They Come in All Colors

by Malcolm Hansen

  Pop?

  Jerry, he’s fading back here. You’re gonna need to step on it. Of course, you can put the sirens on! No, it’s the one on the left. Just above the turn signal. There you go.

  Not Jerry. I want my pop.

  No, Jerry’s not your pop, either. He’s up front, driving. I’m staying back here with you. Just hold tight and breathe easy. Stay calm. I gotcha. Anyway, Jerry, he was running around the pool trying to fish out the niggers, and everyone in the place is out on the catwalk looking down at them in the water, and him in his suit and tie running circles around the pool, hollering like a maniac, and the niggers having a good old time splashing and swimming, and the—Huh? Their hair? Just kind of trickled off. Hell no, there weren’t any whites in there with them. Two, as best I could tell. Because I wasn’t exactly checking out the colored girls, Jerry. I was about to go down and help the old man, poking his rod with the net for leaves on the end that he was stabbing the water with. Why? Because when I checked in, he told me about how he just spent half his retirement savings outfitting it with a brand-spanking-new diving board and everything.

  Po—?

  Oh, shit. Christ, Jerry. I’m losing him. Can you reach over and pass me that oxygen mask? No, I’ve got to hold him steady. Just give it a little tap. There. Got it. This oughta settle him down. Atta boy. Now, breathe nice and deep. Don’t talk. Feeling better? Jesus. Anyway. Where was I? Oh yeah. That old retiree. Said it was already in trouble when he took it over and that he’d just finished fixing it up. Jesus. Twenty feet. But just as I come skipping back out of the room with my trousers on one leg, here he comes out of the front office with a jug. Muriatic acid. No, crystals. What they use to unclog toilets with. Of course, it would kill them. Me? To rescue them? No, to help him. I thought it was bleach. But then he holds up the jug and points at it and—and, and, and, and, and reads it to them, and right off the pool goes as still as a backwater, and up goes the jug, and the niggers make like I don’t even know what for the opposite ledge, screaming bloody murder as he skips along the ledge with the acid gurgling out, and Iris howling for him to stop so bad I had to drag her kicking and screaming back into the room. Iris was in pieces, so I figured it was time to check us out—No, last night. Where the hell have you been? Around six! Yeah. So when I got home, I called Vera and told her to put me back on rotation. At the training rate. Huh? No, I asked for Akersburg. Figured it’d be mellow down here. Time and a half. Yeah, I got my money back. I suppose he could have called the cops. So I promised to take her out to the pictures instead. I dunno. Whatever’s showing. Mouth-to-mouth? On one of them, you mean? Hell n—was that Kitty Millham’s dad’s Mustang just passed us on your side? What’s she doing out without Myron on a Saturday, driving like that? Was she smiling at me? The flirt. Turn it up, will you? No, we can still hear Vera. Please stay green ’cause she’ll get out and come over, smacking her gum at the side of my face, at a red. Always does. You have no idea. Wanted to do things that made me blush. Six months. Me. I wanted something more seriou—who the hell’s honking like that? Is his old man still behind us? Making that squawk at us with his horn, you mean? No. Bumper sticker says honk if you’re with George. Yeah, all the municipal ambulances do. At first, but now I kinda like it. Why? Because it feels like they’re cheering me on—why else?

  • • •

  I MUST HAVE blacked out from the pain because that’s the last I remember of Dad, S&W, or Tyler. Sometime later—coulda been an hour or a week, for all I knew—I was freezing my butt off in an air-conditioned room in nothing but a drafty gown, squinting under two fluorescent tubes. Beneath me was something so cold and hard that it could only be stainless steel. Draped over me was something so soft and heavy it made me feel like I was buried up to my neck in sand. Dad was nowhere in sight, but a lady with long, straight brown hair and a vaguely reassuring smile was looking at me through a porthole in the adjacent room or hallway—I couldn’t tell which. Her voice was muted by the thick glass separating us. It was so faint I felt like I was reading her lips: Hold still, sweetheart. You’re doing great. This’ll be the last one, I promise.

  • • •

  THE NEXT THING I remember, I was outside, and there was this pungent stench of cigarette smoke coming off Dad as he lifted me into the truck with the help of a colored man. It was dusk out and steamy, and Dad’s thick fingers were digging into my armpits while the other guy had me by the ankles. They slid me in like the front seat was a bed, then tipped me up. I was too drowsy to be bothered about being manhandled like that, even by someone I didn’t know.

  I sagged against the window like a fifty-pound sack of peanuts. I couldn’t hold my head up. The orderly backed in through the double doors and returned inside with the wheelchair. Above him, the sign sitting atop the ledge spelled out PHOEBE PUTNEY MEMORIAL HOSPITAL in translucent shell letters. The letters were dimly lit, and several of them were flickering. A couple of them weren’t even lit. Of all the things to remember, that’s what stood out to me.

  My head sagged down to the door panel. I rocked sideways in the gently idling truck. It was all I could do to stay awake as Dad puffed on a cigarette, explaining it all back to me. Some things rang a bell—like my ice cream. I had a foggy recollection of Dr. Hofstetter tapping me gently with his shoe to make sure I was still alive. And the look on Dad’s face, his hanky soaked in blood as he wrapped it around my arm. He picked me up and carried me back to S&W and pitched me atop the counter. I was shivering, like I was freezing cold. The white bone sticking out of the flesh against the deep red blood. I was in shock. Dr. Hofstetter scrambling to make another tourniquet as Dad snatched the phone from Tyler with a bloody hand and barked out, Not for me, Eunice! For my boy! No, I just brought him in. Yeah, he’s alive. Now, hurry up! The kid’s gone off and busted up his arm something terrible! Now, send someone down here! And be quick about it!

  • • •

  DAD STUCK TO the windy back roads running alongside the Thronateeska the whole way back. The gentle ripple of the road lulled me in and out of sleep. That winding trough of still water appeared through a stretch of evergreens, disappeared, then reappeared out from behind the blurry low-rise redbrick building that I barely recognized as Ivey’s department store, disappeared behind the Trust Company of Georgia bank, or maybe it was the Paramount theater, then reappeared out from behind what I guessed was Freddy Mac Trophy and Plaque. Only there were two of them. Identical and side-by-side, then one on top of the other. Then slightly diagonal to each other. I rubbed my eyes, pressed my hand over my lips, and puked.

  Just a mouthful. Dad pulled over, cut the engine, and tapped the horn. I leaned out the open door and spit.

  Nestor came over in coveralls unbuttoned down to his crotch. He poked his head into the window and grinned. Will you look at that.

  Ran into a car.

  Ha! Is that what we’re calling it these days? I’ve been telling Myrtle this was gonna happen. We gotta get more stop signs put up, I keep telling her. But she says we don’t have more than sixteen intersections in the whole municipality, and besides, it’d be overkill because everyone should know the driver on the right always has the right of way. But what she don’t appreciate is that half the dimwits that come tearing ass through here don’t know their right from their left, is what I say. Now look what’s happened. You sure banged it up pretty good, sport. Remember that plaster jobbie I had back in the fifth grade—went all the way up to my collarbone. What? This one only goes up to your elbow? Consider yourself lucky. Fiberglass? Fancy. Mind if I give it a knock? Huey?

  Nestor put his face up close to mine. Looks like he’s drifting in and out.

  Got a concussion.

  Don’t say.

  Ira left his patrol car parked on the sidewalk. Huey slid down it like a stick of butter down a hot tin roof, shuddering and whimpering and twitching like road kill. It was awful. Just fetched him from Putney. Gave him this stuff here for the pain. This to sleep. This so he doesn’t throw up. Doesn’t seem to be
working, though.

  I’m telling you, some of the people they give licenses to these days, Buck—I just don’t get it. Always in such a rush to get to Boca Raton this time of year. They take a wrong turn off Route 62, looking for a shortcut to get over to US 27, and next thing you know, they’re doing eighty in a twenty-five, barreling around combines, wondering where the hell the highway went. How fast was Ira going?

  Dad threw me a glance. It’s like the Good Book says, Nestor: everything happens for a reason. What’s done is done. What’s important is that my boy’s gonna be okay. So we’d like to count our blessings and move on. Now, if you don’t mind.

  Nestor took the nozzle from the pump and hung it from the truck, then came back around to my window.

  You’re a better man than me, Buck Fairchild. I don’t care what Herb and Carlyle and the rest of the gang says. Walking away from an accident like that carrying a grudge? No, sir. Not you. That’s the Buck Fairchild I know. But if you ask me, you need to get out more. We’re all starting to wonder how you’re doing out there, cooped up like you are. Work, work, work—that’s all you do anymore. You gotta learn to live a little, Buck.

  My lip was fat, heavy, and numb. It felt like it covered half my face. One of my front teeth was missing. I swirled my tongue around in search of it. Goddamnit if I hadn’t wiggled that thing for weeks on end, trying to make it loose enough to come out, and here I couldn’t even find it in my mouth. No tooth to put under the pillow. No tooth fairy. No nickel. And to top it off, I was too out of it to even check the mirror to see what I looked like without it.

  Whatever it is they’re giving him, it don’t seem to be working. Just look at him. Are you sure he’s okay?

  Doctor said that he can comprehend speech just fine. Just a little unresponsive, is all. Might be a few days before he bounces back. Dad removed the top from a prescription bottle with his teeth. Here. Swallow this.

  Jesus, Buckaroo. Is he gagging or trying to say something? He looks like he’s about to keel right over onto the shifter—if he don’t choke on that pill first. Can hardly hold his head up. Never mind keep his tongue in his mouth—slobbering all over the place like that.

  Dad leaned over my cast and shoved on the door. Help yourself to some water. Just watch out so you don’t trip over them fuses lying around.

  Nestor stepped aside and helped me out. He took two steps with me by the arm before letting go. I teetered uneasily over the oil-soaked sawdust spread out over the garage floor.

  To the left of that tool chest! There you go! Keep straight! Watch out for the welding table! And those drills. Is that compressor still hot, Nestor? Get that out of his way, will ya?

  The paper cups are in the cabinet, if you wanna take some with.

  Bring me some while you’re at it, son.

  Doctor says moving about is okay?

  Jesus—what does a twenty-two-year-old know? Anyway, you had to see it to believe it. I know you think I’m prone to exaggeration, but we were all sitting inside, minding our business, sipping coffee and chatting and playing cards and congratulating Herb on finally having his first load of the season weighed and graded, when they barnstormed the place. And then Ira pulls up. No horns. No lights. No sirens. Nothing. Parks right up on the sidewalk and gets out and shows them three sets of latchkeys for the jail: one for the coloreds, one for the whites, and one for the ladies. Held ’em up and jingled ’em. So all of ’em could see. Then he stated his terms. But they just bulldozed right past him. And all hell broke loose. We hightailed it on out of there—didn’t make it to the end of the block before Huey smacked into the damned hood ornament, not looking where he was going.

  What the hell was he looking at?

  Beats me.

  Jesus Christ, Buck. I told you ten years ago that Toby was gonna be trouble, but you didn’t listen. Now look at what he’s gone off and done. Why, he was in here a week ago with three of them. Walked right through that door with them, stinking up my store with a cologne I never smelled before. Saying whole words I’d never heard before—like they come from money. They held the door open for him, then stood back and watched as he fingered over my peaches for bruises. He held my eggs up to the light, and I got so hot under the collar I told him he could have them for all I cared, just as long as he took the other three with him on out of here. Then one of them is fumbling in his coat, here, there, and everywhere you can hide two dimes on a man, when who pulls up but Byron, with Dwight and Ernie sliding out from the bench seat of his Plymouth, flashing their Kodaks every which way. Toby grinned wide and handed me this here card and said for me not to worry—said he’d be back to see my ledger. My ledger? And I’m looking at this here card thinking, Tenant Farmers Association? Akersburg chapter? Now just who in the Sam Houston does that nigger think he is?

  What’d Byron do?

  He stayed until they left. To have a word with me.

  And?

  And he knows I’m no John Brown, but all the same, you can’t be too careful these days. Him and his boys had been trailing them all day. Said he thought they were waiting for Farley’s hands to get out from work, so as to rile them up.

  Byron was following them?

  Riding ’em hard—his words, not mine.

  And Toby left here with three of them from the bus?

  Happier’n a fairy in Boys Town. Christ almighty, you should have put that son of a bitch on a one-way bus outta town years ago. Because that boy isn’t going to be happy until he takes the rest of us down with him. You first—and me not far behind.

  • • •

  A CARTON OF milk, two forty-eight-ounce cans of beer, a dozen or so cheese slices, a sixteen-ounce jar of peanut butter, half a loaf of bread, and leftover tuna casserole were piled in the sink, alongside a bunch of half-empty condiment containers whose contents had already started to separate. There was some other stuff spread out over the kitchen table, too, but that was mostly just celery stalks and collard greens, which Mom kept down below in the crisper.

  Mom was at the stove, poking at the last of the hot dogs floating in a pot of boiling water. I walked up beside her and just stood there. A second later, the wooden spoon in her hand fell onto my sneaker.

  Dad strolled in behind me.

  Now, Pea, before you get all worked up—as bad as he might look, he’s okay. They just doped him up so much he can hardly talk. Gave him enough Demerol to knock out Mollie. His mouth is in a real fix, too, but it’s mostly just swollen. The doctor said it’ll go down soon, but don’t expect him to be able to talk much in the meantime. I’ve found it works best to ask him simple questions.

  Mom knelt down, looked me over, then hugged me so tight I could hardly breathe. You told me on the phone that he just hurt his arm!

  The whole drive home, I had promised myself that I wouldn’t cry. But when Mom reached down and took me in her arms and carried me into the living room, it was all I could do to stanch the flow of tears. She stretched me out atop the sofa and propped up my head on the armrest. I lifted my head and she tucked a pillow underneath it, then turned on the TV.

  WHO’S THE LEADER OF THE CLUB THAT’S MADE FOR YOU AND ME?

  Whatever they’d given me for the pain was starting to wear off. Aside from my tear-soaked face, all I could feel was pins and needles up and down my arm. I replayed in my head the moment of smacking into that damned hood: how I put my arm up to brace myself a half second too late. Mom opened my mouth with a tongue depressor and peeked around inside.

  Who did this, baby doll?

  I blinked.

  They didn’t do anything to him. He did it to himself.

  Mom returned to the kitchen and pulled the door gently closed behind her.

  M-I-C-K-E-Y M-O-U-S-E!

  His arm’s broken, and he’s missing a tooth!

  That tooth was loose already. Listen—it was some bus full of wackos. They’re stirring things up in town.

  And?

  HEY THERE, HI THERE, HO THERE! YOU’RE AS WELCOME AS CAN BE!
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  And nothing. Christ almighty! Them showing up at S&W like the damned cavalry to straighten us out—I can’t hardly tell if they’re here to rescue us from a flood or cause one.

  Who?

  M-I-C-K-E-Y M-O-U-S-E!

  Who do you think? College kids.

  What in the world does that have to do with Huey?

  He ran into Ira’s patrol car.

  How fast was he going?

  Ira or Huey?

  Who do you think?

  He was parked!

  Parked?

  On the sidewalk.

  You’re telling me that he got this way from running into a parked car?

  Mom believed it about as much as Nestor did. Heck, if I hadn’t been there, I probably wouldn’t have believed it either. Replaying it in my mind, it was like that car had just appeared out of nowhere. But I knew that couldn’t be right. Yet I couldn’t for the life of me figure out what I had been looking at if not in front of me. What in the world had been more important than watching where I was going? Was it the bus? Or maybe all the people grappling around the bus? It was the missing piece to a puzzle that I couldn’t seem to figure out. But I had to. Because who the hell runs into a parked car?

  Yeah. Running like a lunatic, trying to get away from it all. We both were. It was bedlam. Everyone panicked.

  Where were you?

  About twenty paces behind him, trying to get clear of the crowd. Shouting for him to watch out for that damned car. I don’t think he heard me. I couldn’t keep up. He’s too fast.

  You and Huey were at S&W—of all places? What, you sneaked out and took him there under cover of the dark, so nobody would see?

  Yeah. I mean, no! We were among friends. Caroline and John were both there. Ted was there. So he was safe. Thankfully Carlyle was there, too. I just felt like it was the least that I could do—after all we’ve been through. And yes, maybe there are fewer people around then. Oh, you know how people are when they get going—egging each other on, saying all kinds of stuff, badmouthing everybody and everything. Talking bad about Toby. I didn’t want him to hear it. All that bad language. It’s terrible, the stuff they say, just terrible. So I figured we’d go before dawn, while people are just sitting around, still half-asleep, quietly playing cards.