The Tangled Bridge (24 page)

These were mostly white folks. There were a few coloreds, too, but not many.

Maman was black and Papa was white, so Patrice and her siblings were somewhere in between. A meaningless fact at Terrefleurs but outside the plantation, like at school or at the general store, Patrice got the sense that it meant something to others.

One by one, people seemed to take notice of her and once that happened, their attention didn't loosen.

She tried to look bored. Back in that office, Rosie was probably grilling Hutch. (What's your shoe size? When's your birthday? Did you refuse to go to school, and that's why you don't speak properly? What time did you get up this morning? What time did you get up yesterday?)

The little man named Simms had returned and was pressing a glass tumbler into her hands. She looked at it. Thirsty as she was, she could smell it was some kind of alcohol and that absolutely wouldn't do. She tried to give it back. Cherry bounce was the only such drink she cared for and then only once in a blue moon. Simms wouldn't take the drink back from her.

She told him, “I need to find out about Ferrar.”

“What's that, honey?” She heard his words this time only because he was leaning down and putting his lips to her ear.

She cupped her hand over his ear and shouted, “It's what we came here for. I need to find out if anyone's seen Ferrar, the boy with the blood eye.”

He nodded and took her hand, pulling her toward a group of men who were already staring at them as though Patrice were doing the Charleston in her undergarments. The men sat with elbows resting on stacked wooden spools and they each had tumblers like the dreadful one Patrice still held.

Simms looked at Patrice and swept his hand toward the men like he was offering her a banquet of wild game.

Oh, Gil should be the one to ask around like this!

Hands folded in front of her, she proclaimed, “I am looking for a boy—”

The nearest man bent forward with his hand winging his ear, and Patrice spoke into it: “Trying to find a boy named Ferrar.”

He frowned and shook his head. Whether he didn't know the name or simply couldn't hear her, Patrice wasn't sure.

She cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted very slowly into the ear. “Looking for Ferrar! He's got a blood-shined eye!”

This time the man nodded in understanding, almost a look of wonder.

She asked, “You know him?”

He shook his head no.

A fat man tapped the first man's shoulder, and the first man hollered something that sounded like “she's looking for a boy.”

At this the fat one smiled broadly and waved her over. She repeated herself. He had his hand on her back, though, his fingers moving along her spine. The third man pulled her away from the fat one and toward himself, his hand cupped to his ear, expectant.

She said, “I'm looking—” and he turned his face and kissed her, full, hard, his hands wrapped tight around her back.

She slapped him and tore herself away. Her mouth hurt where his teeth had rammed her lips, and it tasted like blood and brandy.

They were all in hysterics now. Patrice ran for the door and burst through it. Her brothers and sister were sitting on their valises talking to the big man named Hutch. They were all stretched out and gabbing like old pals, with Rosie curled under Gil's arm.

“Let's go!” Patrice said.

And then she realized Simms had followed her out, his laughter high and thin as his speaking voice. “Hide the machete! We all in trouble now!”

Trigger got to his feet, his features going dark.

But Simms said, “Come on, now, didn't mean no harm.”

Patrice marched to the front door.

Simms said, “But what if we find your boy with the eye? How we s'posed to let you know?”

The children were scrambling after her, Rosie struggling with her bag. Patrice snatched the Bible and Rosie's valise and pushed through the door.

The night air felt clean even though it had seemed so foul only a little while ago. Marie-Rose was asking, “What's it like in there? What happened?” but nobody else spoke a word.

That's when they heard the motor. Distinctive among other motor sounds in this city. After today, Patrice would know that rumble-grunt anywhere.

Trigger said, “Papa's Ford!”

*   *   *

ALL FOUR CHILDREN BROKE
into a run. Marie-Rose tripped and fell flat almost immediately. Patrice turned to help her up but Rosie had already righted herself and was flying across those big round stones after her big brothers. Trig let go of his valise and it went tumbling down and opened in the street, but his feet never slowed; they were pumping faster than Patrice had ever seen him move. As the valise flew open she saw his toy aluminum automobile and wooden filling station burst out. She watched them bounce across the cobblestones.

“Oh!” she cried and nearly paused, but then determined that Papa's automobile was more important, so she let Trig's toys smash themselves on the stones.

Leaving home for good, packing only the barest necessities, and Trig had made room for his toys.

She rounded the bend in time to see the Ford moving out of the rail yard. Trigger was already a fair spell ahead and closing in on it.

Gil stopped dead, and Patrice knew he was using pigeonry.

“Wait,” she called.

The Ford kept rolling though the uneven surface kept it from moving fast. Trigger caught up with it and threw himself at the driver. There were at least six or seven men milling around, three of which were piled into the Ford.

The driver socked Trigger good across the jaw. Trig went tumbling sideways, the machete and fishing pole and the rest of the bundle clattering and scattering along the ground.

Another man jumped out of the Ford and kicked Trig straight in the head.

At eleven years old, no matter how wild and brave his heart, Trig was no match for this man. Trig rolled back and barely avoided another kick.

“Stop!” Patrice screamed.

And she herself stopped though she was still on the side of the rail yard opposite them. She focused her mind on that awful man who was kicking her brother. The kicking stopped. The man fell still and Trig hefted himself to his feet.

The Ford was rolling again. Patrice focused her mind on the driver and it stopped.

Gil and Rosie were clearly trying and failing to work pigeonry on these men. They weren't as strong as Patrice though Rosie was pretty effective if and ever she could keep calm.

Trigger socked his attacker in the gut. The man doubled forward for a moment and then struck Trigger across the nose.

Patrice had to return her attention to him to make him stop, thus leaving the driver of the Ford alone. And there were other men, too. A whole group of them pulling a closer circle around Trig, drawn by the ruckus, emerging from the crevices of the rail yard. One of them cuffed Trig on the ear. Patrice turned her attention to him to stop him, but then the first one struck a blow.

Patrice was walking slowly so as to maintain concentration. Gil and Rosie were clearly too upset to be able to accomplish much pigeonry. Rosie gave up and sprinted for Trigger.

“Rosie, no!” Gil called.

He took a few steps forward and stopped, his fists balled.

“Leave him alone!” Rosie screamed.

One of the men scooped Rosie up as she barreled forward. She screamed, and then she was kicking and clawing at him. Trigger threw himself at the one who'd grabbed Rosie and punched him square in the face. He dropped Rosie, but now the circle had tightened. Patrice could barely see what was happening, who was punching whom, who was grabbing. Someone was laying into Trig again and someone else had backhanded Rosie.

There were just too many of them. Patrice could only pigeon one at a time. She gave up and ran forward.

The sound of her footfalls caused them to look up. Like in the warehouse, once they got a look at her, their attentions didn't easily slip.

“Let my brother go!”

Poor Trigger was sagging like a wet rag, with one of the men holding him by the collar. But the man paused to eye Patrice.

“Ho there, sweetie,” one of them said.

Gil came to her side and linked her arm around his. “Just leave us alone, please.”

The one who still held Trigger glanced at the Bible in Patrice's hand, then leered at her. “What are you, missionaries?”

Arrhythmic laughter, and then they were jeering.

“I heard missionaries are good eatin!”

“She looks like she'd taste real good.”

“High yella pie.”

One of them picked up the machete. Many of them looked hungry—a sick kind of hunger. They were bone thin and mean and stupid, and their eyes showed they intended to take whatever they could get from the children. Patrice didn't have to search inside to know this.

The sound of horse hooves. She turned to look. The policeman they'd seen earlier?

Next to her, Gil started singing:

Holy, holy, ho-ly!

Lord, God almighty!

Early in the morning our song shall rise to Thee

The men's faces went slack, then split into grins. She could smell them—good Lord, they were so close and so foul. Black teeth and rotting from the inside. Two of them were clean, though. She recognized them from having been in the warehouse. The others must be vagrants. More of them now. At least ten.

Gil brought the Bible up so that he and Patrice were holding it together. She realized then that Gil was trying to make it look like they
were
missionaries. As though for some insane reason that might make a difference. Nevertheless, Patrice started singing, too.

Cherabim and seraphim

Fall down before Thee

The men looked like they wanted to lapse into fresh laughter or slap the song from the children's mouths, or both. But the clip-clopping hooves were now full in the street, too close to ignore. Patrice looked and recognized the same policeman they'd seen earlier. The men were looking at him, too.

But as she watched, the policeman turned his head toward them and then immediately looked forward again and kept moving. He would be gone in a moment.

Patrice and Gil kept singing, and then Rosie and Trigger joined in though Trigger botched the words. The four huddled in around one another.

Patrice focused her pigeonry on that policeman. That one man riding the horse.

The clip-clopping stopped.

Patrice heard from the street, “You there!”

Some of the men seemed uncertain. But the one with the machete looked toward the street and passed his tongue over his lower lip.

Patrice didn't dare let go of the policeman's mind. She held, hoping these wicked men would just scatter and leave them alone. She couldn't very well force the policeman to march into that machete blade.

Some of the men lost that wild look in their eyes. The ones who'd been at the warehouse and two of the truly rough-looking fellows. But the one with the machete and the ones who'd been striking blows to Trigger and Rosie looked ready for a fight.

“Go on get outta here before you get hurt,” the man hanging onto Trigger said to the policeman.

And then little Marie-Rose stepped forward. She was singing that song, right along with Patrice and the twins. Patrice kept singing, too, and couldn't afford to keep Rosie in check lest she let her attention slip from the policeman.

The policeman was now approaching, still on horseback. Some of the men avoided eye contact with him. And yet no one left. They seemed unwilling to relinquish the spectacle, if not the spoils of war.

Before Patrice knew what was happening, Rosie walked right straight up to the man with Trigger's machete and reached out to him. He looked down at her, his jaw gaping and confusion in his eyes. But then he very gingerly placed the hilt into Rosie's waiting hands.

Patrice wondered if Rosie had pigeoned him to do that. Perhaps the singing had forced her into a more stable frame of mind.

And then two of the men picked up the rest of what was in Trigger's bundle—the frog gig, the fishing pole, the slingshot—and handed them to the children. The man hanging onto Trigger let go.

The children kept singing.

One by one, each of the men stepped back and drifted away. No one hurried. They certainly didn't seem the least bit intimidated by the policeman. But they did filter off, each in his own way—this one lingering as though he must check to see if he'd forgotten anything; that one shuffling off with mincing steps like in a soup line. One actually sang “Holy, Holy, Holy” in off-beat timing with the children as he shuffled away.

When they were all gone save for the policeman on horseback, the children stopped singing.

Patrice released the policeman.

*   *   *

“TRIGGER,” PATRICE SAID, AND
she put her handkerchief to his face.

He moved it down under his nose and coughed, spitting between his feet. “I'm alright.”

“What are y'all doin out here?” the policeman asked.

“We're lookin for a boy named Ferrar,” Gil replied.

“You sure picked a damn fool time and place to do that.” And then he regarded the Bible in Patrice's hands. “Sorry ma'am.”

The horse watched them from behind what looked like an eye patch. Patrice could see only its eye and long lashes if it turned its head toward her.

The policeman said, “Y'all got a home?”

“Yes,” Patrice replied, perhaps a bit too quickly.

The policeman paused, scrutinizing her. “You from the children's home? I'll need to take you back there.”

“They're with me.”

Patrice turned to see Simms walking toward them with Hutch at his side.

Simms said to the policeman, “I hired some missionaries to do some singing for me.”

“That so?” the policeman said.

Patrice was too perplexed to either support or deny Simms' claim, but Gil was nodding.