Azaria Brown is a freelance writer and illustrator. Soon, she will be moving to Indiana from the Applachian area of Virginia. When she isn’t writing or drawing she’s crying while reading someone else’s written work, listening to a podcast or pretending that America isn’t in a state of disarray.
Waterman Men
All the Waterman-men gather for their monthly card game on the back porch of the Saint James’s, as long as the air aint too thick with humidity or chill or the smell of blood bleeding through black skin. A Gaines gathering of folding chairs and a tacky card table where hands of spades and Gin get dealt in quick succession. They chat and laugh quietly, so not to wake up Mr. Saint James’s six children, who sleep soundly, packed into the four-bedroom house with the dishes tucked in the cabinets and the laundry folded and in drawers, but the house will be in shambles come 9am. Taking turns marveling at the garden in the backyard and the trinkets Mr. St. James scoured from construction jobs they see through the window, the Waterman-men mumble and smile and enjoy freedom, whatever it mean to them.
They drink cups of moonshine, reveling in the burn that slides down their throats. Take this time to forget the group of Waterman-young men whose bodies were found at the ends of ropes; their skin gray, their faces bloated, their shoes taken off of their feet. They heard that the young men went out to a party, dressed in their good slacks and loose shirts, prepared to sweat in a room packed wall to wall. They were stopped by a group of Main Street-men while the rest of Waterman allowed their brains to sleep, but their spirits to feel conflicted. The young men were beaten and hoisted up, all from the same broad oak tree, all controlled by the same puppeteer, each branch a finger luring the young men to bitter release and forcing it into their hands when they did not reach out.
The Waterman-men tote the line between keeping their heads down and wondering if they next; working for Waterman-whites just hoping not to turn up Waterman-dead. Paying at the front and walking in the back and they don’t know what’s worse, having their own entrance or not being able to get in at all.
Different shades of brown and black faces unshell peanuts and mumble about the weather, avoiding what they already know. A neat row of shoes lines the St. James porch, as the Waterman-men rest their feet on the soft wood, feeling the cool air on the corn ridden toes all touched by gout. The wind blow past the peach tree and they stick their noses in the air in an attempt to smell the cobbler that they know will come when the fruit is firm with juice and the St. James boys pluck them from the trees, filling baskets, tossing some aside for deer to stumble upon.
“What you gonna do?” Mr. Young asks, staring at a losing hand like it aint so bad.
Mr. St. James don’t know, but he make a quick decision so that he look like he do. He listen to the buzzing that ring through the air from the bugs that lure in the St. James garden and slap down a card that he know wont win the game, but it’ll make sure he stick around to play a little bit longer.