Maybe even the black demons, the Negroes.
He walked slowly up the path toward B.J. ‘I am hoping,’ he said, catching one of B.J.’s hands with a clap to stop him spinning, ‘that you have a suggestion as to where we can go now. Someplace where we can spend a night inside. I have the only blanket between us. I have the only coat.’
‘You can’t be certain they’re yours, all the same.’ B.J. was cheerful and matter-of-fact. ‘Just because you brought them. You learn that when you’ve been in a hospital as long as I have. Any time you start to think you own something, you should remember. Someone can always take it away from you.’ He hid his right hand behind his own back suddenly. ‘Then it’s theirs,’ he said. He laughed. ‘Not that I would. Take your blanket, I mean. Though if it were my blanket, I’d share it. But Sarah Canary doesn’t care. She’s got no scruples. She’s crazy.’ His voice dropped to a whisper as he looked from left to right for Sarah Canary, who was nowhere. ‘You probably shouldn’t let Sarah Canary even see that you have a blanket,’ he suggested. ‘You don’t tell her. I won’t tell her.’
‘B.J.,’ said Chin tiredly. ‘Do you know someplace we can go tonight? Someplace we can be safe and inside?’
‘No.’
Chin stared at B.J., who smiled more broadly. His back teeth were stained with something greenish. Boxty, Chin supposed. Boiled boxty. If Chin had stayed on at the asylum, he would have tried steaming it. Or frying it quickly in very little oil. Cooking food in this manner intensified the color. Chin imagined rows of inmates sitting down to the brilliant green of stir-fried boxty. ‘Where did you come from before the hospital?’ he asked.
‘Squak.’ B.J. said the word without moving his lips. ‘Squak, Squak. We’re going in the wrong direction. We couldn’t get there tonight anyway.’
‘We couldn’t get there tonight anyway,’ Chin agreed. He knew Squak. There were lots of Indians in Squak. Hop-pickers for the German farmers. Wrong season, of course. They were probably somewhere else now. They could be anywhere. A soft sound might have been the wind through a hundred leaves if it wasn’t a hundred voices whispering behind them on the path.
He jumped slightly when B.J. spoke. ‘Sarah Canary is happy to be outside. She’s talking to the birds.’ B.J. stood looking ahead of them, up the incline through the trees. Chin tried to follow his gaze. He couldn’t find Sarah Canary’s figure anywhere, just trees and trees and more trees. A sparrow dipped through the branches of one, circled Chin’s head, and went north. It was an omen, but Chin wasn’t sure if it boded good or ill. To see a sparrow walking was good luck. Chin had only seen them hop. To have a wild goose land in your courtyard was good luck. The year he left for Golden Mountain, their domesticated goose had joined the wild ones overhead and never come back. The geese were flying in formation that day; they wrote the character for man and took it east across the sky. It had made his mother cry with fear for him and for her own old age without him. Very bad luck. He thought of Tom’s owl. Very bad luck.
‘She’s waiting for us,’ B.J. said. ‘Maybe she knows where she’s going. Maybe she knows a place we can stay.’ He walked away and Chin followed, shifting the roll to his other, stronger shoulder again. It threw his weight to the side, making him stumble and hop. He was filled with self-pity. Poor little bird with one wing. Very bad luck, little bird.
B.J. continued to look up. Chin watched B.J.’s back and then his heels and then looked down at his own feet. When a journey has no destination, progress can only be measured by counting steps.
The path went down and then up and then down. The tree shadows shortened and shortened and disappeared. A stream appeared at their left, parallel to the path, masking the sounds of the two
He walked slowly up the path toward B.J. ‘I am hoping,’ he said, catching one of B.J.’s hands with a clap to stop him spinning, ‘that you have a suggestion as to where we can go now. Someplace where we can spend a night inside. I have the only blanket between us. I have the only coat.’
‘You can’t be certain they’re yours, all the same.’ B.J. was cheerful and matter-of-fact. ‘Just because you brought them. You learn that when you’ve been in a hospital as long as I have. Any time you start to think you own something, you should remember. Someone can always take it away from you.’ He hid his right hand behind his own back suddenly. ‘Then it’s theirs,’ he said. He laughed. ‘Not that I would. Take your blanket, I mean. Though if it were my blanket, I’d share it. But Sarah Canary doesn’t care. She’s got no scruples. She’s crazy.’ His voice dropped to a whisper as he looked from left to right for Sarah Canary, who was nowhere. ‘You probably shouldn’t let Sarah Canary even see that you have a blanket,’ he suggested. ‘You don’t tell her. I won’t tell her.’
‘B.J.,’ said Chin tiredly. ‘Do you know someplace we can go tonight? Someplace we can be safe and inside?’
‘No.’
Chin stared at B.J., who smiled more broadly. His back teeth were stained with something greenish. Boxty, Chin supposed. Boiled boxty. If Chin had stayed on at the asylum, he would have tried steaming it. Or frying it quickly in very little oil. Cooking food in this manner intensified the color. Chin imagined rows of inmates sitting down to the brilliant green of stir-fried boxty. ‘Where did you come from before the hospital?’ he asked.
‘Squak.’ B.J. said the word without moving his lips. ‘Squak, Squak. We’re going in the wrong direction. We couldn’t get there tonight anyway.’
‘We couldn’t get there tonight anyway,’ Chin agreed. He knew Squak. There were lots of Indians in Squak. Hop-pickers for the German farmers. Wrong season, of course. They were probably somewhere else now. They could be anywhere. A soft sound might have been the wind through a hundred leaves if it wasn’t a hundred voices whispering behind them on the path.
He jumped slightly when B.J. spoke. ‘Sarah Canary is happy to be outside. She’s talking to the birds.’ B.J. stood looking ahead of them, up the incline through the trees. Chin tried to follow his gaze. He couldn’t find Sarah Canary’s figure anywhere, just trees and trees and more trees. A sparrow dipped through the branches of one, circled Chin’s head, and went north. It was an omen, but Chin wasn’t sure if it boded good or ill. To see a sparrow walking was good luck. Chin had only seen them hop. To have a wild goose land in your courtyard was good luck. The year he left for Golden Mountain, their domesticated goose had joined the wild ones overhead and never come back. The geese were flying in formation that day; they wrote the character for man and took it east across the sky. It had made his mother cry with fear for him and for her own old age without him. Very bad luck. He thought of Tom’s owl. Very bad luck.
‘She’s waiting for us,’ B.J. said. ‘Maybe she knows where she’s going. Maybe she knows a place we can stay.’ He walked away and Chin followed, shifting the roll to his other, stronger shoulder again. It threw his weight to the side, making him stumble and hop. He was filled with self-pity. Poor little bird with one wing. Very bad luck, little bird.
B.J. continued to look up. Chin watched B.J.’s back and then his heels and then looked down at his own feet. When a journey has no destination, progress can only be measured by counting steps.
The path went down and then up and then down. The tree shadows shortened and shortened and disappeared. A stream appeared at their left, parallel to the path, masking the sounds of the two
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