Leaving Atlanta Page 11

  Miss Russell nudges you. Her limp hair is the color of acorns. “Do you want to be a policeman? A fireman?” She laughs a little bit. “An artist?”

  Why doesn’t she just ask you how old you are and move on? Tayari Jones, two aisles over, is sniffing rubber cement and could use a little adult supervision. But Miss Russell squats beside you and leans forward as if your vocational leanings are of some consequence.

  You know she doesn’t want to know what you want to eat when you grow up, but you can’t take your mind away from the dinner table. Just yesterday you were forced—at the threat of whipping—to eat several mushy mouthfuls of au gratin spinach that smelled of feet. Father hadn’t even put any on his plate. Instead, Mother had served him three tiny red potatoes glistening with butter and dotted with flecks of parsley.

  “Hmm?” Miss Russell says.

  “A father,” you say finally.

  “A fireman,” she says. “How nice. I’m sure you’ll be a very good one.”

  Octavia looks up from her work and communicates nonverbally that she thinks your ambition is ridiculous. You dunk your brush, heavy and red, into the paper cup of black paint. The mix of colors is like a beetle squashed underfoot. Her eyes are on you still.

  “That’s pretty, what you made,” you tell her.

  “What is it then?” she challenges.

  You study the configuration of splotches the colors of marigolds and daffodils. You are sincere in your compliment, but the painting bears little resemblance to anything you recognize.

  “See, you don’t even know what it is.”

  “A butterfly?”

  “No, stupid.” Her hand is on her hip. “It’s a plate of scrambled eggs and cheese.”

  No one has ever called you stupid before. You are pleased. You laugh and she joins you, covering her mouth with her hand, smearing spring colors on her dark cheeks.

  You don’t win first prize for your fall project. Mr. Harrell pins a purple-blue ribbon on Tayari Jones’s collar. Evidently, her mother is more talented than yours. Tayari’s project includes moving cardboard parts.

  Octavia sucks her teeth as a beaming Tayari pulls a little lever that causes a miniature hiker to climb up her poster-board. Her sweater is turned inside out.

  “It’s not fair,” Octavia complains. “You know her mother made that for her.”

  You nod, eager to agree with her.

  “Yours is good,” she continues. “Better than mine. But you can still tell that a kid did it.”

  You smile at the unintentional insult to your mother. You resolve to sit with her at lunch today, if she asks you.

  Octavia, in front of you in line, is as quiet as she has ever been. She stands rigidly and takes each advancing step as a regrettable but unavoidable necessity. Your eyes are trained on her neck as your feet move to some choreography that you can’t understand. You want to speak and disrupt the lunch-line conveyor belt.

  “What are they having today?” you open your mouth to say, but the words get tangled in your inner machinery and are deposited in your stomach.

  Today is yesterday. The milk in the cooler is still warmer than ideal but you will drink it anyway. The cafeteria ladies’ hair nets still bite into their foreheads. You will exchange forty cents for your lunch, Octavia, only a dime.

  “Tetrazzini?” says the cafeteria lady.

  “Yes’m,” from Octavia.

  “Tetrazzini?”

  You nod.

  She plunges her heavy spoon into the casserole and plops a sprawling portion onto your green sectioned plate. The noodles shine orange with oil and cheese. You open your mouth to express your astonished gratitude, but she’s serving the next tray.

  Octavia sits alone at a round table with red stools attached. She does not lift her eyes to see where you will sit. She uses her fork to spear a single kernel of corn.

  “Is somebody sitting here?” The words make it out of your mouth after first passing through your gut.

  “I don’t see nobody.” She impales another kernel.

  You set your tray beside hers.

  Leon Simmons calls, “Rodney, I got you a seat over here.”

  You obediently carry your tray toward the sound of his voice.

  “I thought you and me was supposed to be friends. You don’t have to sit there with that Watusi.” Leon nudges Candida, who chews hard on gum that is pink as a wound.

  You reach in your pocket and pull out the packet of candy corn. It is warm with the heat of your thigh.

  “Here go your stuff.” You slide it across the table before lifting your tray again.

  Octavia is no longer sitting alone. Trina Littlejohn sits unhappily across from her, poking at the turkey Tetrazzini. Should you join them? Sitting with one girl suggests you are going together. Sharing a table with two of them means you’re weird.

  “Mr. Green, please take a seat,” Mr. Harrell orders.

  You put your tray beside Octavia’s again. “Are you saving this seat?”

  She shakes her head no and Trina stops frowning long enough to giggle.

  The girls had been talking before you arrived but now they stare silently at you. Trina shovels gigantic scoops of cheesy noodles into her mouth as Octavia eats her corn yellow kernel by yellow kernel. You finish lunch wondering if cafeteria casseroles taste better without cheese after all.

  Sister is in an especially good mood after school today. She grabs your hand and swings it as you walk the quarter mile to the bus stop.

  “Know why it’s not raining no more?” she says.

  You shake your head no, as you try to disentangle your fingers from hers.

  “’Cause we got our report cards!” she sings, holding tight to your sticky hand.

  You’ve received your report card too. It is sealed like a state secret in an envelope squashed in the bottom of your book bag.

  “What’s the matter, Brother?” she asks you, over the hiss of the opening bus door.

  “Nothing,” you say, sitting aboard the bus, heading in the direction of home. Sister, you know, believes that a progress report is merely an occasion for gift-giving. Last term, she was given a doll that wept. You, on the other hand, understand that the Cs written in Mr. Harrell’s careful hand will only remind Father why he hates you.

  You could do better. Some of your classmates, whom standardized testing deem to be barely above average, take home exemplary grades. But you, despite your ability, do not memorize multiplication tables or spelling words, although the rote drills are all that stand between you and a student-of-the-month award. They could protect you from Father’s belt.

  “We’re here.” Sister tugs your hand. You follow her to the front of the bus. When she exits the city bus, drivers of cars in both directions are pleased to stop although the law does not require this. Sister walks quickly; the plastic barrettes on the ends of her ten or so neat braids click charmingly as she makes her way.

  When you come in the house, Sister has already hung her red-and-white jumper dress in her closet and is sitting at the table in her slip polishing an apple with a napkin. In the center of the table is a white envelope. You see it, sigh, and take a similar one from your own backpack. It is gummed with residue of purple candy, but you put it on the table next to hers. The contrast is almost humiliating.

  “I hope that’s good news!” Mother is cheerful as she eyes the tattered envelope.

  She knows full well that it is not, but you say nothing. It’s alright is what you said last time, but lately you have become bored with the ritualistic lies.

  “Your sister is going to do some reading before dinner. Don’t you want to read for a few minutes before your father gets home?” Mother has read somewhere that children who read at least an hour a day are somehow better than those who don’t. Sister absently chews a green apple as she looks at her kids’ book with big letters. You read too, but you are not an exhibitionist.

  Three hours later, Father arrives, reeking of hard work. “Did you clean your room like
I told you?”

  You shake your head. “Homework.” Luckily you have an open book on your lap to appease Mother.

  Father exhales. He is disappointed that he has nothing better for a son. A boy who is not only too short but trifling, lazy, sloven, and spoiled.

  “Little overdue for a haircut, boy,” he says, as if it is a moral defect. You say nothing because you are sure that eventually it will dawn upon him that you are too young to drive and that he is the person ultimately responsible for your upkeep in all matters male. “My daddy told me never to trust a man without a decent edge up,” he says emphatically. You hunch your shoulders to hide the two nappy trails of hair running down your neck.

  When dinner is served you are full of stolen candy. Mother, a terrible cook, is unaware of her culinary limitations and misprepares complex dishes without remorse. Sister asks for another serving of vichyssoise. Father wipes his mouth with a blue paper napkin and reaches for the envelopes in the center of the table. He takes the clean one first. Sister smiles down at her plate as he rips through the adhesive with his square fingernail.

  “Look at this, Beverly,” he says. “Almost all Es. And look here. A note on the bottom. It says her report was excellent.” Mother now looks down at her plate shyly. You know that it is because she did most of the work on that particular project. All Sister did was hand her the glue or the construction paper.

  Father opens the second envelope. He looks at it quickly and hands it to your mother. He wants to know what your problem is. You shrug but offer no response.

  “He’s not challenged,” Mother says in your defense.

  “Challenged?” Spittle flies from his lips. “This boy’s problem is he never had to pick cotton. When you pick cotton you don’t sit out there and see if you can be challenged by the cotton. You don’t bring your bag in empty at the end of the day and tell that white man that the cotton didn’t challenge you. You just pick the goddamn cotton!”

  “Daddy!” Sister says. “You said a bad word.”

  He apologizes, kissing the top of her lovely head. You stare at your plate, plot murder, say nothing.

  Father will beat you tonight. The tiny column of letters defacing your report card mandates that he pull his belt from its loops and swing it hard. His pants will fall below his waist revealing clean white undershorts as he swings at your shins, forcing you to dance a humiliating jig. There is a boy in the special ed class whose legs are immobilized by braces of reinforced metal. Father’s belt coils around your left thigh, the buckle collides with your knee. You wish you were a special boy whose legs could not move and could not dance to the rhythm of the licks.

  “You have to learn to get your lesson,” he says.

  You cry despite your resolve to be impassive.

  “Never going to amount to nothing.” Each word is accentuated by a whack.

  You recall Octavia hurling rocks at Leon’s head. What would she do if she were in your place? Then, you remember that people say that she has no father. The envy leaves a taste in your mouth that is as bitter as blood.

  Father is exhausted now. He takes his air in gulps as he fastens his belt around his trousers. Both of your faces shine with saltwater.

  “Let’s not let this happen again,” he says, opening your bedroom door.

  Mother is in the hallway. “Did you hurt him?”

  “No,” Father assures her. “I hurt his feelings, that’s all.”

  On Wednesday morning, your full bladder forces you out of bed. You open your bedroom door and dart across the hall to the bathroom. In the clean and bright room, you use the toilet, being careful not to splash the green tile. Mother has complained to Father about your bad aim. “Get a little closer next time,” he told you, as you rubbed the floor with a soapy sponge. “It’s not as long as you think it is.”

  You are on your way back to bed when your parents’ door opens. Father is ready for breakfast.

  “Well, looka here,” he says. “What you doing up?”

  You point at the bathroom door and stare longingly at your bedroom.

  “Come on in the kitchen and talk to me while I get me some breakfast.”

  You stand in the hallway barefoot and vulnerable in your Snoopy pajamas. He smiles as if he hadn’t hit you with his belt just hours earlier. Will he swing it again if you refuse his invitation?

  “Okay,” you say.

  Father is cheerful as he turns on the radio and shuts it off again. “Don’t need that since I got my boy to talk to this morning.”

  The teakettle shrieks and Father turns brown pebbles into coffee. “Kids don’t like coffee, right?”

  You don’t.

  “What it is y’all drink? Hot chocolate? Tea?”

  “Hot chocolate is okay.”

  He rummages in the cabinet. “I don’t see none. How about a Coke?”

  You shrug. You have not brushed your teeth yet; whatever you drink will taste terrible.

  You watch Father’s broad back as he breaks three eggs into a little bowl and beats them with a fork. He slurps coffee while dotting slices of white bread with golden margarine. He doesn’t turn around before he starts to speak.

  “My daddy worked in the sawmill. He couldn’t read. He would turn over in his grave if he could hear me because he worked so hard to keep people from knowing. Daddy could write his name as good as a schoolteacher. But that was all.” Now Father turns to look at you. “I hate that he died before you could get to know him.”

  “Yes sir,” you say.

  “The reason I know that he couldn’t read, is that he used to bring me books when I was a boy. I don’t even want to think about where he must’ve gotten them from.” Father stirs the eggs in the little black skillet, shaking his head gently from side to side. He takes a big gulp from his mug. “But the reason I know he couldn’t read those books is that some of them were straight pornography.” He turns and grins at you before lifting perfect slices of toast from the oven. Yellow splotches make the bread look like dice. He hands you two slices on a white saucer trimmed in silver.

  “Jelly?” he asks.

  “No sir.”

  “I thought kids were supposed to like sweet stuff.” Sitting at the table, he chases his eggs around the plate with the perfect toast. There are crumbs in his mustache.

  “Now Daddy was a religious man—we spent all day Sunday in church. I know that if he had even a little piece of an idea what was in them books, he never would have let me have them.” He laughs and looks at you, expecting a smile. You show your teeth and he continues. “He wanted me to have things a little better. He didn’t want me to end up at the sawmill, you see?”

  You nod. But you are confused. Father has never given you a book.

  “He always made sure I got my lesson, you see.”

  Your throat tightens and you cannot swallow your toast. You calm yourself by noting that he does not wear a belt with his coveralls.

  “Daddy used to beat my tail good if he even thought that I wasn’t doing my homework.” He smiles at his near-empty plate, savoring the memory of pain. “I used to be mad because he would beat me all out in the yard. My friends who probably had did the same thing would be out laughing at me. They had daddies who didn’t care enough to take a switch to them when they needed it.” He wipes his plate with the last scrap of toast. “Today, somebody would call the police on Daddy and have him taken away for child abuse." He smiles at you. Soft bread is lodged between his teeth.

  You try to drink some Coke but your throat is shut. You hold the stinging bubbles in your mouth.

  “But now, I thank him for it. Some of the fellas I grew up with ain’t got half of what I got. Or even look at Joe. Daddy was too old when he was coming up to give him a good whipping when he needed it. What’s Joe doing now? Picking up the garbage. If his boss decides to cut his wages, there ain’t much that Joe can do. But me, I’m my own boss.”

  Father scoots back a little from the table, inviting you to take a long admiring look at him. “Your
mama don’t even have to work.” He smiles. “You see what I mean?” Father leaves the kitchen. You go to the bathroom and vomit buttered toast and soda.

  You’re at school early again this morning. Wednesday is Mother’s day to help prepare meals at church for the shut-ins. You are hungry as you wind through the corner store before the bell, but Mrs. Lewis’s candies do not tempt you this morning. You tuck a pair of red lollipops in your pocket but they will not do for breakfast. Cherry candy, always improbably bright, never evokes the dark July sweetness of real fruit.

  Turning the candy over in your pocket, you watch the breakfast kids through the narrow slit between the cafeteria doors. They eat with hungry appreciation but not with the starving abandon that you have envisioned. Octavia sits alone at an oval table absently eating eggs and cheese while reading a hardcover book. A chunk of egg falls on the page and she looks around her with darting eyes before wiping the book with her napkin. Leon tips a bowl of cereal to his mouth. Puffed corn and milk travel down his throat in waves.

  You put your hand to the double doors and give a tentative shove. They yield easily and you walk inside. The room is much cleaner and quieter than it will be at twelve-twenty, lunchtime for fifth-graders. You make your way toward the serving line as a bell rings. A cafeteria lady is wiping down the counter with a stained rag.

  “Can I help you?” She is eyeing your penny loafers suspiciously.

  “I wanted to get some breakfast.”

  “Come again?” She plants her hands on her hips to brace herself against any foolishness of yours.

  “I wanted to have some breakfast.” You clear your throat and add, “Ma’am.”

  “Breakfast’s over.”

  “Already?” There is a small lake of steaming water where vats of grits, eggs, and bacon had been warmed.

  “Your mama didn’t fix you nothing before you left the house?” Her eyes soften slightly.

  You should be loyal to your mother and explain that you refused the meal she offered you. But to explain this rejection requires that you betray Father. You shrug.