by Robin Talley
I try to glare at her, but I feel like crying.
I’m holding the crumpled paper tight in my fist. I meant to go straight into a stall and flush the paper away.
Instead I cross the room and slide down onto the floor next to Sarah.
She turns to face me with a dull, tired look.
“What is it now?” she says.
I swallow over the lump in my throat. I try to think of something smart to say.
Instead I say, “I think I hate my father.”
Sarah’s eyes go wide. I can’t believe I said that.
I don’t hate my father. Do I?
My father is a very important, very respected man.
And I hate him. Maybe. A little.
“Why?” Sarah finally says.
I start to tell her I should never have said such a thing, and she can never repeat it.
Instead I tell her the story.
“When I was ten,” I say, “before I got sick, we went to a protest, the whole family, out at Kiskiack Lake. Do you remember when they were having all those protests?”
Sarah shakes her head. That’s right. She only moved to Davisburg from the North a few years ago. I don’t know how I could ever have forgotten that with the way she talks.
“Well,” I say, “some agitators were talking about integrating the lake, and we were protesting it. It was the first time anybody had really targeted Davisburg that way. We were all shocked they’d come after us, since this is such a nice, quiet town. Anyway, we won, of course—I mean, surely even you wouldn’t support integrated swimming, right?”
Sarah just stares at me, so I keep going.
“At the end of the day they made the announcement, that the integrators had lost, and the protest turned into a victory rally. It was—well, I can’t even tell you how much fun it was. Everyone was jumping up and down and cheering. My mom was crying, she was so happy. Even my big brothers were happy, and usually you couldn’t get them to act excited about anything. They were grinning, and Daddy was slapping them on their backs, and Daddy was grinning. And then he picked me up and put me on his shoulders and gave me a sign to hold, and everyone could see me over the huge crowd, and they all smiled and waved. And even though I knew the real reason everyone was happy was because we’d won, right then, it felt like they were all cheering for me. Does that make sense?”
Sarah nods slowly.
“And Daddy walked all around the rally with me still up on his shoulders, and everyone was smiling at him, and Daddy seemed so proud to have me with him. Finally, when people started to leave, he put me down, but he still looked so, so happy. I’d hardly ever seen him look happy up until then.”
Sarah’s eyes are fixed on mine. That used to feel unnerving. It doesn’t anymore.
“You know what?” I say. “I think that was the last time my father ever smiled at me.”
I’d meant to tell Sarah that story so she’d see I didn’t really hate my father, but remembering that day has only made me sad. I can’t remember the last time I saw my whole family, together, happy.
“What did you mean, ‘before you got sick’?” Sarah says. “Were you sick?”
I nod. I’d forgotten I mentioned that. “Well, when I was little, I used to get sick all the time. I was always in and out of the hospital. I had pneumonia a couple of times. And I had scarlet fever. But then in fifth grade I got really sick. They were afraid it was polio.”
Sarah sucks in a breath.
“It turned out it was just diphtheria,” I say. She nods. For a second I think she looks relieved, but I must have imagined it. “But when it started out, my leg was acting weird, and then I fainted in school one day. So the first thing the doctor told my parents was that they had to rule out polio. The way my father acted when the doctor said that—I think he lost half his hair that day. But after I’d been in the hospital a couple of days they got the real diagnosis. By then it was obvious it wasn’t anything like polio. My neck was all swollen. I was a revolting mess, coughing and drooling all over the place, and I had these sores all over—” I swallow again. Sarah’s still watching me closely. I don’t want her to picture me covered in sores and drool. “And Daddy was angry because the hospital bills were stacking up even though there wasn’t anything wrong with me that couldn’t be cured. He thought I’d pretended to have polio just to get attention. Then when they let me out of the hospital, I was still coughing and crying all the time. It used to give Daddy headaches. He’d go around yelling for me to be quiet. After I got better and I stopped getting sick so much, he started—”
I stop. I’d almost told Sarah he hit me.
But why shouldn’t I? All fathers hit their children. It’s called discipline. Mom’s been telling me so all my life.
Usually Daddy would hit me because I’d done something wrong and needed to learn my lesson. It would happen if I got a bad grade on a test, or forgot to do my chores or talked back to him at dinner. He’d hit my brothers since before they could walk, but when I came along, he let me be. He was so happy to finally have a girl he’d spoiled me rotten. At first.
“After that I decided I wasn’t going to cry anymore,” I say quietly. “But it didn’t work. I thought it would make Daddy treat me the way he had before. Instead he just ignores me. It’s like I’m invisible in my own house.”
We sit in silence for a long time. Sarah probably thinks I’m a crybaby. A spoiled white girl who doesn’t know how good she has it.
“I feel that way too, sometimes.” Sarah’s voice is so low I have to turn toward her to hear. “Invisible. My parents—they’re different from yours, but they don’t listen to me. They don’t ask me what I want. They just tell me what to do. And I say, ‘Yes, ma’am’ and ‘Yes, sir,’ and I don’t talk back, and I don’t ask questions. That’s what good daughters do. Being good means being invisible.”
I think about sitting on Daddy’s shoulders at that rally out at Kiskiack Lake. I try to remember what my sign said. Race Mixing is Communism! maybe.
I think about Sarah and her sister and the rest of their group walking into school on that first day. Everyone was shouting and striking out at them.
What was the difference, really, between Sarah and me?
Sarah’s parents weren’t with her that day, but her parents and their friends were the ones who filed the court case.
“What’s that?” Sarah asks, pointing to my hand.
I look down. I’d forgotten all about my editorial.
Sarah meets my eyes. Neither of us moves. At first I think that expression on her face is pity, but soon I’m certain it’s something else.
Sarah reaches toward my lap. For a flickering moment I think she’s going to try to hold my hand.
I want her to.
Oh, God, I want her to.
This is happening. This is real.
I didn’t want it to be real. I didn’t want to even think it.
It’s wrong.
But I can’t keep lying to myself.
I want Sarah the way I’m supposed to want Jack.
But she’s a girl, and a Negro, and a girl, and it’s wrong, it’s wrong, it’s wrong—
Sarah doesn’t try to hold my hand. Instead she takes the crumpled paper and spreads it out across her knees.
I let her.
She reads my scribblings, turning the paper this way and that to see through the parts I crossed out. I try to keep my face completely still. I can’t let her see what I’m thinking. If she knew, she’d run out of here so fast you’d miss her if you blinked.
Then she looks back up at me. She’s smiling. It’s been a long time since I last saw her smile.
“We should go,” she says after another minute. “I have to watch my brother this afternoon.”
She stands up and brushes off her s
kirt. I stand, too. I was expecting her to say something about what I’d written. To argue with me, or call me a liar, or a hypocrite or something. Instead she moves toward the door. I duck into a stall and drown the paper before I turn to follow her.
“There’s something I’ve always wanted to ask you,” Sarah says as she pushes the bathroom door open. “That day, in the hall, with my sister. Why did you—”
She stops short. I turn to follow her gaze. Donna and Nancy are staring right at us.
Donna looks puzzled. Nancy’s face is curled into a smirk. I can’t tell if it’s meant for Sarah or for me.
My heart is beating so fast it’s a battle just to keep standing. I say the first thing I think of.
“So you see,” I say, turning toward Sarah, “your people don’t belong in this school. You have your own. You should be grateful we gave you that privilege. You should thank us, not fight us.”
Nancy and Donna nod along. I could keep talking this way all afternoon—these sorts of words come as easily as breathing—but the look on Sarah’s face makes me stop.
“Let’s get out of here, Linda.” Nancy links one arm through mine and the other through Donna’s. “I can’t handle the smell around these parts.”
I try to laugh, but it comes out like a shriek.
Nancy marches us toward the front door. I glance back. Sarah is walking down the empty hall toward the side exit, her shoulders sagging under her faded yellow blouse.
She hates me. She must.
Well, but it’s not as if I have any reason to care what she thinks. She’s an agitator and probably a Communist and a...
My shoulders sag, too.
My friends chatter as we walk outside into the brilliant April sunshine, but I don’t hear them.
I do care what Sarah Dunbar thinks of me. I care much, much more than I should.
That’s why I’ve made such a terrible mess of things. And I don’t even know where to start cleaning it up.
Lie #14
STUDY HALL IS packed today. Mr. Farrell is out and they couldn’t find a substitute, so all his classes are being put into Study Halls. We have twice as many juniors and seniors as usual stuffed into one classroom, and two Negroes—Sarah and the junior boy. They’re sitting in the front row the way they always do, with empty chairs on all sides of them, even though the room is so full people are sitting on top of desks and on the low bookcases at the back of the room.
Mrs. Gruber doesn’t look happy about the crowd. She sighs more than usual and snaps at anyone who talks above a whisper, but she doesn’t stop Bo’s gang from throwing balls of paper at Sarah and the boy. It bothers me more today than it does on regular Study Hall days, when the junior boy is the only colored student in the room.
The boys throwing the paper are enjoying themselves, though. Bo and the others from Mr. Farrell’s class especially.
Ten minutes into class the boys start taking bets.
“Ten cents I hit the girl,” Eddie whispers, letting his wad of paper fly from the back of the room. Sarah doesn’t flinch. The paper soars past her.
The boys laugh. “You can’t throw to save your life, Ed,” one of them says.
“I’ve got a quarter I get the coon in the ear.” Kenneth fires off a spitball. It lands on the colored boy’s shoulder. He doesn’t brush it off. The boys howl with laughter.
“None of you know how to aim right.” Bo stretches his arms over his head. His skin is so dark from working in the sun he’s almost as brown as Sarah. “Tell you what. Fifty cents I clock that nigger in his big black head.”
“I’ll bet you,” another boy says.
They’ve stopped laughing now. The whole room is watching Bo.
He’s holding a baseball.
I could say something.
I stay quiet.
“I’m in, too,” another boy says. There’s a jingle of coins.
Sarah and the colored boy are still sitting straight up in their seats, looking at the board. They don’t know what’s happening.
I should say something.
“All right,” Bo says. “Watch this.”
He throws the baseball, hard.
It sails to the front of the room. It smashes into the back of the boy’s neck. He falls forward and we all hear the crack as his forehead hits the desk.
The boys let out peals of laughter.
I want to throw up.
Sarah runs over to the colored boy. After a second, Mrs. Gruber gets up, too.
“Paulie? Are you all right?” Sarah says.
The class keeps laughing.
I could get up. I could stand up and go get help.
I stay where I am.
The colored boy is sitting up now, waving Sarah off, saying something too low for me to hear.
“He looks all right,” Mrs. Gruber says.
Sarah gapes at her. Then her expression goes smooth again.
“He ought to go to the nurse, ma’am,” Sarah says. “I’ll walk with him.”
“No!” the boy says. He sounds awful. The way Daddy sounded the night after he came back from visiting Senator Byrd and drank two glasses of whiskey at dinner. “I’ll be fine.”
He stands up, legs wobbling. Then he sits back down.
The laughter from Bo and the other boys only grows.
Sarah looks straight at Mrs. Gruber. They stand, staring at each other, for a long moment. Finally Mrs. Gruber rolls her eyes and says, “All right, who threw that ball?”
No one speaks. The boys are still laughing, but they’re doing it behind their hands now.
“It was Bo,” Sarah tells her. “Ma’am.”
“Shut up, you didn’t see nothing,” one of the boys says. “You were facing front the whole time.”
“I heard him say he was going to do it,” Sarah says.
“Nobody threw it on purpose,” Brenda says. “I didn’t see who did it, but I could tell it was an accident.”
“Yeah,” Kenneth says. “If it wasn’t they woulda hit him smack in his big black face.”
Now they’re back to laughing out loud.
Mrs. Gruber sighs and goes back to her desk.
“Wait.” Sarah hasn’t moved from her spot at the front of the room. “He could’ve really hurt Paulie! We have to tell someone. There’s that rule about fighting.”
Mrs. Gruber gives Sarah a withering look. “Well, if we can’t determine who was involved, I don’t know what you expect me to do.”
“It was Bo!” Sarah’s getting louder. Talking faster. “Everyone heard him! He said he was going to hit Paulie! He was taking bets on it!”
“Lost those damn quarters, too,” another boy mutters. Sarah glares at him. He snickers.
“You have two choices right now,” Mrs. Gruber says to Sarah. “You can sit down, or you can go to the principal’s office and tell him exactly why you insist on acting out in my class.”
Sarah stands quietly for a moment, looking right at Mrs. Gruber. They’re the same height.
Then Sarah says, “Thank you, ma’am.”
She turns on her heel and walks out the door.
Brenda gasps. So do I.
I think about going after her.
I think about telling the principal I saw Bo throw the ball. Mr. Cole might not believe Sarah, but he’d believe me.
But if I go, everyone will know I’m the one who tattled.
They’ll say Linda Hairston—good little Linda Hairston, the newspaper editor’s daughter—has turned into a nigger-lover.
Everyone will hear about it. All my friends. Jack.
And when the gossip’s that good, there’s no way it won’t reach Daddy’s ears.
I shrink into my seat. The colored boy is still sitting in the front r
ow. A knot is already forming under his shirt collar. The boys are balling up more wads of paper to throw at him.
I wonder what it would be like to have that colored boy’s nerve.
* * *
“Is the boy all right?”
Sarah’s just arrived in the back room at Bailey’s. I’m on my feet and the question is out of my mouth before she’s even closed the door.
She slides it shut and turns around to face me. Her eyes are blazing.
Judy looks back and forth between us, biting her thumbnail and clutching a cigarette so hard the paper’s crumpling. I told Judy what Bo did. I left out the part about what I didn’t do.
“Is who all right?” Sarah says.
“Who?” I can’t believe her. “The boy! From Study Hall!”
She frowns, her eyes crinkling. “Paulie? How do you know about that?”
“What do you mean, ‘how do I know?’ I was right there!”
“Oh. You were in that class?”
She didn’t even notice me?
“Yes!” It’s all I can do not to stomp my foot. “Is he hurt badly?”
“He says he’s fine.” Sarah sits down and shrugs, but she’s talking even faster than usual. “I called Mrs. Mullins and told her about it. She’s trying to get him to see a doctor.”
She’s talking about Helen Mullins. The ringleader of the local NAACP. The most ardent integrationist in Davisburg. Daddy says Helen Mullins represents everything that’s wrong with the modern Negro.
I shake my head. I don’t have time to think about Helen Mullins.
“He has to see a doctor,” I say. “Bo hit him really hard!”
“I know.”
“But it’s important! Tell him it’s important he sees a doctor!”
“He knows,” Sarah says. “He’ll do what he wants. This isn’t the first time Paulie’s gotten hit this year.”
There’s patience on her face.
I thought she’d be angry with me for not helping. For not doing anything at all.