I wanted to ask him more but I was tired and a little shy of how ignorant I was. Being a young man I felt I should be able to do anything better than a hunchback, and the fact that I couldn’t rubbed me wrong.
After Dom left I laid down on the bed and thought about things again. It was the first chance I’d had to collect myself in a few days and I wanted to get my head straight.
But no matter what I tried to think of my mind went back to those dogs. I could see them jerk around as the bullets tore through their skinny bodies. Just a quick jerk and they hit the ground, dead. I had seen dead before and not long after that I was in the world war where death came by the thousands and the tens of thousands; but I never felt so close to death as when I saw those dogs die. Just a twitch in the air and then they fell to earth, one by one, heavier than life can ever be.
I’d close my eyes but then I’d start awake thinking about what must’ve crossed before their dog eyes as they died; I was so upset that I couldn’t sleep. I was afraid to sleep; afraid because I had seen death in a way where it was real for me and I worried that I’d never wake up. I wanted my father again; wanted him for the thousandth time since we ran out of that slaughter house and he ran out of my life forever. I wanted him to come back and protect me from death.
That’s when I decided to learn how to read and write.
I looked at those papers and thought that if I could read what was in them I wouldn’t have to think about those dogs; I thought that if I could read I wouldn’t have to hang around people like Mouse to tell me stories, I could just read stories myself. And if I didn’t like the stories I read then I could just change them the way Dom did with the Bible.
That was a big moment for me. And I’d say that the whole trip was worth it just for that, but I can’t say that because I lived to tell about it and not everybody else did.
Just thinking about reading calmed me down enough to get to sleep. I rested for a long time and then I found myself awake: I was laying back on the bed, staring out of the window, thinking how pretty the moon was. A man was sitting on the crate with a tin guitar in his lap, pulling on the frets and plucking odd notes. When he noticed my eyes he lit a match and set its flame to a candle at his feet.
‘Well... you back wit’ the livin’, eh?’
He was a well-dressed, dark-skinned man. He was wearing a tapered white suit, like the deacons wear in church on Easter, and a black shirt with pearl buttons that were open down to the middle of his chest. His hair was long and processed straight back. His face was so dean and shiny that I remembered thinking that he must’ve shaved three times before he oiled his skin.
‘They say you come out here wit’ Mouse?’
‘You call ‘im that too?’
‘Shee... I’m the one named him.’ Sweet William ran his red tongue along black lips. ‘You could say that I was a buildin’ block that help t’make Mouse who he is.’
‘Might not be too much t’be proud’a,’ I said.
William leaned back and gave me a leery stare. ‘I thought you an’ him was friends?’
‘We are friends, yeah, but I been th’ough some things out here in the country, man... I wanna go back t’Houston.’
Instead of talking he started playing a slow blues tune. I’ve always loved blues music; when you hear it there’s something that happens in your body. Your heart and stomach and liver start to move to the music.
‘What kinda things?’ he asked, still playing.
‘Things.’
‘Like what?’
He kept on playing.
‘Man, I don’t even know who you is. What you gonna be askin’ me all this?’
‘My name is William. I play music here on Friday an’ Saturday. An’ I wanna hear ‘bout Mouse; I ain’t seen him in, oh, ‘bout four years. That’s all, I don’t mean nuthin’.’
All this time and he was still playing his guitar.
I shook my head and said, ‘It’s just that I ain’t been in the country for a while an’ it kinda gits t’me. An’ Mouse don’t know no normal peoples. He know witches an’ hunchbacks an’ old white ladies an’ everything.’
William’s teeth were pure white.
‘Yeah, that Mouse don’t be foolin’. But you know folks is diffrent from country than they is in the city.’ He was rocking back and forth to the rhythm. ‘In the city they all wear the same clothes and they get t’be like each other ‘cause they live so close together. It’s like trees; when they real close they all grow straight up to get they li’l bit’a sun. But out here you got room t’spread out. They ain’t no two trees in a field look the same way. Maybe one is in the wind an’ it grow on a slant or another one be next to a hill so one side is kinda shriveled from the afternoon shade.’ Then he began to hum a tune in a strained high voice that sent shivers down my backbone.
After a while he started talking again. ‘It’s like my music; I ain’t so good at it. Once Blind Lemon Jefferson played here, it was more’n fifteen years ago but I remember how good he played like it was last week. An’ you know if ole Lemon lived round here I wouldn’t never even look at a guitar. Why would I bother when I could hear him?
‘But I can play out here an’ be who I wanna be ‘cause it’s only me who does it. Uh-huh, uh,’ and he started his wordless song again. I could see where Mouse learned a lot from William. He was a smooth character from his slicked-back hair to his way of talking in song.
When he stopped again he asked me to come listen down in the store. ‘It ain’t Houston but we get pretty wild on a Friday night. Uh-huh.’
They had cleared out the tables from the centre of the store and a dozen or more people were there drinking and talking. The cardplayers had moved their table into a corner. William went to his chair and started playing as
