We headed into town early enough that I could see my footprints in dewy patches of grass. There was a particular joy I felt in walking down an empty road in the early morning after a heavy rain. After several weeks of dry weather, the surrounding fields were soaked. Life dripped from the trees, clung to cobwebs, and beaded up on tall stalks of grass. Birds dipped and disappeared in stands of sassafras. Pill bugs and centipedes scuttled at the edge of the road. Earthworms emerged from tiny holes and washed up onto the middle of the road. I carried them off in my cupped hands down a narrow road walled off on both sides with trees.
I was shocked to discover that Mister Goolsbee’s shop was gone. In its place, a black wood-burning stove stood in the center of a heap of smoldering embers. A wheelbarrow sat with its handle and tire burnt off. Beside it, a row of cinder blocks were vaguely recognizable as part of its foundation. Shingles were spread over the ground, and nails and saw blades poked out from smoldering ashes. Dad pulled me back and said that it looked like it was still hot.
I kicked at a charred patch of grass where thick tufts of little bluestem and prairie dropseed had been and looked up at Dad. I had no idea what had happened and was too afraid to ask. I waited for him to say something. Dad said that he remembered when Mister Goolsbee had first built his shop. He’d walked past it practically every day as a boy. As small and unremarkable as it had looked structurally, it had stood as a kind of monument. It was not customary, in Akersburg, for a colored man to own and operate a business. It had taken Mister Goolsbee the better part of his life to put that shop together, by which time he was well into his fifties.
Dad didn’t say it, but something told me that he wasn’t just talking about the expense of time and materials, which were the kinds of things that normally concerned him. Dad explained that Mister Goolsbee was a source of tremendous admiration and inspiration for a great many people. For whites, he was living proof that they offered a way up, if not a way out. For coloreds, he stood out for being the only one in the entire county who’d ever gotten that far in life. Then Dad said that if it was all the same to me, he would prefer not to talk about it anymore, and continued on down the road. After a few steps, he said to no one in particular that a man like Mister Goolsbee had cheated death enough times and that of course it was eventually going to catch up with him. When I ran up to him and asked what he meant, Dad said that clumsy old nigger was just too old to be working as much as he did and had probably just left a loose wire lying around—and that frankly, he was lucky not to have lost his inventory. It was a doggone shame, but the fact remained that I must not fall into the trap of always assuming the worst, no matter how bad anything ever looked. Which was fine with me. I was perfectly happy believing that Mister Goolsbee’s shop had been washed away with the rain if Dad wanted me to.
I’d brought along some fliers I’d made, figuring to post them while we were in town. I was down to a paltry two weeks before Danny’s scheduled departure and had decided it high time that I took the law into my own hands. I had tried the 221B Baker Street approach, replete with magnifying glass, pipe, and deerstalker hat. Now I was trying the bare-knuckled approach. On our way past the Camelot, I pulled one out and asked Dad if it looked like the genuine article. Dad looked concerned. I assured him that it wasn’t so much a matter of me assuming the worst as it was just plain wanting answers. Dad took my hand and asked how I could think about that pool at a time like this. I shrugged. I dunno. It wasn’t that hard, really. I just could.
• • •
THE THREE SHELL-BACKED chairs lined up on the sidewalk in front of the Rexall were wet. Trailways, having been out of service for over a week, had little use for them. Dad pulled a hankie from his back pocket and wiped off two. He sat down and massaged his knee; he told me to put my ear up close and made it pop just by bending it—called it the sound of middle age. He said there was no preventing it. It had just sort of crept up on him. Like one day he woke up, and that’s how his knee sounded when he bent it.
I sat down and swung my legs back and forth. People were starting to gather around the battle-scarred bus across the street. I was convinced that at this rate we’d be on rations of canned meat and powdered milk in a few more days. I’d probably have to learn another way to communicate with Derrick.
Can my bedroom light be used for Morse code?
Any light source can.
What’s Morse code for cast, Pop?
Dad had to think, then asked why I wanted to know.
I shrugged. Just curious.
The bus was in much worse shape than yesterday. There was graffiti spray painted all over its metallic keel, and more of the windows had been broken. The sun was just now coming over the low-rise buildings across the street. I cupped my hands over my eyes. I couldn’t believe some of the stuff written on it.
Is that even legal?
Just be happy your mom’s not here to see it.
My cast was a mess, too. My skin was raw around both ends. My fingers were filthy and looked terrible. They were sort of shriveled up and swollen at the same time. Made my face crinkle up when I bent down to smell them—like my feet after I’d gotten home with rain-soaked sneakers the night before.
Where do you suppose they’re staying?
Probably under a bridge somewhere.
A coin-operated Laundromat sat next door to S&W. Missus Higgins emerged from it. She stood on the corner, watching the coloreds milling about in front of S&W in their usual aggrieved way, then continued curbside, where a patrol car sat like a fixture. A deputy was leaning against it, quietly reading the paper. She interrupted him, pointed with her cane, and asked if it was legal, what they were doing.
Mister Abrams’s filter fixed yet?
The question had just popped out of my mouth, and I regretted it the second it left my lips. I don’t know why I even bothered to ask. I knew what was coming. If it wasn’t going to be about the coloreds across the street, it was going to be about that damned pool, and if it wasn’t going to be about the pool, it was going to be about the fire at Goolsbee’s place, and if it wasn’t about that, it was going to be about that son of a bitch Toby, who just strolled up across the street, because the fridge had finally conked out on us and had left such a mess that morning Dad had to put on his rain boots just to get at his coffee. He’d spent the rest of the predawn hours with Toby’s tools spread all over the kitchen floor, claiming to have fixed it. All the while, Mom was feeling around inside the freezer, complaining that it couldn’t cool a cracker.
Meanwhile, I was shocked at the discovery that Toby hadn’t come back for his tool belt. Mom had made it for him as an anniversary gift sometime before when I could remember to show how grateful Dad was for his ten years of service. And sure enough, they’d spent the rest of the morning in the kitchen, squabbling about stuff that had nothing to do with refrigeration systems or Freon or whatever frayed wires Dad had been fussing with, and I was so fed up with it all I disappeared into my bedroom and slammed the door shut. All they did anymore was bicker, and it was getting so bad that I didn’t care to ask what about.
Dad took out one of his cough drops, popped it into his mouth, and sucked on it. He started in about how much more difficult things had been since Toby had left. Telling me how important it was for me not to buckle under pressure—especially now that Miss Della, Aurelia, and Missus Swanson were no longer coming by to have their hair done, and here it was over a week and the toilet bowl still backed up to the rim every time I flushed it. Not to mention that Mom was starting to come apart at the seams, sleeping out on the sofa every night as she was.
Dad slung an arm over my shoulder and pulled me close. We’ve got to pull together, son.
I can always poo in the outhouse, Pop. I don’t mind that. Not one bit. But what about the fridge? Who’s gonna fix that? Because we need food! Christ, everybody needs food!
Toby was standing across the street. He took his place atop the milk crate and started going on like a one-man pep squad, lifting t
he spirits of his devotees with rallying cries and spurring on the slow-moving crowd around him. He seemed to breathe life into what looked to me like a band of devil-worshiping pagans who were single-handedly precipitating the decline of life as I knew it, otherwise known as Western civilization. Dad didn’t exactly say it, much less have to spell it out for me, but I suspected they were protesting something having to do with the government. Mom had let it slip while on the phone with Aurelia, asking her where she’d been hiding all this time. But what the government had to do with S&W was anybody’s guess.
It was one thing when those college kids had kept me from enjoying an ice cream, but what with Trailways rerouted, businesses up and down Main Street in a slump, and postal service suspended, it seemed like the beginning of the end. As I sat there listening to the foot-dragging rasp of loafers marching back and forth over the sidewalk and the lackluster chant of some uninspired two-four-six-eight number, part of me was surprised to see Toby still able to command everyone’s attention as he was. He was a natural. It was like he’d been born to do this sort of stuff. I almost got the impression that it was his calling.
Even though I hadn’t seen all that had happened, the episode on the back porch of Mister Goolsbee’s shop the night before had put me on edge so bad that I’d only slept a few hours. I still hadn’t found out from Dad what it was that we’d run from. I wished he’d just come out and told me, because I had goosebumps lying awake all night with my imagination running wild, never once having imagined that the place would be gone the next time I walked by. I don’t care if Mister Goolsbee was up to his neck in debt, how the heck was he supposed to pay anyone back with his only source of income demolished? I knew that money made the world go around, but that was ridiculous.
On top of that, I wet the bed. I didn’t blame Mister Goolsbee for that, of course. I would never do that. I put the blame square on Toby. I was mad as hell at him for having undone two years of progress in a single night. An eight-year-old isn’t supposed to wet the bed. Mom consoled me by saying, That’s just how your body works, dear. It’s not your fault. Until she realized I’d done it in what she called her bed. Then she was mad as hell. I demanded to know what she was so upset about, since she was sleeping out on the sofa. Worse still was the fact that I couldn’t even pawn off the stink on Snowflake. Then I told her it was all Toby’s fault, for all the stress his self-righteous crusade in town was causing me. It was having real-world consequences for me. I couldn’t help it. I was so desperate to be rid of Toby and all those coloreds who now seemed to be under his spell that I cast a hex on him using an old sock monkey that was lying around. I wasn’t sure who it belonged to. It was either Mom’s or Dad’s from when they were a kid.
Even if Dad was coming around to the view that Mister Goolsbee had been the victim of a hazardous work environment, it wasn’t lost on me that some people were more prone to having their places torched than others. What was even more amazing, though, was considering the rapid deterioration of the battle-scarred bus. Never mind that it was only the morning after the tragic fire afflicting Mister Goolsbee, Toby had somehow managed to drag still more people into the dispute taking place in front of S&W than he had the previous day. Judging from what I was seeing, I must have crossed my signals with my incantation and gotten my hex backward. Instead of clearing out, the coloreds seemed to be multiplying. The crowd was getting larger right before our eyes, with people constantly arriving, joining in the procession moving around and around in a circle on the sidewalk.
Most of the people yelling back to Toby in a loud and impassioned call-and-response weren’t impetuous renegades. They were pious old colored ladies with gray hair, the kind of women who went to Aurelia’s Bible study. They wore white leggings and padded walking shoes. They filled the entire street with the sound of their voices. I recognized the stock clerk from the Rexall, along with the woman who used to fold and iron clothes at the Laundromat next door. I wasn’t sure if she was working there anymore, though. Maybe not. Who knew? They were all considered the pillars of the colored community. At the sight of Missus Shapely and Missus Greeley over there with him, I leaned forward and spit.
You think he remembers us, Pop?
Of course he does.
Should I go say hi?
Can’t you see he’s busy?
I had no idea why Toby was with the people across the street. I was trying to figure it out. Aside from the obvious fact that he was colored and so were they. It felt like a betrayal—he’d known us just as long as he’d known any of them. He’d been with us for so, so long. And his father before him. Grandfather, too. After that, it got murky. Dad said people didn’t keep written accounts that far back. He made it sound like employment records were a modern invention.
I tried to imagine exactly what I’d say to Toby if I had the nerve to confront him. It wouldn’t be nice. Because it felt like he was assuming the absolute worst about me and my whole family. Why would he do such a thing, when we were just doing what people like us were supposed to do? It was what bosses did. And we were bosses. It wasn’t our fault. Heck, someone had to be. And quite honestly, I was thankful. Better us than someone else.
Dad claimed that we were the providers of jobs. The way he figured it, Toby and the other field hands jabbing at the air with their picket signs should have been thanking us. What would Toby have done with himself if he didn’t have us to provide him with an honest day’s work? Besides, it’s not like we were getting rich off him. Didn’t he know that this was just how the world worked? When they said God made the world in seven days, well, this was the world He made. It was starting to look like we were being scapegoated for the problems of every field hand who ever walked the earth. Dad made his knee pop again. He looked up with a grimace.
I know that man better than anyone, Huey. Known him since he was six. This is nothing but one man’s grievance. What you’re witnessing is a lifetime of frustration and anger boiling over. My only regret is that I didn’t see it coming sooner. And trust me, Toby doesn’t care one iota about anyone but Toby. Here he’s dragged Missus Greeley and Missus Shapely into this mess with him, not to mention all those other innocent and unsuspecting old ladies. Only God can help them now.
Gee whiz, Pop. You hear all he’s saying? He’s making us sound like monsters. Half of it’s not even true! Christ almighty, Mom made him dinner practically every night, and I personally wrapped them in tin foil to keep them warm. Son of a bitch, I even hand delivered them to him.
Now, now. You’re getting ahead of yourself. Toby’s in way over his head. He’s got no land. No equipment—not even a damned truck. Not to mention that busted-up leg of his.
He’s not using his cane anymore.
So what? All that boy’s got are his good looks and natural God-given charm and speaking ability. He’ll be lucky if he ever gets one seed in the ground come April. I give him ten days. Ten days, you hear? As soon as these people clear out and things return to normal around here, he’s gonna be done with those high-minded ideas of his and come knocking on our door, begging for us to take him back. Mark my word.
Seems to be doing fine now, though.
Dad reached into his pocket and pulled out a cough drop. He lobbed it underhand to me.
Here. They keep me from smoking so much, but they also help with dry mouth. Listen, I got it all worked out. Tobias Wetherall Muncie will come crawling back with his tail between his legs, begging for mercy, just as soon as he realizes that he needs us every bit as much as we need him. That’s the plague of the colored race. You understand? They think too much of themselves. Get all high and mighty before they’ve even troubled to think the thing through. And you wanna know why? Because even he’s got sense enough to realize when he’s beat. Because being a good field hand is one thing, but running the show is something else. That takes real smarts. Of course, it’s all fine and dandy just so long as he lays low and lets me do all the head work, what with the ledger, accounting, applications for various federal an
d state subsidies, payroll, etcetera etcetera. So don’t go getting all worked up over nothing. There’s more than one way to skin a cat. You’ll see.
I looked up at Dad, surprised—I thought that Mom did all that stuff. Anyway, the cough drop was cherry-flavored, and the wrapper stuck to my fingers. I had to shake my hand furiously in order to get it off.
Is my tongue red?
Dad shook his head no. He folded his arms and turned back to the crowd gathered across the street.
What color is it?
Pink.
That’s the normal color, right?
Far as I know.
The neon Coca-Cola sign flashing in the S&W window was making me thirsty. I popped the cough drop back in my mouth. Dad checked his watch and said that the truck was probably ready. He got up and limped over to Mister Brines’s shop. I’d hidden all the fliers I’d made in a newspaper. In an environment as untrusting as this, I wasn’t taking any chances. Danny only had two more weekends before he had to split for Fayetteville. It was a long shot, but I hadn’t given up on the idea of the pool reopening before he skedaddled off back to college. It would require me pounding the pavement in search of a miracle, but it was possible.
I got up, tore off a strip of masking tape, and taped one of my fliers to the seat back of the chair I’d been sitting in. I stepped back and checked to see if it was crooked.
WANTED!
For Trespassing on Private Property of . . .
The Camelot Terrace
AKA “The Pool”
2376 Cordele Road
Akersburg, GA
On the Evening of June 12
Approx 7:30 PM
Suspect last seen walking around with only one shoe.
Possibly injured during flight.
See anything suspicious?
Please call: 876-1492
REWARD: 5 lb bag of boiled peanuts.
THANK YOU!
*Reward pending arrest and conviction.
They Come in All Colors Page 12
