so much. That saint, he liked animals.

  Francis turned at the backseat and looked at Terry

  It’s some actress my mom liked actually, he said. But she made it for a man, changed the last letters and all.

  He turned back and pointed at Noah.

  He’s named for that guy in the bible. The one with that boat. There was a flood, right, a rainbow or something, and he was like nine hundred and fifty years old.

  It was my grandfather’s name, man.

  Well he was named after that bible guy, then, with the white beard and all those animals. I think they wore robes. Probably he had a staff, and like forty children or a hundred.

  People don’t live nine hundred and fifty years.

  They did then.

  No they didn’t, man. They just kept age different.

  Years were worth more?

  No.

  Well?

  Maybe a year was a month, or twenty days, or something like that.

  I don’t believe that.

  Like I said, it was my grandfather’s name, and he, I’m telling you, never set foot inside a damn church.

  My grandfather called Jesus the Hypostatic Union.

  Francis leaned over his knees at the floorboard. Noah looked at Terry in the rearview. He shook his head. Francis came up from the floor and kept his face at his lap. He worked on something at his kneecaps.

  He was a doctor, my grandfather.

  They passed the joint. The car filled with smoke. Noah put the joint out on the dash and kept the roach. They lit cigarettes; Noah’s face rued at the trees in front.

  Tasos died, he said.

  Francis looked up quick, then back at his lap, pulled on three small tin hoops, key rings laced together, and tried to get them apart.

  That weightlifter? he said.

  Corman said he jumped out the back of a truck.

  Bit to the right side of his mouth, the ash on Noah’s cigarette crawled back some, then stayed, and then it burned back some more.

  He tried to choke me once, Francis said.

  Somebody else said he just fell over the side and got up under the tires. It like, took his legs off.

  He was a damn pimp.

  What kind of name is Tasos? Terry said.

  Spanish, Francis said.

  He’s fucking Mexican, Noah said.

  I just said that.

  Noah pushed his cigarette at the ashtray beneath the radio. He got out another and mouthed the end to the popped car lighter, wire face hot orange from the battery. Francis threw the tin rings on the floor of the car; broken twigs and driveway flagstone caught in deep cigarette burns on the green floor mat.

  Dammit, Francis said. I can’t ever get those things apart.

  It was a toy, a puzzle.

  That goddamn Warren can do it, Francis said.

  He put his face on the window. They kept smoking and then were quiet.

  You ever seen a ninja ball? Francis said.

  Noah looked at him.

  I’ve heard of ninja stars.

  Francis turned around to the backseat. He looked cold and sure.

  You? he said.

  Terry shook his chin, put his left hand to the door latch and lifted it some, and then he let it go, brought the hand down to his lap and raised the other one and pulled on his cigarette.

  Nah, he said. I’ve never heard of those. Only ninja swords. And those sticks connected by chains they swing around.

  Francis turned back to Noah.

  Stars aren’t even close to the same thing, he said.

  Alright, Noah said.

  You can only throw those at people, he said. They’re like little knives. Haven’t you ever seen any movies? Sometimes I think you’re a foreigner. Ninjas throw balls down, smoke comes out and so forth. I got some from the flea market. We could use them to escape from something.

  Terry started to twitch a strange way. He couldn’t figure his movements, white fast and random, like tiny clouds exploding, or cotton heads chewed by a grasshopper swarm.

  Are you from Bogota or something?

  What?

  The capital of Colombia, man. Don’t you pay attention in map class?

  I hate it.

  Well, I do. I pay attention all right.

  In the rearview Noah scratched his head, eyes the color burnt red rock, streetlamp behind them a match burnt out.

  I’m not out to hurt anyone is all, Francis said. We all keep hurting each other really bad, and we should stop.

  Terry was having a hard time blinking his eyes.

  FRANCIS WANTED some beer on Sunday. They drove to the border because of the blue laws and stopped at a filling station two miles after the green sign for North Carolina. Francis came out of the store and held six at the plastic tie, dropped the balled receipt in the parking lot, opened the door and sat back down inside the car. They made back south across the line and stopped a half mile past because the tower was sixty feet above the road and the top was a sombrero made of bright colored lights, and because Noah said, if God lived anyplace, it was there, or somewhere very close.

  The tower was the centerpiece of the complex, a half-mile stretch of shops and restaurants cast bright colors; pink and green, blue and orange and yellow, built to look like dese
rt missions. But in the weak light, when Noah passed the entrance and drove the gullet and the storefronts ticked close at both sides of the car, the paint jobs looked dusted, color muted behind a white coat of dust from the interstate. The head of the tower was built in the shape of a sombrero, and dotted with colored lights, green and yellow and white and red and orange, bright over the empty shops selling coffee mugs, baby spoons, stick puzzles, dice, picture key chains, ashtrays, live hermit crabs, pinatas and yardsticks to go with, knives and conch shells, penny rockets and roman candles and smoke bombs and sparklers and one knee-high fuse rocket with a plastic blue tip they called the gravedigger.

  They paid a quarter, stood shoulder close and rode a metal box like a dumbwaiter to the top of the sombrero tower. Terry put his hands at the bars. The gears below turned a hard sound, and the metal wire on top scratched at the pulley He watched the ground drop away.

  The bill was a circle platform, and wide, big enough for twenty more. There was no one else. Noah put a finger in his beer can and wet the end. He touched a green bulb. It hissed.

  Shit. It’s damn hot.

  It’s a light bulb, Francis said.

  Terry walked one lap on the platform. He squinted his eyes south at the light a white halo over the road and over the trees, put his hands on the black rail. He looked north; town lights the same; dumb, white. What he thought was, lean over at the dark. He dreamt times that he flew. Whole dreams felt a year, and he woke tired, shoulders sore, hours afterward looked at birds, great sadness in his throat. He kept his hands on the rail, and put his feet at the first bar and pushed up. The air felt good, cool at his face. His shirt bunched at the back and Noah yanked him down.

  Get down man, Noah said.

  Terry shook himself out a little. He brushed at the front of his shirt. Noah went back to where he and Francis stood and thumped a cigarette over the rail. Terry went up beside them. They lit a joint and passed it.

  Fuck the Eiffel tower, Noah said. I won’t ever go. Too fucking high.

  Terry spit over the rail. Halfway down he couldn’t see it anymore.

  My uncle went there, Francis said. He brought me this plastic bird. You turned a switch near its ass, and it flew around. But the wings didn’t last, they were this thin stuff. They just broke off after a little while.

  I hate France.

  You ever been?

  No.

  All those sonsofbitches smoke cigarettes.

  My grandfather was there in the war. He said they’re nice mostly, said he went on this girl in a windmill, with like, tulips all around it.

  I can’t trust a beret. I can’t trust, like a country with nothing but stupid white people, like a whole place populated by rich, tennis playing dickheads.

  I hate white people, Francis said.

  Me too.

  Noah and Francis drank a beer apiece and threw the cans over the railing. They took the cage down, then Terry left them and paid another quarter to go back up. Noah and Francis watched him rise, frayed wire over the dumbwaiter creaking like blackboard chalk and pulling him up; Noah said hurry up, man, and his voice got smaller; Francis bent down and picked at something in the grass. On the deck Terry listened close; strained engines, rushed air from cars shot past north and south, white highbeams, red brakelights, blurred yellow headlamps.

  TERRY GOT up early and went into the kitchen. Benjamin Webber was sitting at the kitchen table, shoulder line like a headboard over the ladder back chair. He drank black coffee from a white mug, flying green and red duck curved at the face. His eyes were fixed at the window over the sink, the last shrug of blue hour, open catalogue in front of him.

  All these damn redbirds, he said.

  He shook his head back and forth. Terry stood over and looked at the catalogue. It was filled with different types of seed and bird feeder; post, box, cake.

  I don’t know about redbirds, Terry said.

  I got someone over tonight. A woman friend of mine.

  This was not unusual. His father entertained women periodically, but none of them ever stayed around long. He raised the mug and tipped to drink.

  I got school today, Terry said. I’m going to school.

  Go on then, his father said.

  He knocked the mug a nod at the door.

  In the driveway his car faced the sun. He watched it grow. Light warmed the vinyl.

  In Geometry Mr. Noise drew powder blue squares on the chalkboard and pointed at them, spoke with his back turned.

  Rhombus, he said. The plural is rhombi. That would be more than one rhombus. Like cacti. Or cumuli.

  Francis sat two seats ahead. The roof of the classroom was particle-board, sectioned into squares at slim metal beams. One part at the back got wet and fell through, broke pieces on the floor, and then more of it fell down to the pile. Francis turned around, and threw Terry a crumpled piece of notebook paper. He looked down; a picture of two pigs drawn in pencil. Francis signed his name in cursive at the bottom. One pig was dressed in a tuxedo and the other a fancy dress. The pigs had curly tails. Terry laughed, high and sharp, and then Francis laughed. Mr. Noise turned around and put his eyes on their row; for a few moments he studied them.

  Go and get to the corner, Mr. Noise said.

  He pointed with both hands, like he led a plane to a landing strip.

  They stood quiet a few minutes at separate corners, kept their faces on bends in the wall. Francis spoke low from one side of his mouth. Terry couldn’t figure how to talk so the teacher wouldn’t hear.

  Mr. Noise is a funny man, he said. All those fucking shapes. It’s bizarre.

  Terry listened to papers folded, or turned over, the clang of chalk at the blackboard. Mr. Noise moved from talking about squares to triangles; some of the ceiling fell and landed on Francis’s head.

  Son of a bitch, he said.

  Mr. Noise told them both to turn around.

  Stop it, he said.

  Something fell out of the ceiling and hit me, Francis said.

  I saw it hit him, Terry said.

  It won’t hurt you, Mr. Noise said. It didn’t hurt, did it?

  Not really

  Be quiet, then.

  Come on, Francis said.

  Terry saw a girl that sat in front turn around with some of the others. He didn’t know her name, but he thought she must be rich or something; she was fixed up, blond hair brushed light and straight, like a steel combed mane on a show horse. She wore a dark gray sweater and black pants, yellow ribbon tied prim tight at her neck. She turned back to Mr. Noise and moved a hand behind her head, stuck her middle finger up and held it that way and then she brought the hand back around in front.

  Francis looked at her hard. Terry saw a polished gold pin at her chest the size of a driver’s license. He squinted, made the words perfect attendance cut to the face. The girl was still looking at Francis. She stuck a tongue against one cheek and pushed it out, and then she mouthed shithead at him. Francis spoke loud, almost a yell.

  I’m tired of this, he said. That’s enough goddammit.

  Mr. Noise turned around quickly, forehead lines pinched angry red.

  Leave now, he said.

  He pointed at the door to the classroom.

  Principal Lemon, he said. Right now.

  Come on, man, Francis said. Let’s go out back and roll a number, sort this out? What do you say?

  Mr. Noise huffed, gritted his narrow mouth, crossed his arms at his chest and then let them down, one armpit chalked a sky blue half moon on his white dress shirt.

  I’m just kidding, man, alright? Francis said.

  He held up both hands, fingers spread five points.

  No harm done, Francis said. I’ll leave.

  Francis moved, got halfway to the door, but then he stopped and looked at the girl again. She mouthed something else. Francis shook his left hand at her.

  You shut the fuck up, Francis said.

  Mr. Noise’s cheeks went bright, a drunk, whiskey flush; he clenched the chalk stub to a fist
with his left hand, fingers ashed baby blue when he rolled it back and forth.

  Leave, right now, he said. I mean it.

  It’s not fair, Francis said.

  He put his hands on his hips, pointed to the girl.

  She gives me the finger and I’m going to see the fucking principal? Tell me how that works? Do your job man.

  THE COACH said they were bad players, told them to go two miles, and when they got done with that he sent them another two. At the first corner Noah said, fuck him, fuck him and all his coach clothes. Terry’s chest and legs burnt, and his throat felt like it might close. He wondered how it’d be, like this maybe, tight chest and throat, or something else, like lying down, or more quickly even, eyes shut, the moment a word shapes in the throat. He kept running and got the asthma inhaler from his waistband and put it to his mouth and held it in.

  On the drive home he saw Alice Washington standing on top of a house and her arms spread wide, yellow light all around her, and many blue flowers. A car blew its horn and shook Terry’s head. He tried. He couldn’t get her back.

  THE COACH said if they didn’t win, they never would. Dillon County was the worst he knew of; they wore football cleats, used cardboard for shin guards. He made them stand a circle around him before the game, walked a short line and looked hard at their still faces.

  Play under control, he said. Break legs, dammit. Show these fuckers what’s what.

  Dillon County scored the first goal just past twenty minutes into the first half, a low runner toed to the right bottom corner. The coach went down to his knees and pounded the dirt with both fists. He pulled a kid named Merrill, and he sent another in. Merrill went to the water cooler, filled a cup and turned it over his head. The coach stood in front of him and pointed at his chest, whispered a snarl. Merrill turned to go at the field, and the coach took him by the shoulder. He looked hard at him again; Merrill nodded, bent down and tied a cleat, pulled his socks high and stood up. Coach pointed to the field.