Black Water Rising

does it make?

He’s drunk by the time he gets to his car.

On the way home, he stops at Mimi’s, on Almeda, and forces himself to drink three cups of black coffee. He orders two number fives—baked chicken and peas, mashed potatoes with spiced grav y—before leaving. By the time he’s back in his car, his hands are shaking and the muscles in his arms and legs feel like warm butter, soft and useless, the caffeine and alcohol meeting at a crossroads in his nervous system. He pulls over unexpectedly, into the back lot of a Rice supermarket, parking by the Dump­ sters. He opens the car door and vomits.

Kwame Mackalvy is in his living room when he gets home. He stands when Jay, takeout platters in his hand, walks in.

Bernie is sitting on the couch. She’s wearing a pink-and-yellow

maternity dress and brown slippers. She looks at her husband

and shrugs. “He just stopped by.”

“I get a minute with you, brother?” Kwame asks Jay. He’s hop­

ping on the balls of his feet, like a runner preparing for a sprint,

itching for the gun to go off.

Jay’s stomach is still raw, and his head aches.

He doesn’t want this now, in his living room.

“We’re getting ready to eat, Lloyd.”

“It’s official,” Kwame announces. “As of three forty-five, the

union is on strike.”

“Who called you?”

“Donnie Simpson. He heard it from Rickey Salles, who heard

it from someone down to the church.”

“You want me to call Daddy?” Bernie asks.

Jay shakes his head. “What about OCAW?” he asks Kwame. “They’re in,” Kwame says, smiling.

“Teamsters?”

“Fuck ’em. We don’t need ’em.”

We. Right.

“ILA’s preparing a statement for the ten o’clock news,” Kwame

says, still talking. “I’ve already been in contact with Sylvia Mar­

tinez over at the Post. This is a chance to put our two cents in, put

the story out there the way we want it.”

WE.

“Bernie and I are about to eat dinner, Lloyd,” Jay says. “I’ll be at the docks tomorrow morning, keep an eye on

things,” Kwame continues, not at all getting it. The only “we” in

this house is Jay and his family.

“Kwame,” Bernie says from the kitchen. “Come on, let me

fix you a plate.” Jay looks over the counter at his wife. She

winks at him and passes him a handful of silverware. Jay sets

the table for three. Kwame mumbles thank you, shyly taking a

seat. Bernie scoops out the food from the Styrofoam contain­

ers, carefully dividing the portions, making sure that Kwame

gets as much chicken as she and Jay, making sure he feels wel­

come. Grace is a simple two-sentence affair, Bernie mindful of

at least one rumbling tummy at the table. Jay hasn’t eaten any­

thing since the vending-machine junk at the courthouse, and

he’s finished with his entire plate, including a little broke-off

piece of corn bread, in less than four minutes and is left with

no further distractions, nothing to provide a sensory buffer

between himself and Kwame’s ongoing rant. “I’m thinking of

organizing a march,” Kwame says between mouthfuls of gravy

and potatoes.

Bernie pushes back from the table, fanning herself with a