Lies We Tell Ourselves

by Robin Talley

  Then why did they bring us here? Why couldn’t we stay in Chicago, where we could go weeks at a time without ever seeing a single white face? Where burning crosses are just in scary stories, no different from goblins and the boogeyman under the stairs?

  I’m about to throw the paper down and go ask Daddy if he knows anything else about Chuck when Mama steps out onto the porch, shutting the door quietly behind her.

  “Why did you try to hide this from me?” The anger is bubbling up inside me now. “You don’t think I have a right to know?”

  “It’s not about that.” Mama’s face is calm. So calm it makes me even more anxious. “After everything you went through last night, we didn’t want you to worry when there’s nothing you could do to help.”

  “There’s got to be something I can do. I could—”

  I stop. I can’t think of anything I can do.

  “I spoke to Lucille Tapscott,” Mama says. “She and Carl are staying at her sister’s for now.”

  “Why?” Then I figure it out. “Oh. The paper printed their address.”

  Mama nods.

  That will mean more than just a cross in their yard one night. It will mean shouts from the sidewalk all day long. Rocks through the windows. Gunshots, maybe.

  “Do they know where he is?” I ask her.

  “As best they can tell he’s at the police station in a holding cell. They’re trying to get the girl to make a statement so they can press charges.”

  “Kathy hasn’t said anything yet?”

  Mama shakes her head. “Do you know her from school?”

  “No.”

  But Linda does.

  I’d have thought Chuck would be too smart to go near a white girl, but he would’ve said the same about me.

  “How can they put someone in jail for rumors?” I say.

  Mama shakes her head. “Sometimes it just works this way, honey.”

  I know it does.

  We’re colored. The rules are different for us.

  “Your father thinks William Hairston, the editor of his paper, might be involved,” Mama goes on. “Apparently he has a daughter who goes to Jefferson. Friends on the police force, too.”

  I remember why I recognized the bald policeman in the photo with Chuck.

  He was sitting next to Mr. Hairston at the concert last night. The two of them were whispering together during Linda’s solo.

  Did they plan this? Did she?

  I rip the newspaper in half.

  Mama flinches, then fixes me with a steady look.

  I don’t care.

  I’m too tired for this. I’m too scared for Chuck.

  I just want it all to go away.

  “What’s the point of all this?” I’m talking too loud. Almost shouting. “If they’re only going to turn around and treat us this way? Why bother integrating the school? They’ll never want us there. They’ll never let us be like them. We might as well just stop now before it gets worse!”

  Mama strides across the porch and grabs my arm, so hard my skin twists under her grip. She looks even angrier than me.

  “Now you listen and you listen good.” Her voice is so quiet it scares me. “Nobody’s going to let us be anything. We have just as much right to this world as they have, and we are not going to wait around for them to give us permission. If we have to prove it to them, we will, but I don’t ever want to hear you talk that way again.”

  I swallow. “Why did we move down here? Why couldn’t we have stayed home where we didn’t have to worry about all this?”

  “Because this is the United States of America and we have the right to live anywhere we please, young lady.” Mama closes her eyes and draws in a long breath. She lets go of my arm and takes a step back. When she looks at me again that calm from before is back. “And because your father and I want to be a part of what’s happening in this part of the country. We wanted that for you children. You can understand that.”

  I used to think I understood. I used to trust Mama and Daddy to always know what was right.

  I’m not sure anymore.

  I don’t know if coming here was the right thing to do. I don’t know if this long, awful year at Jefferson is worth it. I don’t know if it ever will be.

  Chuck is in jail right now. Just for being one of us.

  Mama and Daddy and their friends say the world is changing. Are they seeing something I’m not seeing?

  Or are they just saying it because they want so badly for it to be true?

  “I just want Chuck to be okay.” My throat closes up over the words. I’m fighting so hard not to cry.

  “I know, honey.” Mama takes what’s left of the newspaper out of my hand. I’ve crumpled the torn pages into a tiny ball. “I know you’re worried about your friend, but there’s nothing you can do for him. And sitting here hysterical won’t help anyone. Your little brother needs you now.”

  She hands me a dollar.

  “Let me give you some advice,” she says. “When you’re upset, and there’s nothing you can do to make things better, it helps if you have something worthwhile to do. Sitting and stewing will only make you feel worse.”

  I nod.

  I know Mama’s only trying to help.

  But she doesn’t know everything about me.

  And no matter how hard I try I can’t make myself feel worthwhile as I begin the ten-block walk to Bailey’s.

  I’m unnatural. Degenerate. Sinful.

  I wonder if it’s possible to be those things and still be a good daughter. A good friend. A good sister. I don’t see how it could be.

  But I don’t love Bobby any less than I did before it happened. I’m not any less worried about what’s going to happen to Chuck than I would have been, either.

  I still get good grades like I did before. I sing as well as ever. I’m still polite to people at church. And I’m taking even better care of my hair and my clothes than I did before. Especially now that I’m doing all the laundry.

  I don’t understand the rules of sinning. Is God testing me? What Chuck did—was it a sin, too? Is God punishing him? Why would He punish Chuck but not me?

  Maybe if I atone enough, and I never do it again, I’ll still be allowed to go to Heaven.

  That idea should seem like such a blessing, but it only makes me more confused.

  I’m getting closer to downtown. There are more people around. Some people from Jefferson are standing outside Bailey’s, smoking cigarettes and gossiping the way they always do on Saturdays. Linda’s there, smiling up at Bo Nash. I look away before they can see me.

  Instead I wave to old Mrs. Jackson, who’s on her way out of the Food Town with a sack of potatoes. She waves back and calls out that I sang beautifully last night.

  God wouldn’t have let her say that if He thought I didn’t deserve it.

  Would He?

  I’m frowning to myself, thinking so hard I don’t even see Chuck until I nearly walk into him.

  He pulls himself to a stop slowly. He blinks at me. “Sarah?”

  “Chuck!” I’m so happy to see him I can’t believe it. “What are you doing here? Did they let you out?”

  Chuck shrugs.

  That’s when I notice the smell. He’s been drinking.

  “They let me out,” he says, slurring his words. I’ve never seen him like this. It’s shameful. He’s usually such a nice boy. “Said she wouldn’t say nothing on the record.”

  “Of course she wouldn’t.” I try to sound soothing, the way Mama does when Daddy’s been up all night working on a story. “My mother said they only brought you in because of the rumors.”

  “Rumors, Hell.” Chuck shakes his head, then stumbles, trying to walk away from me.

  “Chuck, please.” This isn’t th
e Chuck I know. I wonder if I should try to take him somewhere. His aunt’s house? I’m sure he wouldn’t want his parents to see him this way. And my house would be just as bad. “You know better than to use that kind of language.”

  He snorts. “You should hear how those police talk. Give you a right heart attack.”

  “Did they—” I don’t want to ask. I don’t see any bruises on him, but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. “Was it awful?”

  He takes a swig out of a brown bottle I didn’t notice he was carrying. “They walked around in circles and asked me questions about white girls all night long. Did I ever speak to a white girl. Did I ever call a white girl on the phone. When I saw a white girl on the street, did I look at her, and how did I look at her.”

  I shake my head. The police should’ve known Chuck isn’t like that.

  But they didn’t know anything about him. All they knew was his color. And that was enough.

  “I knew what to do,” he goes on. “I knew to answer every question, ‘No, sir,’ and ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ and ‘I would never, sir.’ They kept me locked up all night and I had to keep no, sir-ing them until I thought my chin was about to fall off from nodding so much. All I could think about the whole time was that picture in Jet. I couldn’t stop no, sir-ing, not unless I wanted to wind up like that, too.”

  He’s talking about that same picture. The boy from Mississippi. None of us could ever forget that picture.

  He shakes his head again. Then he looks at me. For a second, his eyes are clear. “Sarah, we don’t deserve this bullshit.”

  His language is crass, but he’s right.

  “They think they can do whatever they want.” He takes another swig from the bottle. “They think we won’t do anything about it.”

  I don’t like the look on his face. I try to think of what Mama would say.

  “That’s why we took them to court.” I speak slowly to make sure he understands. “To prove they couldn’t tell us what to do.”

  “It didn’t work.” He shakes his head.

  “We have to be patient.”

  He throws the empty bottle over his shoulder. It misses the trash can by ten feet. “I’m done being goddamn patient.”

  “Chuck!” Even without the drinking, I can’t believe he said that in front of me. I can’t believe he said it at all.

  “I’m sorry, Sarah,” he says.

  Then he turns and runs toward Bailey’s, shouting. The white people hear him and look up.

  I can just barely make out Bo Nash’s face as he turns our way.

  He’s grinning.

  Lie #23

  Linda

  WE HEAR THE colored boy before we see him.

  At first I can’t understand what he’s saying. It’s just garble, shouted in a colored boy’s voice.

  Then he appears around the corner. Every one of us, even Bo, shrinks back.

  We’re gathered outside Bailey’s like we always do on Saturdays when the weather’s nice. Everyone from our group of friends is here, even Judy. She’s taking her cigarette break and standing as far away from me as she can get. She just finished doing her morning cleanup of the dining area, and she’s left her mop and bucket propped up against the side of the building for the stock boy to take out back.

  Eddie had been doing an impression of Mr. Lewis at the concert last night, the way he crossed his legs at the piano like a fairy. The laughter has only just died off.

  The colored boy is getting closer. No one’s laughing now.

  It’s the boy who was with Kathy. The one who caught me in the hall when I fell that day. The one who insulted my singing in front of Daddy. Chuck, his name is Chuck. It’s clear from the way he’s walking that he’s drunk.

  He crosses to our side of the street and stands at the curb, looking right at us.

  I flinch. So do most of the other girls. Even the boys look shaky.

  Bo gets his wits about him first.

  “What’re you doing out of jail, boy?” he calls. “You break out or something?”

  The colored boy mutters something.

  “Speak up, boy,” Eddie yells. “We can’t understand your coon jab.”

  “I’ve got to talk to somebody,” the boy says. He’s rubbing his knuckles and glancing around at us, like he’s looking for someone.

  Me. He’s looking for me.

  He remembers what I said last night.

  I said it because he made me angry. And because Daddy was watching. But it doesn’t matter why I said it. What matters is that I said it, and someone heard it, and they told someone, and then everyone knew. It was all anyone was talking about the rest of the night. This morning, Daddy said the boy was lucky the police caught him before anybody else could.

  The boy takes another step toward us.

  Most of the girls turn and run inside the store.

  I stay where I am. So does Judy. She’s got her hand clapped over her mouth. There’s fear in her eyes.

  I want to disappear. Make all this vanish away. Poof.

  “He goes ape on us, we’ll mess him up so bad he’ll wish he was still in jail,” Eddie mutters, too low for the colored boy to hear. “Stinking nigger.”

  Bo takes a step toward the boy. The boy steps over the curb and into the parking lot.

  He’s on Bo’s turf now.

  But he isn’t looking at Bo.

  “You did this.” The colored boy points his finger at me. It might as well be a gun, I’m so frightened.

  “Hey, now!” Eddie glances back and forth from me to the boy. His brow is furrowed. He must not have heard I’m the one who started this whole mess. “That’s our girl Linda. You best not be thinking of messin’ with her.”

  “That’s right,” Bo says. He doesn’t bother to look at me. “You want to talk to somebody, you talk to us.”

  Daddy didn’t say one word to me after the concert last night. Nothing about how well I sang. Nothing about the colored boy.

  But when we got home he went straight into his office and locked the door. He was on the phone for the rest of the night.

  I know exactly who he was calling. Whenever he gets hold of an especially juicy piece of information about a Negro, the first thing he does is call his police beat reporter. Then he calls his buddy at the station.

  The only thing I can’t figure out is how the boy got away from the police so fast. I don’t see any bruises on him. Not that it’d be easy to tell, since his skin is so dark. I’m not sure if Negroes even get bruises, come to think of it.

  Well, if they do, this boy will have plenty of them soon enough.

  Bo swings first, but the boy turns away in time. Bo’s fist bounces off his jaw. The boy reaches back to take a swing.

  That’s as far as he gets. The boys are on him before he’s moved another muscle.

  I blink. A second later all I see is a pile of bodies on the ground, fists flying, legs swinging.

  I don’t see the colored boy at all. He must be at the very bottom of the pile. With at least fifteen guys on top of him, punching, kicking.

  “Stop it!” I yell, but no one’s paying attention.

  Judy runs into the store, screaming, “Mr. Bailey! Mr. Bailey, come out here, now!”

  “Stop it!” I yell again.

  I move toward the pile of boys, but I don’t know what to do. Even if I could pull one of them off he’d only fling himself back on again.

  I can see the colored boy’s leg. Blue jeans with an inch of brown skin peeking out above the shoe. The rest of him is blocked from view by the boys who are still crouched over him, punching.

  I can’t tell if it’s getting better or worse. The boy’s leg isn’t moving much.

  I tug at the buttons on my blouse cuffs until they pop off.r />
  This boy—Chuck—he caught me when I fell that day. He didn’t have to do that.

  Bo breaks away from the pack and goes to grab Judy’s mop and bucket from where they’re leaning against the wall. He hands the bucket to Eddie and takes the mop, gesturing for the rest of the group to back away. I can only see part of Chuck’s side this time. He’s not moving. Eddie turns the bucket upside down, dumping the filthy water out all over Chuck, making the boys laugh. Then he flips the bucket back over and slams it down into Chuck’s chest. I hear the crunch of ribs breaking.

  The group converges back over Chuck, punching and kicking. Bo joins in, thrusting the handle of the mop down with all his strength. I can’t see Chuck anymore, and I’m glad for it.

  Even God will never forgive me for this.

  That’s when I see Sarah.

  She’s standing on the sidewalk, her eyes fixed on Bo’s gang. She’s out of breath. She must have run here.

  In spite of everything, the feeling flares up inside me. The same one that’s come every time I’ve seen Sarah since that day. I ignore it and wave my arms desperately at her for help.

  The boys are standing up now, to better aim their kicks. Bo is slamming the mop handle down again and again. He pauses to wipe his brow, then looks up and sees Sarah watching. He grins at her, too wide, baring his teeth. Then he shifts the mop handle under his arm and cups his hands in the air like he’s squeezing melons.

  Sarah crosses her arms over her chest and backs away.

  The boys wouldn’t hurt Sarah, would they? She didn’t do anything. Besides, she’s a girl.

  The other boys are noticing her, too. Bo’s not the only one grinning.

  The door to Bailey’s bangs open. “What the Devil?” Mr. Bailey shouts.

  At the sound of his voice the others stand up. The colored boy is still on the ground, lying on his back with his eyes shut, clutching his side. His nose is broken. Blood drips down his chin.

  “Call the police!” I tell Mr. Bailey.

  “Yeah, she’s right, call ’em,” Gary calls out. “Tell them this here nigger belongs back in jail.”