Leaving Atlanta (15 page)

“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.