They Come in All Colors

by Malcolm Hansen

  I hid my face behind my cast and quit while I was ahead. It wasn’t easy telling Dad the truth about something I knew he wouldn’t want to hear. Especially when just two days earlier, I was complaining about him never letting me do anything, and here he was about to hand me the entire kit and caboodle, and I was trying my damnedest to wash my hands of it.

  When I peeked up, the look on Dad’s face was halting. It took a second before I realized that he was looking over my shoulder. Mom came up beside me with a hot skillet in hand and slid an egg down onto my plate. Dad just sat there with his fork upright and a stunned look on his face. Mom wiped her hands on her apron, pushed my plate forward, and sat down. She pointed at the uncooked eggs sitting in the stew pot on the counter and told him that he could cook for himself.

  Dad didn’t seem to care. He just snapped open his newspaper and pretended like he always cooked for himself. After what felt like a very long time, he lowered it.

  I swear to the good Lord, a lunatic could walk down Main Street, taking potshots at every man, woman, and child in sight, and the first thing you’d want to know was what people had done to make him do such a thing.

  Mom had set her plate aside and was catching up on paperwork. She glanced up from her ledger.

  What does that have to do with Toby?

  Dad reached over, took a sip of my red drink, and turned back to his newspaper. Mom got up, went to the stove and returned with the coffee pot. She set down a cup in front of him and filled it. Dad smiled and took a sip, then spit it out. Mom sat down and didn’t look up from her tapping fingers. She scribbled some numbers in her ledger, then tap tap tapped on her calculator some more. They started bickering about how stingy Mom was with the sugar, then about the cost of sugar, and eventually about the cost of anything and everything, including sugar. Money was a topic that engulfed all other topics. Everything led back to money—and, sure enough, like a dog chasing its tail, it led back to Mister Abrams’s pool, Toby, and those college kids who’d shown up on that damned bus.

  Don’t pretend like you can’t understand why the police are wondering if the colored boys caught in Mister Abrams’s pool aren’t just the tip of the iceberg!

  That’s all just an excuse for a bunch of bigots to take down a man they’ve always seen as being too kind to colored folks, and you know it! Besides, he was kind enough to let Huey swim in his pool, wasn’t he?

  I slammed down my fork. He was nice to everyone. Not just me! I glared at Mom. And if you’d have ever bothered to go, you’d know that!

  I kicked out my chair and stormed out the back door. I sat down beside Toby’s rain boots and jabbed at the dirt with the frayed end of a broken stack pole. The island of shade elms standing out in the middle of our field was smudged out by thick black smoke. A little to the left, but further out, a pale dust cloud trailed a tractor moving across the horizon a good half mile away. It was the Orbachs’. I would have gladly sought refuge at Derrick’s house if I thought there was a chance in hell of not being chased off by his mother.

  There was a moment of quiet. I wasn’t sure if they’d stopped arguing or if I just couldn’t hear them. When I got up and returned inside, they were both gone. The screen door clicked shut behind me, and muffled voices emerged from behind the bathroom door.

  He only did it for the money!

  So now you’re siding with the police?

  I went back to my room to see how Snowflake was holding up. I had unlatched her cage, taken her out, and told her not to pay any attention to all the arguing when something crashed. The shattering sound came from the kitchen. I peeked around the doorjamb to see what had happened. Mom was at the sink emptying the dish rack, with her back to me. She’d dropped a dish. Which was a relief—for a second there, I thought they’d stooped to throwing things at each other. Mom pulled the cupboard open with several dinner plates in hand and looked over her shoulder.

  You smell like piss.

  It’s not me. It’s Snowflake.

  Dad was on his hands and knees, picking up the broken pieces of Mom’s favorite mixing bowl, chiding her for being materialistic.

  Materialistic? Me not being materialistic is the only reason I’ve held on to that rotten old hand-me-down.

  All their bickering about money was starting to worry me—not about Toby but about us. It used to be like a bus station in our kitchen, what with all those old ladies trooping through at all hours of the day. It had been a while since Miss Della or Aurelia or any other of the other old ladies from Aurelia’s Bible study had come to have their hair done.

  Dad stood up. Listen. If I had to stand up in a court of law I’d say that I refuse to believe that Stanley Abrams let a couple of colored boys in his pool after hours just for an extra buck—impossible. I wouldn’t do that unless I was dead sure. But standing here, in my house, I know damned well he would. And you do, too. Christ, Pea. It ain’t a stretch to think he’d entertain a backroom deal with a few niggers just so long as no one else was any the wiser. It’s in the man’s blood.

  I was having second thoughts about wanting to ever step foot in that pool again. It didn’t seem worth the headache.

  Who was I kidding? Of course it was. That pool was like having our own private water park. It was outta this world.

  I returned Snowflake to her cage, which I moved over to the windowsill. On the way, I explained to her that it might be a touch warm in the sun but it wasn’t to be helped. She stank. I slumped off into the hallway, past their bedroom, one door beyond which was the bathroom. I undressed and, knowing full well that a tub was a lousy substitute for a pool, slipped on my dive mask and got in.

  When the water had cooled down some, I submerged my head only to discover that my dive mask had sprung a leak. I snatched it off and rubbed the sting out of my eyes. I must have been under for longer than I thought: Dad was tapping on the door, hollering for me not to make a career of it. I jumped out as soon as I realized that my cast was dissolving. Yikes. I thought it was waterproof. I salvaged the soaked remains of my cast and mopped the water from my face. Everything was so peaceful I could hear the lonesome scratch of hens milling around beneath the stoop, out front. They must’ve gotten out again.

  I wrapped myself in my towel and headed for the kitchen. No one was there. So I poked my head into the den, thinking that Mom must have been folding clothes, but she wasn’t there, either. The laundry line creaked out back. I figured that she was hanging up clothes. I hopped down from the back stoop and checked. It was Miss Della. She was standing beneath the clothesline strung from the side of the Orbachs’ house.

  I headed around the side of our house, pissed at having to return all the hens scurrying around to their coop. I stopped at the corner with the drain pipe in my hand. An unfamiliar sound gave me pause. I knew every creak and moan of that house—but this was new.

  Dad stored a ladder on its side beneath their bedroom window. I teetered up it and peeked in over the sill. Dad was in bed, grunting like he was in the middle of a calisthenics routine. It took a minute for my eyes to adjust to the shade of their room. When they did, I noticed that Mom’s legs were poking out from beneath him. I keeled over backward from the ladder and landed right smack in Mom’s petunia bed.

  • • •

  TWO HOURS LATER, Mom was sitting on the edge of her bed, asking me for advice. She wanted to know if she should wear her blue or black pumps with her fancy flower-print dress. It was another hour before she was ready. When she finally stepped out the front door, you’d have thought she was heading down a red carpet. Didn’t matter where she was going, even if it was just down the road. And Dad didn’t mind one bit. Her getting all done up was one of the few things that he had no problem waiting for.

  Dad pulled the truck around, and we all piled in and headed for town. We sat in silence. The puttering of the engine and the buzz of mud tires over pavement was peaceful. I preferred it to their constant squabbling about how cheap Mom had been with the sugar in Dad’s coffee, giving it to him b
lack and bitter.

  We turned onto Cordele Road and an endless span of peach trees crisscrossed the foothills. Some were jammed in so tight against the narrow road I could practically touch them. One of Mister Noonan’s flitted past at eye level, and I lurched out the window and snatched at it. Mom snapped at me to get my head back in before it got lopped off. Dad barked out asking if I’d lost my mind. They sighed in unison. It was the first thing they’d agreed on all day. I pulled my head and arms in and kept quiet.

  The peach and apple and pecan orchards that sat between us and town were dotted with wide-open fields separated by thin tracts of acacia trees. We passed the familiar procession of dusty side roads strewn with the rotted wall boards of gutted barns and abandoned feedlots peeking out from the low-lying trees. The muffler backfired, and Dad pumped the gas only to discover that the engine had cut out.

  He pulled over and got out. He pitched the hood up with his shirttail and a plume of smoke billowed out. That truck was one of the few things that we had that was worth anything. It didn’t matter that I had to tug on the inside door handle with both hands in order to open it. Or that the window roller didn’t work. Or that springs poked out of the seat cushion. Or even that it stalled out from time to time. I loved it.

  I got out and stood beside Dad. I held my palm as close to the engine as I could without touching it. It was hot. Never mind an egg, I could have cooked an entire breakfast on it. Dad shook off the heat of the radiator cap at every quarter-turn, then poured in water from a jug amid all its hissing and sputtering.

  Goddamn that Nestor. He gave me his word that those points were new—swore up and down on his mother’s grave. Next time, I’ve got a mind to try out that nigger on the other side of the river. You know the one I’m talking about.

  Mom was inside the truck, I think tending to her needlework. Please don’t use that language around Huey.

  You suppose it’s the first time he’s heard it?

  Mom’s face appeared out the passenger’s-side window. Dad shook the jug empty and let the hood slam shut.

  Okay, okay, okay. Fine. But you know the one I’m talking about, right? Missing three fingers. Damned fine mechanic, though. Better with seven fingers than Nestor is with all ten. Next time, I’ve a mind to have him install them. What’s that boy’s name? Doesn’t he have a girl’s name? Lesley, or something? Remind me when we get home to call him.

  Dad got back in the truck and gave the ignition another try. The engine sputtered, then died. We were encircled on three sides by a vast expanse of peanut fields that were bordered on the distant horizon by a wall of evergreens. A narrow band of blacktop stretched out in front of us as far as I could see. I spotted three people creeping steadily over the cresting road, so far up ahead that all I could make out was the faint bobbing of their heads in the shimmering distance.

  I nudged Dad. Pop.

  His head was down and he was squeezing the key tight in his hand. He said, Not now. The ignition was whirring round like he was trying to will the truck to fix itself. So I turned back to the road and leaned forward. I wasn’t sure that I was seeing right. But I recognized his gait.

  I nudged Dad again, urgently this time.

  I said, not now. She’s almost there.

  I remember eyeing the scuffed crease at the ball of Dad’s brogan as it rolled off the gas pedal. He let go of the key and looked up. Neither of us said anything—there was nothing to say. We just sat there, listening to the ticking sound of an overheated engine, quieted by the sight of Toby heading straight for us.

  Dad nudged me. Ask him for a push.

  Why me?

  He likes you.

  I hesitated. Dad turned to Mom.

  She didn’t respond to him so much as to her needlework. You ask him.

  Dad smacked the steering wheel so hard I blinked. He cranked the ignition a second time, but it just wheezed. And wheezed. And wheezed.

  Toby walked past.

  Dad rolled down his window and poked his head out. That the thanks I get?

  Toby kept walking. Dad reached for the door. Mom leaned over and grabbed him. Dad overpowered her and got out anyway.

  Fine way to treat the family that gave you the only opportunity in life you’ve ever known!

  All was quiet except for the sounds coming from the fields. They were rhythmic and seemed to punctuate the distant footsteps.

  I leaned out the window and slapped the door. Run, Toby!

  Mom snatched me in and boxed my ears. She demanded to know what in the hell had gotten into me. When I screamed that Toby was right to walk off, she wrestled me down into my seat and leaned out the window.

  Buck, get in.

  Twenty years! You don’t expect me to just sit here and watch him walk by like he’s too good to lend a hand, do you?

  Dad picked up a rock and threw it.

  You dumb ox! You ain’t one of them! You’ll never be one of them! They ain’t your friends—ain’t even your kind! So help me God! Whites do not serve niggers. Never have and never will. I don’t care how fancy you dress up, you hear me?! Niggers serve whites. Always have and always will. Haven’t you read a goddamned history book, you stupid nigger?

  Toby turned around and began walking toward us.

  I shivered so bad a drop of piss squirted into my underwear.

  Pop! Get in!

  I locked the door and rolled up my window. Toby walked up beside us with his eyes deadlocked on Dad. Dad stood frozen before him in the middle of the road. Neither man moved. Not their eyes. Or their hands.

  The only reason this damned truck has lasted this long is because of me. You know that, right?

  You want me to thank you for all your work, is that it?

  Too late for that.

  The peanut fields surrounding us were wide-open and flat. Several of the field hands stood from their work to watch. One of the two well-dressed colored men accompanying Toby called out from farther up the road. His accent made him hard to understand.

  Come, Brother Tobias. A man curses because he doesn’t have the words to say what’s on his mind. Ignore him, and let us move on.

  Toby leaned in and looked at me. Looked me dead in the eye. His eyes were still, but not resting—they were searching over my face for something. God knows for what. He spoke through the glass.

  Your papa’s whole family thinks that good woman beside you is nothing but a cheap hussy who’s been counting on his religion to keep them under the same roof. You deserve to know that, buddy.

  I rolled down my window and spat. I fell short by a good two feet. Toby walked off. Something soured inside me as I listened to the fading sound of his shoes gripping pavement. The whole ridiculous idea of truth. The issue that Toby had with Dad wasn’t about work or pay or even our broken down truck. It was about the truth of whatever Dad seemed to lord over Mom. I could see that now. And, strangely, none of that mattered to me in that moment. All that mattered was that Dad was just standing there, dumbstruck, powerless to do anything about it. I leaned out the window.

  I hope you rot in hell, Tobias Muncie!

  The tirade that I unleashed upon Toby would have made Miss Della blush. I didn’t stop until Toby and those two men accompanying him were well out of earshot. Dad reached in and put a hand on my shoulder.

  It’s okay, son. You did good. A little late to the trigger, but you did good. You can calm down now. He’s gone. You’re safe now. Just settle right on down. He’ll have his day. You’ll see. He hasn’t gotten the last word yet.

  I was having difficulty breathing. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d just lost something that I’d never get back. After all the years that Toby and I had spent working side by side, it wasn’t until that moment that I had somehow stumbled on the courage to admit to myself how much he meant to me. It was only as the hateful words left my mouth that I could see how untrue they were. The door groaned and Dad got back in. After what felt like an eternity, he turned to Mom.

  All you had to do was ask
.

  Mom might as well have been made of marble, pinioned under a frown as she was. She gazed out over the cresting road ahead. Toby and the two clipboard-toting bookish types with him disappeared in the distance.

  Whose side are you on anyway?

  Mom reached down for her needlework. It was lying in the foot well, crumpled and dirty. I lifted my foot from atop it. She picked it up.

  He’d probably have done it for you.

  Mom wiped off the fabric. I told you not to get rid of him, didn’t I?

  Dad gave the ignition another go. The engine groaned, then cut out—pfft. Only the fan belt showed any sign of life, and then even its screeching came to a hissing stop. Mom tucked her needlework into her purse and made as if to get out.

  Dad stopped her. I hope for your sake that he doesn’t have anything to do with those clowns on that bus being here.

  The only place that Mom ever went was to Aurelia’s Bible study. That was practically the only time she ever got out of the house. I’d even asked to go with her once, but she’d refused—said Aurelia was funny that way. She didn’t like kids; all we did was break stuff. Which was ridiculous—I couldn’t have told you the last time I broke anything.