American Masculine by Shann Ray Read Free Book Online

Middie asks the man with the fat head.
    A short man, a man with slick hair, one of the others who had held the accused, speaks up vehemently. This man—he points in the Indian’s face—this man has been lying! He’s the one. He took all the money.
    Slow, says Middie. Say what you know.
    I have not lied, says the prisoner.
    Shut up! the slick man yells.
    Middie puts a forearm to the slick man’s chest. Settle yourself, he says. Sit down.
    The slick man obeys, whispering something, glaring. He’s lying, he says. Hiding something.
    How do you know?
    Check his side, see for yourself. He’s had his hand there in his jacket from the start.
    The fat man butts in, edging with rage, He won’t show us what he’s got in there.
    Is it true, sir? asks Middie, heightening his politeness. Is there something hidden in your waistcoat?
    Yes, he states, looking into Middie’s face, but that makes me neither a liar nor guilty of the offense in question.
    We will check it, sir, Middie replies, but he feels aggravated. He doesn’t like the uppity tone the Indian has used. What have you concealed? Middie asks.
    My money belt, says the man.
    MIDDIE HARDENS HIS LOOK. His hands sweat. He wipes them on his pant legs as he stares at the man. Probably had it on his waistline, Middie thinks, concealed under the clothing, probably thin as birch bark. He remembers Prifflach muttering under his breath at the Indian as he checked the man’s bag, a small cylindrical briefcase made of beaten brown leather, sealed at the top by a thin zipper that ran between two worn handles, the word montana inscribed on the side. Mostly papers in the bag.
    You have searched my briefcase and my wallet, says the man, and me once more than the others. I saw no need for you to search my money belt. And if I had shown you my belt, would that not become a target for the robber if he were present in this compartment during the search?
    Don’t listen to him, the slick man says in a wet voice, he’s slippery.
    The crowd murmurs uneasily. Middie notes that outside, the fog has pressed in. Nothing of the valley can be seen, and nothing of the sky. The mountains will be laid low, Middie thinks. He hears the words soft and articulate in his mother’s voice. Outside is the featureless gray of a massive fog bank, and behind it a feeling of the bulk of the land.
    Check his belt, the fat face says.
    Then the crowd begins. See what he’s got, says a red-haired woman, the fat man’s wife by the look of it, the small eyes, the clutching, heavy draw of the cheeks about the jowls. She says the words quietly but they are enough to hasten a flood. Do it now, hears Middie. Make him hand it over, Take it from him, Pull up his shirt, Take it—all from the onlookers, all at once, and from somewhere low and small back behind Middie, the quiet words, Cut his throat.
    The conductor arrives and Middie exhales and feels his body go slack; he stares outside. The gray-black of the storm leaks moisture on the windows. The moisture gathers and pulls lines sideways along the windows, minuscule lines in narrow groupings of hundreds and wide bars of thousands, rivulets and the brothers of rivulets, and within them the broad hordes of their children, their offspring, all pulled back along the glass to the end of the train, to the end of seeing.
    You will have him hand over that money belt directly, says Prifflach, his nose leading, his face pinched, set like clay. Pressure builds in the bodycage of Middie, a pressure that pushes out against his skin. Middie reaches and grabs the accused man’s wrist, gripping the flesh with frozen fingers, red-white fingers latching on.
    To Middie’s relief the man responds. With one arm in Middie’s grip, the man uses his free hand to untuck the front of his shirt. He slides the money belt to a point above his waist, and undoes the small metal clasps that hold the belt in place. His fingers so meticulous, thinks Middie, so dexterous and sure. Eyes as clear as the