Cole Dust Cole

by Micheal Maxwell

Cole pointed at the faucet on the bottom of the water tank. Ernie nodded and made a twisting motion with his hand. Cole opened the valve and a gush of spitting, sputtering rusty goop blew out of the faucet. The pump motor purred and more and more water and muck blew from the faucet. Within minutes the sludge turned to rusty water.

  The two men stood silently watching the water run across the dry ground and disappear. Even after five minutes there was no puddle at all. As the water finally began to clear a bit, Ernie said, “Shut it off.”

  Cole complied and the muffled sound of water came from the tank.

  “Holds five hundred gallons. Big tank. Should take about an hour to fill up. Then we’ll flush the pipes.”

  “You know I never asked where you worked Ernie,” Cole said smiling.

  “Sewer farm.” Ernie pointed his finger toward Cole’s nose. “I don’t want any smart ass remarks about it either.” Ernie wasn’t smiling and Cole let the remark pass with no response.

  “How about a soda?”

  “Hell no, I need a beer! I’m goin’ home. You wait about an hour or so, then turn on all the taps in the house and let the water run ‘til it clears. I’ll see you later.”

  “Thanks for your help. How ‘bout dinner later in the week?”

  “Sounds good.” Ernie’s voice faded as he rounded the corner of the house and Cole didn’t hear the last thing he said.

  EIGHT

  Sweat dripped in Cole’s eyes as he checked his watch. It had only been thirty minutes since Ernie left. The chips of paint Cole was scrapping were stuck to his arms. His neck itched where flakes clung to his skin. He could comfortably reach about six feet off the ground. Soon he would have to rig some sort of scaffolding. But for now there was a lot to do that he could still reach. The muscles in his arms and shoulders were beginning to feel the effects of hours of scraping. Behind him the pump hummed along and the pitch of the water filling the tank changed. Like the rising tone of a bottle filling at a tap, the water tank was well on its way to filling up.

  Cole gave a deep sigh and continued scraping. As he worked, he thought of the little town that lay off to his right and the people who lived there in years past. Today, you would never know that a tornado tore a deadly path through its heart. The shady neighborhood streets with their massive old trees, seemed unaware of the destruction that once laid low houses of the same vintage. He had seen photos of his grandparents in the family picture albums, but the people were black and white shadows in crackled old prints. The voice that spoke from the pages of the notebooks was that of a young boy whose thoughts, feelings and life would last another four decades. As Cole scraped the wall of the old house he wondered about the people who lived in it. How many families started a history that now was unknown to those who carried their genes? Cole thought about his life. What history had he left?

  There was a vast paper trail if anyone wanted to follow it. Articles, stories, maybe even the book he kept promising to write would someday give a glimpse into who he was. Or would it? He was not the sum total of his writing. He never wrote about his long years of loving Ellie. He never wrote of his dreams of finding her. He never wrote of the dark days he wandered in a depressed surrender to life holding nothing for him. And he certainly never kept a diary.

  And what of his finding Ellie? They closed a chapter of Cole’s history. Their reuniting had been his greatest victory in life and yet it went unrecorded. Erin knew part of the story, but could never understand what it meant to her mother, and the father she’d only met as an adult. Here he stood, in the yard of a farm two thousand miles from home, scraping paint because a poor, deformed girl, who lived a life of god knows what kind of understanding, died in a state facility for the severely handicapped. He was all that was left of the history of a man who over the years of his youth, swept into town, left big tips after dinners with his family, charmed everyone he met, and disappeared for another year or two.

  The idea of lives lived and vanishing into the dust from which they came never really was part of Cole’s conscience. Millions of people have lived and died and no one knows who they were. He thought of his great-great grandfather; everyday he went to work in a bank. What did he have for lunch? Did the people he worked with like him? What did he think about? What did he find in life that brought him joy? What about the woman he shared his bed with, did she warm to his touch? What did she worry about, care about, gossip with the neighbors about? A wave of sadness swept over Cole as he worked. What was there to be left behind?

  Cole’s right shoulder finally ached to the point he could scrape no more. An hour and twenty minutes passed since the water tank began filling. The pump shut off but he didn’t hear it. Deep in thought and lost in the scraping zone, the time passed unnoticed. The sun began its slow slide to the horizon in the afternoon sky. Soon the evening breeze would pick up. Cole realized he was falling into the patterns of this new life, and it was not unpleasant.

  Brownish red fluid, Cole hated to think of it as water, burped and sputtered out of the faucet in the kitchen sink. The big cement utility sink on the back porch passed fine silt from its gooseneck faucet that settled in the bottom like something from a gold miner’s pan. Nothing came from the downstairs bathroom sink for almost a minute.

  Upstairs the bathroom tub partially filled before Cole heard the water start swirling and sucking down the dry old pipes. Under the sink he found an old pan and filled it with water and poured it into the toilet tank. The rubber float looked grey and reminded Cole of the skin of an elephant. He decided to let it soak for a while before trying to flush.

  It took nearly a half hour of running the water wide open before it began to clear. Cole used a piece of an old towel he found upstairs to wipe down the sinks. Water, oh how he missed it! He put his head under the faucet in the kitchen and let the cool liquid flood over his head and neck. He splashed his face again and again and watched as bits of paint swirled around the drain and then disappeared. Refreshed and pleased with the new clarity of the water, Cole turned all the faucets off. It was time for the great reward. He went upstairs, undressed and turned on the shower.

  Dressed in a clean t-shirt and pair of walking shorts, Cole descended the stairs a new man. Satisfied with the amount of work he completed he made himself a sandwich, grabbed the last two notebooks off the table and went outside. He sat down on the steps of the porch and opened one of them to the page where he used the flap off the Shredded Wheat box for a bookmark.

  Monday May 11

  Today was the first day back to school since the twister. We have a new teacher. Effie will be unable to return to work, they say, until next year. Mr. Calvin will be our teacher until the end of the year. He is from the high school. He reminds me of a chicken. He wears a pair of pince-nez glasses pinched at the tip of his skinny pointed nose. He tilts his small bald head, way back, so he can see through them. So his long neck is constantly moving, just like a chicken. He is a harsh man and not given to praise. Effie always had a kind word even for the worst student. My life is changing. I don’t like it.

  Wednesday May 13

  The ladies at church have received a truck load of clothes and food from the church in Tulsa that Mrs. Middlebrook’s son attends. It is their intention to give it to the people who lost their homes in the twister. The Army has set up a tent village where many of the people without homes have been staying. We thought they were poor before but now they have nothing. I went with some of the men to pass out the “boxes of love” the ladies finished. Mama says it is the best way we can show Jesus to these folks.

  We took two wagons to the tents. I rode with Mr. Middlebrook. He is a kind man and very proud that his son organized a roundup of goods sent to help Orvin. At first I was very embarrassed for the folks in the tents. I didn’t want them to feel embarrassed and to think we felt better than they were just because my house hadn’t blown away. It wasn’t like that at all, they gave us some skillet bread and coffee. Even with nothing left they were sharing what they had. />
  I had a very strange thing happen at the tents. I was carrying in a big box. An old colored woman, in a rocking chair asked me to put the box in her tent. I saw a girl. She was washing up. I saw her naked. She was my age and she just stood there looking back at me.

  “Get a good look,” she said and just kept washing under her arms.

  I dropped the box and went back outside. I couldn’t get the picture of her out of my mind. She was altogether lovely. Later when I was going back to the wagon for another box she was standing there.

  “I’m Mattie,” she said. She was in a dress that was way too big for her. Her hair was in two braids; in the braids were woven yellow pieces of cloth. It was blacker than any hair I had ever seen except on an Indian. She looked nothing like the person in the tent. She seemed shy, but still with a bold streak.

  “I’m George Sage. I’m sorry for bargin’ in on you.”

  “You coulda knocked, ain’t got no doors on tents. I don’t want you gettin’ no ideas about me, that’s all.”

  I just stared at her. I didn’t know what to say. I tried to speak but wasn’t sure what was proper. “I have never seen you before, at school, I mean,” I stammered.

  “They don’t let us go to no school.” She smiled a beautiful smile at me but her voice was full of hate.

  “Who do you mean us?”

  “Take your pick. Indians, Niggers,” she shrugged, “we cain’t go.”

  I couldn’t breathe. She was so beautiful. I saw her without a stitch, as God made her. Her skin was darker than mine, but like expensive Valentine’s chocolate at the drug store. Her hair was wet and wavy but it didn’t look kinky, just black. She didn’t look like no colored girl I ever seen.

  “You’re not white.” I said it out loud. I didn’t mean to, it just came out.

  “White like you? Skin don’t matter.”

  “Who are your folks?”

  “You sho’ got a lot of questions. I live with my granny. My ma don’t want me, she’s colored. She says my pap was a Cherokee Irish half breed. Now you know everything.” She turned and walked back toward the tent where I saw her.

  “Wait!” I called after her.

  She turned and gave me the most mysterious smile I have ever seen. I don’t know what it meant. Was it friendly? Was it mean? I just wanted to talk to her some more.

  Cole turned the page. The last pages in the notebook were blank. Leaving the two finished notebooks on the porch he ran up the stairs to the attic. He grabbed an armload of notebooks and went to the kitchen table. Cole completely forgot about his sandwich and the two notebooks on the porch. He began sorting and stacking the notebooks in date order. One more load like this and he might just be able to get the trunk downstairs.

  He went through the stacks twice before finding May – June 1914. The first entry was Sunday the twenty-first, nine days from the last entry.

  Sunday May 21

  Lloyd came over this afternoon and asked if I would like to go fishing. My Pa doesn’t like Lloyd much. I really don’t like to fish but it was a way to get out of the house for a bit. We went to the creek for a while, all Lloyd wanted to do was smoke. I’ve tried it a couple times but it made me light headed. We went to his house. I have never been there before because my folks have forbid it since I was small.

  Their house is on the backside of town near the depot. It is not very big and smells of kerosene inside. They do not have electric lights yet and they still have an outhouse. I never knew they were so poor. Mrs. Perry is a very short woman who is kind of hunched over. His father is much older than his ma and very tall. They are a strange sight to see. Lloyd takes after his ma, he has stopped growing I think. I am now taller than him but we don’t speak of it much. Lloyd has a bad temper and I know he hates being the shortest in our class.

  Mr. Perry is the garbage man and is always finding stuff that people throw out that he thinks still has some wear left in it. Lloyd always brags on how his pa can mend or glue anything where it looks just like new. If I didn’t know better I would swear everything in the house had been patched or mended. I am very careful not to stare at things in the house.

  Lloyd has a lot of brothers and sisters. They are all real young. My parents seem much younger than Lloyd’s and even so, all their kids are grown except me. Today I met Lloyd’s older sister Alma. Lord above this girl is ugly. I know it is not right to judge a person on how they look but she is the ugliest girl I have ever seen. Funniest thing, I looked at Lloyd, and they look just alike. On a boy it’s alright I guess, but on a girl it is a sad thing indeed.

  Alma has a big hook nose like an Indian. Her eyes are small and pale. She squints all the time, like the sun is in her eyes. Her teeth are yellow and rotten in places. That is not so bad, but several are broken off. Her hair is a dull brown and she pulls it back in a harsh style. She is rail thin and boney. Freckles cover her arms and neck and face. I wish I could draw because I don’t think my words can paint as awful a picture as she is.

  Lloyd said Alma is three years older than us. She does laundry for a wealthy family and has rough red hands. Her looks wouldn’t be so noticeable if she was nice but she is meaner than a snake. I don’t think I will ever go back to their house. Between the little kids screaming, and the smell, and Alma’s bad temper I understand now why Lloyd spends every moment outside.

  Wednesday, May 24

  I volunteered to take more supplies to the tent people. I didn’t see Mattie.

  Thursday

  More boxes, no Mattie.

  There was, for the first time, a drawing in the notebook. The two one line entries were followed by a half page picture of a girl. The artwork was laughably primitive, but Cole had no doubt it was Mattie. The face on the page looked out with big eyes and long lashes, and a big smile with lines that clearly marked the presence of dimples. The hair was in braids and colored in dark. George used the edge of his pencil to shade in her dark skin. On the next page was a drawing of that same girl, but naked.

  Sunday May 28, 1914

  Mama and the ladies of her Dorcas Circle made big batches of soup, baked several boxes of bread and a whole lot of pies to take to the people out in the tents. They were going to surprise the people with a hot lunch since it was Sunday. I think Mama was surprised when I said I would go and help.

  Papa and some of the men of our church took a wagon full of tables to put all the food on. It was going to be announced that the governor was going to send money and materials to help build new houses for all the people who lost their homes. The mayor and a man from Oklahoma City were going to make the announcement. Papa would be representing the bank.

  As we all gathered around the tables, the preacher called for everyone to be quiet while he said the blessing. It was then I felt a tug on the back of my shirt. I didn’t move. It happened again. I slowly turned to see what it was and there was Mattie. As soon as the preacher said “Amen” I turned to face her.

  “Hey.”

  “Hey yourself.” She smiled.

  “I have been here a couple of times and haven’t seen you.”

  “I know. I saw you rubber neckin’ around.”

  About that time the lines started forming for the soup. I said I had already eaten and told Mattie to get in line. She said she wasn’t hungry. Most of the folks moved past us and suddenly we were standing alone at the back of the crowd. I just stood looking at the grass at my feet. I couldn’t think of anything to say.

  “Maybe I am hungry. Let’s get some of that soup.”

  I followed Mattie to the line. She turned to me and was about to speak when a dry black hand grabbed her by the arm.

  “You get yo’self some soup and git back to the tent. You leave this here white boy alone, you hear me?” The voice of Mattie’s granny was a harsh whisper. “My granddaughter got the manners of an alley cat. She didn’t mean no harm.”

  “I was just...”

  “You just git. I’ll fetch the soup home.”

  Mattie looked at me with f
ear and embarrassment. It was clear she better not say a word. The woman in line behind me whispered something to the woman with her but all I could make out was, “That one’s trouble.”

  I could feel my face getting red and I wanted to say something to those women but I saw Mama waving to me.

  “What were you doing talking to those coloreds?” Mama asked.

  “Her name is Mattie. She’s nice.”

  “Well you needn’t be taking up with niggers no matter how nice you think they are. I’ve been watching you from up here. I don’t like the looks of what I see.”

  “Her pa’s Cherokee and Irish. We’re Irish...”

  “We’ll talk about this when we get home. Now, get me another box of bread from the wagon. Irish! Lord save me!”

  I didn’t see Mattie again. When we got home pa gave me a “talk” about coloreds and disease and how there was plenty of nice white girls to talk to. We had a place in town to consider. He said it just doesn’t look right for one of his family to be getting friendly with a pickaninny. “Mama was very worried that someone saw you.”

  He said he was sure I needn’t talk to the little colored girl again, so he wasn’t even going to ask me not to. I didn’t answer.

  Cole understood that ninety years ago things were different, people were different, the world was different, but just the same, the ugliness of racism within his own family shamed and saddened him. The picture of a couple of kids not being allowed to even speak because of race was not new to him; he just saw racism in his own family. Perhaps this incident helped shape his father’s character. Seeing beyond color was always taught and practiced in the Sage home. Cole was proud to think it may have started with his grandfather.