!Woodsmen --- by Anna @ 2016 --- Chapter 5: Foxhole prayer --- I slept, and dreamed. Granny strode confidently out the garden gate in my dream, radiant with light that made the blackberries ripen plump, sweet, and glorious. She swept me up in her arms and squeezed me into herself. I saw the world as granny sees it. Lines of power connected the stars and the garden plants. Networks of welcomed obligation connected the family. Old dog Betsy ran in circles and brought me food for my heart. I had enough for the work to be done and heaven awaited me sure as rest, where the people I loved would bask in the light from God's face, where smiles would taste good and fill my tummy, where as children we would ring dance under a perfect Kentucky sky. Til then I saw the monsters I must wrestle with while holding my heart stubbornly open to God: the fence to be fixed without taking splinters into my skin, siding to be whitewashed without ruining my clothes, children to teach and to hold without losing them to the world, tomatoes and pole beans to be canned without overcooking them. I saw I'd lived a few years with more ahead but knew so little about the world. My best was good enough to brighten God's day and broaden his smile. When I woke, on my short walk with Pickle, I walked with Granny's stride. At work, I tended to customers like pole beans or children with a twinkle in my eye. When, feet tired, smelling like bacon and syrup, I took off my uniform and showered, I felt God's grace cascade over me with the water. On the concrete bank of the Nonconnah as Pickle ran, I read my library book about the majestic mountains and valleys out west. All the creatures and trees, insects and grasses, I read, danced and moved like one creature, a creature that drank gratefully the water that fell and treasured it, hugged to the sun which fed it with food that tasted like none I'd had. In my motel room that night there was a knock at the door, shy and halting. I struggled into a pair of sweatpants. My job and motel life were adding to my waist. The woman at the door firmly held the hand of an adolescent girl. Prematurely old, she was white and pale. Her dun colored hair was dirty, face picked into angry sores. The woman wore dirty jeans too big for her slight build and a man's red and black lumberjack shirt. Her eyes looked bruised, circles dark, makeup ineffectual. Yeah, ma'am, she said, and her radiant, violent- looking longhaired girl looked squarely past me into my motel room. I seen you walk that dog, the pockmarked woman continued. I knowed you have more of a heart than most the fuckers around here. Excuse me. Are you alright? I said, my guard up. I knew women like this back home. She'd pawn my motel room bed if she could get somebody to lift it. Oh I been better, the woman said. This is Rachel. I'm Missy. I'm pregnant and I need a ride to the clinic. I don't want to ast too much. Herbert in 225 stole my bus pass and moved without telling me. You have anything to eat? I eat at work, I said. When's your appointment. Whenever I can get there, Missy said. I can come by whenever you can take me. I'm in town til Friday. Where you go on Friday? On a run to Houston, she said. It don't make no sense. I'm sorry to ask so much, but Herbert is a piece of shit. He don't come find us, me and her might not be going nowhere. I looked at my watch. Near midnight. How late is the clinic open Tuesdays, I asked. Six-thirty. The radiant longhaired girl lost interest in my room, began to appraise me shrewdly as used cookware at a flea market. I get you five-fifteen, I said. In the parking lot by the motel office. Thank you for the help, Missy said. There's pieces of shit and there's people. Mostly been pieces of shit for me. We'll be ready. Thank God for you. You have a good night. I shut the door on them, squatted to rub Pickles. I stood, walked to the mirror, washed my face. I'm part Granny, part Dad, I said to my face. I slid under the covers. I been living here too long, I thought. I never did take Missy to the clinic. Instead I came home from work to find five police cars in the parking lot of the weekly motel. A bunch of guys stood on their porches and in the parking lot watching the action, which centered around my room. I drove out of the parking lot, left the pickup a quarter mile down the road. It wasn't in my name and the insurance might have ran out. I forgot to ask anybody if Tennessee requires insurance. I walked past Blockbuster, McDonald's, a used car lot, Valvoline, an Exxon station, Enterprise car rental, America's Best Value motel, a closed burger shop, road construction, homeless camp, vacant strip mall storefronts, cars driving fast. At my motel, I walked in the office. The bell affixed to the door jangled. I intended to ask the manager what was happening. Two cops leaning on the counter drinking coffee parted for me. If I turned tail and ran, they'd notice. So I dinged the desk bell. When the manager came out of the back I pre-empted him. What's going on up in 227? I asked, casual as I could. Can't say anything about it, ma'am, he said, playing along with my ruse. Not my room. Not a matter of intense concern to me. Just curiosity. Open investigation, ma'am, said the shorter cop, with the bullying nonchalance you'd expect. Just makes you went to hit the pig and run the fuck out of there. I didn't hit him. I didn't run. I walked. Up the concrete steps I joined the men watching. I was used to being watched, hustling past them with Pickle or in my Huddle House uniform: red blouse, white trousers. I talked to one of the watchers, white curly hair on his sizable blanched gut, wearing blue jeans and no shoes. What do they want? I asked. Did they take my dog? Shit, he said. He looked at me openly as the longhaired girl had the day before. Listening to them, sounds like some kind of drug murder, a lady. You want to come in my room? I didn't. I also didn't want to go to jail, whatever this was about murder, and I didn't want to lose Pickle. I walked down the concrete steps, past the motel office where the cops still leaned on the counter. I walked back up Kimball road past the vacant strip mall storefronts, homeless camp, closed burger shop, road construction. At the Exxon station I took the phone book from the shelf under the phone, looked up the number, put in my twenty cents, and called the office of my motel. After eight rings, the manager picked up. Traveler's Rest, the manager said. What can I do for you? Yeah, I said, gathering my words. Hi. I was just at the counter but course we couldn't talk with the police in there. Can they hear you now? Hold on a minute, he said. When he returned, he said, What did you do? I have no idea. I really don't. I want to find out why they're in my room and I want my dog out of there. Is there any way you can help me? Animal control hasn't been here yet, he said. They're talking about a murder investigation, a woman shot in front of her child, had a big package of drugs on her. White powder drugs, I think. Now be honest, Katharine. Do you know anything about it? My mouth tasted vile, tacky. I was tired from working overtime. I was still in my uniform. I smelled like sausage and syrup, cigarette smoke and sweat. Pickle was still in my room. I think I get it, I said. I thought I was going to do a good turn. Last night a woman knocked on my door. She had a girl with her. She asked me to take her to the clinic. I didn't know her but I said yes. Fuck. You took her? No, I said. She was going to be waiting for me when I got home today. Try to get my dog please. I'll do what I can, he said. With my next twenty cents, I called Ronald. One of his nieces answered, her voice bright. Washington residence! she piped. A police siren howled past me. Hi is--- I said. A firetruck siren cut me off. Sorry, hold on. The firetruck horn blared. Traffic shifted to let it through. Can I talk to Ronald? I asked over the sirens doppler-shifting into the distance. He isn't here, she said. Someone whispered to her. She whispered back, It's the white bitch. Ronald's sister's voice yelled something harsh from another room. She said, Sorry, it's *Miss Katharine,* and she hung up. I set the phone back in the cradle, walked to the little Nissan truck. I let down the tailgate, climbed into the bed. I leaned back against the cab as I sat, legs spraddled out. Night had fallen at some point. Streetlights, headlights, reflections in glass were my companions. I wanted to get out of my work uniform. I wanted my dog. I wanted my bed. I didn't want to lose my stupid job. I thought about Mike for the first time in a while, his hair when he wore it long, singing along with Paradise City in the pickup. I thought about the familiarity of a bonfire below the towering hills on a night like this, beer, stars, him goofy and proud, showing off some way he shaved his beard he thought looked 'fuckin cool.' I probably didn't even have enough cash on me for the gas to get home. I counted my tips again. Well, I probably did, but I wanted my dog. Two nights ago I dreamed of Granny. I moved with incredible clarity and love until I extended that love to the Missy lady. Now I had no pragmatic solution to the situation I found myself in. Granny wouldn't know what to do. I clambered into a kneeling position. The truck bed's corrugation dug into my knees, elbows on the cab roof. God, I said. You so richly blessed me and I know you love me. I don't know what to do right now. I know I haven't prayed in a long while but I'm praying now. Just fill me up with your love and peace from the tip of my toes to the top of my head. Let me do just what you want me to do and nothing else. I pushed myself up to standing, walked to the tailgate, sat, slid to the ground, closed the tailgate, walked around to the driver side door, got in, started the pickup, and bent over to look under the seats for cassette tapes. Under the passenger seat was the Skynyrd tape. I put it in and sang along with the rest of The Needle and the Spoon, the sound distorted from sitting on the dashboard in the sun. I like that song. The next song started. I was acutely aware of my nasty work uniform. I put on the headlights, backed out, and drove to Budgie's. When I parked the pickup and got out, I was even more aware of eyes on me. I hadn't been there without Ronald. I felt more exposed, more intrusive, but where could I go? Inside it was dark. Nobody was dancing. It was too early. I found a bar stool. The bartender ignored me. She talked to a man on the other end of the bar. I waited. On the jukebox was Maze, The Golden Time of Day. Smooth, lush soul sounds, soared over by Frankie Beverly's triumphant voice. A man came out of the bathroom, slid onto the stool next to me. Snowbunny, he said. What you like? I like to talk to her, I said, gesturing to the bartender. What, you're gay? he asked. That's not it, I said. Never seen you before, he said. It's been a while. I live close, he said. I looked at him. I don't give a fuck, I said, where you live. He leaned back, looked like he was about to get up. Changed his mind, turned his face toward the the bartender. Toni! he called out. Crown and coke! She ignored him just long enough to send a message, then turned to the drinks. She got a tumbler, opened the bar fridge for a can of coke, mixed his drink, set it on a napkin in front of him, turned away. One for me too, I said. She looked at me, the third person since yesterday to appraise me so coldly, turned, and got another tumbler. When she returned, I said, I need to talk to Angelique. The bartender took closer notice of me, determining what kind of crazy I am and whether she should leave it be or speak. The man took the opportunity to say, You'd do better yo talk to me. Shut up James, the bartender said, not wasting her gaze on him. What if she don't want to talk to you? she asked me. She does, I said. I'm the one didn't want to talk to her. Til now. James, the bartender said, still looking at me. Go tell Angelique Ronald's white bitch is here. She walked back to the other side of the bar. To me, James said, You wanna suck my dick? I don't know her last name, I said to him. I can't look her up in the phone book. Her phone's cut off, he said. Give me a ride, I'll take you to her. I thought about it. My options were limited. I pulled out ten dollars. My money wouldn't last long, but this was a time for generosity. I got your drink, I said. Come on. He drank the rest, set it down, ice cubes clinking. I hadn't touched mine. We got up. He tried to put his arm around me at the door to the club. I twisted away and walked out. That's my pickup, I said, indicating it. Where you from, he asked. Kentucky, I said. The plates said the same thing. I got in, started the truck while he closed his door. Where you from? I asked him. Right here, James said. So you want to suck my dick? I don't, I said. I want to talk to Angelique. You going to help me or not? We don't see a lot of white girls here, he said. If I could go somewhere else I would. I don't know why anybody would come here. I come here to talk to Angelique. Turn around, he said. Drive toward the river. I did. It wasn't far, even sitting in a truck with a man who hates himself. Stay in the truck, I told him. I'll stay wherever I damn well please, James said, and stayed in the truck. The house was nicer than the ones on either side. A painted plywood wheelchair ramp and concrete steps mounted to the concrete porch. The siding was painted white with pink trim. I looked at two heavy steel mesh security doors that opened onto the shared front porch. Which one? I called to James. Right side, he said. A Chevy Cavalier drove slow down the street, packed with teenagers. It felt like they all craned their necks to stare at me. The Cavalier throbbed: bass, distorted raps, Keep giving our bodies to the funeral. Too many young blacks pack gats, and look for an excuse to get enraged to pull the trigger back! Transport another body to the ground, transport the other body.... I pushed the bell but it didn't ring. I couldn't see where to knock. I reached between bars and knocked at the window. The Cavalier thudded its bass slowly into the distance. I knocked again. I walked back to the pickup, said to James, Maybe she isn't here? No, she's here, he said. She's here. A girl came out the door across the street, joined two girls on the porch. They commenced to skipping rope double-dutch on the porch in the dark. I mounted Angelique's porch, knocked again. A boy rode his bike down the street with a wet washcloth atop his head. A younger boy rode on his handlebars. The teenagers came around the block again thudding bass in the Cavalier. The three girls ran inside. Go around back, James hollered at me over the beat. A narrow cracked sidewalk paved the narrow alley between the pink trimmed house and the dingy green one next door. The aluminum gate wasn't locked. I walked down the sidewalk between the bright clapboards of the long shotgun duplexes; mounted the concrete back porch. The black steel mesh security door on Angelique's side was unlocked. I knocked on the white wood door behind it. I heard a TV, knocked again. Angelique opened the door a crack, saw me through the chain. What are you doing here? she asked. She wasn't wearing Makeup. Her hair was crooked. I actually need your help, Angelique. I'm in trouble I don't understand. It won't follow me here, but I can't go home and, shit, I said. Shit. I blinked and looked way up but I was fucking crying. I need help. She closed the door, dropped the chain, opened it again, looked into the darkness around, behind me. Languorous as a sea-dream in the hot night, eyes untrusting, face hard, jaw set, she asked me in. How did you find me? she asked. Asked your sister. I closed the door behind me. Thank you for letting me in. The knows you're here, Angelique said with a nervous note. She knows you're here. Get a cold drink from the icebox. I have Pepsi and water. I got a Pepsi. I didn't know you was going to come find me, Angelique said. Yeah, me neither, I said. I followed her out of the kitchen and into a bedroom, out of there through another bedroom with two twin beds, out of there to the living room, the front room. The TV was on in the dark, a big dresser pushed against the inside of the front door. Canned laughter issued forth from the TV. Angelique sat in the armchair. I sat on the couch with an afghan draped over its back. Angelique looked at the TV. I can't fix you neither, she said. Angelique, I said. Yeah. Tell me about your husband. No, she said. Look, why you here? She looked away from the TV. On the screen a pizza steamed from its box. A white kid took out a slice. She looked at me, her face hard again, but hard and ugly this time. It wasn't two weeks ago I was asking you that, I said. Yeah but now you in my house. I didn't go in your house, I went to your job. I told you why I was trying to talk to you. Look, I told you. But you in my house now. My sister knows you're here. So now you talk. What's up snow bunny? What's got you crying your way your way up into my house? Ronald wasn't home, I said. I called, and his niece said he wasn't home. Answer my question, Angelique said. You don't get to duck me in my house. The horn on my truck up front honked. We both startled. I stood. I didn't do nothing, I said, but there's police in my room and I can't go home. I walked through the two bedrooms and kitchen, out the back door, down the back porch steps. The horn on my pickup honked again. I ran up between the houses, through the aluminum gate. What? I said to James, who still sat in the passenger seat. You about done in there? he asked. I don't know, I said. I have to piss. Come on, I said. James cranked up the window, got out of the truck. He closed the door twice til the latch caught. It ain't a bad truck, he said. He followed me through the gate, between the houses. It gets me where I need to go, I said. We mounted the back porch. I opened the security door, knocked on the back door, waited on Angelique. When she opened it, she saw him. He can't come in here, she said. I'm going to take him back to Budgie's and come back I said. I don't need your trouble, Angelique said. I don't need any more trouble. What should I do then? I asked. Handle your shit, Angelique said. Messy bitch. Can I come back? I asked. Her fed up eyes looked into my face. She was tired. I was tired. I gotta piss, James said. Angelique ignored him. Do what you gonna do, she said to me. I'll be here. But you gotta know one thing. I ain't your magical negro. I can't tell you what to do. She closed the door. I told you she was here, James said. I looked at him, maybe five years older than Ronald and two shades darker. Sharp hair, skinny face, his arms the sinewed limbs of a laborer. I told you she was here, he repeated. I appreciate it, I said. I turned, walked down the steps back up between the houses. I did not stop to see if he was following. I said to the air, We're gonna get you to a bathroom. Behind me, he said, I got diabetes. I pee a lot. I pushed open the gate. On the drive back to Budgie's I turned up the volume on the Skynyrd tape and ignored James. He looked straight out the front windshield. I stopped at a light. A rock thrown from a clump of children out late bounced off my driver side door. A man wandered down the street. He yelled at no one I could see, A storm gonna *come!* A *storm* gonna come! Get yo' mind! The light changed. Two teenage guys leaned on a wall outside a security-barred street-facing door. One regarded me with guarded professional interest. I braked hard; a police car swung around the corner in front of me. It blipped its siren twice, raced up the street toward the river. I drove through the intersection, pulled over as another cruiser made the corner and passed me fast. I turned down my tape. What road is this? I asked. Delmar, James said. Ghetto birds gonna fly tonight. Watch for the spotlights. I didn't understand and didn't care. I turned my tape back up. I drove past blocks of houses where people watched my pickup, watched me. Distorted loud R+B drowned out my distorted tape. I bumped over the railroad tracks. James got out of my pickup at Budgie's. I stayed in it. I idled in the parking lot as people yelled, pulled out and pulled in. Despair crept up on me. I wanted Ronald. I wanted my dog and my bed. I wanted Ronald, dammit. Angelique took a shower, got dressed, fixed her hair and face while I sat in the truck. Mike woke in Kentucky. Too uneasy to sleep, he gave up, watched the America in Peril videotape again. In the back of a black power bookstore I'd never heard of, Ronald talked to two South Africans, one drunk, about helping them start an import business to support the Azanian People's Army. Floyd Chester shook his dick off after a piss. My sorry little story's just one part of something too big to imagine. My despair told me it was just me, alone in a hostile world. My anchor and disappointment, it enfolded me, in and against the world. Up the street a pittbull suddenly was squalling in a panic, like it was stuck or injured. Three police cruisers sped down Delmar toward the dog's sounds. I heard shouts. A shot was fired. After a pause, two more. As people started to spill out of Budgie's to look anxiously up the street toward the trouble, I beat the steering wheel in frustration, turned up my distorted Skynyrd tape, and pulled a u-turn back toward Angelique's.