Then came free throws. I hit the rim twice. The rest were air balls.
Coach Picareaux was a heavyset man who wore black polyester slacks up around his gut and a golfing shirt so tight it pinched in all the gray hairs around his flabby bicep. The rest of the guys loved him for his encyclopedic knowledge of baseball, basketball, hockey, football, golf, tennis, lawn bowling, lacrosse, track and field, Formula One, the Tour de France, the America’s Cup—you name it. Everything but algebra. Me, I loved him because he once let me win at Shipwreck.
He lined us up on the baseline and called Lichenberger and Vernonblood forward and instructed them to pick sides for a basketball game. A few minutes later, I was wearing a yellow mesh vest over my T-shirt that ballooned like a dress despite my best efforts to prevent it. Zukowski managed to get the ball early on and make an impression with all the fancy stuff he could do. Like dribble without looking at the ball.
The principal problem for me, so far as I could tell, was that I didn’t seem to inspire much confidence in my teammates, and, to my great dismay, Zukowski least of all. At first, Lichenberger and Hamilton were the only two on our squad moving the ball up the court, which was bad enough. But then they gave it to Zukowski, of all people. Not only was he shorter than me—by a whole inch—but he wouldn’t pass me the ball. It was bad enough the first time. But when it happened a second and a third and a fourth time, I confronted him.
Stop hogging it!
Damn it, Huey! Go under the net!
Let someone else dribble it for once!
We’re not taking turns—this is a scrimmage! Now go wait for a pass under the net like you’re supposed to!
I said, give it!
The whistle shrieked. I hung back by the goalpost and leaned my ass against it, clutching the tops of my knees, gasping for air, sweating like a pig. My butt hole itched. My ass felt buttery. I felt like I was going to shit myself. I spit a long string so thick the phlegm stretched out like taffy. I tried to wipe it off but only managed to smear it across my face. Then it stuck to my arm. By the time I finally got rid of it, the boys were charging back down the court, full speed, panting like wolves, straight for me.
The ball bounced off Vernonblood’s sneaker. I snatched it up before the big goon could recover it and ran with it in the opposite direction like I was going for a touchdown. Everyone in the gym was hollering for me to stop. To get them all to shut up, I halted dead in my tracks and held the ball over my head like I’d seen the others do.
Zukowski was hollering himself red in the face. Huey! What in hell are you doing?!
Not so much fun now, is it?
Pass it!
Go to hell!
Goddamnit! Pass it already!
See? How do you like it?
Coach Picareaux was fed up and wanted to know What in the Lord’s name game are you playing?
Keep Away, Coach!
And boy did it feel good, for all of the fifteen seconds or so that I got to do it. I handed the ball off to Lichenberger, smiled at Zukowski, and hobbled down the court after the others.
• • •
I STARTED PACKING up the second the big announcement hit the intercom: Coach Picareaux had finally posted the lineup outside his office door. The fifth period bell rang, and I shot out of my seat and bolted downstairs. Rumor had it that the fourteenth spot was selected by lottery. So even if tryouts hadn’t gone so well, I figured I still had a shot. The team roster was up, just like the announcement had said, and Zukowski was standing underneath it. Lichenberger, Vernonblood, and Hamilton were behind him. Bilmore and everyone else shoved past me on their way to the door. They all, every last one of them, crowded around Zukowski, shouting, wanting to know if they had made it or not.
They were all clawing at it like savages. Frankly, I was surprised the stingy bit of masking tape was holding. As Zukowski ran his finger down the mimeograph, with that mountain of assholes slowly caving in on him, I turned around and split. So there I was, walking back down the now quiet hall the same way I’d come, up the flight of stairs where cardboard pumpkin cutouts taped up along the slick wall were decorated with orange and black glitter sprinkled on white glue. I ran my finger along the grout and knocked them down, one by one. I walked out of a pair of swinging double doors and to the right, past a portrait of one of the headmasters from the days of Ye Old Governor William Bradford. I walked up to him and, after careful consideration, lobbed a loogie right between his eyes.
I stopped at the glass trophy case that’s set into the wall by the entrance. It reminded me of Dr. No’s aquarium except without the water and fish. Among the dusty memorabilia were a collection of daguerreotypes crammed in on the top shelf. And let me tell you, a bunch of fourth and fifth and sixth graders never looked more noble. One of the kids in the front row was holding one of those old-style basketballs, and something about it reminded me of someone I used to know. I dunno. Maybe it was the dark brown leather they used back then.
I passed the janitor on my way out. Clyde was a bowlegged colored man who’d introduced himself to me on the very first day of school. At the time, I just figured Mister McGovern had given him a heads-up about me or something. That sort of thing seemed to be happening all the time since I’d started at Claremont. Me being called aside, I mean.
Huey, here, meet Mister So and So. I told him all about you—what a promising young scholar you are.
And Mister So and So: Glad to have you—a real fine addition to our school, young man. Can’t wait to see you out on the court. Make us proud.
Clyde was standing at the foot of the steps, holding one of those wide brooms that’s really hard to push because of how stiff the bristles are. He was leaning on it, looking over all the sagging garbage bags chock full of leaves that he hadn’t yet tied up. As I made my way down the steps, he told me to cheer up. Said he’d worked at Claremont for God knows how long and was awfully glad to see me. Then he held out his hand and slapped me five. Clyde could try and make me feel better all he wanted, but it was no use. I felt like I was the only colored kid on the planet who didn’t know how to put a ball through a hoop.
• • •
THAT CHRISTMAS MISTER Blumenthal gave Mom tickets to see The Nutcracker. Wanting nothing more than to finally meet this new friend of mine that she’d been hearing so much about, Mom kept nagging me to invite Zukowski until I couldn’t stand it anymore. So one night after school the three of us were on our way to the show, chitchatting on the bus about this and that—still getting to know each other, I suppose—and Zukowski asked Mom how she liked New York.
I knew that Zukowski was just trying to make small talk, but Mom didn’t. She started blabbing nonstop about how she didn’t think the city was all it was cracked up to be, how she’d come here expecting a professional life she hadn’t been able to find down South and here she’d become, of all things, a housekeeper.
But I suppose I’d do it again. If nothing else, at least now I know what became of all the women who left Akersburg when I was a kid—waves and waves of them. Because I’d always wondered. They had so many dreams. Fantasies, really. And I grew up hearing about them all the time—dreams of finding a sanctuary up here for people like me. Where we could live like everyone else. And I needed to see for myself if that was true.
I suppose I can see where you’re coming from, Missus Fairchild. But it’s still gotta be better here—I mean, people are living in the Dark Ages down there, aren’t they? Killing colored folks left and right. Not just Dr. King, I mean. Ordinary colored folks. Like that one that got lynched just for swimming in that pool. You remember that, right?
Mom looked out the dark window and went quiet. All this time she had been pouring her heart out, I was bursting at the seams, wanting nothing more than for her to shut her big fat mouth. And this was why. Even Zukowski, who was pretty damned inept when it came to reading body language, noticed the uncomfortable silence. I could tell that he was wondering what he’d said wrong. So I slung an arm over his shoulder
and told him not to worry about it. It wasn’t his fault. Poor fella. How was he supposed to know that he’d just stepped in a pile of dog shit?
There we were—the three of us—sitting on a crowded city bus lurching its way down Broadway on a snowy December evening. Outside, people in long wool coats were caroling down the bright, window-lit street, and us on our way to see, of all things cheery and uplifting, The Nutcracker. How was I supposed to tell Zukowski that we only had one pool in all of Akersburg, and come summertime, it was like a second home to me, which was the only reason Dad and I had turned up in our swim trunks the day after the shit had pretty much hit the fan?
III
EVEN IF THE BILLBOARD OUT front said that the Camelot was the perfect rest stop for snowbirds passing through Akersburg on their way to Florida, it owed its survival to the moms who brought us kids to the pool out back. Mister Abrams opened it to us kids six weeks a year. The rest of the time, it was only for his motel guests. But for those six steamy, hot weeks of summer he practically let us have the full run of the place. I ran in that day expecting to see a bunch of my friends horsing around, only to find the place empty. Dad strolled in behind me asking if anyone was here yet.
I slid the patio door open and stripped down to my trunks while Dad went on like a broken record about how nice it was to have the pool all to ourselves for a change. He eased himself in and held up his hands like he was about to catch a football. The agreement had been for me to jump in on the count of three, but on two a voice boomed out, You can’t be in there!
It was Mister Abrams. Dad hoisted himself up the stepladder and headed on over to see what was the matter. As the two of them stood there talking, I went to check out the Coke machine sitting underneath the wraparound staircase leading to the catwalk above, only before I’d even reached it, Dad shouted out for me to pack up. Pool’s closed, he said.
What’s more, he was just as tight-lipped out in the parking lot as he had been poolside. So I kept my mouth shut, like I always do when I don’t know what the heck’s going on; that is, until we pulled back onto Cordele Road.
What was that all about?
Dad started explaining about this time last year when my friend Derrick had lit a brush fire out behind his shed and his mom had called the fire department all the way up from Blakely, when she could just as well have put the damned thing out with her garden hose.
The point is . . . People overreact. Derrick probably just got caught tinkling in it, is all.
Which I knew perfectly well was true. Derrick claimed that it wasn’t so bad so long as you did it in the deep end. Being only eight and highly impressionable, I believed him. Besides, it was pretty much what all of us kids did. Which meant that Dad had no idea what the heck he was talking about.
When we got home, Mom was preparing her hot comb over the stove, and the whole house stank of bergamot. I immediately asked her if Derrick had come by.
He wasn’t at the pool? She asked the question as if Derrick being there was a given. Dad plopped himself down at the kitchen table and answered with a quick Nope.
When the comb was smoking hot, Mom hollered out to Miss Della that she was ready. Mom had been doing Miss Della’s hair since before it’d turned gray, which I’m pretty sure made her Mom’s longest-standing customer. Anyway, Dad was going on about how we’d found empty deck chairs scattered around the pool and a half-empty beach ball rolling over the terrace like a tumbleweed.
Not a soul in the place. And just as Huey’s set to hop in, Stanley comes out and tells us he’s closed. Can you believe it?
For business?
No. Just the pool.
The bathroom door opened, and Miss Della appeared in the doorway with her hair in a plastic bag and jumped right into the conversation. You didn’t hear about the two colored boys caught swimming in there last night?
I stepped back as Miss Della teetered past, the garbage bag wrapped around her neck like a four-sided apron.
Mom pulled a chair up to the sink. Trespassing?
That’s the question everybody’s asking. Why, your buddy Nestor saw them on his way home from work. From what I’ve heard, he was driving by as they were heading across Cordele Road with a shoe in each hand, and Stanley’s front office lit up like a Christmas tree. When Nestor sped up to get a closer look, they hightailed it on out of there, so scared the one didn’t bother coming back for the shoe he dropped. Nestor pulled over. And you know damned well that Nestor being Nestor, he got out of his tow truck and fetched it—then went straight to the police and handed it over, along with the story of what he’d seen.
What kind of shoe was it?
Hell if I know. But apparently the sheriff’s wondering if Stanley ain’t been letting coloreds in after hours for a small fee.
You’re kidding.
Do I look like I’m playing a practical joke?
Akersburg was a nice place to live, but like any place, we had our problems. Mostly with colored people. Anyway, Miss Della was the Orbachs’ housekeeper. Whenever I saw her around their house, it was always Yes, ma’am and No, ma’am and Right away, ma’am. But the second she stepped foot in our house, I never heard a woman cuss so much in all my life. She didn’t give a damn what Mom or Dad thought—except where it concerned her hair.
Mom eased Miss Della into a chair and sent me out to help Toby clean the points and adjust the timing. Toby had been around as long as I could remember. It didn’t matter if it was the cistern or a watch: if a man made it, Toby could fix it. I watched from the open doorway as Mom tipped Miss Della’s head back over the kitchen sink and rinsed out the blue grease. All the while, foul-mouthed old Miss Della jabbered on like a windup toy.
Toby had the hood of our truck up and was struggling to get the distributor cap off. He was cussing under his breath because he could only turn the wrench in tiny increments. I walked up behind him and coughed. Toby emerged from the engine compartment with a grateful look on his face. Getting that damn distributor hold-down bolt off was one of the few things I could help him with. My hands were small enough to give me easy access. He helped me up onto the bumper, handed me the wrench, and said for me to Have at it.
• • •
WHEN IT GOT too dark to go on, Toby sent me inside to wash up. Miss Della was gone, and Mom and Dad were sitting at the kitchen table trying to figure out what colored man in Akersburg had gumption enough to swim in the Camelot’s pool. When I said to Dad never mind who, but why, he told me to go back outside and continue helping Toby. When I showed him the grease covering my hands, he handed me a gingersnap and told me there would be another one waiting just as soon as Toby and I finished up.
It was pitch black out. From the front window, Toby was visible under the pool of flickering patio light. He let the hood slap shut and a square of dust kicked out from under it. I let the curtain fall back over the front window. He’s done!
Then help your mother.
His lazy ass had moved into the den. From the sound of it, he was lying on his back watching The Price Is Right. Mom was sweeping crisps of hair from the kitchen floor. She asked me to start in on the dishes. A few minutes later, Toby was standing beside me. He reached over and washed his hands in the sink, then took the Pyrex that I’d been struggling to get clean, scraped off the rice caked on it, and handed it back. Toby then pulled a plate of rice and beans from the oven and limped out to the back porch.
I stood there with that dish in my hand, stunned. Dad stalked in from the TV room cursing Mister Abrams’s pool, hot weather, and Mondays. He complimented me on how clean I’d gotten the Pyrex, then asked Mom how much she’d bid on a new-model Westinghouse slow cooker. When she said eleven or twelve dollars probably, he demanded to know when in the Lord’s name that old skinflint Stanley was going to get around to cleaning that damned pool of his.
I didn’t see what the big deal was, especially considering that everyone trespassed occasionally. Sometimes there was no getting around it. You had to cut through one place to get to
some other place. I had. And my buddy Derrick had, too. He bragged about it. Besides, if dirt was the issue, there were plenty of people who could take care of that, Miss Della being the first who came to mind. Missus Orbach was always boasting about how sparkling clean Miss Della got her bathroom.
I dragged a chair up to the cupboard and pulled down a milk glass. I thought that’s what chlorine was for.
That’d be like using a Band-Aid to fix a broken neck.
Mom dumped a mound of hair in the wastebasket and mused about how Mister Abrams had originally built his ramshackle motel to cater to the countrified Negros who lived on the outskirts of town back in the days of the sprawling pecan plantations. Of course, it didn’t have a pool back then.
Never mind all that, honey. The real issue here is that I paid up front for those swim lessons. Stanley asked if I wanted a receipt and I said, ‘What’s a receipt between old friends?’ Son of a bitch if that wasn’t a mistake. I want my money back.
You what?
Goddamnit, Pea. Horsing around in a pool isn’t the same thing as knowing how to swim! I figured it was a good opportunity to ask Danny if he wouldn’t mind giving Huey a few lessons. Hell. The boy was captain of the high school swim team. I thought it was a great idea. Instead of just sitting around on his rump playing lifeguard, he might as well give Huey a few pointers. The money was just to make it worth his trouble.
Mom pulled down a coffee tin from the cupboard and counted what was left. Dad winked at me and asked Mom if there was any more pie left. She pointed to the back porch and complained about him spending money we didn’t have.
Although Toby never ate with us, he usually waited in the kitchen while Mom packed up leftovers for him. When he limped past Dad on his way in, rinsed off his plate, put it away, and left by the front door, I figured he was giving me the cold shoulder for pestering him so much to let me file down the points. Even though he was always complaining about how much work it took to keep the carburetor in sound working order—taking it off every other week to adjust it—he never let me do that part. Getting the distributor cap off was one thing, but adjusting the timing was something else. He paused in the doorway and looked my way, then wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and headed out. It wasn’t much. Just a look—enough for me to know that he wasn’t sore at me.
They Come in All Colors Page 2
