The Colors of the Rain Read online

  This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  251 Park Avenue South, New York, NY 10010

  Copyright © 2018 by R. L. Toalson

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  Yellow Jacket is a trademark of Bonnier Publishing USA, and associated colophon is a trademark of Bonnier Publishing USA.

  Manufactured in the United States of America BVG 0818

  First Edition

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.

  ISBN 978-1-4998-0717-2

  yellowjacketreads.com

  bonnierpublishingusa.com

  To Memaw and Grandad’n, wish you were here

  — RT

  America preaches integration and practices segregation.

  —Malcolm X

  The legal battle against segregation is won, but the community battle goes on.

  —Dorothy Day

  CONTENTS

  Spring 1972

  Rain

  Earth

  Night

  Birthday

  Divorce

  Charlie

  Sing

  Fight

  Run

  Shots

  School

  Eyes

  Friends

  Milo

  Woods

  Smiles

  Leaf

  Sister

  Brave

  Caught

  Number

  Apology

  Shoe

  Strong

  Spot

  Draw

  Magnificent

  Lights

  Words

  Outrun

  Question

  People

  Room

  Choice

  Face

  Granddad

  Play

  News

  Laugh

  Notes

  Summer 1972

  Pencil

  Try

  Ready

  Shed

  Art

  Dark

  Hand

  Lock

  Breakfast

  Empty

  Cup

  Mama

  Summer

  Supper

  Cloud

  Tired

  Miss

  Home

  Porch

  Glad

  Name

  Letters

  Curtain

  Secrets

  Question

  Surprise

  Garden

  Love

  Flower

  Forgotten

  Call

  Trip

  Day

  Eat

  Star

  Afraid

  Tour

  Teacher

  Echo

  Gone

  Search

  Walk

  Care

  Speak

  Bury

  Grave

  Worn

  Cake

  Party

  Fall 1972

  First

  Protest

  Meet

  Class

  Impossible

  Hands

  Bully

  Bent

  Next

  Desk

  Paint

  Mother

  Friend

  Building

  Good

  Start

  Truth

  Cry

  Knowing

  Web

  Forgiveness

  Street

  Watch

  Pain

  Lonely

  Safe

  Easy

  Run

  Note

  Hallway

  Screaming

  Broken

  Wrong

  Ripples

  Back

  Help

  Frozen

  Brother

  Dragon

  Mean

  Found

  Understand

  Sorry

  Breathe

  Sky

  Hole

  Swinging

  Hope

  Memory

  Eyes

  Shower

  Cookie

  Armor

  Winter 1972-73

  Promise

  Unfold

  Stay

  Killers

  Choose

  Picture

  Rose

  Here

  Brave

  Lost

  Singing

  Storm

  Know

  Die

  Heart

  Petals

  Flowers

  Plan

  Visitor

  Doorway

  Complicated

  Mixing

  Colors

  Changing

  Heavy

  Answers

  Truth

  Sit

  Gift

  Hug

  Brother

  Christmas

  Road

  Spring 1973

  Mama

  Name

  Wall

  Goodbye

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  SPRING 1972

  RAIN

  Most nights

  I sleep just fine

  because most nights

  it doesn’t rain.

  The last time it rained like this

  we drove past that curve

  Gran always called dangerous

  and saw lights flashing red and blue

  and people walking around

  and a body covered

  with a white sheet

  that glowed in the dark.

  Mama didn’t slow down long enough

  to look at the twisted car.

  It was too dark to see, anyhow.

  We didn’t know who was

  under the sheet, but Mama said

  a prayer for their family

  as we drove on by.

  EARTH

  Granddad came over last month

  and planted cabbage, yellow squash,

  peppers, and okra

  in the little square of dirt

  my daddy marked.

  Me and Charlie

  tried to tell him

  we don’t like cabbage

  or yellow squash or peppers.

  We didn’t mention the okra,

  on account of Gran’s fried okra,

  which is the best fried okra

  you’ve ever tasted.

  Granddad said those are

  the only vegetables

  that will grow in a Texas garden

  this time of year.

  He said, You never know

  when you’ll need

  something to eat,

  and he just kept digging

  with his pale, spotted hands.

  Granddad says

  things like that

  all the time.

  Mama says he lived

  through the Great Depression,

  back when a whole lot of people

  went hungry.

  I watched him

  the whole time he planted.

  He looked a lot

  like my daddy,

  long legs folded up,

  head bent so I couldn’t see

  the white of his hair,

  overalls pulled tight

  across his back.

  He
touched the earth

  like it was alive.

  NIGHT

  The night my daddy left us,

  after we drove past

  that dangerous curve

  and thought it had

  nothing to do with us,

  a black sky dropped

  cold-water blankets

  on me and Charlie

  and Mama

  while we stood

  in the dark

  trying to understand

  what those flashing lights meant.

  I didn’t sleep

  for twenty-seven hours.

  BIRTHDAY

  My aunt Bee

  calls me Paulie,

  no matter how many times

  I tell her I’m too old

  for that nickname.

  John Paul Sanders, Jr.,

  is my real name,

  but Paulie is what

  she’d called my daddy.

  Tonight, she’s brought us supper,

  since it’s Saturday,

  and Mama works late

  waiting tables at a diner in town.

  She spreads it all out on the table—

  greasy chicken and

  mashed potatoes and

  rolls so buttery

  they leave gray rings

  on the white bag.

  She tears off the receipt

  with today’s date,

  April 16, 1972,

  Mama’s birthday.

  She missed the Apollo 16 launch,

  just like she’s missing supper.

  Aunt Bee knows

  Mama won’t be home

  until later. She says,

  Go on, then, and I dig in.

  Milo sits underneath the table,

  his long pink tongue hanging out,

  ears cocked toward Aunt Bee.

  She doesn’t like it when

  we feed him with food

  from our table.

  She says it spoils dogs.

  I slip him a roll anyway.

  A chocolate cake waits for Mama

  in the icebox.

  DIVORCE

  Aunt Bee’s husband divorced her

  a long time ago,

  so she comes to see us a lot.

  Sometimes she washes dishes

  and sometimes she

  sorts the clothes.

  Most of the time,

  she brings us suppers

  she didn’t cook.

  When I asked,

  Mama said that

  Aunt Bee’s husband

  didn’t divorce her

  on account of

  her not knowing

  how to cook.

  CHARLIE

  Charlie’s hung some lights

  on the walls of the family room.

  Mama won’t like the holes,

  but even I think the lights

  are pretty.

  Every other minute,

  Charlie looks at the clock,

  her white face glowing

  red and then blue in the lights.

  Shouldn’t she be here

  by now? she says.

  She only works ’til seven.

  Her voice shakes a little,

  and I feel it shake my chest.

  Once a parent leaves,

  you wonder if it might

  happen again.

  She’ll be here soon, Charlotte,

  Aunt Bee says.

  Mama says Charlie’s

  a terrible nickname for a girl.

  I think it fits her just fine,

  since Charlie’s the only girl

  I know who climbs trees

  higher than me and

  drives Granddad’s tractor

  and swims in a dirty pond

  full of snakes.

  Aunt Bee puts her arm

  around Charlie,

  and even though she’s twelve,

  Charlie looks real small.

  Aunt Bee smiles at me.

  You’ll lead the song? she says.

  She’s asked me once already.

  I think she’s just trying

  to fill the space where

  Mama should be by now.

  SING

  My daddy used to sing all the time.

  Mama called it loud and obnoxious,

  but me and Charlie

  loved to hear him sing.

  He’d sing in the morning

  when he turned on our light

  to wake us up for school,

  and sometimes he’d sing in the evening

  when he turned it off.

  He was a good daddy

  on the nights he sang.

  I try not to think about

  the nights he didn’t.

  Your daddy had a

  one-of-a-kind voice,

  Aunt Bee says. Lucky he

  passed it on to you.

  She whispers the last words

  like it’s something great to sing

  like my daddy.

  He was in a band once.

  That’s how Mama met him.

  He used to tell us the story

  back when we all

  ate supper together,

  how she showed up

  the night his band

  was playing at a bar

  and he fell in love

  as soon as he saw her.

  He’d always wink at Mama

  when he said that.

  FIGHT

  I do know

  my daddy liked bars

  too much.

  He was in a bar the night he left.

  I heard Mama tell Aunt Bee

  he was so drunk

  he beat a man to death.

  The man’s friends chased him

  around that wet, dangerous curve.

  And when his car left the road,

  they shot him,

  right in the heart, three times.

  I guess they wanted to make sure

  he didn’t get back up.

  I wasn’t supposed to

  hear this, of course.

  But nobody ever tells

  me and Charlie anything,

  so we’ve learned to listen

  real good in doorways.

  I never did hear why

  my daddy fought in the

  first place. I sure would

  like to know that.

  RUN

  Mama walks through the door then,

  so I don’t have to

  think about it anymore.

  I break into song,

  with the voice of my daddy,

  and I’m halfway finished,

  almost to her name,

  before I realize no one else

  is singing. Charlie’s crying

  on the couch and

  Aunt Bee’s walking Mama

  to the chair right beside

  my daddy’s old one.

  No one sits in

  my daddy’s chair anymore.

  Mama’s black eyes are shiny

  and her face is red.

  She leans her head

  back against the chair.

  Her brown hair’s stuck in strings

  across her cheeks.

  Paulie, why don’t you

  go get your mama something

  to drink? Aunt Bee says,

  and Charlie makes a noise

  that squeezes my chest.

  Aunt Bee eyes Charlie,

  then looks back at me.

  But I can only see Mama,

  looking like my daddy used to look

  right before he turned mean and wild,

  and I bolt from the house,

  like it’s a reflex,

  door slamming behind me.

  It’s almost dark.

  Mama doesn’t let me

  go out after dark.

  But I just run.

  Paulie! Aunt Bee shouts

  from the porch.

  I feel warm all over,

/>   even though it’s cool out here,

  since spring only just began,

  and I stop only to turn around

  and yell, I’m not Paulie anymore!

  I head toward the woods,

  Milo’s four legs keeping time

  behind me.

  She’ll leave,

  she’ll leave,

  she’ll leave,

  my feet say,

  over and over and over.

  I try to outrun

  all the words

  my feet say.

  SHOTS

  The day my daddy left for good,

  we sat on our porch,

  waiting for him

  to come home

  like he always did.

  We watched for his

  electric-blue Fairlane with

  rusted-out doors

  and a droopy ceiling,

  and we listened for its tires

  popping over gravel.

  I played with Milo that day,

  throwing a ball he’d

  always bring back,

  and Charlie rocked in the

  chair Granddad made her,

  and we tried not to notice

  the sun setting.

  The sky caught fire

  and started fading,

  like it knew what was coming

  and wanted to get away.

  And then all those clouds

  rolled in real soft and quiet,

  without warning,

  and before we knew it,

  everything around us

  turned black and wet.

  Mama packed us

  in Gran’s car and

  took us looking,

  even though she always

  did the looking by herself.

  Maybe she knew

  what was coming, too.

  Flashing lights were

  coloring our driveway

  when Mama pulled back in.

  I’ve never seen Gran

  and Granddad run

  across the street

  like they did that night,

  Gran in her nightgown,

  shaking in the rain,

  shouting for her boy.

  Granddad pulled her,

  dripping, to the porch

  and held her while

  a different rain fell.

  Mama stood alone.

  I’d heard the shots,

  right after the sky

  opened up.

  Mama says that can’t be,

  seeing as it happened

  a whole nine miles

  from our house.

  But I did.

  SCHOOL

  Me and Charlie

  went to school

  four days after that,

  on Friday, spelling-test day.

  That week we only had

  nine words instead of

  the usual ten.

  We’ve never had only

  nine words.

  I hate the number nine.

  It means something

  I don’t understand.

  Nine miles left,

  almost home,

  and then gone.

  When I numbered my test,

  before my teacher

  called out the words,