The Twelve Tribes of Hattie (3 page)

Two women in blue dresses and blue-feathered hats approached him on the sidewalk. The dimpled one smiled at him. She was a pretty thing, the color of peanut brittle, so he allowed her to take his elbow and guide him into the crowd. “What’s this all about?” he asked. She did not answer. It occurred to him that the people in the crowd were dressed as things in nature, clouds or flowers or animals; his companions were two little bluebirds. One sipped from a mason jar that she held out toward him—corn liquor strong enough to polish his horn mixed with something sweet Floyd didn’t recognize. Bluebird gestured for him to drink slowly, but he ignored her and took three long pulls. The drink aroused him. This dimpled girl might offer him some relief, perhaps in one of the side streets or in the Packard. Floyd slid his hand to her lower back and rested it there.

The main boulevard curved and led into a park. Floyd was in the thick of the crowd; bodies pressed him from every direction. He stood on tiptoe to see if there was somewhere he might take his bluebird, but sweaty backs and shoulders walled him in. We should get out of this crowd, he whispered in her ear, and isn’t it hot, and surely there’s a place from which we can see everything but not be quite so sardined. She smiled at him and cocked her head to the side. Man, those dimples were something. He roped his arm around her waist and pulled her toward what he thought was the corner, but bluebird waggled her index finger at him and slipped from his grasp.

The crowd heaved around him. Talcum powder and hair grease and smoke fouled the air. Floyd unfastened the first few buttons of his shirt. He couldn’t breathe. It’s only a parade, he told himself, when he felt panic scudding in his chest—nothing more than a bunch of drunken country folk. But all of these bodies! The liquor coated Floyd’s tongue with a sweet-sick taste. He barreled blindly through the crowd and broke, at last, through the outermost ring of people and into a clearing where he bent next to a tree and vomited violently.

When he was able to stand, Floyd found he was near a church in a woodsy cul-de-sac some distance from the revelers. A twig snapped. Something jangled in the woods in front of him. Sounds like chains, Floyd thought. Not quite loud enough, but anything was possible in this bogeyman night—a man in chains could walk right out of those woods. They had chain gangs in Georgia, didn’t they? Could be one of those poor souls haunted the place. Floyd picked up a tree branch and held it in one hand like a sword. The jangling drew nearer, and Floyd widened his stance and brandished his branch.

A young man emerged from the wood. His scarlet neckerchief shone in the moonlight like a jewel. In one cupped hand he shook a few coins and with the other he tipped his hat at Floyd.

“Whoa now,” he said. “I’m just passing by.”

“I … sorry. I just didn’t know what was …” Floyd dropped his stick.

The man couldn’t have been more than eighteen. But he was not a boy, that is to say that his lips were red and voluptuous, plush as pillows, and he held them slightly apart. It was a mouth as ripe as a strawberry; the young man was not unaware of this.

“Seem like you a little agitated,” the boy said and chuckled.

A firecracker popped.

Floyd jumped. “I’m not. I ain’t … I’ve never seen anything like this.”

The boy studied the cut of Floyd’s jacket and the make of his tie. He studied his haircut and his shoes.

“Yeah,” he said. “I can see you not from around here.”

His voice was reedy and low like a clarinet.

“Just in town to play a gig,” Floyd said.

“Uh-huh,” the young man answered, ready to take his leave.

“What’s this parade?” Floyd blurted, because he wanted to know and because he didn’t want him to go.

“Seven Days.”

The boy waved dismissively in the direction of the crowd. “They put on this juju mess every year. I don’t believe in it myself.”

A firecracker exploded.

“It’s some kind of magic festival?”

The young man sighed. “I guess you might call it that. Hoodoo folk celebrating how they figure God made the world,” he paused and smiled at Floyd. “They say God made the world, case you ain’t heard where you from.”

“I didn’t see any crosses or preachers?” Floyd said.

“Everyday’s crosses and preachers around here. These people,” he said, as though he were not one of them, “call the conjure man soon’s they come out the church. Seven Days they get to be heathens out in the open.”

“Kind of spooky,” Floyd said. The boy shrugged.

“You know if there’s somewhere around here to get a drink of water?” Floyd asked.

The young man led Floyd around the side of the church. When they reached the pump, Floyd drank deeply and splashed his neck and face. He wondered how the water could be so cool and pure in this humid and muddled place. The water dripped onto his shirt and splattered his polished shoes. He must look like a barbarian. But then, coiffed though he was, the young man was just a country boy, and there was no need to try to impress him. Floyd had not tried to impress any of the others he had met in this way. The boy stood a few feet from Floyd with his arms folded cross his chest. Beneath his scarlet ascot, a triangle of clover honey skin glowed in the floodlights.

Floyd wiped his wet hands on his pants and introduced himself. The boy shook Floyd’s hand like a man not accustomed to doing so.

“Name of Lafayette,” he said.

They sat on a bench at the furthest edge of the church lawn. Floyd talked to Lafayette as he would a woman he had his eye on: where was he from and what did he do and did he live here in town? Lafayette responded to these attempts at conversation in monosyllables: from here, he cut heads, no, he didn’t live in town. He was unfazed when Floyd told him he played the trumpet and was from Philadelphia. Lafayette’s indifference made Floyd angry; a man from a nowhere town like this one ought to be fascinated by the great cities of the North. He continued, speaking quickly, embellishing the details of his life: he’d seen Monk at Minton’s in New York—Lafayette might know Minton’s, it was very famous—and he’d had a drink with Duke. As he talked, Floyd realized it was not just his pride and his vanity at stake. He wanted Lafayette to like him.

Floyd abandoned his attempts at small talk. He did not remember when he was so bumbling and amateur. The thing to do was sit a little closer and gaze at Lafayette to make his intentions clear. But Floyd was too nervous, so he rubbed his palms against his pant leg and worried the ground with the toe of his shoe. Lafayette shifted toward him on the bench. He traced the nape of Floyd’s neck with his fingers. His breath was quick but steady. He slid his hand inside Floyd’s shirt where the two top buttons were undone. The boy’s cool hand warmed against Floyd’s chest, fingers twitching slightly. Floyd leaned into him. With these small gestures they were agreed. They had reached an accord, and now Floyd’s anticipation swelled to fervency. Floyd followed Lafayette like a child into an opening in the trees. Behind him, a bit of orange flashed round the side of the church. Could have been anything—firecracker, a Seven Days reveler dressed up like the sun. Floyd quickened his pace to catch up with Lafayette.

The moon was full, but the light struggled to reach the two men beneath the leafy canopy. Lafayette knew the way and moved quickly. Soon he was several paces ahead. Could be, Floyd thought, I’m a fool, and this boy is luring me into trouble. Floyd had been in bars or at filling stations when men turned on him for no reason, and he wondered now if they had known, as Lafayette knew, and they had wanted to beat it out of him.

They came to a small clearing bright with moonlight. Lafayette was urgent; he unbuttoned Floyd’s shirt and unbuckled his belt. Floyd—how like a boy Lafayette had made him, how compliant—stood naked in the moonlight shaking with desire and with fear. Lafayette patiently, teasingly, undressed himself. He was the same clover honey shade all over, with a hairless chest and a belly with a hint of a paunch. His thighs were hard and powerful and did not yield to Floyd’s squeezes. The boy was practiced in a way that made Floyd self-conscious. He groaned and stepped away from Lafayette.

“I don’t know … I mean I’ve hardly …” he began.

“That’s alright,” Lafayette murmured, putting his lips to Floyd’s ear. “That’s alright.”

IT BEGAN
to rain. Floyd and Lafayette’s sweat mixed with the raindrops and beaded on their skin. Floyd could not stop looking at Lafayette’s penis lolling against his thigh. He imagined the curve of it pressing against the fabric of Lafayette’s pants when they dressed and walked out of the woods later.

At the edge of the clearing a tree stump, as large around as two men standing together, was scored with black slashes and squiggles.

“What’s that?” Floyd asked, pointing at the stump.

“Some like to leave they mark.”

Floyd came up onto his haunches. “Their names?”

“Names? Heh, why don’t you write yours on there? No names, just a mark.”

The top was scored with knife scratchings. There were several hearts, some letters that could have been initials, the outline of someone’s hand.

“Lot of people come here?” Floyd asked.

“Ain’t nowhere else to go where you can take your time,” Lafayette replied.

“I guess it’s different in Macon or Atlanta maybe?”

“Is it different where you come from?” Lafayettte asked sharply.

“I don’t know anything about that.”

“Oh, you don’t?” He smirked. “Well, I don’t reckon it’s no different nowhere.”

“I mean, I’m not a … I go with women.”

“Folks like to think that about theyselves.”

“It’s a fact.”

“I ain’t said it wasn’t. Seem like you go with men too though, don’t it?”

Floyd had not known anything about the few men he’d been with. Their encounters were quick and furtive, only the slightest attempt had been made at conversation. Afterward, Floyd pushed the experiences from his mind, as he might a night of excessive drinking or losing all his money at dice or any other debauchery. He could not dwell on these breaches of his willpower, lest he indulge them more often. Lest he become like Lafayette. Lafayette, who was not decent enough to leave Floyd with his honor. Lady Boy Floyd, they called him. Who was Lafayette to say anything different? He was the kind you’d see swishing around Greenwich Village. Why they didn’t have sense enough to act normal, to protect themselves from scorn, Floyd did not know. He glanced at Lafayette. The boy’s eyes were on him, a challenging, flinty look that Floyd wouldn’t have expected in a man like him. Something in it made Floyd ashamed of himself.

“You don’t ever think about leaving here?” he asked softly.

Lafayette cut his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest. He was naked as the day he was born, with his paunchy little stomach sticking out and his lips pressed into a frown. Floyd wanted to laugh. If he knew Lafayette better, if he knew him very well, he might say, “Aww, come on,” and kiss him on the cheek.

“I’m not trying to be any kind of way. I’m just asking,” Floyd said.

“My sister lives in New Orleans.”

“You been there?”

“Naw. I ain’t never been nowhere.”

“Well, you’re mighty worldly for somebody that’s never been anywhere.”

“You think so?” Lafayette asked. His smile was the most genuine, the most guileless, he’d allowed himself that evening.

If only Lafayette would not be so … if he would not wear that scarlet scarf, Floyd might take him somewhere. They would be just two men traveling together. No one would be any the wiser. They could be together night after night. Floyd had never considered the possibility of continued acquaintance with a man.

The rain fell in fat droplets. The two men sought shelter beneath a tree at the edge of the clearing. For a long time they sat together looking out at the broad leaves of the elephant ears swaying under the downpour. Floyd thought to reach for Lafayette’s hand, but he might push him away. And if he did not reject him and they sat holding hands in the rain, what would that mean? It would be best to get up and leave that clearing. But Floyd inched toward Lafayette until their thighs were touching, until his thigh leaned against Lafayette’s and Lafayette’s leaned back.

After they had been together a second time, and Floyd had begun to hope they might spend the night in the clearing beneath the sheltering tree, Lafayette stood and said abruptly, “I got to be going.”

He dressed quickly and led the way out. The path, which had taken so long to traverse earlier, was no more than a city block. In an instant they were back in the little yard behind the church.

“Alright, then,” Lafayette said.

Floyd was reminded of the way he had dismissed Darla just a few hours earlier. Had she been injured in the way Floyd was injured now? Lafayette was prepared to leave him in that park with nothing.

“Okay,” he said.

“Alright,” Lafayette repeated. The men stood facing each other, not more than a foot apart. “See you around, then,” he said.

“Wait!” Floyd cried. “I mean to say I’m playing Cleota’s tomorrow night.”

“You asking me to come?”

“If you want to.”

“You asking or not?”

“I’m asking. Ten o’clock.”

“I be there at eleven.” Lafayette winked. Quickly, head down, he crossed the park beyond the churchyard and was gone.