Lazaretto (11 page)

Bram picked up Linc's thoughts, through osmosis, it seemed, as he began to bargain. “Well, sir, what say you if we just drop all mention of any of this and just return to the way things have been before today?”

“But the cat is already out of the bag now, is it not?” Robinson said, as he focused on Bram, and his eyes went suddenly dreamy.
He took another sip from his glass and then, slowly, deliberately licked a drop of brandy that hung on his lips.

Linc didn't know which move unleashed the rage coiled in the pit of his stomach, didn't know if it was the way Robinson looked at Bram, or the slow swipe of his tongue across his lips, or maybe even him saying that they'd been spawned from alley rats. But the rage was there, immediate and uncontainable, forming his hands into mammoth fists that gained strength as they moved through the air and then crashed into the sides of Robinson's face, one time, then another, then a third, just the way Buddy had taught him.

Bram squared off ready for Robinson to jump up and try to take them both on. But Robinson just sat there as the satin slipper on his crossed foot fell gently to the floor. His head was tilted and fixed askance on his shoulder; his eyes squinted as if he were trying to see something far away, or maybe figure out the meaning of life. A thin creek of blood flowed from one side of his nose and followed the slant of his head and found a place to pool on the open collar of his shirt.

Linc and Bram ran then to the separate rooms where they'd been relegated. They stepped over the huddled figures of their sleeping roommates, each to their own sections and searched their piles of belongings for what they thought they could not do without. For Bram it was his sheets of music, and a barely decipherable sketch torn from a magazine of a blond-haired woman. The sketch had been given to him by Meda, who said that the woman may have been his mother near as she could tell. For Linc it was a spare deck of cards—he tossed aside the sketch Meda gave to him of the black-haired, dark-eyed woman who was supposedly his mother; he'd stopped believing that story several years ago, like he'd stopped believing in Saint Nick, though he loved Meda all the more for the gesture, the attempt to give him worth. He did, though, snatch up the rendering of
Abraham Lincoln that Meda had drawn for him. Lincoln at least had been real. And had been drawn by Meda's own hand.

They ran into the dark outside. The night air was busy as it shook off the last of summer so it could make space for autumn cool.
Fuck
,
you don't think he's dead
,
do you? Holy shit
,
we will be hung
,
put to a firing squad
,
sent to the fucking gallows
, they called back and forth as they ran with the night. They had few provisions and no plan. But they didn't cry, though Bram was close to tears when he said that they should have gone back to Robinson's room and retrieved the silver rings Meda had given them. “He had no right to take them, they were ours and he had no fucking right,” he shouted as they fled through the streets of Philadelphia, not knowing where they were headed; and then Bram knew, as he followed Linc's lead. Though he'd never been there before, the description of the block was seared in his memory the way Linc had described it: they ended up at Buddy's.

A GAME WAS
still going on in Buddy's living room, Linc knew by the yellow lamplight pushing against the window, and the barely cracked door, and the sounds of a harmonica mixing with high and low laughter. Bram started up the three steps and Linc pulled him back. “We cannot go in now.”

“But I thought you said Buddy would welcome us.”

“It is not Buddy who concerns me. There is no telling who is in there.”

“None who would take Robinson's side over ours.”

“Did he not always brag about his connections? Who knows his reach. And there are some men, such as the one who tried to slit my fucking throat, who would rather see me put on trial.” His voice shook, and Bram lowered his head. Then he said, “Come on,” and he motioned for Bram to follow him, and they went around the corner and through the alley, and Linc counted off the houses until
they were in back of Buddy's house. They crept into the yard and found a corner adjacent to the house where the moonlight did not follow. They huddled there and breathed hard and were comforted by the vibrations coming from inside, the laughter and the music that seemed to make the frame of the house bounce to the beat.

They fell asleep waiting for the house to empty and woke to the sun's first glimmer and the siren song of the iceman making his way through the alley: “
Ice here, so nice, my ice be. Fom da Knickerbocker House a Ice
.”

Nola stuck her head out of the back door. “Yoo-hoo, I will have a block, please,” she called, as the iceman limped into the yard. One of his legs was half the length of the other and the horse he pulled seemed crippled, too, as it dragged crates of ice behind it.

The iceman seemed not to notice Linc and Bram as he unhooked a crate and lifted out a square of ice and met Buddy's wife at the door. The horse, though, took a couple of slow clops until he was standing in front of Linc and Bram. They pressed further against the side of the house as the horse looked down at them while the iceman did his transaction. When he was finished, he turned and called to the horse. “Come a here. Let dem boys be for my wares meld down to wader.”

“Boys? What boys?” Nola said, as she called into the house for Buddy. “Iceman said boys back in the yard. You best come see.”

Bram nudged Linc so that he could take the lead in announcing them, but the horse was right over Linc now, leaning in until they were practically eye to eye. “What's his problem?” Bram asked, trying to edge farther away, even as Linc—part frightened, part enthralled—returned the horse's stare.

“He no danger,” the iceman said as he walked to where they were and yanked the horse's reins. “Old mare just spoilt rodden, tis all. Tink she special cause she da one what led Ole Abe Link's castit trew all da steets of Phileydelfi.”

Buddy had stomped out into the yard. “Humph,” he said on an extended breath as the iceman turned and said, “Mornin', Mr. Buddy,” and tipped his hat, and the horse seemed to follow suit as it appeared to bow its head in deference to Buddy and then backed up, allowing Linc and Bram to come into Buddy's view. The horse let go a loud and long neigh, and then a snort, as it turned and followed the iceman from the yard, shaking its head up and down as it walked away.

Buddy looked at Linc and Bram, his good eye squinted, the other practically closed. “A pair a runaways if I ever seen it. You know that mare laughing at you,” he said. “Horse 'bout the smartest creature on four legs, and it appear she smarter than the two of you put together 'cause she woulda had enough sense to come on into the house.”

Bram pushed his elbow into Linc's side as if to say I told you so.

“And I suspect you Bram, the brother Linc and my sister go on and on about.”

“Yes, uh, sir,” Bram said, jumping up and extending his hand.

“My name is Buddy, but you can call me Buddy,” he said, as he shook Bram's hand. “And I see someone been throwing around a left hook.” All eyes went to Linc's hands, which he'd not even realized were swollen, bleeding. He looked at his hands as if they were suddenly disassociated from the rest of him, even as he remembered the feel of his fists smashing against Robinson's head. His hands looked ugly to him, misshapen in the new daylight. He thought now that Mrs. Benin had been correct when she'd told him that he had the ugliest hands she'd ever seen.

“Well, let's see if Mrs. Nola can put a piece o that ice to good use and get your hands back to their right form,” Buddy said, waving Linc and Bram toward the back door. “Come on, git in there quick, 'fore Sister show up here and start getting sterical 'bout what happened to your pretty hands. Tain't never heard of such a
thing myself as a man wit pretty hands—you, Bram?” He shoved Bram's shoulder, playfully.

“No, sir—I mean, uh, Buddy,” Bram said as he followed Linc into the house. Though Bram had just heard such a thing from Robinson, who'd told him that his hands were beautiful, as were his hair, his eyes, his legs, his back.

LINC OMITTED THE
awful truth of what Robinson had tried to do with Bram when he told Buddy why they'd run away. “He was a tyrant, Buddy,” he said, as Nola put a pot of ice chips on the table and situated one, then the other of his hands in. “I finally stood up to him and a fight was the result. I believe he would have killed us if I had not defended myself.”

“Mnh,” Buddy said. “And how about you, Bram? You look none the worse. Least your hands not showing wear.”

“I was all prepared, Linc has taught me your moves, but then Linc went at him with such speed, I did not have the opportunity to put the instruction to use.”

“Is that so?” Buddy said, his good eye twinkling with amusement. “Show me what he did.”

Bram took the stance and jabbed four times into the air in quick succession. They were forceful jabs as he imagined that it was him, not Linc, going after Robinson in that chair.

“Good form,” Buddy said. “You teached him well, Linc. So I figger these was all body blows.”

“No, each one to the head,” Bram said.

“Well, answer me this, how tall do he stand? As tall as me?”

“About,” Linc called from where he sat at the table, alternating his hands in the pot of ice.

“That so? Well, how you get to his head? What he do, lean forward and give you a invitation?”

“I think Linc's first punch caught him right in the gut so he did lean and on account he couldn't cover his head.” Bram rushed his words.

“So who threw the first punch?” Buddy asked, looking from Linc to Bram.

“Robinson,” they said in unison.

“Where did it land?”

“Got him right about here,” Bram said, as he pointed toward his stomach area.

“So who threw the first punch?” Buddy asked again, looking directly at Bram, all play gone from his good eye.

“Robinson did,” Bram said, trying to return Buddy's stare, but unable to do so, so he focused on Buddy's cheeks, which were peppered with tiny black moles, and his complexion, which was the same red and brown as Mrs. Benin's piano. He missed that piano suddenly, the feel of the keys under his fingers, the way he could lose himself in the music he played.

“Who threw the first punch?” Buddy asked yet again, and the room was silent, save the soft footsteps of Nola leaving the room and the ice clinking on the side of the pot as Linc moved his hands around.

“Linc did,” Bram said.

“And what was this here Robinson doing when Linc threw the punch.”

“He was threatening to send us away.”

“But what was he
doing
? Where was he at?”

“He was in his quarters.”

“Doing what?”

“Sitting in his chair like the king he thought he was.”

“So you and Linc barged into his quarters? He sitting in his chair, and Linc punches him in his head?”

“We did not barge in,” Bram said.

“Only I did,” Linc said from the table.

“I had been ordered in there already.”

“So he ordered Bram in to tell you he was gonna send the two of you away?”

“He ordered me in,” Bram said, “but not for that.” And this time he returned Buddy's stare. “It was under the guise of cleaning his dratted quarters and he put a awful proposition to me and I said no, and I left half-dazed and then Linc showed up with his hot head and barged in there.” Bram tried to control the way his voice shook right now, but he could not.

“Mnh,” Buddy said, as he seemed to reel back and forth even as he held himself straight and tall.

“What was he like when Linc was done wit im?”

“He was out cold.”

Buddy snorted, then he turned to leave the room, saying as he did that he would get Mrs. Nola to prepare them a meal. He stopped under the archway between the dining room and living room. “I hope you killed him, Linc,” he called over his back. “I hope you killed him dead. Save me from having to do it.”

Nola got the swelling down on Linc's hands. Then she prepared for them a king's breakfast of peppered cow's brain and cornbread. After they had filled themselves, she sent them down to the cellar closet to gather the heavier quilts and winter clothes that she'd stored there during the warmer months. They heard footsteps coming down and they found each other's eyes and dared each other not to cry. These footsteps were light as a ballerina's, because she'd always carried herself like one with her straight back and slender neck and slight build; and even before they wrestled each other to be the first one through the closet door, they picked up her scent that was like ginger and mint. “Meda!” they said in unison, as they tried to push through the door at the same time and landed in a huddle on the floor. “Meda. Meda. Meda.”

Right now they sat in the shed kitchen, which looked out over the backyard made golden by the retreating daylight. Though the air over the table was chalky and gray as Meda unfolded a posting, which she showed first to Buddy. “Whew,” Buddy said on an extended breath. “Nuttin' good about this here. Nuttin' at all.” He straightened his shoulders and read aloud what was there. He read slowly, stopping to sound out the words. “Orphan bludgeons housemaster in vicious attack. Blunt weapon used. Orphan on the run. Reward for his apprehension or information leading to his apprehension.” He turned the paper around. “See, got your likeness taking up the rest of the page.”

Linc glanced at it and then looked away. “So they do,” he said.

Meda took her voice down to a whisper and lowered her head. “They tell me he is in a hideous state. He is not even able to form words. And the situation is worsened because he has apparent connections to people in high places. His uncle is a magistrate, his own brother, a constable.”

“Whew,” Buddy said, as he shook his head back and forth. “That do make it worse, but if he got no bility to talk, how he fingering Linc?”

“From what I have gathered,” Meda said, as she looked from Linc to Bram, “when Linc's name is put to him, he releases an awful sound. So all the way here I have been pondering what could have happened exactly to cause Linc to be in such a fight with the man?”

“Do not matter worth a crumb what happened exactly,” Buddy said. “If the law say this here is what spired, then far as anybody that matters is concerned, this here what it says on this paper is what took place.”

“But what led up to it, had he first beat you, Linc?” Meda persisted.

“Not exactly,” Linc said.

She looked at Bram then. Bram's face had gone completely red. “Did he beat
you
, Bram? Is that what happened? Was Linc defending you?”

“Do not matter,” Buddy said again. “Leave that part of it alone, Sister. Whatever the man did or did not do, I am willing to wager my life that he mustta earned the whupping Linc put on him.”

“But we need to know what happened if Linc is to mount a proper defense,” she countered.

“Sister, you been breathing that air at that mansion much too long if you think Linc got a defense.” He waved the paper around. “And if that Robinson is truly connected to people in such high places, it is only a matter of time for the law come breaking in my door. No secret that Linc was accustomed to spending time here.”

Linc pushed back from the table and stood. “We don't want to cause you trouble with the law, Buddy. They will do what you're saying, maybe worse.”

“Did I ask you to be concerned wit my affairs?” Buddy said.

“No, but—”

“Well, till I invite you into my business, you stay outta it.”

“Sir,” Linc said as he sat and rested his palms on his knees.

“Now, this is how it will be, till it is otherwise. You and Bram will stay here till we plans out your next move.”

“But you just said they'll kick your door in—”

Buddy held up his hand to stop Linc. “And since we know that will be the move, we prepare for it. That closet in the cellar where the missus store her extras mighta saved a life or two of colored people born to be free who went after their birthright, and stopped in Philadelphia on their way to Canada, 'cording to what I been told. Or, it mighta held escaped convicts, I heard that about it, too. History can be twisted into the shape of a confused tree root depending on the one telling it. But the certain fact is that there is a fake floor in that closet that opens up and leads down
to a hole big enough to 'commodate two good-size men. Not the Harrity Hotel, but it got air for breathing. You stay here till we put a plan in place. They show up, we store you down there till they leave.”

“That is how it shall be, then,” Meda said. “Until we can arrange for your safe passage to a place where you will not be wanted men.”

“Not too often Sister agree so readily with my assertions,” Buddy said. “So I must be getting smarter.”

“Or I am getting dumber,” Meda said to the sound of Buddy's snickers, and a half-laugh from Linc. Even Bram offered up a smile.

THEY WERE THERE
for over two weeks without consequence. During the day, before the living room filled with nighttime gamblers, the boys moved the heavy furniture around at the direction of Buddy's wife so that the floors could be thoroughly cleaned. They sanded away the dried candle wax and charred ash embedded in the floor around the gambling table. They climbed into the chimney and swept it to newness. They turned the soil in the backyard and planted bulbs. They took down the dead tree and chopped it into manageable-sized logs of kindling. They kept the fireplace free of ash, the windows free of sediment, the tables free of dust. They were happy to do whatever Buddy or his wife asked, since their home was serving as their haven for now. Plus the expense of energy gave their physical selves the chance to release the fear and anger that otherwise had no outlet.

The arrangement had its downside. Though they had the run of the house when it was just Buddy and Nola and the visitors they trusted, such as Miss Ma, they had to remain unseen when card games took over the living room. They'd keep to the shed kitchen or the corner of the yard or the cellar. The sound of the cards, when he could hear them being shuffled, was a torture for Linc, since he
could not sit at the table and be a man with the other men. And Bram wanted more than anything to set up the xylophone he'd found in the cellar, and stand next to the one blowing the harmonica, and the one plucking the fiddle, and hold down the melody with his own strikes upon the crudely fashioned instrument.

On the nights when the Indian summer warmth made it possible, they slept in the backyard and on more than one occasion woke to the iceman's song and the clop-clop of his horse; the horse would come to stand in front of Linc and stare at him as if he knew him in another lifetime. Bram complained that the horse spooked him, though Linc had gotten so comfortable with the animal that he'd offer her crumbs of cornbread, and on the mornings when Linc had none, the horse seemed just as content to lick away at Linc's empty palm.

In the meantime, Robinson's condition neither improved nor deteriorated. The blows to his head had reduced Robinson's life to that of a house plant, dependent on others to water him, to drain him, to turn him so he might face the sun. He could not speak, and there was disagreement about his ability to comprehend when others spoke to him, except when Linc's name was mentioned; his eyes would bulge and he'd unloose a sound from his throat that was like the mating call of a bull frog.

Better for Linc if Robinson had died. His family's quest to find Linc and avenge the assault might have dissipated if they'd had the chance to sit in front of Robinson's draped casket and listen to a eulogy reminding them of the power of forgiveness. Instead, Robinson's kin were daily reminded of the attack on him each time they wiped the foam that accumulated around his mouth, or changed his shitty pants, or listened to his high-pitched squeals, which seemed to come out of nowhere, and which they swore were his attempts at forming Linc's name. So between the constable brother and the magistrate uncle, there was pressure all across the
legal system that justice should be served on Robinson's behalf. They threw money around. They upped the bounty. And then it happened just as Buddy predicted: they kicked in his door.

Miss Ma, who lived near the corner and had first sight of people coming and going, ran to her backyard and projected her voice in the direction of Buddy's house and started singing from Handel's
Messiah
“And He Shall Glorify.” She'd told them to listen for her voice, she couldn't commit exactly to the tune she would sing when she saw them, but it would be loud, she said, and so pleasant they might be tempted to tarry and listen. But run instead, she'd cautioned.

Bram heard it first. He was leaned over, arranging wood chips around the rhododendron bush he'd just planted. He tossed the shovel and yelled, “She's singing!” and that brought Linc from the shed kitchen, where he'd been whitewashing the walls. They took the cellar stairs in two jumps and pushed into the closet and lifted the floor the way Buddy had instructed and squeezed themselves into the hole. Nola followed quickly behind them and spread out the boxes that they'd pushed to one side to lift up the floor. They heard the thud and crash that was the sound of Buddy's front door hitting the living room floor. Yelling and cursing and feet stomping working their way through the house. “Where is he?”

“Who?”

“You damn well know who.”

“My door, look what you did to my door.”

“Do the same thing to your face if you don't tell me where he is.”

“Who? I got a right to know who you talking 'bout.”

“You got no rights, nigger. Where is he?”

“I got a right to a front door on my house.”

“You got a right to a billy club against your head, like he did to my brother. Where is he?”