Shackling Water Read online

  A gang of older Cambridge whiteboys laying up near the trainstop had jumped Shane and Jay Fox, trying to rob them, and Shane had been stabbed in the chest and side with a butterfly knife. He spent a full month in the hospital getting better and then got arrested his first week back outside for carrying a blade. Jay Fox broke loose from the fight and ran into the street, where a yellowcab hit him going thirty-five miles an hour. He flew over the hood and died when his head hit the tarmac. The body was gone by the time Latif arrived, but the cab was still there, beached coldly in the middle of the street atop a bed of glass, with doors jacked open and its windshield shattered jagged. Latif imagined Jay Fox flying up into the air, twisting like an Olympic highboard diver against the backdrop of the rich blue sky. He never imagined Jay hitting the ground, just gliding through the air above the taxi cab like that, over and over. Latif wore the khakis underneath his suitpants at the Fox's funeral.

  There were other times too; a weed run Latif had skipped which ended with cats getting stopped, frisked, and fucked up by Irish police, even surprise quizzes he had missed by staying late with other teachers. His nascent good fortune in running into Say Brother at the bar and Sonny Burma in need of product crowned the list of serendipities. Before long Burma treated him like family, although when he first met Sonny's brother the last thing in the world Latif thought he'd ever want to be was Sonny's kin.

  Anyone who knew Sonny knew better than to ask after Marlon, even though many of them had watched the cat grow up. Marlon was fifteen years younger than Sonny and their father had died when he was four; Sonny became the man of the house and raised Marlon practically himself while their mother worked sixteen-hour days at white folks' homes. He took Marlon to most of his gigs rather than leave him by himself, and Marlon would sit at a table next to the piano with his crayons and draw pictures of his big brother, the band, people in the club.

  He was a beautiful little boy, quiet and well behaved, and every cocktail waitress and bartender in the city loved to look after him whenever Sonny brought him by, slip him pretzels and sodas and lose to him at cards. Marlon had been a wonderful artist even then, and his drawings were still scotchtaped to the mirrored walls behind the bars of many of the city's clubs. When he was a little older Marlon switched from crayons to watercolors, and Sonny would pass around the paintings and say Check out my little brother's artwork, man. Only twelve years old and already a motherfucker.

  When Marlon was sixteen, Sonny got the opportunity to travel throughout Europe on a State Department concert tour, and he took it. It was his first chance to see the world; Sonny was a Brooklynite who'd hardly been west of the Holland Tunnel. Other cats migrated to the city to play, Higgins from Oakland and Amir Abdul from Chapel Hill, North Carolina; Burma simply hopped the uptown number three. But Sonny took to travel right away, learned to live with, then to love, the fastpace of check-ins and check-outs and soundchecks, trains and planes and en-route naps. He flourished on a diet built of free meals: complimentary hotel breakfasts and post-show dinners at the club or the promoter's favorite restaurant. He knew how to accept and reciprocate the constant hospitality and enjoy the changing company of the people he met at gigs. And the women; in the year and a half he was over in Europe, Sonny told Latif, he'd slept less than a month of nights alone. Made love in thirteen different languages.

  Burma came back to Fort Greene eager to see his brother, who was eighteen now and going off to art school, amped to hang out some and get a milkshake and tell Marlon all about the things he'd done and the places he'd been, all the funny and wild-out shit that had happened in Europe, show him some pictures and maybe flash a few quicktongued phrases in French or Italian. He had been planning to tell Marlon that he would try to get him a job carrying equipment the next time something like this came up, so that Marlon too could get out of New York and see the world, swim on the nude beaches of the French Riviera and browse dozens of museums all over the continent. Every time Sonny navigated his way through a roomful of art, strolling arm in arm with whatever lady had offered to be his local tourguide, he thought of Marlon and his paintings, of how much his brother deserved an opportunity like this.

  But when Sonny came home Marlon was a faggot and Sonny blamed himself. He wouldn't listen to anyone who told him it had nothing to do with him, that his presence or his absence didn't figure in, or to anyone who told him that it didn't matter anyway; if Marlon wanted to sleep with men that was his business and he was still the same sweet kid who painted beautifully and thought his older brother hung the night moon in the sky. Nor would Sonny suffer those who told him, out the sides of their mouths and with an eyebrow raised, that they had always kind of known that Marlon was that way and they thought everybody else did too, Sonny included.

  Sonny hadn't thought he hated faggots, although he'd never given it much serious consideration. When he saw them on the street it never bothered him, didn't turn his guts or make him want to throw a punch the way it did some cats. He peeped faggots with curiosity and slight bemusement; theirs was a world he knew little and cared less about, and he was cool with peaceful coexistence. But when Sonny walked into the airport and gave Marlon a bearhug and held him at arm's length to look him over, he saw trepidation looming in his little brother's eyes. They darted left and Marlon said Sonny, there's someone I want you to meet. Sonny turned his head and only then noticed a slim white boy a few years older than Marlon with his hair cut short and pasted neatly to his skull. This is Theo. Sonny smiled, nodded hello and extended his hand. He's my . . . boyfriend.

  Marlon took Theo's hand timidly, as if to demonstrate what boyfriend meant. Sonny stood still for a few ticks. Heat rose in his face and he imagined things he didn't want to: Marlon and Theo kissing, his brother prancing down the street limpwristed and bitchlike, a stereotype faggot. Sonny's stomach bottomed out, but it wasn't until he pictured Marlon and Theo in bed and wondered who was fucking who, whether the black boy or the white boy was the one taking it up the ass, that he picked up his luggage and walked away fast as he could. Marlon said Shit and dropped Theo's hand. He followed Sonny toward the cabstand and caught up with his brother as Sonny lifted his suitcase to the trunk.

  Sonny! Where are you going?

  Where am I going? I'm getting the fuck out of here, that's where I'm going. He slammed the trunk shut. I can't believe this shit. Now you're a faggot, Marlon?

  I always was, Sonny. I haven't changed. I'm still your brother.

  Sonny closed his eyes and tilted his face to the sky. I knew I shouldn't have gone away.

  I'm still your brother, Sonny.

  Don't do this to me, man.

  Do what to you, Sonny? I'm not doing anything to you. Look what you're doing to me.

  Jesus Christ, Marlon, said Sonny, getting in the cab. You better get the fuck away from me before I really lose it.

  He pulled the door shut and the cabbie shifted into drive. Sonny knew Marlon was staring at him through the window but he forced himself not to meet his brother's eyes.

  Latif knew nothing of this or of what else had gone down between the brothers in the years since then. He knew only that during the second week of his tenure at Dutchman's, as he and Burma walked through Times Square one latenight, he heard a voice shout Sonny! and turned to see a tall young man crossing the block diagonally in a walk that was almost a run. His arms pumped back and forth faster than his legs as he moved, as if his body was in conflict over how fast to go. Sonny! the man shouted again.

  Just keep walking, Burma told Latif. I don't wanna see that cat. Sonny sped his pace but it was too late. Marlon broke into a run as the crosswalk came alive with traffic, and intercepted Sonny at the corner.

  Are you just going to ignore me, Sonny? You gonna keep on acting like I don't exist?

  Nothing moved in Sonny's face but his eyes burned. He looked straight ahead, as if entranced by the rhythm of his stride, and spoke one loud firm word.

  Yup. Latif ground his teeth and looked at Marlon. He seemed gentle an
d Latif felt a quiver of unwanted sympathy—two words which the drug game, benign as it had so far been, had linked in his mind.

  Marlon bobbed his head, sucking the insides of his cheeks between his teeth and puckering his lips. Fine. Fine. I don't know why I give a fuck. He paused, still walking with them, easily matching Sonny's getaway quickstep with his long legs. Marlon was a good six inches taller than his brother. With sudden, artificial animation, he smiled sweetly and offered his hand to Latif.

  Marlon Burma. Nice to meet you. My brother's not too good with introductions. You a musician too?

  Before Latif could shake it, Sonny reached across and slapped his brother's palm away.

  Latif pointed his already-extended hand at each of them in turn. Y'all are—he began, curious, then censored himself when Sonny's hard face opened to speak.

  Alright, alright, enough of your shit, Marlon. Just get outta here.

  He pushed Marlon hard with both arms, stepping into it, locking his elbows. Marlon was off-balance and the push knocked him back a few stumbling feet. It was all the space Sonny needed; he filled the distance with his outstretched arm, pointing a finger at his openmouthed brother like a pistol.

  You know how I feel, Marlon. Stop pulling this shit. Just do your thing and I'll do mine. Sonny turned the corner without looking back. Latif scurried after him. Marlon stood in place, hands on his hips, and called after his brother.

  I'll say hello to Mom for you!

  THE DUET | BAGGAGE | MONA

  You just saw the worst of me, Burma apologized to Latif as he trickled liquor over ice cubes twenty minutes later, leaning back against the kitchen counter in Amir Abdul's apartment, spicy with the smell of cedar from a walk-in closet for bass storage. Amir was in there now with two guests, running down the history of each instrument: One had belonged to Jimmy Blanton and was featured on some Ellington recordings, passing through the hands of George Morrow before landing in a music shop in London. Another was on loan from Richard Davis. A complete tour of the eight-square-foot area took fifteen minutes.

  It's a messy situation between me and my brother, and it's probly gonna stay that way, said Sonny. I don't want to get into it right now, but you gotta understand. I raised that cat like I was his daddy, so everything he does hits me right here, pounding his chest, and it hits me twice as hard, as a brother and a father. He shook his head and squinted at his scotch. Sometimes shit is just too much, ain't it?

  Latif smiled, the loathing he had felt for Sonny dissipating at the first sign of remorse. His own brother, Latif thought, shaking his head, but now he pushed it from his mind and granted Sonny the doubt's benefit. To hate his closest New York friend was impractical anyway. Fuck it, Sonny said, putting his glass down. Let's have some fun. Come on. We hiding in the kitchen like a couple of old drunks while all kinds of pussies on parade right in the living room. Tell you what, Teef: I'ma put you next to something flavorful out here.

  Oh, so now I need an assist to score some ass? Latif grinned with a flippant confidence he hardly felt. New York women moved with a daunting playgirl slickness wild different from the tender undeveloped game of chicks he'd messed with back in Boston. Thus far he had satisfied himself in distant flirtation, stares and glances from across the room at Dutchman's, all the while promising himself that as soon as he was slightly more settled into the life he would stop bullshitting and kick it to the baddest chick he could find, prove to himself that girls were girls and he was not out of his league here there or anywhere.

  He took his drink in hand and followed Sonny down the hall into the living room, and there she was. He gulped down first a draught of air and then a swish of vodka, looked at her and thought about the three nights last week when she had been the woman whose image hovered naked in his mind as he lay on his back in bed at four A.M. eyes closed and jerked himself off, a spattered facetowel draped over his stomach.

  Latif wondered how she'd feel knowing that alone in his bedroom some strange man had used her, made her do the things he had. He looked at her as if she'd really done them, as if she was the woman he had made her in his mind. There was no one else for her to be. He had seen her only twice, both times at Dutchman's; she wasn't a regular, but she moved like one. The first night they'd traded glances, made eye contact and tried not to be caught looking after that. He'd watched her flit from table to table, smoking cigarettes with different friends. Some were musicians, but he didn't want to ask them who she was, or to be introduced. Lurking in shadows was habit forming and Latif found himself not wanting her to know him yet, wanting to study her like she was Albert or some shit before he kicked hello.

  Last night they'd progressed to smiles and to ignoring each other, alternately. When she left—hours before he could go, he thought, annoyed—she turned and found him with her eyes and he waved goodbye and she returned his wave goodbye and smiled. He went home feeling happy and childish, wondering why he was playing these signal games instead of handling his business as he always had: walking over, introducing himself, buying her a drink. He told himself that work and study were crippling his game. He didn't want to think that the reason he was bullshitting was that this woman was white.

  I was hoping I might see you here. She approached him while Latif was still playing the doorway, and his brain delighted him by switching over quickfast into mack mode. The extensive catalog of vibes, eyes, smiles, and movements appropriate to first-encounter convo propeller-whirred itself up from the depths and snapped into forebrain position with a rusty click. Somewhere else in him an adding machine turned on; numbers scrolled like slot machine symbols with every word and gesture.

  Some cats played their instruments like this, he thought: depended on empiric grasps of math and possibility, eyecorner checked themselves nonstop to see how they were doing. They tended to sound nervous, soulless, overly intentioned. He didn't play like that and knew he shouldn't think like this. A stimulating conversation, like a hot rhythm section, could push you right into the moment; Latif hoped she'd give him that push, but he knew he was smooth enough to overthink and still swing if she didn't.

  I was hoping the same thing, he smiled, interlocking his fingers around his drink and shifting the glass over to the left so he could offer her his right. Hands were important; women had told him they watched hands and he'd begun to do so too. I was hoping the same thing was garbage, technically, but it was the kind of line that could come off with the right smile and right eyes behind it, a smirk and a sparkle that conveyed elements of both sincerity and silliness.

  Her fingers were long, slim, and her hand fit well in his. He took it lightly, held but didn't shake. My name's Latif James-Pearson. The prolonged body contact introduction was a power play, and she knew it and liked it.

  Latif, she repeated, digging—what? The sound? The juju power? It's a pleasure to meet you, Latif. I'm Mona.

  Mona's eyes were shimmering oceans and sharks swam in them, zagging left and right in search of prey. Oh shit, Latif thought when she gave him a second to really check them out this chick is nuts. Something happened to her. The delighted terrified excitement he'd felt as a kid at the aquarium, watching those monsters swish through the water and feeling that there was no way glass could really hold them, wriggled through Latif and out the soles of his feet.

  Nothing else in Mona radiated volatility. Her hair was cherry black, stylishly cut to frame a face surprisingly comfortable with itself, no longer mesmerized by its own grace of composition. Her mouth perked when she spoke and matched her small elegant nose and small round unadorned earlobes, just visible beneath the forward sweep of hair. Against the flawless creaminess of Mona's skin, her maroon lips gleamed. They were soft and slightly thinner than Latif liked: a relief. He tried to find flaw with a beautiful woman immediately, to deflate any intimidation blooming in his chest.

  Just Mona, huh? No last name. Like Madonna. He studied her. No, more like Michelangelo.

  Her straight teeth opened when she laughed and Latif saw the pink flash of
her tongue.

  Something like that.

  Latif smiled. Mona's plenty. I like that moan in there. So what's your thing, Mona? He leaned left against the doorway, crossing his ankles, getting comfortable.

  You mean what do I do? My job?

  Only if your job is your thing, and not a lot of people are that lucky. He gave her a complicated smile, a blend of flirtation, amusement, playful condescension, expectation. It was a lot to mix into a smile and it came out slightly muddled but charming. I know you got a thing. I can tell.

  Oh can you. And what makes you so sure? asked Mona, wondering why men wanted to tell her who she was all the time.

  I can just tell. You look like a serious person, somebody very devoted to something.

  Well, it's nice that you think so. Once a guy at a bar had had the nerve to tell Mona, after a one-drink conversation, that he knew her better than she knew herself. She sloshed her drink in his face, a cliché she'd always admired but never thought she'd have use for, said Well then you should have seen that coming, and stalked away regretting it. Maybe he'd follow her outside, drunk, violent. Or push her into the bathroom and rape her.

  She looked at Latif, this sweetfaced gangle of limbs she'd traded sexlooks with at Dutchman's. He was trying too hard, but she liked the cavern of absence beneath his eagerness. On the downlow he wasn't really here, just like he hadn't been at Dutchman's; he was somewhere more important, somewhere private and intense. Mona could relate to that, and she could wonder about it. Men were so unmysterious that Mona rarely flirted anymore. But Latif didn't know that, so he wasn't flattered.

  We're back to Michelangelo, she said. I paint.

  You don't sound too confident about it, he observed. Latif was pulling pleasure from language again, loving the challenge of kicking game with perfect timing and coming on just strong enough to make a woman squirm and pulling back with debonair preemption. He watched Mona's eyes jump, happy with the normalness of the reaction: She was surprised at his perception or presumption, maybe both.