The Colors of the Rain
Page 7
all tied up in great big knots.
I put in a call to the local shelter,
in case he was picked up,
Aunt Bee says to no one
in particular.
Charlie scoots her chair
closer to mine and reaches
to squeeze my hand.
Even though my daddy
brought Milo home for all of us,
he belonged to me.
Everyone knew it, even my daddy.
That’s how come he always
told me to take good care of Milo
while he was away at work.
I didn’t take care of him
like my daddy wanted me to
after all.
SPEAK
We’re clearing away the supper
that no one really ate when the
doorbell rings. Aunt Bee is
the only one who moves,
at least until we hear her cry,
and then me and Charlie are
fighting each other
to get to the door first.
There, standing behind a screen,
is a tall man, dark where
my daddy was light.
In his arms is a form
that looks like it might have
once been a dog.
A black dog,
streaked with red.
A smiling dog
with a twisted neck.
A quiet dog,
no longer breathing.
Milo.
A screech fills the room,
long and loud and terrifying,
like the wail of a
broken animal.
It’s only when Charlie
claps her hands over my mouth,
her eyes spilling water all
down her face, and I stumble
back onto the couch, that I
realize it was me who screamed, not the
lump in the stranger’s arms.
That animal, the dog, my dog,
couldn’t speak like that in the first place.
But he spoke with
his eyes and his smile
and his long pink tongue.
Now he’ll never
speak again.
BURY
Aunt Bee takes us home
to bury Milo.
We put his bed, the one she
bought for him to use
in the backyard, in her car.
Aunt Bee carries him out to the car
like a baby, his black head twisting
right out of her arms so it hangs
down to the side.
His eyes are closed.
I sit with him in the back,
even though it’s my turn
to ride in the front. Charlie
sits in the back, too.
No one says a word
all the way home.
GRAVE
I’m the first one in the house.
It doesn’t look all that different
with Mama gone, except that
her bed is made up.
Mama never used to
make up her bed, being as
she was just going to
sleep in it that night.
My daddy, though, he wanted
all our beds made every single day,
before we even came to breakfast,
back when we used to eat together.
Mama used to say that was
the army man talking.
Aunt Bee carries Milo and his bed
toward the woods while I
watch from Mama’s window.
Then I follow, so I can pick
the spot where he’ll be buried.
I want to bury him on the edge
of the woods and our backyard,
since he loved the woods
as much as he loved our yard.
Charlie and Aunt Bee dig a hole,
right where I’ve pointed,
and when they’re done,
I pick him up, without his bed.
I know he’d want the feel
of the dirt under him
instead of a pillow.
I lay him in the hole.
We don’t talk. We just stare,
and then, when the sad starts
hurting my throat, I shove
some dirt into the hole
with my toe so Aunt Bee
and Charlie know I’m ready
for them to cover my dog forever.
The dirt sticks to his fur
and collects around his mouth
and wraps around his tail.
And then his whole body
disappears.
I arrange some leaves and sticks
on top of the dirt piled over his hole.
Charlie hands me a cross
I didn’t see her carry here,
and all over it are little scenes
of me and Milo, painted to look
just like pictures.
I look at Aunt Bee.
She nods.
I swallow all the tears
sitting in my throat,
and I jam the cross
into the ground,
marking the place
where my best friend rests.
WORN
After we’ve had a few
minutes of quiet looking,
me and Charlie and Aunt Bee
go back inside, where they
unpack the lunch they brought
and I stand beside the window,
watching the front porch
where Milo used to lay,
on those days the sun stripes
would turn him zebra.
The porch is cracked and worn
where his tail thumped the wood.
I turn away and
walk into the kitchen,
back to what’s left of my own
cracked and worn world.
CAKE
A lemon cake, yellow on the outside
hiding yellow in the middle,
sits on Gran’s table.
It’s amazing to me, every time,
that Gran remembers everyone’s
favorite cake, without even asking.
She used to make carrot cake
for my daddy and chocolate
for my mama.
I’ve tried all day not to
think about Mama, being as
she should be back by now.
I don’t want to spoil
my special day with questions.
Mama always used my birthday
to celebrate the end of summer
and the beginning of the school year.
I guess Aunt Bee liked that idea,
since we’re all gathered
at Gran’s house today.
PARTY
Last time I had a birthday party
my daddy came, and he stood
right in the middle of everyone,
singing just as loud as he could.
I sure wish everything didn’t
remind me of him.
I reckon everybody notices
I’m not feeling too excited
about my special day,
since Aunt Bee squeezes
my shoulder real hard
and Gran lights those eleven candles
spread out on the top of the cake
and Granddad pulls on his guitar
and they all start singing
the happiest version
of “Happy Birthday”
I’ve ever heard
in my whole life.
Something about it
warms me from
the inside.
Gran cuts pieces of cake
while Charlie piles presents
in front of me. Some new shoes
from Gran and Granddad.
Paint supplies from Aunt Bee.
Charlie’s gift is a rectangle,
&n
bsp; flat and heavy and hard.
I tear into the plain blue paper.
Inside is a frame with a
thousand buttons glued
to a piece of the fabric.
The way the buttons
curve together makes it look
just like the road that
took my daddy.
And I don’t think she
expected it at all, but I cry,
and I can’t stop.
I can’t stop.
I don’t really know why.
It’s just that those buttons,
on their insides, hold all
the colors of us.
Orange for Charlie.
Green for me.
Yellow for Mama.
Blue for my daddy.
All our favorites wrapped
around each other.
We are still together,
even in our worlds apart.
I don’t know if this is
what Charlie meant
when she made it for me,
but it’s what I see.
FALL 1972
FIRST
We leave before
the sun has fully come up.
Aunt Bee talks the whole way
about how this year
is going to be different.
Our schools have been slow
to desegregate, she says.
But the government
cracked down this year.
About time, too, is what I say.
She says she’s expecting
protestors, so we’ll have to
be careful on our way in.
On a street that leads up
near the elementary school,
we pass a whole group of people
carrying signs and yelling.
They don’t move off the road,
so Aunt Bee drives real slow,
winding around them
like she’s done this
sort of thing before.
They hit our car as we drive past.
Every smack is so loud
it makes me jump.
The signs say things like
STOP THE RACE MIXING and
RACE MIXING IS COMMUNISM and
GO BACK TO AFRICA, LANGLEY & KIDS.
Oh, for God’s sake,
Aunt Bee says.
She says a few more words
I’m not supposed to repeat.
Charlie looks back at me
with big eyes.
And then we’re past them
and pulling into the
school parking lot and the
sun is staring at us,
like it’s determined
today will be a good day.
PROTEST
Aunt Bee walks Charlie
to the place where her bus
will drop off and pick up,
and I follow them.
We try not to notice
the line of boys and girls
and parents out front holding signs
that say things like,
WE WON’T GO TO SCHOOL WITH NEGROES and
STRIKE AGAINST INTEGRATION and
WESTHEIMER SCHOOL DISTRICT IS COMING.
I don’t know what all
the fuss is about. It’s just
a different color skin.
It’ll be worse at your
school, Charlotte,
Aunt Bee says.
A girl waiting in line, with skin
the color of Granddad’s coffee,
looks up at Aunt Bee’s words.
She catches Charlie’s eye
and then looks away.
Have a good day,
Aunt Bee says, and she gives
Charlie a quick hug.
Charlie smiles, but it’s easy
to see it’s not a real one.
It shakes at the edges.
We turn away,
and I hear Charlie say,
I’m Charlie, and the
other girl says,
I’m Harriet, and I can’t help
but think my sister is the
bravest girl I know.
MEET
Aunt Bee is some kind of celebrity,
or at least it seems that way,
since everybody in the hall
knows her. At least the light-skinned kids do.
The dark-skinned kids stare and
don’t say anything.
I try to meet the eyes
of some of them,
but they just look away,
like they’re ashamed to be here.
The first thing
Aunt Bee does every time
someone waves or gives her a hug
or opens their mouth at all
is push me forward and say,
This is my nephew, Paulie Sanders,
like she wants everyone
in the world to know me, too.
It must take us an hour
to get back to Aunt Bee’s office.
I’ll walk you to your class
in a few minutes, Paulie, she says.
My stomach jumps, over and over,
like something is stuck inside it,
even though I only ate half the fried egg
Aunt Bee cooked me this morning.
I take out my sketchbook,
since drawing always
calms me.
CLASS
I’m halfway through
a picture of Aunt Bee
at her desk when she says,
All right. You ready?
No. I’m not at all ready.
But I close the pad
and stuff it back in my bag.
We walk down the hallway
until we reach a door
that says MRS. MARTELL.
The first thing I notice
inside the room
is that the light-skinned kids
sit up front
and the dark-skinned kids
huddle in the back.
At the front of the room
is a woman who looks
much younger than Mama,
with dark red hair
and eyes the color of fog.
This is Paulie, Aunt Bee says,
and some of the kids
turn and look at me.
Mrs. Martell surprises me
with a hug. She smells
like lemon soap.
Welcome to our class, Paulie.
She smiles with big
pearly white teeth.
I wonder how much
Aunt Bee has told her about me,
and if that’s why
she’s being so nice.
Aunt Bee hugs me real quick,
like she did with Charlie,
and then she’s gone.
I’ve never felt so alone
in my life, even though
there are people all
around me.
The first bell rings,
and I sit in the back,
even though I have light skin,
not dark skin,
and try not to meet
a single person’s eye.
IMPOSSIBLE
The lunchroom is
just like my classroom:
light-skinned kids separated
from dark-skinned kids.
I don’t sit with anyone
at lunch. I don’t walk
with anyone back to class.
And then the bell rings
and the day is over,
and I’m pushing through
a crowded hallway, where some
white kids are hissing
mean things to black kids,
who walk with their heads down.
I’m trying to get to
Aunt Bee’s office, but I can’t
remember where it is.
Everyone’s sure of where
they’re going except me.
> So I just
keep walking.
HANDS
A noise at the end of the hallway
makes me turn.
Who’s there? I say,
my heart thumping.
Greg, a voice says.
It’s high and shrill,
like maybe I’ve scared
whoever owns it, too.
When he steps into the light
I see a boy, smaller than me,
with eyes and skin so dark
they make the whites of his eyes glow.
He pushes dark, curly hair
from his forehead,
and sweat makes it
stand straight up.
Students aren’t allowed
back here, he says.
What are you doing?
I guess I could
ask him the same.
Nothing, I say.
My voice is hard.
This boy’s done
nothing wrong but scare me.
He leans closer.
Are you crying? he says.
Then all my rage
comes out into my hands,
and before I can stop it, before
I even know what’s happening,
he’s on his back and
I’m running down one hallway
after another.
BULLY
Somehow I find myself
in front of Aunt Bee’s office door.
I stand outside, trying to
catch my breath.
Aunt Bee is packing up to go.
Charlie sits in the chair
where I sat drawing Aunt Bee
at her desk this morning.
She looks at me
and back down at her book,
like maybe she doesn’t want me
to read her eyes.
Paulie, Aunt Bee says.
I was starting to worry.
Where were you?
I shrug.
Exploring, I say.
I look at my hands,
the ones that
pushed a boy down.
Now I’m
my daddy,
the bully.
I know I don’t
have to be.
It’s just that when I
pushed that boy down
it felt like I had some control
over the hurricane of feelings,
whipping inside me.
I didn’t have to be sad
or mad or confused
or scared or hopeless.
I didn’t have to be
the boy who lost his daddy
because of a black man.
We follow Aunt Bee
out to the car.
It’s hot inside and
real hard to breathe.
BENT
I guess Aunt Bee knows
me and Charlie don’t really
want to talk about our days,
since she doesn’t ask us