Miracle at St. Anna (Movie Tie-in) by James McBride

Occasionally, his eyes flickered open, then fluttered shut again. For the first time, Train noticed that his breathing seemed labored, and even over the pouring rain he could hear the child’s breath wheezing in and out, as if something were rattling in his throat, making the ripping sound a playing card makes when it’s stuck in the spokes of a bicycle rim.
    â€œHe don’t need no doctor. He needs a hospital,” Stamps said. “Hector, take a look while I check the top of the ridge.” Stamps trotted ahead.
    Hector didn’t even bother to glance at the kid this time. He waved his hand at Train, who looked at him hopefully. “I told you before, he needs a hospital.” He felt sorry for Train’s kid, but not that sorry. He’d seen a thousand of them in Naples, begging at street corners, tugging at the soldiers saying, “Meet my sister. Big titties. Tight pussy.” They reminded him of himself growing up back in San Juan, begging for food at sidewalk cafés, snatching leftovers as the owners chased him down the street, his silent mother praying at mass, his drunken father screaming and punching her out at home. Hector couldn’t stand the thoughts. He turned away and crouched on his haunches, watching Stamps slip up the muddy ridges.
    â€œWhyn’t you look at him?” Train insisted.
    â€œI seen him,” Hector said, watching Stamps struggling up the rocky crevices.
    â€œWhyn’t you put some o’ that powder on him that you got. I seen you use it before.”
    â€œWhat powder?”
    â€œThe magic powder.”
    Hector looked at Train sideways. “Sulfa powder. Is that what you talkin’ ’bout, Train? That’s for fevers. I’mma give him that in this rain? He don’t got no fever. He got a chest injury or something inside, I don’t know.”
    â€œWell, do something.”
    Hector yawned. He suddenly felt sleepy. His nerves were giving way. He watched as Train stared at him, his large eyes bulging with hope like a dog’s eyes. Hector imagined Train as a dog. He’d be a big, black puppy. “Let’s get outta this shit first,” he said.
    Train turned to Bishop. “Bishop, can’t you make ’im look at ’im?”
    Bishop peered at the ridges around them. The rain made a fizzing sound as it hit the leaves and trees. “Don’t talk to me ’bout no little white boy,” he grunted. “You would never see me grabbing no li’l white boy like you done.”
    â€œBut you tol’ me!”
    â€œTold you, hell. It was your idea. Wasted your time, too, trying to save him. What for?”
    â€œI done what you tol’ me to!”
    â€œI ain’t tell you to get us kilt. This is a white man’s war, boy. Niggers ain’t got nothing to do with it. This boy ain’t got no life nohow.”
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œ ’Cause a life of goodness is not what white folks has chosen for they children. The Bible says it, Proverbs Twenty-two sixteen: ‘Raise up a child the way you want him to go, and he will not depart from it.’ He’s trained to hate, boy. His life ain’t worth a dollar of Chinese money.”
    Train blinked in confusion, the rain shrouding his giant features. “He ain’t done nothing to you.”
    â€œTwo hours ago you didn’t want ’im.”
    Train said nothing. That was before he knew the boy was an angel. The boy was his now. The boy was an angel of God. He had the power. Train couldn’t give him away now.
    Stamps returned from above, slipping and sloshing down to a stop underneath the rock outcropping, sliding as if into home plate. The rain was falling in sheets now, and he had to shout over the splattering of the downpour. “It’s gonna be dark in ten minutes,” he said. He pointed. “There’s a church bell tower behind that ridge. We’ll hold there. Maybe we can make a fire