That was last night. Now here we were, five hundred miles away, and I was staring out the window, standing in my pants and undershirt, watching red taillights stack up in the darkness. Martha came out of the bathroom.
“Whoa.”
“What?”
She was squinting, coming closer, looking concerned. “Your shoulder.” I realized I was holding on to it, clutching the spot where bands of pain were radiating out into my neck and upper back. “That needs to come out.”
I took my hand away, and it was slick and glittering with pus. “Shit.”
“Yeah. Shit. That is definitely infected.” Martha took a step closer and squinted at the wound.
“Let’s get it out,” I said. “Now.”
We had no extra time tomorrow. No time tonight for a fever, no time for the course of illness. A hospital, obviously, was out of the question.
And Martha, as it turned out, a frequent traveler and an unemployed medical assistant, had with her everything she needed, more or less, to pull a piece of battered metal out of my flesh. Suture kit and bandages, aspirin and gauze, even a small scalpel.
“The only thing I don’t have,” she said, “is any kind of anesthetic. But in the morning I’m sure we could get to a pharmacy-”
“No,” I said. “Now.”
She shook her head and looked at me, a wounded stranger in the dim hotel room. A long way from Jim Dirkson.
“All right, Brother. Go ahead and lie down on the bed.”
She fetched ice from the vending machine, and she wrapped some in a washcloth and held it on my shoulder till it was numb.
“Well, that oughta do something,” said Martha, and I couldn’t say if it did or not: her knife slid into my shoulder, and it hurt like hell.
I winced. I held my breath. My shoulder was on fire; my shoulder and my back.
“You’re doing great,” Martha said in the soft, coaxing tone I’d heard her use with her boy. “You’re doing just fine. Just hang tight.”
She breathed carefully while making her careful incisions, and then I felt her fingers working on and in my flesh, burrowing, sentient things, insects crawling around. I clutched the edge of the thin mattress with both hands and squeezed. I wasn’t born for this, I was thinking. I wasn’t born to be any kind of soldier or spy. This was all a mistake.
“I see it,” she said gently. “I see it already. It’s close to the surface. Just hold tight, Brother. Just hold on.”
Martha began to tug, carefully at first, and then quickly, and I felt the bullet wriggling loose, pulling free. I wondered if this was what it would be like with Bridge. Bridge’s doctor, taking out the chip. That was part of it, part of the deal we had made, the deal I had forced him into. It was deeper down than the bullet, of course, deeper down and more tightly interwoven. Tied in to the base of my brain with a million tiny fibers. Tucked tightly between the two upmost vertebrae.
Then, with one last intake of breath, Martha pulled it out. “Got it!” I craned my head around and saw her grinning. “There! Got the little fucker.”
Her fingers in their thin gloves were covered in my blood. Her face was exultant. I smiled, weakly, and struggled up in the bed. She dropped the bullet into my outstretched palm, and it was small and ugly, smeared with blood and tissue, its black copper head flattened by force. When Martha laid it in my hand it was warm, like a grub or the end of a tongue. I put it on the night table, under the shade of the lamp, and lay back down so she could sew me up.
Somehow this hurt less-the stitching. Maybe I was already feeling better from the bullet being gone. Maybe I was getting used to it, another person’s hands inside my body. Maybe being put back together just hurt less than coming apart.
“You’re like a different person,” I told Martha as she finished up, pulled the black thread through me one last time. “Doing this.”
“What do you mean?”
“I just mean-steady.”
“What do you mean, steady?”
My answer was interrupted by a gunshot, outside, somewhere close. Loud and unmistakable. I yanked the bedside light out of the wall, rolled over onto Martha in the darkness and covered her on the ground, lay there panting on top of her, my shoulder throbbing and burning. There was a second shot, then a third.
“What do you think-”
“Stay here,” I said and crawled to the door. I crept, hunched over, down the hallway to the front office, my gun tucked into the waistband of my pants, blood oozing from my wound. I went down that narrow hotel hallway in the middle of the night with the sure dark feeling that something new and terrible had happened. Something bad was happening.
“Well, hey there, boy,” said the cracker at the desk. “You coming to join the party?”
Another gunshot outside, then loud cheering: shouts, applause. A celebration. They weren’t shooting in anger, they were shooting in the air. I glanced at the man’s TV screen, where CNN had put up a still photograph of Donatella Batlisch, a file photo, a head shot, frozen.
“Was she-” I don’t know why I asked. I already knew. “Did she get confirmed?”
“No, and she won’t be. She got taken care of is what she got.” He mimed the shape of a gun, mimed the squeezing of the trigger. “One shot. Back of the neck. Some boy did his mama proud tonight, that’s for damn sure.”
I didn’t have to tell it to Martha. When I got back to the room the lights were still off, but the TV was on, and she was sitting on the edge of the bed, her face bathed in the glow of the bad news.
I closed the door behind me, and she stood up quietly and turned it off.
I stood at the window with my right hand reached across to my left shoulder, my hand tight on the wound. I wasn’t feeling sorrow, not exactly. Not surprise, certainly. I was feeling again like I wasn’t made for all this. That’s what I was thinking. Born into the wrong life, somehow. Wrong body. Blood seeped from my shoulder, drying in the thin cotton fabric of my undershirt. The celebration was growing outside, a crowd of happy Tennesseans clustered in the moonlight around the tailgate of a dull white pickup truck, handing out bottles of beer.
Beyond them, traffic had eased up on I-65, and cars were rushing south toward the Fence.
Martha’s face was set, grim and hard. “Have you ever been down there?” she said.
“Never,” I said. “Never in all my life.”
2.
We cleared the Border House with no problem.
There were six wide lanes of traffic, six guard stations, six mechanical arms rising and falling to let vehicles in one at a time. There was a lane for WHITE (ALABAMA CITIZEN) and a lane for WHITE (OTHER UNITED STATES CITIZEN), and a lane for COLORED IN CAR (ALABAMA PERMIT) and the lane we took: COLORED IN CAR (OTHER UNITED STATES PERMIT).
They’re federal at the Fence, agents of a special division of the Department of Homeland Security called Internal Border and Regulation. IBR is black boots and yellow jackets and mirrored glasses, automatic pistols in shoulder holsters. It was one of these IBR men, deeply tan and sandy-haired, stone-faced and courteous, who motioned for me to roll down the window of the Toyota, who leaned over me to address Martha in the backseat, who flipped cursorily through our papers-papers furnished for me by Mr. Bridge, sterling papers, papers made of solid gold. Who then said politely to Martha, “If you would ask your Negro to step out of the car, please,” who then walked me through a bank of scanners, who ran his gloved fingers under my tongue, passed hands over my scalp, who shined a light up my asshole and lifted my balls, who ran flat palms over all the inches of my flesh. Who removed my body momentarily and completely from my control and then returned it to me with a grunt: “You folks are just fine.” He said it to Martha, not to me. “Go ahead.”
The IBR is federal, but on the other side of the Fence are three more agencies, each its own brick building, bristling with flags and radio antennae: the Alabama Highway Division, the Limestone County Sheriff’s Office, and the Alabama branch of the Interstate Colored Persons Patrol. Each one of these agencies has the statutory right to stop any of the vehicles leaving the custody of the IBR, but none of them chose for whatever reason to stop us that morning in our white Toyota.