Leaving Atlanta

by Tayari Jones

  Leon has taken more than his share, but he still digs through your bag. “Where the candy corn?” He looks at you, annoyed.

  You didn’t realize that you had been filling an invoice. “There might be some in there.”

  “No it ain’t. I looked. I can’t believe you forgot the candy corn.” He ties the ends of his shirt together, securing his haul. “Don’t worry,” he says brightly. “We’ll get some tomorrow.”

  You have heard of an epidemic of disappearing black fathers, but you know you will never be as lucky. Yours comes home every evening from a long day spent lying on his back underneath malfunctioning automobiles. I’m my own boss, he likes to boast. If he were someone else’s boss, perhaps he wouldn’t get so dirty that dinner can never be served until he has spent most of an hour in the bath removing the evidence of his unsupervised labor. The meal overcooks in aluminum pots as his voice from the bathroom sings, “Take my arms, I’ll never use them.”

  By the time he gets to the table, he seems incapable of song. He approaches your mother’s cooking with a resigned martyrdom. Mother switches on the television. Father looks at the screen and says simply, “Bastard.”

  “Claude L!” Mother is always shocked by bad language.

  Your designated chair is not situated to provide a view of the black-and-white television. You can only wonder which bastard he is talking about. Perhaps it is the president. You twist your body counterclockwise and crane your neck to see what looks like Mayor Jackson sitting before a table heaped with money.

  “Excuse my French,” Father says, as he mercilessly rips a corn muffin in two. “I can’t stand to see that yellow bastard up there acting like he care about black children. It makes me sick to my stomach.”

  You take a muffin and pull it apart carefully, searching for bits of eggshells. You see a white fleck and gingerly dislodge it.

  “He didn’t care nothing about Joe’s kids when Joe and them said they didn’t want to work for free. He didn’t want to give them a decent wage to feed their family. But he’s acting like he is so worried about the children.”

  Your Uncle Joe nearly lost his house last spring when the sanitation workers went on strike. Your mother baked improbable casseroles and took them to your cousins once a week. Father slapped a green-and-white sticker on your notebook that said THE MAYOR’S WORD IS GARBAGE.

  Your mother takes in a sharp breath. Double negatives inflate her blood pressure.

  “What’s all that money for?” Sister asks.

  “It’s reward money,” Mother explains. “If someone can catch the bad man who is taking the children, Mayor Jackson will give them the money.”

  “Don’t say that SOB’s name in this house. It wouldn’t surprise me one bit to find out that money ain’t worth the paper it’s printed on,” Father pronounces, sawing angrily at a fried-hard pork chop.

  “Claude L! Your language!” For Mother, ain’t is a worse word than nigger. Her freshly straightened hair trembles with outrage.

  You cut your pork chop into salty bits and scatter them all over your plate.

  “Officer Friendly came to our class today,” Sister says.

  “Did he?” Mother replies.

  “He taught us a song. Want me to sing it?”

  No one answers. Father still mumbles under his breath. You listen to the disembodied voice of the first black newscaster ever on Atlanta TV. She announces that another child’s body has been found.

  “Wanna hear me sing the Safety Song?” Sister asks again. Without waiting for permission, she begins.

  “Kids don’t go with strangers … They never go with strangers …”

  “Did they say whose body it was?” you ask, loud enough to be heard over Sister’s warbling.

  There has been much conversation lately about finding bodies, as if a person’s physical self could be misplaced as easily as a catcher’s mitt. As if Jashante might say You found my body? Where it was? Would he pull it on like a sweater or step into it like a pair of pants? But you know better. Bodies are like the turnstile at Kmart: Once you pass through you can’t change your mind and go back the other way.

  Sister is still singing. “Kids don’t go with strangers, that’s a fact. Get back, Jack!

  “You want me to sing it again?”

  “That’s alright, baby,” Mother says with her hands covering her mouth as she watches the television. Father shakes his head and closes his eyes. “This don’t make no kinda sense,” he says.

  Sister sings, “Kids don’t go with strangers.”

  That night, you lie in bed trying to remember the time before you were born. Father said once, “Boy, we talking about things that happened before you were even thought about.” This is the time that you want to recapture. You are curious about the state of not being, because this is certainly where people go when they leave their bodies in the woods for the police to find.

  Mother claims that people are baby angels before God dispatches them to some family. But you aren’t sure if you believe that such an impractical concept as the angel system could be the product of a divine mind. If Mother’s theory is true, heaven would be crowded with all the people that are already dead and those waiting for their turn to be born. And why aren’t baby angels the little ones who die in their cribs, like your two baby aunts Grandmother says she lost?

  You lie there hoping for a peaceful prenatal memory to assure you that death is nothing to fear. That you shouldn’t be afraid to go to the mailbox after dark because the worst thing that could happen would be that you would be returned to the place that you were. That you would be sent back to a condition where there is no father, no mother, no candy or school. But you still wonder about the process of leaving the body behind, dying. Monica Kaufman said that the missing children had been asphyxiated. Your children’s dictionary (which you hate) does not include this important word, so you consulted the real one in the family room. Asphyxiate is to smother, which is almost the same as drowning.

  You nearly drowned when you were about four. Mother’s stomach was large with Sister. Her belly button protruded. Father held his large hands under you as you lay, trusting, near the surface of the cool, chlorinated water.

  “Kick,” he commanded, and you did.

  He laughed. “Look, Beverly,” he shouted over his hairy shoulder. “This boy might be ready for the Olympics in seventy-six!”

  He took his hands away. “Keep on kicking.”

  You sank. The water in the motel pool closed over your head like a glass elevator door. You tried to remember the lessons you had just learned. Kick your legs. Cup your hands. Blow bubbles. That’s my boy. But the fake blue water rushed in your nostrils, setting fires in your sinuses, and there was no air with which to cry.

  Powerful hands with calluses softened by cool water lifted you through the blue glass. You twined your legs around Father’s waist. Wiry chest hair scratched your trembling stomach.

  “What happened?” he asked, prying you from his torso so that your faces were level. “You were swimming good until you saw that my hands were gone. Then you went under like a lead balloon.”

  He laughed a little bit, but you cried. “Oh, come on.” Father gave you a rough shake. “Don’t act like a little girl.”

  You looked to Mother, who struggled to rise from a green-striped pool chair. “Claude L, is he alright?”

  “He’s fine. We gonna try it again.”

  “He looks cold,” Mother noticed. “Bring him over here so I can dry him off.”

  “Beverly, you gonna make this boy into a sissy,” Father said, but he delivered you to Mother, who rubbed the tiny chill bumps on your arms with a yellow beach towel that was heated by the sun-warmed concrete. You wanted to climb on her lap, but her huge stomach rested on her thighs, leaving no space for your narrow bottom. Even hugging was awkward, so she held your hand and kissed your forehead.

  When you awaken the next morning dark clouds filled with water shroud the sky, obscuring the fading stars. The drumming
of water on earth and brick and glass is hypnotic. Your father knocks twice on your closed bedroom door before you answer.

  “Sir?” You are suddenly tense between your Snoopy sheets.

  He thrusts his squarish head into your room. You are glad that the lights are out so he cannot see the socks peeking out from half-closed dresser drawers. “Put on your shoes and get your raincoat. I need some help.”

  “Outside?” You reach for your glasses on the night table.

  “Drain pipe came aloose again. I need you to hold it still while I strap it in place.”

  The door closes. You stare at it. It opens again.

  “When you get home from school today, clean up this snake pit.”

  You stare at the door again, but thankfully, it stays shut.

  Apprehension envelops you, permeating even your bones. Father never solicits your assistance in such decidedly male endeavors. What did rotund Officer Brown say? If you don’t know who it is, you don’t know who it’s not. One dead girl was taken out of her window. The barbershop consensus indicts her stepfather. “Who else could get a child out the house without her screaming and carrying on?” the men wanted to know, as clippers buzzed against their necks. And who else besides a father, of some kind, could harbor such malevolence, you mused, sitting very still in the red-cushioned chair.

  Now you are uncertain how to proceed. Your yellow slicker is zipped over your green-and-white pajamas and you lace on your sneakers without socks. Father is waiting. You call upon wisdom culled through close readings of the Hardy Boys series. On a sheet of lined notebook paper you write, My father has taken me out of the house early on Tuesday morning. You fold the sheet into quarters, then eighths. Then, you carefully print, OCTAVIA.

  You can’t see the ground upon which you plant your canvas sneakers. You press down hard with every step, hoping to leave a trail, but the rain rinses your footprints away like birds eating a path of bread crumbs. Father, walking several paces ahead of you, curses the weather but does not look back.

  The offending drainage pipe rests against the side of the new den, added on last spring. It is painted a cheerful green to match the shutters.

  “See that?” Father says. “We need to tape the plastic pipe on the end to send the water away from the house, before the basement gets flooded.”

  The plastic pipe is flexible with accordion pleats. Father positions it to guide the runoff into the neighbor’s yard. You decide against sparking a debate on the ethical implications of this act. You don’t care much for those neighbors anyway.

  You feel the water coursing though the pipe like gallons of blood through a giant artery as you hold it in place. Father breathes heavily as he encircles the pipe with four layers of gray tape. You watch the adhesive give way only seconds after Father’s satisfied, “That should do it.”

  “Shit,” he says. “Hold it again.”

  You do. Father applies more tape. Your feet are going numb from the cold stagnant water in your shoes, but you enjoy the pain as you witness Father’s sheer ineptitude. How long will it be before he realizes that “duct tape” is a misnomer?

  “Damn,” he mutters. He cut his finger with his pocket knife. You concentrate on your frozen ears to keep from laughing as he sticks his injured thumb in his mouth and sucks like a baby.

  Since it is raining, Mother drives you and Sister the five miles to school. Because she takes an early bird yoga class at the YWCA, she drops you at school thirty minutes before the first bell. Sister dashes into the building to see if she can be of aid to her teacher, while you stand on the porch watching the orange rivers adjacent to curbs.

  “Where you been?” Leon looks like a raisin. His head, arms, and legs jut from the crumpled garbage bag that serves as his raincoat.

  “Me?”

  “Yeah, you. Wasn’t we supposed to do something this morning?”

  You don’t recall any appointments.

  “The candy corn?” Leon prompts. “Come on.” He heads toward Lewis’s Market. “We only got fifteen minutes before the first bell.”

  “But it’s raining,” you protest.

  “So.” Leon looks back as you tie the drawstring around the hood of your sunshine-yellow raincoat.

  “Don’t be laughing at me because I’m wearing this Hefty bag. I got a yellow coat just like yours at home. It just wasn’t raining when I left the house. When it starts coming down, I see this Hefty bag by the side of the road and put it to good use.” He spins around now. “You can’t mess with a boy as smart as me.”

  You nod, although the concept is hardly ingenious. Leon’s head is soaked by the time you get to the store. His faded jeans are stained deep blue with rain.

  Mrs. Lewis looks up as the two of you enter. “Good morning, boys.”

  “Morning.”

  “Leave those wet coats and bags up here. I don’t want you dripping water all over my floor.”

  “Yes’m.” You slowly remove your jacket. This is completely unprecedented. Does Leon expect you to follow through even though you are deprived of your tools? You put your book bag on the counter and gingerly walk to the back of the store.

  Mrs. Lewis declares Leon too wet to go any farther than the front counter.

  “But miss, I wanted to buy something,” he complains.

  “Just tell Rodney. He’ll bring it up here for you.”

  The sound of your name startles you. The small bag of candy corn falls to the floor.

  You bend to retrieve it. The little sack is made of your least favorite packaging. Stupid Leon has no understanding of the logistics of shoplifting. Why can’t he ask for Pixie Sticks, which come wrapped in soft cardboard that slides noiselessly into one’s pocket? Or even Life Savers in discreet wax-lined foil? Candy corn comes in cheap cellophane, which crackles like burning logs. You carefully put the pouch into the front pocket of your Toughskins. You are going to have to walk gap-legged until you get out of the store.

  “Rodney!” Leon calls. “Bring me some candy corn. She won’t let me come back there.”

  You do not enjoy this type of improvisation, but you pick up another packet of candy corn and head toward the counter. You shove it wordlessly toward Leon.

  Mrs. Lewis says, “What did you get for yourself?” She looks at you with narrowed eyes, as if she were trying to read the words off your sweatshirt without her glasses. The lines at the side of her mouth look like sideways exclamation marks.

  “Wasn’t none back there,” you mumble.

  “Beg your pardon?”

  “There aren’t any back there.” You hope her disapproval is rooted in your failure to meet her grammatical expectations.

  “What are you looking for? I just stocked up yesterday.”

  You mentally whiz through the candy aisle like an accelerated film strip. She is right. Everything is back there. “Pop Rocks,” you say, because you remember they had been taken off the market because they had somehow caused children in Maine to die.

  “We can’t sell those anymore,” she says.

  Leon says, “We gonna be late.”

  “Ten cents.” Mrs. Lewis opens the cash register.

  “I don’t have no money.” Leon pats his sodden pockets. “You got a dime, Rodney?”

  All you have is your lunch money but you reach into your pockets. There is no way you can get the money out without disturbing the stolen packet of candy corn. You shake your head no.

  “What did y’all come in here for if you don’t have money?” The question is clearly rhetorical. She looks at Leon. “Get on out of here, boy.” He shoots out of the door, into the rain, without bothering to retrieve his black garbage-bag coat.

  “And you, Mr. Rodney,” she says. “I’m telling you this because you are like one of my own.” She leans over the counter so your faces are nearly level. Breakfast is heavy on her breath. “Don’t fall in with the wrong crowd. That boy you come in here with never had nothing and ain’t never going to get nothing. Look at this.” She holds up the wet Hefty b
ag and shakes it, sending lukewarm raindrops onto your cold face. “Is this all you want out of life?”

  You are not quite certain what she is asking, but clearly the appropriate answer is no, so you say it. “No.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “No ma’am.”

  “Now, put on your coat and run over to school before you get in trouble.”

  Miss Russell, the art teacher, comes to your class one Tuesday a month. You enjoy the freedom of art class but you are ambivalent about Miss Russell. Her thin brown hair tends to hang in her face, obscuring her spooky hazel eyes.

  Octavia uses the easel beside yours. She stares at her canvas for a long time before she dips her brush into the yellow paint and dabs carefully. Her bottom lip is caught gently between her teeth.

  You don’t want her to see you studying her artwork for fear she will make good on yesterday’s threat to hurt your feelings. Turning your attention to your own canvas, you paint fluidly, moving your arm in broad arcs and strokes, dragging the brush behind, forgetting to rinse it before dipping into a fresh color. The hues on your canvas are bruised hybrids.

  You take a couple of steps back from your easel to see what you’ve made. Your hand brushes Miss Russell’s arm.

  “Ooh,” she says, looking at your canvas from under her visor of hair. “My.” She pauses and then peeks again. “What do you want to be when you grow up?” she asks.

  You understand that she likes your picture. Her question is one of two ways adults have of starting conversations with children. The other, of course, is how old are you, which you prefer since a one-word answer will suffice.

  You try to formulate an answer. Picturing yourself as an adult requires more imagination than you can muster on such short notice. Your body would be stretched tall like a piece of bubble gum pulled out of shape. But that would make you big, rather than grown. Being grown meant that you wouldn’t always be relegated to the drumsticks when your mother bought a bucket of chicken. You have to chew through the stringy veins and rubbery cartilage while Father happily tears through the breast.