They Come in All Colors

by Malcolm Hansen

  Hoe, Emma, hoe.

  You turn around, dig a hole in the ground.

  Hoe, Emma, hoe.

  Emma, you from the country.

  Hoe, Emma, hoe.

  You turn around, dig a hole in the ground.

  Hoe, Emma, hoe.

  A curtain slid back in the squat house in front of me. A colored woman I didn’t recognize peeked out from behind a tile of cardboard fitted shabbily over a busted-out window. Dad rocked himself out of two-day old mud, then turned around. Our truck never seemed the time-traveling spaceship that it was at that moment, its trail of exhaust thinning in the distance.

  He’s not coming with?

  No.

  Why not?

  Mom undid her shawl and bent down in front of me. She adjusted my tie and told me to close my mouth. You’re gonna be just fine. People are people. Remember that. Now you just watch your mama and do what I do, hear?

  Is Toby’s family in there?

  Of course they’re in there. Where else would they be?

  I pointed to the open field. Twenty or so colored men were out threshing. Mom adjusted my sling, licked her fingers, and pressed my hair straight. She led me across the dirt road and up the front stoop. She handed me the baking tin and knocked on the door. A colored woman pulled it open. Mom directed me inside and thanked the woman she called Myrna.

  Mom tossed her handbag into a chair and headed for the kitchen. She pulled the refrigerator open and set the baking tin inside like she owned the place. I knocked into one of the flower vases crowding the doorway on my way in. I stooped down and groped over the floorboards to pick it up. The woman named Myrna stooped down beside me to help. The back door creaked open, and I heard Mom scream Evan!

  Evan?

  A colored boy—the colored boy—stood in the open doorway in rolled-up overalls, no shirt, and bare feet. It was the same Evan who nearly tore my arm off. Mom knelt down in front of him, and all I could think was, Evan? What the heck is he doing here? When Mom introduced him to me as Toby’s son, the bottom seemed to fall out from under me.

  What are you talking about? “Toby’s boy”? That’s Goolsbee’s boy.

  Mom gave me a look. I knew that look, and I didn’t like it one bit. It made me feel stupid.

  He never mentioned having a son! That’s Goolsbee’s boy!

  It was Goolsbee’s boy. Goolsbee’s boy was Goolsbee’s son. He only had one, and that was him. Goolsbee’s was the only place I ever saw him, so it only made sense. Mom’s look told me to stop while I was ahead. I felt like my worst nightmare was coming true. Damn it all, Toby barely even mentioned having a wife, never mind a son. I glanced at the fridge. I wondered if Irma was the one who was busy trying to make room for all the food we’d brought. No. Wait. That was Myrna. I looked down at the little purple flower in my hand, then up at the back doorway. Mom and Evan were looking at one another in a dusty shaft of light coming in through the back doorway.

  Huey, there’s someone I’d like for you to meet.

  I took a step back.

  Never mind him. If you ever want to come over to our house and spend time with me, you’re welcome to. Or even just to borrow some toys. You just let me know, okay?

  Another woman entered the room. She was a small-framed woman, shorter than Mom. Her belly was so big I thought she was about to fall over.

  Little Huey? What happened to your arm?

  I was hit by a car.

  And what’s this?

  I was distractedly looking for the TV. There was none. I felt out of place in a house without a TV.

  Oh, this? This is just old newspaper. I unwrapped it. Here.

  What is it?

  Well, nothing really. But. Well. It’s something Toby told me to fix once. Ma’am. And that I—or—Well. I glanced at Evan coldly. I couldn’t even think his name without a feeling of deep fury welling up inside me. Well, I recently broke it again. Even if it can’t be fixed, Toby—I mean, Mister Muncie—was the rightful owner. You see, it belonged to him, ma’am. In a manner of speaking. Because he told me to fix it. It may not look like it, but I did. And now I’d like for you to have it. You see right here? I tried to glue this. But as you can see, it still isn’t quite right. But I tried. And Toby said that’s what counts. Which is how I know that he’d have appreciated this—because I tried. Boy, did I try. I know it doesn’t look like much. But—well—I tried, ma’am. I really did.

  I held up to Missus Muncie an abomination of my once prized dive mask, which the young colored boy standing in the opposite doorway, charming my mother, had so ruthlessly destroyed not but a few days before. Shards of glass were poking out. Elmer’s was smeared across it so thick the face plate wasn’t even transparent anymore. Never mind seeing through it, you couldn’t wear it without poking out an eye. I suddenly felt silly for having brought it.

  I handed it to her. It would have had tremendous symbolic value to Mister Muncie. I just know it. He’d have looked upon it no different than if it were one of those fancy new ones. He always said that, ma’am. If something broke, don’t matter what, you fix it.

  It pained me to have to give it to her in that awful condition. I apologized a second time for the fact that glass didn’t glue so well. And that I hadn’t been able to find every little piece. Missus Muncie received it tenderly in both hands and led me to the sofa beneath the front window and set it alongside an assortment of family photographs and keepsakes.

  She stroked her big round belly and pointed at one. Do you know who that is?

  I paused, suddenly uneasy. What am I doing there?

  Evander Erraticus Muncie, you bring Huey here some iced tea. You’d like some iced tea, wouldn’t you? Along with a graham cracker from the cupboard. And you might as well bring Peola here some coffee while you’re at it. Don’t bother heating it, though. She’s used to it cold.

  Irma pushed aside the flowers cluttering the coffee table. Everything seemed a great effort for her. She sat down and patted the seat cushion beside her.

  Darker hair and eyes—and softer features, for sure. But child, you look just like your daddy. But enough of that. Now, what’s this I hear about you being at Good Intent?

  Yes, ma’am.

  Lucky you.

  I still had the picture in my hand. I glanced up from it. Now she knew where I went to school? Something stank—and not the fatty smell of ham hocks boiling off on the stove. Mom sat down between us and interrupted me midsentence. She started saying how unfair life is, and how sorry she was, and how near and dear Toby was to all our hearts, and how lucky we were to have had a chance to get to know him, and how sorely missed he’d be, and how he’d been a sorely needed beacon in difficult times like these.

  Buck didn’t have to tell me what an upstanding worker he was, Irma. I saw it myself—how he didn’t mind, not one bit, being out there on those long days. Under that hot sun. In its heat, covered in sweat. To provide for you and Evan. Whatever happened, you can be proud of that.

  Missus Muncie’s face went flat. Where is he now?

  Never could stand tears. You know that.

  Mom was making up the same old garden-variety nonsense people say after someone they didn’t much care for while alive is dead and gone. When my drink didn’t come, I got up and went to the back door. I pressed my face against its pushed-out screen and wondered whether it was to Mom’s credit that she didn’t care what color people were. Evan was standing in the middle of a clearing, heaving an ax. He grunted as he brought it down—crack. I stepped out. He looked up at the sound of the door.

  Shoulda seen it a week ago. TV people. News people. Radio people. Magazine people.

  Movie people?

  He paused. Yeah. Movie people, too. Couldn’t fit ’em all in. Cars and trucks lined up and down both sides of the road. It was like Main Street on a Sunday, so many of them coming and going. Made my head spin. See this? He stroked his fingers along the visor of his stiff, new ball cap. Robinson saw me with my old one on the TV. Said it was a shame a
fan like me should have to wear something so shabby. Sent me this here new one. Even signed it and everything.

  Jackie Robinson sent that?

  Evan whacked it into shape and slid it back on. He left the ax in the chopping block and signaled for me to follow him. So I did. He guided me past a lean-to under which wood was stacked, past a chicken coop and underneath the shade of a tarpaulin hanging above a clutter of hubcaps, car rims, and bicycle tires.

  I followed Evan over to a swing hanging from the high branch of a red maple across the way and past a stump of salt lick. He shoved the swing out of the way and pulled some shrubs to the side. Inside was a clearing. The ground was covered with curlicues of wood shavings, and chisels, handsaws, wood planes, and squares of sandpaper were scattered about. Evan picked up one of the bow staves stacked up against a chair and held it out to me. Said he’d made it himself.

  I rubbed my fingers over it. I’d never felt anything so smooth. I couldn’t believe it. I could read cloud cover and wind direction for rain, fold a parachute, tie a noose, clean Dad’s Colt with nothing but a Q-tip and a toothbrush, identify the Tupolev Tu-4 bomber, evade capture by communists, and administer a lie-detector test to one, too, but I could not—I repeat—could not fashion my own bow from a tree stump.

  Your pop taught you this?

  Evan slid an arrow from a quiver leaning against the same chair. He put it to the bow, pulled it back, and let it fly. Thwangggg—the arrow smacked into a tree about thirty yards away. A squirrel was hanging from it about forty feet up, twitching. I looked at Evan with dismay and asked what the hell his problem was. He slid another arrow from the quiver, put it to his bow, and aimed it directly at me.

  You’re like Topsy, if Topsy was a little faggot fucker who acted white just because he looked like a cracker. Your mama’s a no-shame gold-digging house nigger like that yellow bitch Cassy. And your daddy’s like Massa Shelby, if Massa Shelby had no fucking idea how to raise so much as a patch of grass. What? You don’t think I read? Well, fuck you. If it was up to me, you wouldn’t even be here!

  Evan went quiet. The back door creaked open. He pointed the bow to the ground and whispered, I’m here to stay. You hear? Those cowards ever come after me like they did my daddy, it’s gonna be one of these right between their eyes. If they ever come around here at night, carrying on with their torches lit and honking their horns, throwing exploding bottles and tearing ass around the front of my house, I’m letting the arrows fly. Now shuffle along like a good little Sambo and report back to them that I ain’t going nowhere!

  Evan disappeared into the shrubs. Mom called out. I wasn’t sure what had just happened. Evan was acting like it was me who’d pushed his daddy off that ladder. I made my way back in a fog, stumbling over tufts of grass and gnarled and knobby tree roots girding broad tree trunks. I tripped over a bicycle frame and followed a string of hoof prints in the mud until I picked up a footpath no wider than a leaf. It led straight to the back stoop.

  Mom was on the porch, promising a flat-faced Evan that she would return just as soon as she could. Evan disappeared inside. Mom chewed me out for having wandered off. I kicked at a chicken clucking past on our way around the side of the house. Mom asked if I didn’t feel a little silly about having been nervous. Said she was happy to see us boys get along so well. It was the first time I’d seen her with anything resembling a smile in quite some time. So I didn’t say anything. She took my hand, and we made our way up the dirt road.

  My whole arm felt like it was set to explode. I tugged on the plaster to relieve some of the throbbing. The frayed part up at the bend in my elbow split even more. It helped a little, but my arm still felt pinched in places. I slid my fingers underneath it and started jerking.

  Is something the matter?

  I hesitated. What would we do if that ever happened to Pop?

  Mom stopped. If he fell from a ladder?

  I nodded yes. Mom cautioned me not to trouble myself with thoughts like that and continued walking. After a few steps, she said that she didn’t know, but we’d figure something out. People always do.

  Are you sure Toby liked us?

  Sure I’m sure.

  Because we were good to him?

  Of course.

  We don’t owe him any money, do we?

  Just his back pay. But we’re pulling that together.

  So Dad was a good boss?

  Mom stopped.

  And what exactly does it mean if someone says you live off the spoils of your family name? And what’s a gold digger? Is that good or bad? Because it sounds like it oughta be good, but then people say it in a way where it doesn’t. And just who the hell are Topsy, Cassy, and Massa Shelby, anyway? And is Evan part Chickasaw? ’Cause I got the impression he might be. They were the best with arrows, right? Like, that William Tell fella was modeled on a Chickasaw Indian, right? And what’s all this business about the legions of slaves that used to live out this way that I keep hearing about? Did that really happen? And now that I’m thinking about it, why don’t you and Pop wear your wedding rings, anyway? It’s a little embarrassing, if you ask me. Everyone else does.

  What on earth were you two boys talking about back there?

  I paused. And I thought crackers were just food.

  What in the world did Evan say to you back there? Mom stopped. Wait. Hold it right there. I think I know what’s going on. This was bound to happen someday; I suppose today’s as good as any. Here. Listen. I know what people think—and what they say. Okay? I do. I really do. And how they talk. Okay? I know all that. You think I don’t know that? Well, I do. Listen. Your father’s not perfect, okay? But who is? What matters is that he is decent. Okay? I can tell you that much. So don’t let anyone tell you different. Ring or no ring, I wouldn’t be with him if he wasn’t. Now, some people in town talk, is all. They say mean things. Like, that we don’t deserve to be together—your father and I. Or they say the complete opposite, that we deserve each other, but they mean that in a mean-spirited way. Okay? Does that make sense? No? Kinda? Well, let me put it to you this way. See, some people say that your father allowed himself to fall for me because he was too simple-minded to know better. Okay? There. Make sense now? That was in the beginning. Then they said that he was staying with me only on account of—well—an accident, let’s just put it that way. Okay? Say, like I played a trick on him. That sort of thing. What kind of trick? Well, never mind that. But they were wrong about that, too. Nobody played a trick on nobody. There were no tricks involved, Huey. None. You’ll just have to take my word for it. There was nothing but love. One hundred percent pure, unadulterated love. But that’s hard for some people to accept. They just figure that something else unsavory had to be mixed up in it because according to them he was too good for me. They’ve been stuck on that belief and refuse to believe otherwise to this day. But they are wrong. So they have no choice but to say that it won’t last. And that’s more or less where we are today. But they are wrong about that, too. Because here I am. And there he is. And we’re still together. And no matter all the mean, nasty, and hurtful things people have said and done to try to tear us apart, here we are. Just as strong and in love as the day we met.

  There. Feel better? Sometimes people just have their own ideas about who should be with whom, Huey. That’s all. And they have a hard time letting go of those ideas. You could even say they’re married to them, in a way. So what do people say now? Well, I wouldn’t exactly know because I’m not around those people anymore. And frankly I don’t care. Because it’s all just idle talk from a bunch of folks who believe that I must be some piece-of-trash gutter girl who could never do better. Okay? I know all that. And now I guess you’re starting to know it, too. But right now you’re going to wash all that stuff out of your head and pretend like you never heard it, okay? Because it’s poison. And when poison gets into your brain, it can be hard to get it out. No, you don’t have to mention it to your daddy. In fact, I would prefer it if you didn’t. It would just upset him. Bec
ause it’s nothing but mean and nasty and spiteful stuff that we’re trying to put behind us, but that the people who don’t want to see us together keep putting in the way.

  Listen, Huey. You’re gonna hear people say things about us—your father and me. But you shoudn’t believe it all. The bottom line is that your father is going to see to it that you have the bright future that you deserve. To me, all that matters in this world is that you’re provided for in that way. To have the honest-to-goodness chance to make whatever you want of your life. All that empty talk about pride coming from poor single women in broken families, without a hope in the world for themselves, much less their babies? Let them snicker all they want. Let them believe that I don’t have something they do. Because at the end of the day, their pride may only be good for their sleep, and sleep is overrated. I live for the waking hours. Phooey. You want pride? I’ll show you my pride. He’s standing right here. There’s not a thing in this world that I wouldn’t do for you, boy. You know that, right? I don’t have to do anything in the name of pride that I can do for you.

  I turned back to the road.

  What now, sweetheart?

  Your rings?

  Rings? We don’t have rings.

  Don’t have rings? What kind of answer’s that? Why not?

  Rings cost money, you know. And what’s a ring got to do with love, anyway?

  And I suppose that’s why everyone one else has four or five kids, whereas you just have me? You know damned well I’ve wanted a little brother for as long as I’ve been stuck cleaning out the henhouse by myself, washing dishes by myself, shucking corn, peeling potatoes, scrubbing pots, cleaning the windows, sweeping out back, chopping wood, stacking wood, pruning shrubs, baling hay, sorting stack poles, cutting down trees, and pulling weed thistle.

  Mom smiled. You’re a slow learner, but you’re coming along.

  It’s not funny! Money, money, money. Shoulda known. Everything is about money. Always money! I stopped. Even Missus Muncie had on a ring! The man who used to work for us! And who’s dead now! His wife! And don’t think I don’t know about what you and Dad do in your room! All that, and no baby to show for it! And here you always go on about scripture, and Bible this and Bible that. Well, what ever happened to the Lord, he proclaimeth on the fifth day that man shall go forth on this day and multiply, so that his kin, too, may inhabit the earth, with all its earthly splendor? Because that woman’s belly was poking straight out to here. So don’t try and fool me with that business about the stork bringing babies when it’s as clear as day that something’s about to pop out of her any minute!