2015
NORTH CAROLINA L I T E R A R Y RE V I E W
were green-bruised with tattoos, eagles and anchors, the designs muddled by torque and age. The silver butt plate of a .45 sagged from his trouser pocket. Malachi felt his brother stiffen beside him at the sight. “When they give that son-of-a-bitch a gun?” Gun thugs were one thing, but old Pilsner had always relied on his fists, or at most a two-by-four, something sporting. Malachi stood off the hood, getting ready. “I believe they just let him carry the one he always had under the seat.” “That son-of-a-bitch,” said Jesse. He was off the hood now, too. Years back, Pilsner had broken their daddy’s jaw for mouthing off at the company president after a friend of his had been knocked silly by a swinging boom and stayed that way, his brain addled to something that produced only stammers and spit. Malachi started toward Pilsner. He’d been chosen for this: talker, soother, peacemaker. He felt Jesse surge forward beside him and stuck out his hand to bar him. “Let me handle this, Jesse. We got to keep cool.” His palm touched the brutal constriction of his brother’s belly, the soft innards torqued roundly and hard as a snake or something cruel. The muscles quivered and relaxed. “All right,” said Jesse. Malachi walked toward Pilsner. The old man leaned one hand on the hood of his truck, the other resting lightly on the butt of his pistol. Waiting. He seemed ancient and calloused as some storybook monster, a creature that only grew stronger and meaner with age. “Lester,” said Malachi, nodding respectfully to him. Pilsner tipped his head in return, then waited silently, a headmaster waiting for the dunce to explain himself. Malachi could smell his sour breath. “We have issues that need to be brought to management’s attention.” Pilsner did not move his head, neither to shake or nod. “This here is a public road, illegal to blockade.” “We don’t want no problems, Lester.” “Then you best vacate the premises. This here is an illegal blockade of a public road.” The old man invested his words with no emotion beyond his natural ill-will. Nothing personal. A policeman stating facts. Malachi could feel his brother’s eyes upon his back, the crowd’s, too, their ire swelling. “We will,” he said, “soon’s management sits down at the negotiating table.” “You have five minutes to disperse this unlawful crowd.”
number 24
“Then alert management of our grievances.” “All that grievance shit ain’t my concern, boy. Moving you off the road so mine operations can resume, that is.” Malachi stepped suddenly forward into the man’s space, as if pushed. “I beg to differ, sir. I think it damn well better be your concern.” When the flat clap of the old man’s palm struck his ear he went down with a resounding bell in his skull, first hitting the hood, then slipping to the pavement. He rolled over, dazed, looking up into the dark bulk towering over him, casting his slack flesh in shadow against the road. He tried to see where the pistol was, was it out, but the silhouetted figure loomed shapeless before him. Then he heard boot soles sounding across the road, a single pair of them shouting their speed, and then collision, crack, the pop of knuckles on bone, the crackle of cartilage. “You son-of-a-bitch!” There was Jesse above him, small, the bare flesh of his arms catching the light in split-second moments of terrific seizure, all veins and tendon, then thrown again into silhouette, and the bruised swell of the older man’s strength coming to light, wresting the advantage, the two figures grappling in this mania of power and flesh, the hood of the truck thundering behind them, the sweet reek of bourbon and soured breath all around them like an aura. COURTESY OF ASHEVILLE ART MUSEUM COLLECTION, GIFT OF LORNA BLAINE HALPER, 2007.27.05.29
78
Lavender Night, 1979 (acrylic paint and collage, 14.88x15) by John Urbain