A Confusion of Women

“You didn’t bring no cops, did you?”

“No,” I whispered, then shifting from foot to foot, I finished with dignity. “I’m just... passing through.”

For some reason, they found this very funny. I cringed at the form that suddenly sprang from the light and into my shadows, pulling me from them into the firelight.

“Passing through!”  He shouted as though I had said something they had been waiting to hear. “What shall we call you?” He was gripping my sleeve.  My arm shrank in it from his touch. He had a very bad odor, like sheep manure.  I made note that he didn’t ask my name, but rather what I wanted to be called.  This was a world of alias and alibi. I quickly understood the rules and came up with something that I had seen stenciled on a barn wall.

“Red Man”, I said.

Their laughter was bright, almost refreshing. They liked that I had read their rules.  “Welcome to our jungle camp. We may be here for a long time to come... like... overnight!”

The others, tired from laughing gave the man a lighter response.

“Well... ‘Red Man’...” continued the hobo, shifting his weight, “This here’s Blacky... cause he’s Black... hee hee! And that there’s Bo, and I’m Whitey... cause I’m white!  Hee Hee Heeee!”  He offered an unwashed hand that emerged from a frayed sleeve.  I shrank from the gesture, then plunged into their protocol, flinching as the crusty hand that shook mine rattled my teeth. They all laughed again as he dragged me to a spot beside the fire and shook me down.  “What you got in your bundle?”

“Ham and a biscuit” I replied, pulling it out from under me.

“Well, throw it in,” said Whitey settling back in his place.

“All of it?”

“Yeah. All of it.”

The pot that bubbled over the fire contained a dark brown, popping liquid, the surface of which showed an occasional lump of something that floated to the top.  I hesitantly removed my meager food from its wrapping.

“The biscuit too?”

“Yeah! The biscuit too. What d’y think? Throw it all in.”

I tossed in the revenants of our Sunday dinner, feeling as though I had betrayed my mother with the drowning of her baked gift, watching it envelop in the steam.  Someone at the fire sounded like he was snoring. Excepting that sound, they lapsed into an uneasy silence.  Their watch capped heads turned toward me, anticipating some sort of history.  I cast around in my mind for an acceptable tale.

“Just passing through,” I repeated lamely. They were satisfied and did not laugh.  There seemed a sort of order to their bleak lives.  Each had a greasy tin cup, which they dipped into the stew.  Since I had none, one was fetched from a bundle to the side.  Whitey rubbed the inside of it with the edge of his coat and tossed to me.

“Here.  Use Angelina’s.  She ain’t hungry tonight.”

I noted the cup to be one of those silver, etched baby cups the fine folks have for their children.  It was tarnished and lay light in my hand. I rubbed my thumb over the feathered initials M.B., took a breath and ducked the cup into the stew.  A crumb of broken biscuit bobbed reproachfully to the top of Angelina’s cup.