The Colors of the Rain

by R. L. Toalson

  any questions.

  She turns on the radio instead.

  It’s reporting about all the fights

  that broke out in school hallways today,

  and the determination of white parents

  to start their own segregated school district,

  about the spirit of protest

  that has taken Houston by storm

  ever since black students

  at a local university

  pelted police officers

  with bottles and rocks

  for forcefully breaking up

  a student demonstration

  in Emancipation Park.

  My God, Aunt Bee says.

  The whole world’s

  lost its marbles.

  I listen and watch the green fields

  outside the window. That’s when

  I see something I didn’t notice

  this morning when the world

  was still mostly dark.

  In the middle of a field

  there is a tree, tall and wide and full;

  the wind is twisting its branches

  and tearing its leaves and

  bending it near in two,

  and the tree can’t do

  anything about it.

  It just moves where

  the wind takes it.

  We are all like that tree, I think.

  Bent near in two

  by the world.

  NEXT

  A whole week of school

  and it’s more of the same.

  Sit alone. Walk alone.

  Don’t speak.

  I hate this place.

  I see the boy I pushed down

  twice every day, at lunch

  and in the hallway, going

  back to class. He must be

  a fifth grader, too, just a

  really small one, seeing as

  we have the same lunch period.

  He carries his food in a brown bag

  and sits at a table

  with boys and girls

  who look like him.

  He’s always watching me.

  He’s either scared or curious.

  I don’t know which it is,

  since I can’t ever find the

  nerve to look in his eyes.

  It’s not for the reasons

  you might think, either.

  Something must be wrong with me.

  Charlie would say I’m

  being dramatic.

  But I don’t feel bad for what I did,

  pushing him down. I feel

  like I could do it again.

  And what makes it worse

  is that he is one of the kids

  the people protesting out front

  say shouldn’t be here.

  Do I believe them, deep down?

  I didn’t think I did,

  but what about my actions?

  I’m afraid of what comes next.

  DESK

  Mr. Langley remembers me when

  I walk through the door,

  but he only talks for a minute.

  There are other kids coming in, too,

  and they all want to talk to him.

  Small easels sit on all the desks

  in the room, along with

  watercolor rectangles, a cup of water,

  and four paintbrushes.

  Paper is clipped onto the easels.

  I walk to a desk

  in the back corner.

  It’s not until class has started

  and Mr. Langley holds up a

  vase of flowers and says

  we need to paint what we see

  that I notice who is closest

  to me. It’s Greg, the boy

  I pushed down.

  PAINT

  I try to focus on my painting,

  but it’s hard. Greg keeps

  looking over and

  whispering, Wow,

  loud enough for me

  to hear it.

  I steal a few glances

  at his painting,

  but it’s not good.

  Not even a little bit.

  I paint different colors

  than the ones on the vase

  Mr. Langley put on his desk.

  Blues and blacks and reds

  that don’t look as dark as

  I’d like them to, since

  we’re using watercolors.

  When Mr. Langley walks by,

  he stops and stares. Interesting

  color choice, Paulie, he says

  before he moves away.

  I keep dipping and swirling

  until the bell rings,

  until most of the kids

  leave the room, until it’s just

  me and Greg and Mr. Langley.

  MOTHER

  Greg puts his brushes and watercolors away

  before I do and walks toward

  Mr. Langley. He points behind him.

  He’s really good, he says.

  Mr. Langley nods.

  I know, he says.

  A hot wind climbs up my neck.

  These are nice words

  from a boy I hurt, and they burn.

  I don’t deserve them.

  How are you holding up?

  Mr. Langley says.

  Greg shrugs.

  The signs out front

  are ugly, he says.

  It’ll die down, Mr. Langley says.

  Eventually they’ll get

  used to integration.

  He clears his throat and

  tilts his head. No one’s

  hurt you, have they?

  That’s what I’m concerned

  about—the violence.

  I hold my breath,

  but Greg shakes his head.

  They mostly act like

  I’m not even here.

  Well. Mr. Langley puts a hand

  on Greg’s shoulder and walks him

  toward the door.

  He says something real quiet,

  like maybe he doesn’t

  want me to hear.

  At the door, he says,

  How’s your mother?

  I don’t even hear Greg’s answer,

  being as my blood starts shouting

  in my ears. My hands clench,

  and I have to concentrate real hard

  to keep them from ripping

  the paper in front of me.

  Why do some get to have mothers

  and others don’t?

  FRIEND

  Paulie. I jump.

  Mr. Langley is right

  beside me, pointing

  at the flowers on my paper.

  Why did you change

  them? he says.

  I look at the picture.

  I guess I wasn’t paying attention.

  Instead of the lilies

  Mr. Langley has in his vase,

  I painted tulips.

  Mama’s favorite.

  I shrug and look away.

  I can feel Mr. Langley’s

  eyes on me, like he knows

  why I did it and he didn’t really

  need to ask me

  at all.

  But how could

  he know?

  Would you like to help me

  with something after school? he says.

  He waves his hand at some

  crates beside me. In them

  are cans of spray paint

  in all different colors.

  What is it? I say.

  It’s the first time I’ve spoken

  in a class since the

  school year began.

  You’ll see, he says,

  smiling so the skin around his eyes

  wrinkles like crumpled paper.

  Okay, I say.

  I’ll just have to let

  Aunt Bee know.

  Come as soon as the

  bell rings, he says,

  like he
already knows

  what Aunt Bee will say.

  I walk down the hall,

  counting the hours

  until the school day ends.

  BUILDING

  When the bell finally rings

  and Aunt Bee waves me

  out her office door, I meet Mr. Langley

  outside the art room.

  He’s holding the crate

  of spray paint.

  Follow me, he says.

  He takes me to a building

  behind the school,

  an old one that might have

  once been red, but I can’t

  tell for sure.

  It’s mostly brown now.

  Mr. Langley walks around

  to the side that faces the street.

  The sun is hot and bright.

  We’ll paint the whole thing, he says.

  But we’ll save this side for last.

  Today? I say, being as it’s a

  really big building for

  painting in a day.

  Mr. Langley laughs.

  It’s a nice laugh, not too loud,

  one that comes from down

  deep in his belly. No, he says.

  It will take us lots of days.

  We’re supposed to paint

  a mural on each side.

  I wonder why he wants me

  to help him with something

  like this. Something that will

  be here forever. Something

  the whole school will see.

  Why? I say, but it must not

  come out quite right,

  since he doesn’t

  give me the whole

  answer I want.

  Your aunt wants to make

  this building pretty again, he says.

  It used to be. And then . . .

  His face turns darker

  and real sad. He turns away,

  like whatever’s inside isn’t

  something he ever

  wants to see again.

  GOOD

  What’s in there? I say.

  He looks at me for a long time.

  Maintenance supplies, he says.

  He walks to the back

  of the building, where we

  left the crate. We’ll paint

  the front and back together,

  he says. But I thought we could

  each take a side and

  see what happens.

  Why me? I say.

  Mr. Langley picks up a purple can

  and a blue can from the crate.

  Because Greg thinks

  you’re good, he says.

  He grins. And so do I.

  I’m so shocked I don’t find

  more words before Mr. Langley says,

  Pick your colors, and then

  disappears to his own side.

  START

  I stand there staring at the colors

  for such a long time, not knowing

  what to choose, that Mr. Langley

  pokes his head out again.

  Need help? he says.

  I just don’t know what to do, I say.

  I don’t know where to start.

  Mr. Langley walks back to the paints,

  puts his down into the missing slots.

  He squeezes my shoulder.

  Sometimes the hardest place

  is the starting line, he says.

  I think he might be

  talking about more

  than just the painting.

  It’s the way he’s looking at me,

  like he knows all the questions

  I’ve asked myself since my

  daddy left and my mama ran off.

  I follow him back to his side,

  to see what he’s doing.

  A big YOU stands blue

  against the brown, and

  right beside it, CAN is

  written in purple.

  He holds the new spray can

  up for a minute, and then he

  paints over the words

  with orange.

  I walk back to my side,

  stopping to pick up the green.

  I paint what my hands want,

  and even though I’ve never

  done this with a can of spray paint,

  something starts to take shape

  in front of me. I only get half

  the green grass done before

  it’s time to go.

  But I know I can start now,

  seeing as how I already have.

  I help Mr. Langley carry the paint

  back to his classroom, even though

  he doesn’t really need my help.

  We walk down

  the hall together, toward

  Aunt Bee.

  TRUTH

  Aunt Bee sends me

  into her office, where

  Charlie is waiting.

  She says she needs to talk

  with Mr. Langley in private.

  Me and Charlie hear them

  talking in their low voices,

  and we don’t even have to

  look at each other to know

  it’s time to sit still and listen.

  You didn’t tell him,

  Aunt Bee says.

  No, Mr. Langley says.

  I don’t want him to know.

  Not yet, Aunt Bee says.

  We’ll give it some time.

  I know, Mr. Langley says.

  For a second, I think

  they’re talking about Mama,

  and I feel anger blowing

  like a hot breath across my face.

  Then Aunt Bee says, He’s got

  enough to burden his mind

  without knowing the truth

  about that building, and I feel

  like someone knocked me

  clean off my feet.

  CRY

  They’re quiet for a minute

  before Mr. Langley says,

  Paulie says you paint?

  My heart beats hard

  against my chest. I didn’t know

  I wasn’t supposed to tell.

  I want to yell the words to Aunt Bee

  before she can get mad at me.

  Aunt Bee doesn’t answer

  before Mr. Langley says,

  I don’t know why you

  couldn’t tell me, and

  something about his voice—

  the way it holds all the

  disappointment and hurt

  and sadness in the world—

  makes me and Charlie

  look at each other.

  Her eyes are wide.

  After all— he starts to say,

  but Aunt Bee interrupts him.

  I don’t paint anymore, she says.

  Her voice is weak, like

  something is stuck in her throat.

  She isn’t telling the truth.

  Me and Charlie always sneak

  in her room when she’s

  gone to the post office.

  Those canvas stacks get bigger,

  mostly pictures of Mama

  and Granddad and

  especially my daddy.

  They don’t say anything for so long

  that me and Charlie get up and

  look out the door Aunt Bee

  forgot to close behind her.

  Mr. Langley is still there,

  and his arms wrap all the way

  around Aunt Bee. She’s shaking.

  I could count on one hand

  how many times I’ve seen

  Aunt Bee cry.

  1. The night those lights

  shone red and blue

  through the rain.

  2. The day she stood up

  to talk at my daddy’s funeral

  and she choked on

  the word brother.

  3. Today.

  KNOWING

  When I can finally move,

  I walk bac
k to my chair.

  I have so many questions

  I don’t even know where to start.

  Charlie whispers, He loves her.

  And she loves him.

  It’s something I never thought about,

  but I see now how it explains everything.

  That day I told him she could paint,

  and he left without talking to her,

  like it changed something for him.

  The way her eyes watched him

  the day she introduced us.

  The ghost in his voice today.

  I don’t know if I like

  knowing this, though,

  since knowing just adds

  more questions.

  WEB

  On the way in to school this morning,

  I stopped to watch a spider in the grass,

  held up by a web, where a thousand

  drops of dew made the whole thing

  look like a piece of Bubble Wrap

  my daddy used to pop with me.

  This morning I thought

  it was something pretty enough

  to stop and see, but now I know

  it was a picture of me.

  I am a spider stuck in a web,

  surrounded by dewdrop questions.

  Every move I make

  sends answers I don’t like

  splashing deep enough

  to drown me.

  FORGIVENESS

  Mr. Langley told me we’d only

  be painting on Mondays,

  so I have to find something else to do

  every other day of the week.

  I don’t like waiting for Charlie

  to get off the school bus

  or sitting in Aunt Bee’s office,

  so I’ve taken to exploring the streets

  around the school.

  I don’t tell Aunt Bee.

  She doesn’t do things

  like Mama did them.

  Daddy told me once

  it’s better to ask for

  forgiveness than permission.

  STREET

  The roads are always quiet,

  since not too many students

  live in these houses near the school.

  Most of the people I pass are old,

  walking their dogs

  in the same bent-over way.

  They smile at me and say hello,

  even though I don’t know them.

  I always stop to pet their dogs.

  I don’t usually turn on

  any other streets, but today

  I take only one right and one left,

  so I’ll remember the

  way back.

  The houses down this street

  are chipped and crumbling.

  They look like my old house.

  A kid shouts from

  somewhere up ahead,

  so I follow the sound.

  When I get closer, I see