They Come in All Colors

by Malcolm Hansen

  Toby fell from a ladder.

  Is he okay?

  No. Mom didn’t say this so much as squeak it.

  Well, how’d it happen?

  He was fixing Mister Buford’s weather vane, and he slipped.

  Is he dead?

  Mom wiped at her eyes and nodded. Yes.

  I fiddled with the button dimpling the section of seat cushion between my thighs, then looked up. I felt like an idiot for not knowing how to react. Mom’s chest collapsed.

  Listen, baby. People are going to talk. And they’re going to say all kinds of stuff. But I want you to remember that it was an accident, okay? Just a silly old accident that could have happened to anybody.

  The button was fastened to the seat cushion by a single loop of stretched-out thread. I tugged on it and fell back in the chair, having decided that she was lying. Mom stroked the top of my head and got up.

  I’m going to make some collard greens and corn bread. Do you want some?

  I shook my head at the TV. A wordless moment passed before I realized that she was still standing there, staring down at me.

  Well, we’re going to take some over to Irma. Okay?

  Who’s that?

  Missus Muncie.

  Toby had mentioned her once or twice, but only in passing. Our TV was the shape of a peach crate, with three big knobs that clicked like a ratchet when I turned them. I looked back at it and nodded. I continued staring at it amid the sound of pots and pans clanging around in the kitchen, then got up to see what Mom was doing. She was wiping spilled batter from the counter. Dad was pacing behind her, going on about how her principal defect was that she always just settled for any old pot within reach, and when was it going to occur to her that if she just dug around in the back of the cupboard a little more she’d find something better suited to her purpose. I turned back to the TV, but didn’t dare touch it.

  • • •

  MOM HAD DUG out a notebook for me earlier that morning. She wanted me to write my feelings down in it. Actually, she was trying to get me to express pretty much any feeling. I dunno. I guess maybe I just felt a little numb by then and had clammed up. Anyway, I was sitting in the den writing in it when Dad poked his head in the door. He lifted it out of my hand and said that my Ts looked like Fs and my Ss looked like twos, then asked if I wanted to go for a little drive. Said getting out some might do me good.

  When I asked where to, Dad explained that Mister Orbach was short-staffed and could use some help. Our phone had been ringing off the hook all morning. Mom was standing in the doorway behind him with the steaming iron in her hand, demanding to know how he could think of work at a time like this. Dad said he was as sorry as anyone, but that life still went on for the rest of us. Mom said she knew. Which was why he should drop us off at Irma’s and not stay himself. It wouldn’t take her but a half hour to finish with her hair and get the food ready, if that.

  I put my notebook down and followed Mom to her room. I leaned against the doorjamb and watched her change into a dress, wondering what I’d have done if I’d stumbled upon a dead body instead of that can of Mister Nelson’s moonshine. I pictured the investigators taking me to the precinct downtown and sitting me down in a smoke-filled room and offering me a cigarette while grilling me about where I had been just before having found the body and where I had been headed and all sorts of other questions. Then I imagined Toby’s eyes open as he lay there and knew that I’d have pissed myself and fled.

  • • •

  ATLANTA GAS LIGHT Company was replacing old gas pipes around town, and the mile-long trench running alongside Oglethorpe looked like an open wound of red dirt. Mister Barnsdale was bicycling down the road with his fishing pole dangling from one hand. Dad tapped the horn, and I waved.

  It was nice to be just me and Dad together in the truck. Mom was a bundle of nerves and had been driving both of us crazy. For once in her life, she’d been all ready to go, dressed up and everything, but Dad refused her—said it wasn’t safe. Everybody in town was hunkering down with the curtains pulled and the doors locked, waiting for the storm to pass. He told her to do the same.

  The sun was out and the sky was crystal clear. I didn’t know what storm Dad was talking about. I didn’t understand why he’d been so nervous about dropping off Mom at the Muncies’—until we hit Cordele Road. Coloreds were pouring down the roadside in numbers I’d never seen. Field hands were a common sight on this stretch of Cordele, especially on weekends, when they headed into town. But never like this. Especially not on a weekday.

  Dad put on the brakes. The flood of field hands, stock clerks, and service women taking up half the road weren’t paying attention to where they were walking. Dad slowed down some more, careful not to bump Mister Goolsbee, hobbling along with his boy at his side. We passed Aurelia. And Mister Swanson, too. He didn’t even bother to look at me, which was unusual—he was one of the nicest men I knew. I leaned out the window and waved at him, but it was impossible to get his attention.

  The further we got down Cordele Road, the more there were. I wanted to say something to Dad but wasn’t sure what. They were filing in from every side road, access road, footpath, and walking bridge in sight. Some were crossing over from the surrounding fields, past stacks of peanuts drying under the morning sun. Some were alone or in pairs. Others were in small groups. Women filed out of rundown shacks with babies in their arms and small children at their sides. They turned in from Jackson Street. Others appeared from within Mister Brumeier’s pecan orchard. Another group was turning at Front, being the final turnoff before the covered bridge. All of them looked grim as they boiled over the sides of the road, with peanut stacks spread out over the fields on either side of them.

  I struggled to take it all in. Dad zigzagged around them slowly, offering them as wide a berth as he could. We shared a quiet moment as we made our way through the throng of people. We continued past a procession of dusty side roads interspersed with Pentecostal churches and still more peanut fields. Dad nodded, but didn’t explain what they were doing or why they were there or where they were going. He didn’t have to. It was all right there in front of me, just as plain as day. I knew without having to ask. That road only went to one place. It was in the trample of their feet—this was for Toby.

  We forked off at a side road, and Dad picked up speed. The very last of the coloreds disappeared in the rearview mirror. I couldn’t shake the picture in my head of Toby sprawled out on his back next to Mister Buford’s barn, dead. I pulled my head in from the window and wiped the dust from my eyes.

  Did he die right away?

  Who?

  Toby.

  I have no idea.

  I wonder if he suffered.

  Dad shook his head. I doubt it.

  Well, who found him?

  Probably Lance, I imagine. It’s his orchard, right?

  Last night or this morning?

  Jesus, Huey. What difference does it make?

  Remember the time he was climbing up the ladder with an armful of shingles we’d picked up for him in town? Remember that? And when he got to the very top of it, how he leaned against the side of our house and set the stack of shingles atop the roof with only one foot still touching the topmost rung of the ladder? And how you went out and warned him to be careful—said it was still slippery and you couldn’t afford to have him break his neck? And how he laughed and told you to go back to your TV show, because he’d worked atop that ladder since before he could walk? And how you came back inside and assured Mom that he knew his way around a ladder better than any monkey?

  What in the hell are you trying to say?

  How could someone as good at climbing a ladder as Toby fall from one?

  It was probably dark out.

  That’s what I thought. But—

  But nothing. Even monkeys slip and fall.

  We clattered up to a fingerpost leaning in a tuft of crabgrass on the side of the road. It was an unfamiliar stretch of road to me. I asked Dad what the GA
in HWY GA 331 stood for. He stared at me like I was dumb as bricks. Off in the distance a dust cloud–enshrouded combine was moving slowly over the horizon. Dad sighed and said that Toby was a good man, but that even good men lose their footing and make mistakes, then pulled forward.

  Half a mile up, Mister Daley’s field ended and the Orbachs’ field began. Dad eased right at the first turnoff and continued along a stretch that ran parallel with another of their fields. A little further up, a squat house came into view. It was set back from the road and appeared lonely for the absence of any other houses around it. Its rickety front porch seemed to be propping it up. A yellow curtain slid back. A very old colored woman peered out from behind a busted-out window.

  Mister Orbach had fields all over. He had all kinds of equipment, fancy irrigation systems, and lots of people working for him. The only thing we had had over Mister Orbach was Toby. Anyway, the little ripples in the road rocked me as I gazed out at the rows of peanut vines fanning out as far as I could see. I wanted to ask Dad why he was so eager to help someone who never did anything for us. I turned from the window and stared at him.

  What’s the matter now?

  Derrick called me a half-breed once.

  Derrick said that?

  Called me a scraggly-haired muffin-top half-breed.

  Your hair ain’t curly.

  That’s what I said.

  Nothing a haircut can’t fix.

  Toby said I could straighten it if I didn’t like it. Said it just burns a little. Said a spoonful of mom’s bergamot would do the trick.

  A haircut’s better. We’ll get you a haircut.

  Said that’s all Mom does all day, is burn colored people’s hair straight. Said that’s all her life has amounted to—trying to get colored people’s hair as straight as yours. But Mama says mine doesn’t even need bergamot. She thinks it’s perfect just the way it is.

  You want it as short as mine? Nice and flat on top. Here, feel mine. Flat and stiff as a horse brush is how I like it. You like that? We can do the same for you.

  Day and night. Burn, burn, burn. Toby said that’s all she does.

  You’ve got a lot more to be proud of than you think.

  I turned back to the fields. They looked burnt, too.

  Other than my hair, you mean?

  Like your great grampa, that’s what. That should mean something to you. It does to everyone else.

  That’s your grampa.

  You want to know about your mother’s, is that it? Well, you know that her grampa used to work for us.

  You mean, for you.

  What?

  He didn’t work for Mama. He worked for you.

  And you know that her mother did, too.

  What was she like?

  For crying out loud—I was your age, son. You can’t honestly expect me to remember. Seemed nice enough, though.

  What about her dad?

  She never got to meet him. Because—well, damn it, he pissed off with someone else. Say, what is this?

  Dad looked over, frustrated. We clattered up to a line of cars and trucks and wagons and tractors parked alongside Mister Orbach’s field. Mister Bigelow, Mister Daley, and several others stood out in the field in coveralls, smoking cigarettes and chatting.

  Dad slapped the shifter.

  Listen, Huey. Your mother’s proud as hell of her grampa. She really is. But she still thanks the Lord that you’re a Fairchild. You know that, right? So whenever I talk about “Grampa” or “Great Grampa” or anyone like that, it’s my folks I’m talking about. Okay?

  A thresher sat in the middle of the field. It was like a giant wooden jalopy humping along full-bore, rattling and shimmying and wobbling like it was about to go off the rails. Dad got out and headed over to it. He shook hands and cracked jokes. He had to shout over the thresher’s loud rattling.

  Mister Orbach had been out since first light. He wanted to know if we’d seen any of his hands on the way.

  I wriggled up front.

  I saw ’em. Hundreds of ’em.

  A thick cloud of diesel exhaust hung in the air. The thresher was engulfed in a haze of gauzy light. Mister Bigelow emerged from the side of it, dragging a sack of peanuts behind him. He pulled it up to my side and, having placed it into my care, slapped straw and dirt from his coveralls. He shook his head and asked what I was doing with a soldering mask on.

  It wasn’t a soldering mask. But I kept quiet and didn’t say anything—it was easier that way. Bits of peanut hay hung suspended in the air, and the ground was covered with the stuff. I stood there struggling to keep that hundred-pound gunnysack from falling over, all the while scratching the crud out from under my cast. I raked my fingernails over the skin just above my cast so hard red streaks covered the entire top half of my arm.

  Dad came over and helped me get some of the grime out from under it, cursing Mom for not having put me in long sleeves. Mister Bigelow stood there shoveling dried peanut vines into the mouth of the thresher with a pitchfork, harping on to anyone who’d listen about how Toby was to blame for everything from the sticky heat to lousy contract prices.

  Lord knows how you put up with that boy for so long.

  Dad pulled me aside, looked me up and down gravely, and asked me how I was doing. I looked over his shoulder at the men working the thresher, then said that I was doing fine. Dad nodded, pleased. He asked if I knew the way home. The broken-down farm equipment scattered along the rutted road and collected in the drainage ditches seemed to point the way.

  Dad dug into his pocket and pulled out some money. He stuffed a dollar bill into my hand. I stared down at it, then peeked up, wondering what it all meant. I didn’t ask because I was overcome with the spooky suspicion that I already knew. It was more money than he’d ever given me at one time. I unfolded it and held it in both hands. George Washington’s mouth was pressed closed tight, like he was hiding those grim-looking teeth of his from me. I suppose everybody’s got something they’re ashamed of. I put the bill up to my nose. It smelled like kerosene. Dad reminded me that whatever I’d heard any of the others say, they were still our closest neighbors and friends, then patted my ass and told me to run along.

  Straight as an arrow. Do not pass Go. Do not collect two hundred dollars. Is that clear?

  Dad didn’t want me hearing the sort of language Mister Orbach and the others were using. Mom had asked him a gazillion times not to use it around me. Called it poison. It was more than a pet peeve with her—it was the one wish of hers that she demanded he respect. I’d stood by his side watching as she made him promise, wondering what the big deal was. He wasn’t the only one. There was just something about it that seemed a little like trying to mop up the Mississippi.

  It’s because of what Mister Orbach said, isn’t it? All that “nigger” talk—nigger this and nigger that; nigger, nigger, nigger—isn’t it?

  Dad knelt down and held me in his eyes. Yes.

  I ain’t gonna rat you out, Pop! I promise! I ain’t a snitch. Don’t you believe me? You gotta believe me. I swear I won’t tell! Please! Don’t make me go! I don’t wanna go! I wanna stay with you!

  The fucker just looked at me, then returned to the others. He didn’t have anything else to say. The thresher was shaking and creaking like a popcorn popper. Mister Bigelow was standing beside the chute, filling the sack in both his hands, holding it under a whir of peanuts spraying out. He powered it down and joined Dad, who was sitting beside Mister Orbach on the rusty rear bumper of our sun-faded mustard-yellow truck.

  I stormed off toward the thresher and kicked over a peanut-filled sack, then another and another, until eight were lying on their side with heaps of peanuts spilled out everywhere. I expected Dad to come over and whup my ass. But he didn’t. No one even noticed. Dad was sitting there with Mister Bigelow, Mister Orbach, and several others gathered around him, going on about all we’d seen on the drive there. He asked Mister Orbach when was the last time that anyone had done a census count of all the niggers living out
in the shady back wood outside town? Because all of a sudden it seemed like there were more niggers than white people in Akersburg. There had been more than he could shake a stick at on our way there. They’d seemed to come out of the goddamned woodwork. And frankly, he didn’t know we had that many.

  I kicked over the last standing sack of peanuts and headed off. Dad had intended for me to take the bus. He didn’t say it—the dollar did. I preferred to save the money and walk. When I got to the main road, several colored boys were walking up ahead in the direction of town, carrying armfuls of placards and pickets. I hollered out for them to wait up, figuring that if we were going in the same direction, I’d walk with them. They didn’t seem to hear me. So I held back and let them continue on by themselves.

  A car sped past, so close I’d had to step down into the sheer slope of the road’s narrow shoulder to avoid getting hit. Twenty yards down, its brake lights flared, and it pulled over. I didn’t recognize it, but I ran up to the window anyway. It was an old Dodge. It had a black-and-white handshake painted on the door—which gave me pause. That was not something I saw every day. The driver talked like the president.

  What?

  Town, boy. The way to town.

  I pointed. He asked if I needed a lift. The front passenger’s seat was empty, but three coloreds were crouched down in the backseat, so low I almost didn’t see them. I stepped back. No, thank you.

  The car pulled back onto the road. Why those coloreds were hiding in the backseat was beyond me. Besides, town was so close I could walk there blindfolded.

  There were Pentecostal churches up and down this stretch of Cordele Road. Along the far edge of a field sat a row of bungalows connected like barracks. They sat sort of lopsided and were boarded up and empty. Two old colored men were sitting on the front stoop of one, beside the posts from which livestock and slaves had once washed. Everything out this way was beaten down, half dead. Two toddlers were running around naked, chasing each other in play. The droopy-eyed old men watched as I passed by.