Something Real

by J. J. Murray

  I walk outside and enter what we kids used to call the tunnel, the roofed section that leads to the pre-K building. I crack open the purple door and see... twenty four-yearolds in every color of the rainbow, even a couple white kids, running all over the place. I also see oozing, snotty noses, scores of untied shoes, shirttails hanging out, and dirty fists and fingers, and I hear high-pitched voices giggling and shouting and screaming. Though it is bedlam, I smile. They are so full of life, so alive, every emotion etched on their faces. Sometimes I think children are the only real humans. They still tell the truth (because we adults haven't fully taught them how to lie), and they complain out loud, cry out loud, fart out loud, burp out loud, walk out loud-live out loud.

  Except for Dec. He sits by himself at a table away from the rest of the children and stares out a window, completely uninterested in the circus around him. Lord Jesus, give me a heart big enough to capture Dec and bring him back to life.

  There are two other adults in the room, one obviously the teacher since she's white, her clothes are old-fashioned, her hair has wilted already, she wears a name tag that reads "Mrs. King," and she's yelling, "Circle time!" at the top of her lungs. The other adult is probably someone's mama, and neither of them can get these soaring, racing children into a circle taped on the floor in the center of the room. Circle time? More like circle the wagons, padner, these Injuns is on the warpath. I step inside and grab the nearest track star and loop an arm around a tiny boy writing on the wall in crayon.

  "Let me .. " the tiny boy starts to say, but when he's airborne in the crook of my arm, he swallows that "go" I carry him and the other boy to the circle and set them down. Then I approach Dee. Though his jeans and red shirt are wrinkled, his face is clean, and his hair still looks good. He looks up at me, his little lips a thin, straight line. I offer him my hand, but instead of taking it, he slides off his chair, steps around me, and sits at the edge of the circle.

  So that's how it's gonna be? Lord, give me patience.

  "Hello?" Mrs. King says in a nasal voice behind me.

  I turn and smile. "Hi. I'm Ruth, but I'd like the kids to call me Penny." Mainly because it's easier to say. I don't want to be called "Roof."

  "And you're here because .. "'

  "Oh, I'll be helping y'all out Tuesdays and Wednesdays"

  "I wasn't aware of this."

  Aware of it or not, y'all need me. "I only just signed up-"

  "Okay, class!" she shouts as she spins around, cutting me off. Wench. "Today we're going to read a story about a little boy named Jack"

  I reach out and touch her elbow. "Mrs. King, what do you need me to do?"

  Mrs. King sighs and turns to me slowly. "For circle time?"

  No, for your hair. Another blond white woman with darkass roots. "Yes, ma'am."

  "Just guard that side of the room and keep them in the circle."

  "Yes, ma'am."

  I slide in behind Dee and flop out my legs. Any child who tries to escape gonna run into a barricade of light brown flesh. But surprisingly, the children are quiet and almost still during the story about a little white boy who makes cookies with his blond-haired mama. Couldn't she have read a story about a little brown boy or girl? I'm sure that there are stories like that out there.

  Mrs. King shuts the book. "Wasn't that a good story?"

  Nineteen nods. Dee hasn't stirred a bit. If I was him, I probably wouldn't like the story either. The wound is just too fresh. His mama will never be able to make cookies with him again.

  "Kind of makes me hungry," Mrs. King says, rubbing her caved-in tummy. "Does it make you hungry?"

  Nineteen loud yeahs. Dee only blinks.

  "Well, later today, we'll all make cookies together"

  A loud shout. Dee hasn't budged.

  "But first, I want us all to talk about our mothers" No response. "Um, your mamas."

  Nods all around, and I almost laugh. Ain't a child in here who calls his mama "mother."

  "Who'd like to tell us about his or her mama?"

  Nineteen children raise their hands, some jumping to their feet and waving their whole bodies.

  She points to a child closest to her. "Britney."

  Britney? She as black as coal. What's a white name doin' on a charcoal-colored girl?

  "My mama makes the best chocolate cake in the whole wide world!"

  Over the next few precious minutes, we learn that Stuart's mama works at KFC and brings home chicken every night, Ashley's mama has fingernails as long as Ashley's arm, Desiree's mama likes to watch TV, and Chuckie's mama is nine feet tall. Every child says something wonderful about his or her mama, and I feel the pangs inside me, like hunger pangs only more painful. What would my children, had they lived, say about me now? She's nine feet wide, she plays the organ, she cuts hair, she walks, she eats rabbit food?

  Mrs. King focuses on Dee, and I tense up. "Dee? You didn't raise your hand"

  The bitch has to know, and I almost say something. It's almost cruel what she's doing, but I'm too curious to interrupt. Maybe he will talk about his mama. Hell, maybe he'll just talk period.

  But Dee doesn't even look up.

  "Dee, why don't you tell us about your mama?"

  I inch closer to Dee. If he does speak, it'll have to come out as a whisper. I wish I could read minds like his sister, Tee. What is going through this boy's head?

  Mrs. King frowns. "Dee, everyone else has said something about his or her mama. Just tell us one thing you remember about her."

  Oh ... shit. What the fuck is this lady trying to do? Now nineteen children know Dee don't have a mama. I put up with that shit during junior high and high school, and it wasn't any fun at all. "What d you get your mama for Mother's Day, Roofie Pee?" they'd ask. "Another flower for her grave?"

  "Dee? I know you heard me."

  Dee shifts his weight. Lord Jesus, please make that ho leave Dee alone!

  "Was your mama a good cook perhaps?"

  Dee's head comes up, but his eyes-daa-em. Those eyes are burnin' holes in Mrs. King. I inch even closer.

  "Was she pretty?" She opens the book to the page with Jack and his mama putting the cookies in the oven. "Did you ever make cookies with her?"

  Dee stands, his eyes never leaving Mrs. King, and takes two steps closer to her. He seems to be looking at the picture ... Then he grabs that book and flings it across the room where it collides with a vase of flowers on Mrs. King's desk, water spilling all over the papers on her desk. Nice arm. The other children yell, "uh-oh!" while Mrs. King grabs Dee's arm and drags him down the hall to another room. The other children get real calm now. One of our own is in big trouble, I'll bet they're thinking, and we could be next.

  "Where?" I mouth to the other aide, a short, plump chocolate woman with what looks like her short, plump chocolate daughter on her lap.

  "Time out," she mouths back.

  They still use that shit? Time out? Like a child understands the concept. I get to sit alone in a small room with no one else around me? Shit, adults could use that. And time out is probably what Dee wants anyway. Mrs. King is actually giving Dee a reward.

  Mrs. King shuts the door and returns to us, fixing her hair and applying that fake-ass smile. "Now, children, we'll go to our tables and "

  THUNK, THUNK, THUNK.

  Daa-em. Little Dee has a temper. I start to get up, but Mrs. King stays me with her hand. "Ignore him."

  THUNK, THUNK, THUNK.

  Eyes pop all around me. I hope he's just banging the door with his fist.

  THUNK, THUNK, THUNK.

  Mrs. King's smile vanishes. "Dee must learn, as must all of us, to behave. We don't throw books. Say it with me. We don't-"

  POOM!

  That wasn't no fist! That was a little boy's head! I stand despite Mrs. King's flailing hands and race down the hall, Mrs. King following behind me saying, "What do you think you are doing?"

  I open the door and save Dee from another head butt to the door. He falls forward and thunks my leg instea
d. "Puttin' this boy out of his misery."

  "We have procedures, Miss, uh"

  I take Dee's wrist, and he doesn't resist. "Why I gotta be a `Miss'?"

  "Well, I just assumed-"

  I pick Dee up, and he drops his little head onto my shoulder. "Just cuz I'm an older black woman don't make me a `Miss."'

  "Well, I 11

  "And you can stick your procedures where the sun don't shine." I rub Dee's head. "I have this boy's head to think about"

  "Mrs., uh

  "Borum"

  "Mrs. Borum, I don't think you're qualified to-"

  "You got children of your own?"

  "Well, uh, no, but

  "I ain't got any either." I hold Dee closer. "So who's qualified? You punish the child, and I hold the child. Who's helping who?" She doesn't answer. "Dee and I gonna go outside and have us a little chat"

  "That's not allowed. I have to get advance permission from Principal Carter, and if I don't, I can get fired."

  I smile. "I'm only a volunteer. They can't fire me"

  "But

  "Look. You want to have to explain to Principal Carter or this boy's white daddy how this boy got bruised fists and a knot on his head?" That finally shuts her up. "Come on, Mr. Dee. Let's go for a walk."

  We leave Mrs. King punching a few numbers on a phone and go for the quietest walk I've ever been on. We leave the school campus, walk to a nearby park, and sit on a bench, watching squirrels scurrying about swishing their tails. "That squirrel over there be lookin' like Mrs. King," I say. "Runnin' around chatterin' like her head been cut off." I look at Dee out of the corner of my eye and see the beginnings of a smile. "Old white lady shouldn't have been talkin' 'bout your mama. You don't want to talk about her, it's your business, not hers" His face twitches.

  I squeeze his hand, but he pulls it away to his lap. Lord, slow me down.

  "My mama died when I was ten years old. Found out the news right here at Avery, and I pitched a fit, let me tell you. Took four, five, six teachers, the principal, and Mrs. Holland to hold me down" It's only a little fib. Mrs. Holland is worth six teachers and a principal to me. He raises his cute little eyebrows, his long lashes flashing. "Makes me sad to think about my mama, but I still think about her every day. I'll never stop missin' or thinkin' about my mama."

  That tiny, grimy hand leaves his lap and slides oh so slowly to mine. Lord, please hold back my tears. He turns my hand over and sizes his up in mine. "Your hand is about half as big, huh?" He lays it in mine, but I don't squeeze. "Don't worry. You gonna have big hands like your daddy one day, I just know it."

  We sit there a spell, a breeze cooling the sweat between our hands. "Don't expect you to apologize to Mrs. King. I wouldn't. But will you try not to throw any more of her books?"

  Dee nods.

  I squeeze his hand, and he squeezes back. "Good. And I don't want to ever hear of you goin' to that room again, okay?"

  Dee nods again.

  "Mrs. Borum?" a male voice behind us says.

  I turn and see Principal Carter, as wide as he is tall, as black as the darkest night. "Principal Carter." Man still scares me whenever I hear thunder. "We were just-"

  "I know," he says, and he slides onto the bench next to me. "Fine day to be just ... doing this."

  "Sure is."

  "Too beautiful to be spent in a classroom."

  "I agree"

  He chuckles. "Mrs. King is all bent out of shape. She wants me to reassign you"

  "She does?" He nods. Bitch needs to be reassigned her damn self.

  "She says you need psychological counseling."

  I laugh. I haven't had the need to see Dr. Holt in months.

  "Says you disrupted the unity of her class."

  The unity? I roll my eyes. "What are you gonna do?"

  "What I like to do in situations like this: nothin'. Absolutely nothin'. That okay with you?"

  I smile. "Fine with me"

  "Good" He leans forward and smiles at Dee. "Hear you got a good arm, young man" Dee tenses. "I'm gonna write your name down so I can remember it in a few years when you're Dee Jones, star quarterback at Webster High. That okay with you?"

  Dee looks at me first, then nods.

  "Time for my lunch, y'all," Principal Carter says. "Wish I'd have brought it with me. This is a nice spot for a little picnic." He stands and stretches. "I got to get out that office more often. Y'all comin'?"

  I turn to Dee. "Ready to go back?"

  Dee nods, but I can tell he isn't ready. "In a little bit," I say. "When does Dee eat lunch?"

  He checks his watch. "In about half an hour."

  "We'll see you in the lunchroom then"

  Principal Carter winks at me. "Good to have you back, Ruthie Lee"

  "Thank you"

  Dee and I walk around the park for the rest of our "time out session," watching smaller children swing on swings and slide down slides while their mamas gossip. Maybe they think we're a son and his mama just like them. It'd be a nicer feeling if it was true, but it's still a nice feeling. We walk around under trees watching squirrels climb, his hand never leaving mine. "You ever climb a tree, Dec?"

  He nods with a smile. He can smile! And it's as cute as his daddy's smile with the same little dimples.

  "Was it a big tree?"

  He points at the biggest tree in the park.

  "As big as that one?"

  A bigger smile.

  "Bigger than that one?"

  A big nod.

  "Wow. I don't think I could climb a tree as big as that. Were you scared?"

  He shakes his head.

  "Where'd you climb such a big tree?"

  He doesn't respond.

  "I'll bet you climbed it at Nanna's."

  He nods.

  "I'd like to see that tree some day. You promise to show it to me?"

  He nods.

  "Let's shake on it." I squat and shake his hand. "And maybe you can teach me how to climb it. Okay?"

  He nods. I want to hug this child so bad, but I don't. Hugging his hand will have to be enough for now.

  Mrs. King doesn't say a word to either of us the rest of the day, leaving us to do whatever we want. We share a fairly decent meal of corn dogs and fries in the lunchroom where we don't see Tee (the first graders eat later), then sit at a tiny-ass table in tinier-ass chairs watching the other children make cookie dough-with their hands. That is so nasty. Fun, but nasty. Mrs. King and the parent, Miss Hayes, had inspected each child's hands carefully and had even wet-wiped a few; but there is no way that I am going to eat those cookies, and there is no way that I am going to let Dee eat them because they all keep licking their fingers, fingers that have been digging in their drawers and noses.

  "You like cookies?" I whisper while Dee uses a blue crayon to draw something vaguely dog-shaped on a thin piece of gray paper.

  Dee shrugs and colors in the dog.

  "Me neither."

  I look at his drawing, and I know from experience not to ask who or what it is. If I say "what a cute dog" and it turns out to be Grandma, I'll be in trouble. He takes out a black crayon and puts four circles on the dog. Oh, it's a car. But the wheels are wrong because ... They don't touch the ground. I bite my lips together to keep them from trembling.

  He's drawing what happened to his mama. He's drawing the car upside down.

  He looks at me and cocks his head back to the picture.

  "Is, um, is that what happened to you and your mama, Dee?"

  He nods and draws an arch over the car.

  "It happened in a tunnel?"

  He nods rapidly and chooses a light blue crayon, drawing wavy lines farther into the tunnel.

  "There was water in the tunnel."

  He nods and drops the crayon.

  "Your mama drove into the tunnel and didn't see the water." When did this happen? And why wasn't this all over the news? Oh, yeah, a black woman in Calhoun, Virginia, died in a car accident. Had she been murdered, she still wouldn't be front-page news, bu
t I would have heard or read about it. There's only one tunnel near Vine Street, the one all the trains go over, and it is a dangerous tunnel. Too narrow, always potholed, floods even in a light rain, not enough overhead lights. It might have rained and flooded, and any car even going the speed limit would have had trouble staying under control.

  I turn the paper over. "Will you do something for me? Will you draw me a picture of your mama?" I want to see what my competition looks like.

  He fingers through the section of brown crayons in the box, choosing something called "mocha." This child has an eye for color. He draws a balloon-shaped head with a tiny neck and shoulders, then adds eyes that nearly fill the balloon.

  "Your mama had big brown eyes, huh?"

  He nods and adds a tiny nose and a big smile. He colors the eyeballs dark brown and the teeth white.

  "She had a pretty smile, too?"

  He nods. So far I'm two for two. I don't have a skinny neck, though.

  As he works, I notice he's panting more than breathingand so am I. A miracle is happening right before my eyes. This child is "speaking" to me using some crayons! He pulls a black crayon toward him and grips it tightly. He adds curls to her forehead and long, straight spaghetti-looking things that hang almost down to her shoulders. Extensions? Well, extensions are spaghetti-looking things sometimes. This child has talent. He drops his crayon. Sweat beads on his forehead.

  Mrs. King chooses this moment to cruise over. "What a beautiful drawing, Dec," she says. "Who is that? Is it Mrs. Borum?" Dee's eyes become two little dots. Oh shit. I move the crayons to the other side of the table out of his reach. Crayons may be small, but the sharper ones could put an eye out.

  "It's a picture of his-"

  "I know who it is," Mrs. King interrupts.

  "And on the other side-"

  She scowls at me and picks up the drawing. "I think we should put this one up on the big board, Dec. It's very good"

  I look under the table and see two little fists pounding two little legs. Something bad is about to happen, and I want it to happen. I want Dee to go off. I want him to scream, to break shit, to throw the unholiest fit in the world, to let it all hang out like I did the day Larry died in front of Hood's. Too much rage and hurt been building up in this little boy, and this lady is about to bring it out. All she has to do is say the magic words. The wrong magic words.