The Only Words That Are Worth Remembering by Jeffrey Rotter Read Free Book Online Page A

it across a table. When a buzzer sounded Coylan would guide a saw along a chalk path, hacking out twenty pieces at a time. Pop had to load the cuts on a cart and wheel them into a long hall where ladies clicked away on sewing machines. He said the racket in that room sounded like seven-year locusts telling gossip. After the sewing was done, Pop boxed the jumpsuits and a truck took them to Miamy to meet a boat bound for the Cuba Pens. In this fashion, Consolidated dressed a hundred new prisoners a week. Some weeks they did soldiers; same jumpsuits, he said, different patches.
    Umma worked in the sewing hall but the ladies all knew it was temporary. If she didn’t screw up, she was guaranteed to make manager like her father. With Pop’s help, Umma screwed up fast. When she started to show, he took her on the road. A weed plantation in No Caroline was hiring bud pickers.
    *   *   *
    That last night in the Gables, Umma called the tune: one of those sweet miserable ballads from Pop’s ancestor, a song about staying put and never going anywhere in search of anything because there was nothing out there to find. Pop planted a foot on the amp, slung the strap over his head, and rested his right palm on the keyboard. He leaned into the hook so that it sounded like a flute made of soft rubber. He kneaded the notes, stretched them till you thought they might snap. Umma sang quiet and true, how she didn’t need nothing. She sang directly at me, telling me I better pray that they never find me. My back, she said, was not strong enough. Umma sang to me about the precious things. Sorrow and solitude: the only words that are worth remembering.

 
    5.
    Next morning all we wanted was to sleep the rum and goose fat out of our tubes. All I wanted was to rise at my own leisure to Pop’s drowsy laughter and dig into a pan of scramble with dry toast. But the fist on the door was persistent. Not loud, only regular. I wedged my head under the pillow and woke up minutes later gasping for air.
    Outside I heard the super’s voice. This man was eelish, wore a slender eel of a mustache, and spoke in a wet hiss. I heard him apologize to someone in the hall; most families in the Gables were decent, but others, well … the door swung open, and the super swept one arm across our living space to show Terry Nguyen how far some tenants could fall below the threshold of decency. “Welcome to the Four Seasons, Captain.”
    While Nguyen took the liberty of boiling tea water, Umma rolled off the air mattress with a deflated sound. She crawled on all fours to Pop’s amp and rested her head there a while before crossing the room to lean against the breakfast bar.
    â€œThe van,” Nguyen told her, “is waiting downstairs. And has been for close to an hour.” Perhaps, he suggested without malice, we had forgotten to set our alarm.
    Because no one else stirred, I felt it incumbent on me to come to Umma’s aid. This took some doing. When I sat up the hangover expanded in my skull like a pine cone. Having arranged the kettle, our unwelcome guest strolled about the unit, inspecting every inch. Houseflies browsed inside the goose carcass. Pop snored on, the Roland slung around his heaving chest. Nguyen fingered the one-hitter, carried our empty jugs to the sink, and made a demonstration out of tidying up.
    I studied his face for a judgment. Would he frown? Wince? Chastise us? Rescind his most generous offer to blast us bodily at the solid sky? Nguyen’s face remained as impassive as ever, a picture of itself. My brother was offered the first cup of tea, a gesture, I suppose, meant to smooth over the previous day’s friction. Legs sprawled, one bent knee pressed against the wall, Faron pretended to sleep. But his teeth were set and the lashes twitched. “Drink up,” said Nguyen, setting the warm mug on Faron’s leg. My brother opened one eye. “We have a long ride ahead of