A Song for Carmine Read online

  A SONG FOR CARMINE

  M Spio

  AuthorHouse™ LLC

  1663 Liberty Drive

  Bloomington, IN 47403

  www.authorhouse.com

  Phone: 1-800-839-8640

  © 2014 M Spio. All rights reserved. *Nightmare*

  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

  Published by AuthorHouse 03/29/2014

  ISBN: 978-1-4918-9985-4 (sc)

  ISBN: 978-1-4918-9984-7 (hc)

  ISBN: 978-1-4918-9983-0 (e)

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2014905604

  Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

  Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

  Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

  Prince Edward’s Court

  www.one2one.com

  (877) 407-9797

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  PROLOGUE

  THE FIRST COLORED BOY I ever saw was a dead one, left to die in an old warehouse on the edge of town. I have never been able to forget his face, the layer of dust on his skin, the way his tears left clear streaks down his face, his fists in knots. Sometimes I walk the streets of that old neighborhood with my son, especially when fall is coming and the leaves are beginning to change and the air has a chill to it. There’s no way not to remember—I do—but I know enough now to know there’s no use fighting it.

  Still, I don’t know how this white boy ended up raising a black son. In so many ways, life is all a mystery to me.

  They was just fixin’ to scare him, they said, have a little fun; it wasn’t supposed to end up that way. That’s what the papers said anyway.

  The night had been real inky and wet. Downtown Eton is all blinking stoplights and dark store windows, and in the distance, the ridges of the Appalachians glow, the tips of them a faded deep blue.

  It had just gone too far. I was just a kid, but I knew that. I’d seen too many things cross that line, the one between bad and worse. At some point, these things start carrying themselves, get a mind of their own, a current so strong you can’t stop it.

  * * *

  We pass around a forty-ounce beer; it is warm and sour in my mouth and I don’t like it much, but we keep on drinking because it’s the thing to do. There’s an old man that hangs around the corner store on Fifth Street, and if we buy him a pack of smokes, he gets us anything we want.

  Our bikes lean up against the curb, stacked on each other, the streetlights bouncing off their frames, the mosquitoes following us. Our shirts stick to our bodies; it is the hottest point of the summer, mid-August, the air heavy and thick. We’ll be starting high school soon.

  I use the bottom of my T-shirt to wipe my brow and shift my weight on the sidewalk, see the strings of my shoes beneath my feet, notice the full moon in the sky, look around at my friends. Life has started doing this lately. Stopping, I mean. Sometimes it seems like I can get a real good look at it.

  I think about a lot of things lately. Seems like lately that’s all I do. I want to grow up and get out of here because everything ends up bad around here. It’s true. Things don’t make a lot of sense. The right things don’t lead to the right other things, and I don’t understand. I’m supposed to believe in God—after all, my pa is a damn preacher. God hasn’t ever stopped anything from happening, never intervened where he should’ve, never saved anybody. Not that I’ve seen, anyway.

  Sometimes we ride our bikes on the trails in the woods surrounding Eton, all the way to the edge of town, and we talk about leaving. Running away together. Seeing what else is out there. We look down at the beaten red clay road leading out of town each time, sit, then turn around and start pedaling back in.

  To what, I don’t know. It’s just that the big world is still scary, I guess. But me, I will leave, I know I will. I have to. This place is eating me alive.

  Ma and Pa are still checked out most of the time, drunk just after the sun’s gone down or caught up on pieces of scripture they can’t seem to understand. They force it down my throat, make me chew on things I can’t swallow. Seems like all Ma does is ignore me, and Pa hits me. I try to get by.

  I walk over to my bike and climb on. It’s too early and too hot to stay this still. “Let’s get out of here,” I say, and we follow the bumpy road along the railroad tracks. I weave in and out of the streets, up and down hills, over the familiar terrain and far away from the street I live on. Mark and Griff follow. We’ve been together our whole lives almost. I like having them around, seeing them most days, knowing we got stuff in common.

  We end up near the old railroad crossing, the one that crosses Magnolia Street, the familiar light blinking red, the sound of metal hitting metal still hovering in the trees. There’s a certain symmetry, a rhythm to it all. I like knowing that.

  Some nights we come here and sit and wait for the train to pass, getting high off the rusty pitch of the sound so close to our ears, the feel of the rushing wind skirting our faces, watching the empty cars come sliding past and thinking about how characters in movies jump right on, how the train don’t think about anything, how it just keeps on keeping on.

  Sometimes when we’re at the creek throwing rocks or in Mark’s living room playing video games, we start talking about it—how we could jump on that train, get away from our fathers, this dusty old town, these woods. Maybe join the circus or ride until we come to one of those little mining towns in Virginia. We’ll disappear; we could be the men our families say we’ll never be.

  We look down each way to see if the train is coming, if we can hear the old whistle blow in with the wind, see the eye of the light, or feel the heavy vibrations under our feet. We wait.

  The smell of pine is strong, deep, and green, the leaves move with the wind, and it’s a sound like fabric pushing up against a lady’s legs. Otherwise, the night is so still. So big and still. There is nothing but a deep void in it. We’re always looking for ways to fill it, seems like.

  We get off our bikes and sit on the tracks, a sky full of stars above us. We don’t talk about anything, but we share just the same. Ma says it won’t always be like it’s been, that Jesus’s gonna make it right, but I don’t know. Mark and Griff talk about their folks, what goes on behind their closed doors, and I feel for them, only they don’t have preachers as their old men and they can be regular mess-ups.

  We sit on the curb and pass the forty around again. Every once in a while a car passes, slows down when it gets close to us, before speeding off again. Everyone knows everyone around here, and it’s not easy keeping any secrets.

  We laugh, throw rocks over the tracks, finish the beer before throwing the glass bottle into th
e woods. It makes a rustling sound as it falls through branches and leaves, and then makes a dull thud on the ground.

  We all seem to be lost in our own thoughts until we hear noises coming from the old warehouse across the street. Its walls are paper-thin, rusty, and red, and we can see light bouncing around inside. We hear voices, laughter, a few bottles being kicked across the ground, glass rolling over gravel, clinking. Next to the warehouse, there are rows of old houses, pinks, blues, dogs chained up in the yards, old cars up on blocks. On this side of town, you can bring anything, do anything; almost everything over here has already been done.

  “What was that, man?” Griff asks. We hear someone pleading in a raspy, bated voice.

  “Probably some kids playin’ around.” Mark nudges forward, listens closer. We hear people in that old building all of the time. Sometimes we get up the nerve to go over there and investigate, and usually it’s a homeless person, sometimes kids we know in there smoking weed, or a prostitute passing through.

  We get back on our bikes, look for the train again, chew on pieces of wheatgrass, roll back and forth on the gravel. I can feel the humidity pressing my hair to my forehead. I shake my head.

  Across the street the voices get louder, taunting, jabbing. We hear the long, piercing words, the syllables that stretch out when someone is being hurt with words. Yooooouuuuuu. Weeeee… Whaaaaaat. Whhhhyyyyy.

  “You got nowhere to go,” I hear someone say. “Just try to run. What are you doing here anyway?” There’s more noise. The warehouse vibrates louder with voices, and in the distance, I finally hear the old train whistle, count the seconds until I know it will pass us. I feel satisfied for a brief second.

  I get off my bike and walk close to the tracks. I like to stand on the metal when the train is approaching, feel the melodic vibrations deep in my body, stand there until the very last second, until the guys are yelling at me to get off and to quit goofing off, until we’re all afraid of what I’ll do.

  The train is getting closer. I can feel it hum beneath my feet and I get excited. In the distance, the katydids chirp. I feel the wind push the trees around. Everything seems to happen all at once, but separate too.

  I look away from the light of the train when I see a group of kids running out of the warehouse, a blur of colored T-shirts. They’re older and bigger than us, their legs longer, voices deeper. I hear broken bottles clink on the gravel and feet hitting the rocks fast. They’re chasing someone, a dark, lone figure several yards in front of them. One of them picks up a bottle and runs faster.

  I think time stops for a minute, but I don’t know for sure. I’ve seen a lot happen in my time, and I know that somewhere babies are being born and people are saying prayers, and somewhere else women are being raped and elderly are rotting in beds and God is turning the other cheek. I’m just trying to put it all together.

  * * *

  I hear them back inside the warehouse. There’s no light inside now, but the moon’s above us and the three of us are so quiet. I hear Ma in my head.

  I look back to see if I can see the train’s eye yet, remember what Ma said earlier that morning.

  “You know, Carmine, it ain’t that bad. Life ain’t supposed to be a bed of roses, you know. Stuff happens.” She takes a long drag from her menthol and I stare at her face, look deep into her eyes—we share the same blue. I breathe in her cloud of smoke and say okay.

  “I know things ain’t always so great, but they’re gonna get better, Carmine. You’ll see.” She stubs her cigarette out and starts washing a pan in the sink. I head out the back door.

  I hear someone scream back inside the warehouse. It’s more like a howl, a long sorrowful sound. I don’t know how to place it. Mark and Griff push their bikes closer to the street.

  I look across the street and see people running out of the building. I look away and up at the sky. There are a million stars in it; some of them seem to float. It’s times like these that I want to leave my body, float away somewhere, be something that sits in a place, does just the one thing, can’t be hurt by any of this down here.

  * * *

  We walk over, creep around, trip over pieces of metal on the ground, old pieces of railroad track, smell the mildew, the old wood holding it together. The building seems strange all of a sudden, as though I’ve never been in it, never kicked cans around the ground, never spent a night here hiding from Pa.

  I find him first. I think I hear the wheezing sound of something rubbing together; turns out it’s him trying to breathe. I can smell the blood. It is acidic and wet. The wind blows through the building and whistles, a lone sound. There is nothing else to be heard out there.

  I knew he was nearly dead. There was just too much pouring out of him, seeping, really, already torn to pieces. His skin, so dark, dark as coal, still glows in the light of passing cars. I look at him so closely, only a sliver of the whites of his eyes showing, an afterthought really.

  I feel a strange mixture of disgust, repulsion, then sympathy. Is he an animal or someone like me? I remember when Pa used to take me to Klan meetings, so deep in the woods, no one could see the flames of the bonfires shooting up at the sky, hear the chants, a garble of words I could never understand. I sat on Pa’s shoulders and tried to make sense of it all: the bitter hate, the closed white sheets, the secrets.

  I look down again at the boy, feel the urge to kick him, roll him over, something. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.

  “Is he dead, you think?” Griff walks to the edge of the building and then back, looking for someone, I think, someone other than us.

  “I don’t know. I don’t know.” I turn and look at Mark; he’s sitting on the ground holding his knees.

  “It’s not our fault, you know?” I say.

  He nods, but doesn’t move.

  The sight of life leaving the world spirals, twists, like water slowly turning down a drain or all eight of a bug’s legs flailing in unison. There’s an energy, a symmetry to it, a certain beauty. You feel like it’s not that much different from life, but something similar, one thing leading to something like the next.

  “I think he’s dead now,” I say quietly. I lean down to him, close to his chest, feel revolted and afraid and empty all at the same time. I hear nothing move but the crickets outside, the rumble of the approaching train. It is nearly upon us now; it’ll be here and gone in a second.

  “He probably ain’t dead; he’s probably faking it.” Griff walks closer, starts to laugh a little and then stops. He pulls a pack of cigarettes out of his back pocket and lights one up.

  “I don’t know… Did you hear him scream? Did you hear all those bottles break?” Mark is shaking, looking around, stares at me for a second and then looks away.

  I sit on the ground beside the boy. The train passes, its light shining in the building. I see his bloody shirt, the big gash in his head now, the way his legs are twisted up beneath his body. I see the sliver of his brown eyes; they stare off into a space I do not know, but they twitch at the edges, and I jump up.

  I think I see his head move so slightly, could’ve been the light, probably was the light, because the blood still pours out warm from the gash in his head and pools beside him.

  I consider what my Pa’d do in this moment, remember the burning crosses, the division in our little town, whites on one side, blacks the other. Don’t know where I fit in, but know I got no reason to do anything about what I’ve seen done.

  I sit for a minute longer, feel the rumble until I know it’s gone, run out of the building, and try to catch the last of that light.

  “Let’s get out of here. Somebody’ll find him—eventually.” I put my head down as I say it, shuffle out of the warehouse. The sky is a dark gray, wet and hollow. I can hear the train somewhere in the distance. I shake my head and start to cry. Life is worse than I thought.

  CHAPTER 1

  I HAVE A TALL bottle of Jim Beam in my hand. I hold its narrow neck and tip it back into my mouth. The sour liquid rolls down
my throat easily, hardly a burn to it. I am slurring and singing old church hymns, centered on the ledge of the window fourteen stories up, with my back against the windowsill, one bare leg hanging out of it. I have lived on the edge my whole life; this is nothing new.

  The wind is whistling almost in jest, my eyes blurring with the city lights below me. I sing louder. “Since I laid my burden down…” I laugh, remember the lines in Mississippi John Hurt’s face, know it ain’t quite the same for me, but that I got a song too.

  My mouth dries and my eyes begin to water. I swing my legs back and forth over the ledge, dare the weight of my bitter self to pull me down. I look out on the city of Dallas, search it, feel like a king, then a pauper, don’t want to be anything if I can’t be the man I’ve been so far.

  I think about God, still wonder if he exists at all, remember Pa’s church. The building, triangular at the top, its white siding, like Pa himself, so fragile, always at the mercy of the changing wind. What power does anyone really have?

  I remember the feeling of uncooked rice beneath my knees as Pa punished me for something and told me to pray for forgiveness, to ask to be good, to show some goddamn respect. I wanted to be good. I remember the way his face looked as I stared at him, hovering above me, the coarse whiskers on this face, beat yellow by the sun, the smell of Ma’s chicken grease in the air, all the little details stick out.

  I haven’t thought of Eton, Georgia (population 319), in years, but the memory of my father haunts me tonight. As if he’d always expected everything to end up this way for me, the prodigal son, personal failure the only thing possible for me. I bet he’s somewhere laughing right about now, kicked back in a chair, whiskey in one hand, tattered Bible in the other.

  I left Eton after high school and hit the ground running, running as fast as I could, out west, to another life, from the kid I’d been. Somehow I managed to navigate my way into a scholarship at Southern Methodist University in Dallas, and the rest is history.