Lamentations (Poem)

I cry for the lady near the bus station with all her life possessions in a cart. 

I cry for the man living in a tent next to the exit ramp.  

I cry for the low wage worker with long hours and families bleeding in so many ways.

I cry for the earth, possibly irreparably harmed. 

I cry, Jesus wept.

I cry for the cheerleader shot after entering the wrong auto. 

I cry for the self blessed, gated communities pointing symbolic fingers outward. 

I cry for the growing prisoner numbers receiving no treatment. 

I cry for just-say-no people inconsiderate of untreated mental health issues. 

            I cry, The Buddha Wept

I cry for the underpaid police expected to manage psychological consequences.  

I cry at our populist not knowing or not caring about the difference in truth and propaganda.

I cry at the health care unit closed strictly based on profit and loss not human love and care. 

I cry for the gun deaths.

            I cry, Mohammed Wept

I cry for low paid teachers who suffer with mandated noncreative teaching approaches.

I cry for the small businessperson who must juggle too many balls to support her family.

I cry for those who don’t appreciate the will of “We the People.” 

I cry for all suffering from diseases possibly eliminated if more resources were committed.  

            I cry, The-Christ weeps, The Buddha weeps, Mohammed weeps, God weeps.

Colors, Chapter 4, Bones

            Dean and I jumped to exchange high-fives after the baseball inquisition. “I can’t believe I made the team. I missed those fly balls, and I thought Coach Vaney was gonna blow a gasket when he sent me on a lap for cussing. After that, I was sure I wouldn’t be chosen.”  

            Dean smiled and put his hands on his hips. “See, I told you. Even with the missed flyballs, your throws are on a flat line and on target. And the most important thing is you’re not afraid of the ball. You even stopped a ball with your nose. But let’s hope they don’t put you in the outfield.” His smile grew. 

 “Yep, I know. The hint you gave me about listening to the sound of the ball off the bat really helped, but I don’t want to play outfield.”

            Henry, a neighbor and our team’s shortstop, walked up with his older brother, Nelson. “Hey, Gavin. Congrats on making the team.”

            “Yeah, thanks. I didn’t think it would happen. But, I think I’ll like it.”

            Henry motioned toward my leg. “Your limp seemed better today.”

            It embarrassed me to discuss my loggy leg. “Well, it’s better some days.”

            Nelson grimaced. “Don’t worry about this guy. You made some good throws to home plate, and you’re not afraid of the ball. If you’re around, stop in sometime. I’ve got a new, hilarious comic CD. I’ll let you listen to it.”

            “Okay, sounds good.” 

            The brothers walked away. Nelson participated in teenage activities and sometimes included his brother and me in adventures. He had his own car and would take us to places with other teenagers and their exciting lives.   

            Coach Vaney walked up. “Hi, Gavin, Dean. I like seeing my team excited. You both played well today. 

            Dean giggled and thumbed toward me. “Yeah, as long as he’s not playing outfield.”

            Thrown under the bus. My surprise must have shown on my face.

            Coach Vaney raised his palm. “It’s okay, Gavin. I have an idea that I’ll talk to you about another day. In the meantime, we can work on your outfielder skills. I like your arm, your aim, and that you’re not afraid of the ball. Maybe you could work with your dad on judging flyballs.”

            There, the embarrassing assumption, rising like a thunderhead. Dean examined the loose gravel and dry, sandy soil. I turned to Coach. “Ah—ah, Coach, my dad is de… isn’t alive.”

            Coach Vaney’s cheeks reddened, and he glanced at Dean and back to me. “Gavin, I’m so sorry. I knew that and forgot. Maybe…

            Dean stepped forward. “Coach, he and I can practice that skill.”

            “That’s a good idea, Dean. Sometimes the best teachers are other players.” Coach turned to me. “If there is anything I can do, you’ll let me know, right?”

            Dean and I spoke simultaneously, “Yes, sir.”

            Coach walked toward Mr. Moore, who headed the Little League organization. I turned to Dean. “Do you think we could do it tomorrow?”

            “I don’t think there’s time. My parents are taking me to see a doctor.”

            “Well, we could go out after the visit.”

            “No, sorry. The appointment is out of town, and it’ll probably take all day. But we’ll get together. Don’t worry. Listen, I need to leave. So, I’ll see you later.”

            Dean walked to his bike, slid his glove strap over the handlebars, released his kickstand, and rode toward the main gate. I picked up my bike, clamped my glove to the rack, and walked to the steep, part-grass, red clay knoll. No point in trying to ride up, so I pushed my bike.  

            The asphalt playground behind C. M. Tucker Elementary School now contained several trailers with workers installing them as classrooms for the coming school year. Hopefully, there’d be a scrap pile to rummage through with scrap lumber and discarded drink bottles to turn in at William’s Grocery. I peddled across the asphalt and stopped at the short path leading down to the gumball tree. My bike’s front tire balanced on the edge of the pavement. 

            Neighborhood kids called the woods behind the school, The Woods. Vaughan Street bordered one side, Riley Avenue another, and the school property another. The two main paths, named after their respective streets, converged, creating a triangle and meeting at a prolific gumball tree behind the school. Each street had its own entrance, but the entrance behind the school didn’t have an official name. However, sometimes we called it the Gum Ball Tree entrance.   

            A booming wind moved leaves and limbs high in the trees but not at my level. The day had been sunny, hot, and dry, with no indications of a storm. Like at Black Walnut Springs, a railroad crosstie oil and creosote odor drifted to my nose. The wind speed increased, dropped to my level, and the forest’s expectant mood tugged at me. My bike took off.

            I raced toward the gum tree, and without time to brake, I turned the handlebars to my left, clipped the tree, and steered up the Vaughan Street Path. The wind pushed me, and when I tried the brakes, they didn’t work. I had traveled this fast on the Fenton Street hill and even wrecked once. But never in the woods.  

            Large limbs fell next to the trail with scary thumps. Leaves and small sticks hit me in the face, and close-by plant stems and leaves reached across my path. I ducked my head and bowled threw the small ravine in record time. Then, I sped into the large ditch and coasted up the exit incline, flying through the air and landing at the Swinging Vine path intersection. A large tree limb fell in front of my tire and stopped the bike, tumbling me into a rhododendron bush.

            I opened my eyes, pushed the bike away, and sat up. I lay in the middle of a blooming wild rhododendron bush. They made excellent hiding places with enough interior room to move around, remain hidden, and not feel trapped. 

            From the large ravine, a multi-color sphere floated toward me. As it drifted nearer, Heka’te’s image materialized inside the bubble. “Gavin, follow me.”

            I rubbed a small bump on my head. A palm-sized rock lay nearby, so I tossed it further into the woods. The bubble floated down the barely used vine trail and stopped. Heka’te turned. She gazed with a soft smile but didn’t speak.   

            I stood up. “I’m coming.”

            The barely used Swinging Vine Path led to a scrap lumber platform built by older kids, including my next-door neighbor, Bobby Pulling. The original vines’ length and the trees’ tilt into the gully allowed us to swing to the other ravine side. Everyone said I broke the vine, but vines wear out.  

            We couldn’t tie a rope replacement as high as we wanted, so now, we glided over the ravine and back. Occasionally crashes broke vegetation, creating a narrow landing area covered in forest debris from one ditch side to the other. We called it the LZ, landing zone, particularly when we played army.   

            Heka’te passed the platform, where the Swinging Vine Path ended, and she floated over low, thick bushes. I hesitated. I’d never been in this area of the woods. Adults lived a few yards away on Vaughan Street, and another ravine collected trash from passing cars. Fortunately, the thick brush didn’t have briars, and I pushed through. It would be neat to have that bubble.

            “You have one, Gavin. The light is given to everyone.”

            She had to be talking to me, but I couldn’t see her face. And how did she know my thoughts? Then, we reached a small clearing containing a ginormous oak tree with a canopy that glowed many colors. Heka’te floated toward it, but I stopped. It was so big that I had to take a second to gather it all in. How had I missed this jumbo?

            Heka’te stopped at the tree. “Come over here, touch, and listen to the tree.”

            I moved closer and felt the grey and green striped, dark brown bark. 

            “Put your ear against the tree.”

            Boy’s Life never said anything about listening to a tree, but I put my ear to the bark. — “I can hear something.” I glanced at Heka’te. “Yes, it’s… it’s like a rushing or whooshing sound.”

            “That’s right. Trees are living things. Now, come to the ravine edge and look down.”

            I stood between the tree and the bubble. The roots created a woodland ladder disappearing from sight, and rhododendron bushes covered the opposite chasm wall. A small stream flowed back toward the Vaughan Street Path, but I couldn’t see the water’s source because of the oak tree roots hanging over my ravine side. The small leaf-covered plot showed occasional patches of red mud. 

            “It’s okay to climb down. I’ll meet you.”

            I backed down the stairway until I stepped on a supersized root enclosing a water pool larger than my bicycle tire. An indention in the tuber allowed water to flow and fall to a flat rock on the forest floor and continue in a stream disappearing around a red dirt ravine wall.

            Another root below created a step down to the forest floor, but I squatted on the large tuber and sucked in the cool air. I touched the cold water, which turned the same colors as the canopy, red, orange, blue, violet, purple, and yellow. They continually mixed and parted. 

            Heka’te floated next to me. “Gavin, this glass vial represents one sip, which will increase your confidence and capabilities and support you in an unforeseen event. However, you must have faith and use the water only for good. You are limited to three sips unless you listen to your heart and follow its guidance.”

            She sat the glass, cork stoppered bottle, about the size of Grandmother Eugenia’s perfume bottle, on the root. I removed the stopper and slipped the bottle top under the water. Holding it to the light, the brown-tinted water showed tiny floating particles.   

            I took my first sip, and nothing happened. The water had a metallic, bitter taste, and I rubbed my lips with my arm. Then, Heka’te and the bubble became hazy. “Wait. What now? What do I do?” 

            She reached out with her hand. “Follow your heart.”

            I touched her hand, and she and the bubble evaporated. I squatted there for a few seconds, dipped the bottle in the spring, and stoppered it. Then, pushing it into my pocket, I lifted my left leg to climb back up but found myself in the bush where I had crashed, trying to raise my leg from its bicycle entanglement. 

            Shit.

            I put my hands out behind me and leaned back. Time to “take a knee,” as Coach called it. The forest floor showed no extra stems or newly blown leaves, and the chucked rock lay next to me. This had to be a dream, but then I touched the bottle in my pocket. 

             Heka’te said to follow my heart, but it raced faster than I could run. Because of my restriction, I needed to be home, so I disconnected from the bike and stood up. When I put my right hand on the handlebar, a tiny blood spot appeared where Heka’te’s ring had nicked me. I flicked the scab off and mounted my bike.   

            I popped out of the woods onto the Vaughan Street grass shoulder. A block away at the Riley Street woods entrance, Mr. Willard’s truck sat empty. He had warned me to stay out of these woods, yet he had not taken his own caution. The scary mood after we visited with Heka’te still stung me, and I thought I should stay away from him for a while. 

            The shortest way home lay in front of me, through the Furgess family yard. But they owned a well-trained mixed-breed German Shepard who ferociously guarded his property and never crossed its boundaries. I occasionally used this shortcut, but only when somewhat sure I could defeat Danger by using his training against him.  

            I circled in the street, confirming Danger’s backyard location lying next to his doghouse in the shade of a tree. With timing and concealment, I could beat him to the alley. Maybe this would be a test for the water.   

            I pedaled hard and entered the driveway. To my left, the Furgess home and shrubs would hide me from Danger’s vision until the last moment. To my right, an old car sat partially torn down, one of Billy’s projects. A wooden fence hid the same project from neighbors on the other side of the vehicle. I increased speed, passed the home, and entered the gravel backyard driveway.  

            Danger rose like some wild animal spotting its prey. Game on! 

            If I entered the alley behind Mrs. Patterson’s watered, soft, thick green lawn, Danger wouldn’t cross the property line. His paw pads and barks placed him closing in on my rear tire. Only three feet to the alleyway. I pumped hard and reached safety, but my speed prevented a turn in the sandy gravel.  

            I shot across into Mrs. Patterson’s lawn. The tires sunk into the soft grass and soil, and I accidentally hit a lawn sprinkler. The bike rolled across her white concrete driveway, leaving contrasting wet, black soil tracks. I managed to stop in Mr. John’s gravel drive, but muddy trails on the lawn stretched back to Danger.  

            Danger barked from his property line. “Arrf, arrf, arrf.”

            I cupped my hands around my mouth. “It’s okay, boy. Maybe next time.”

            “Arrf. Arrf”

            “One day, that dog is gonna get you.” Mr. Johns’ voice came from his front stoop.   

            “Yes, sir. I hope not. — He seems pretty angry.” The tire trail on the grass stretched out toward Danger, making him look like the period on an exclamation mark.   

            “Arrf, arrf.”

Mr. Johns walked down the steps. An unfamiliar leather lariat of multicolored beads swung from his belt. They were the same colors as the tree canopy and the spring. Many adults ridiculed Black Feather, his chosen Saponi name, and were suspicious of his “funny beliefs.”   

            “Yes, he does seem angry. Maybe you shouldn’t tease him.”

            “I—I never thought of it as teasing. It’s just a challenge.”

            “I know. But, what does Danger feel.”

            “I’ve never seen those beads before. Did you just get those?”

            “Ha, avoiding the subject, huh? No, I’ve had these for a while. Some members of our tribe wear them to remind us of our connection to the universe’s energy. It’s like a reminder to stay on the correct path. That baseball glove on your bike indicates that you’re following your chosen baseball path this summer.”    

            “Yes. I tried out, and I was chosen by the Jaycees. I’m on the same team with Dean and some other friends.”

            “Well, that’s awesome. I’ll attend some of your games.”

            “That’ll be great. The color of those beads is the same as the rainbow, but why the white ones?”

            Mr. Johns smiled. “A prism will break white light into the rainbow colors and then can rejoin the colors again; nothing is ever lost or gained. Here, take these beads and touch them on occasion to remind you of the universe’s path, which may not include Danger’s yard.”

            “Okay, thanks.”

            “It wasn’t the time or place to ask you the other night, but what grade did you receive in algebra?”

            “I got a B, thanks to you.”

            “Don’t give me credit. You did the work. I just helped you understand some of the concepts. Baseball will be the same way. You do the work, and you’ll do fine.”

            I shoved the beads into my pocket. “I guess I better go. Mom will be home soon.”

            “Oh, that’s right, you’re still on restriction until Friday.”

            “Yeah.”

            “Okay, give your mom my regards. Stay on the path, and I’ll see you at our next session.”

            “Not if I see you first.”

            Mr. Johns smiled and pointed his finger at me as he entered his car. He backed into the street, waving as he pulled off. I pedaled down the driveway and entered the road.

            Further up the block at the intersection with Riley Avenue, Mr. Willard’s loud, faded red truck rounded the curve. I coasted to the street’s left side because my house sat only two lawns away. Mr. Willard’s and Mrs. Patterson’s jerky movement inside the truck raised my guard, and I sped up. Across the street, Major stopped throwing his tennis ball against the brick and turned toward the muffler-less vehicle.

            As we approached one another in front of the Pulling’s home, Mrs. Patterson, showing a wide grin, reached and jerked the steering wheel. The passenger side light, like a giant cyclops, moved toward me. Mr. Willard’s mouth opened in a scream, and he fought to regain control. But the truck continued its new path.

            I stomped my pedal, lifted my handlebars, and jumped the curb. Gliding farther than expected, I penetrated the old hedge separating the Pulling’s property and our yard. The old, dense, scratchy bush tore at my arms and jeans, and I flipped, landing in our grass and gravel driveway.

            The handlebar jammed into my left ribs, and I rolled to the side and lay there for a few seconds. Two wrecks in a day. All I needed was one more, and I’d have a new world record. Did I just fly through the air?  

            Major ran up and squatted. “Hey, Gavin. Are you okay?”

            I held my side. “I—I think so. My side hurts, and it looks like I got some scratches. But it doesn’t feel like anything is broken.”

            “Man, you were flying. I mean, for real, you were flying. And it looked like they tried to run you over.”

            “I think you’re right. Well, at least Mrs. Patterson did. I saw her jerk the wheel in my direction.” I felt for the beads and the bottle and whispered, “At least it wasn’t a dream.”

            Major’s eyebrows flashed up and held, and he tilted his head to one side. “Are you alright? Did you just say you were dreaming? You look like you just saw a ghost.”

            “I may have, Major. I don’t know. I’m pretty sure I just saw the devil, and she lives up the street.”

            Major helped me stand and giggled. “You got that right. It’s hard to figure her out. Why is she so angry all the time? We never did anything to her.”

            An urgent, howling female scream arose up the street, and a loud male voice responded. Major and I stepped into the road. In Mrs. Patterson’s driveway, Mr. Willard picked her up and carried her toward her home. She flailed her arms and legs, but his strength overcame her anger.

            Major helped me inside the house, and we examined my bruises, skinned side, and knee. We talked about baseball and I learned a team did not choose him. However, he had no sadness but more determination. He said he would continue practicing against the brick wall until they had no choice but to let him play.

            I think I was more pissed than him. I had to play to avoid other punishments, and they wouldn’t allow him to play, and he really wanted it. Also, compared to Dean, Henry, and Bishop, I had little skill and wanted to draw, write, paint, or sculpt. 

            Mom returned from work with Detective Roark, who stayed for dinner. I told them about the day’s events, except the spring and hedge things, and they congratulated me. Mom even successfully sprang for a hug. She is more relaxed with Detective Roark around, and he knows a lot about baseball and the law, which might help me.  

Colors, Chapter 3, Heka’te

            Two weeks ago, Dean and I attempted to make nitroglycerin in my basement laboratory. We claimed partial success because he dropped a test tube of the liquid, and it burst into flames with a ‘pop’ sound. However, our research revealed the product needed more refinement.

            Since my two-week grounding kept me on the property, I decided to clean my glassware and put away chemicals from the experiment. With Mom calling to verify my presence in the house, I couldn’t leave the property. The phone rang upstairs, and I ran from the lab. Bounding up the steps two at a time, I lunged to the phone on the fifth ring, just before the call went to the answering machine.

            “Hello!”

            “Man, you sound out of breath,” said Dean. “I bet you were cleaning your lab.”

           “Yeah–you’re right. I was putting stuff away, and an idea came to me about the nitroglycerin. We can refine it using a special piece of glassware called a retort. I’ll try to save enough money to order one. It looks like I’ll be working more this summer.”

            “You mean working is part of your punishment?”

            “Maybe. Mom said I’m on restriction for two weeks and can’t leave the yard without an adult. She thinks I need to set goals and stay busy, so extra work may be part of my punishment. I might even have to go to my Uncle Eugene’s farm and help Mom and Detective Roark with Vacation Bible School. But that’s not the worst part; I have to meet with Palmy, Detective Roark, Mr. Johns, and my mom later today.”

             “Watching Potbelly Palmy run all through the park was hilarious. I got grounded for a week but can leave to play baseball. By the way, the word is already out about us. Bishop and Henry, from the baseball team, called me.”

            “Why did they call you?”

            “They just wanted to be sure I could still play. I told them I’m still good for baseball.” 

            “When does baseball start?”

            “Tryouts are tomorrow. That gives me an idea. Why don’t you try out for baseball? I’ll speak to Coach, and you’ll be chosen for our team. Practice and games will keep you busy for the entire summer. Bishop and Henry are on the team, and you know both of them.”

            “Yeah, I know them, but no way. I don’t like sports all that much, and what if I’m not good enough to make your team? Besides, I’m not sure Mom would let me leave the house.”

          “This could be your goal for the summer! Make the all-star team! We have a couple of games a week and practice on some other days.”

        “It would be fun to be on the same team. We could have some good laughs. Could you and I practice together first?”

            “I don’t think we have time. Mom is taking me to see the doctor later today. Besides, almost everyone makes one team or another. I’ve seen you play in our pickup games, and you’re better than most of the players that are chosen for teams. So you’ll be picked for a team, even if it isn’t the Jaycees. I don’t remember. Are you left-handed or right-handed?”

            With my thumb, I rubbed the wart on my right middle finger knuckle to remind me of my right hand. “I’m right-handed, but there’s no way I’m trying out for baseball. I’d be out in the field, limping around and making a fool of myself in front of everyone. I’ll wait until after today’s meeting and see what happens.”

            “Okay, but keep the idea in mind. Tryouts are tomorrow. I have to go, so think about it.”

            The problem with Bible School was all the rules and snotty-nosed little kids running around. The problem with mowing lawns was the particular, snooty people. What difference did the direction make when everything was drying up? Dad would help if he were here. 

            The phone started buzzing because I hadn’t hung up. I returned it to its cradle, and my dog, Andy, scratched at the back kitchen door.

            “Good boy. How come I don’t get to be free like you?”

            Andy squeezed between the doorframe and my leg, turned, and sat. “Arf!”

            “That’s okay, boy. You can get on my bed,” and he ran to my room.

            I walked to the front storm door. Across the street, my twelve-year-old neighbor, Major Brooks, threw a tennis ball against the side of his family’s brick home and attempted to catch the rebound. Restrictions kept me on the property but not inside the house. If I couldn’t be free, I could at least watch freedom. I ran to my room, opened the window to hear the phone, and then walked to the street curb.  

            Major missed a lot of balls because he wasn’t positioning his glove correctly. He caught balls bouncing a step or two in front, but he missed balls to both sides and the ones at his feet. He missed another one, and it rolled close to the street.  

            Major ran and retrieved the ball. “Hey, Gavin. What’re you doing this summer?”  

            Major’s parents, Percy and Julia, were African-Americans and always kind and welcoming to me. Mrs. Brooks made delicious toasted tomato sandwiches, but many neighbors didn’t like that they had moved to the neighborhood.

            Major ambled to the curb across from me. “You want to play catch?” 

            “Not right now. Why are you throwing the ball against your house?” 

            “I’m getting ready to try out for baseball tomorrow. I need the practice, and I don’t have anybody to throw with.” 

            “Oh? I didn’t know they let black kids play. I hope you get picked.”           

            Major giggled. “I know! Right? But all I can do is try. If I don’t make it this year, then maybe next year. Do you have any ideas for me? I could use some help.”

            “No, I don’t think I can help you. I can’t leave the yard. Could you get your dad’s help?” 

            “Dad is always working, and if not he… I don’t know. It wouldn’t work. Are you trying out for a team this year?”

            “No. I don’t play baseball.”

            “I’ve seen you with a glove before. You, Dean, and some other guys with bats and gloves walking toward Carter Field.”

            “Yeah, I’ve played pickup games, but never on a team.”

            “Well, you should try out.”

            “Dean had that idea.”

            “Well, why not?”

            “I—ah. Well, right now, I can’t leave the yard. Besides, I don’t really like sports.”

            “You’re grounded. Why?”

            That’s the problem with little kids. They’re always asking embarrassing questions. “I got caught with fireworks. No big deal.”

            “Really? By the police?”

            “Yeah. But we didn’t get arrested or anything,” Not yet.

            Major used his glove to point back to the brick wall. “Wow! Well, I’ve gotta get back to practice. Remember that tryouts are tomorrow if you change your mind.”

            On the first throw, the ball returned to his side, and again, he set up wrong and missed the ball. 

            I walked back toward my front door. 

            “Hey. Why didn’t you help Major?”

            My next-door neighbor Tatum, also fourteen years old, stood at the end of a tall hedge separating the two front lawns. I changed course to meet her. She smoothed her short, soft-looking brown hair. Her clean jeans and new-looking multi-colored shirt made her look different. Or was it a blouse? I’d never thought of her as pretty. More like someone who liked to ride bikes, play kick-the-can, and swing on vines. “I’m not really a baseball player.”

            Tatum gestured down to the grass and gravel driveway in which we stood. “I’ve watched you do the same thing here in y’all’s driveway, and you catch most of the balls. You could have helped him.”

            She’s fussing at me. “Yeah, that’s right, but I can’t leave my yard.”

            She put her hands on her hips. “Give me a break. You could have brought him over here. Anyway, does your grounding have anything to do with Detective Roark bringing you home last night?”

            “So, you saw that?”

            “Yeah. We all did. Dad said,” she put up air quotes and lowered her voice, “That boy is going to jail one day.”

            “Ah—well. It was close last night.”

            “Did you get any punishment besides being grounded?”

            “I don’t know it all yet. I have more chores and still have to meet with Mr. Johns and the police.”

            “Oh, wow. So, it’s not over?” Tate pressed her lips in a fine line, crossed her arms, and waited for an answer. 

             “I hope it will be soon.”

            She uncrossed her arms and stepped forward. “Look, I’ve got to go. Mom is waiting for me. I hope all this stuff works out for you.” 

            “Thanks. I hope it does too.” She turned and cutely walked away. 

            Mr. Willard, a local handyman, rumbled into our driveway in his old, faded, red Ford pickup. Dean and I joked about how it sounded like some of the older teenager’s mufflers, but Mr. Willard used rust instead of cash. 

            “Hello, son. Your mom wants me to look at y’all’s arbor and give her a price for tearing it down.”

            “Yes, sir. She said you’d be coming by.”

            Mr. Willard, wearing his usual brown, sweat-stained hat, limped down the driveway, and I followed him. Sycamore trees lining our driveway would soon shed their bark between our home and the Pulling’s home. One more job to do. My Uncle Thornton called them and Magnolias “trash trees.”  

            The arbor’s wisteria grew thick with large vine stems. When in bloom, it smelled really good, but the wooden structure had rotted despite the gallons of paint I applied. The fast-growing vines needed trimming more than I liked and even popped up in the lawn.   

            Mr. Willard shook the wooden support. “Come here, boy, shake this, and you can see how rotten it is.”

            I didn’t care about the rot. I just wanted it gone. I placed my right hand on a wooden brace and moved it back and forth. The entire structure moved. “Yes, sir. It’s pretty rotten, and the vines grow like the ones in the woods behind the school. Even in the yard where I have to mow.”

            “You got that right. It’s not the frame holding the whole thing up. It’s the plant.” Mr. Willard pointed at my right hand. “Boy, that’s a mess of warts you got on your right hand. Do you go in those woods often?”

            I moved my other hand over the warts. “I… I go there to ride bikes and play with friends and to school and back.”

            “Well, just be sure to stay on the paths. Would you like those warts gone?”

            “I don’t want any shots or anything.”

            Oh, no. No cutting and no shots. I know this nice lady that will put a potion over them, and they will go away. You just can’t think about them.”

            I uncovered my hand. “If it’s alright with Mom, it’d be alright with me.”

            Mr. Willard laughed and took my hand. “It might take a couple of treatments, but we’ll blow them things away like crepe myrtle blossoms in a hurricane. I’ll come by sometime and give your mom the price, and I’ll mention it to her then.” He turned and hobbled away. “I’ll see you later.”

            Neighbors told stories about Mr. Willard hurting his right leg in Vietnam when he attempted to save the life of his friend, Tom Patterson, the husband of Mrs. Patterson. She lived down the street and should have been sent to Vietnam permanently.  

            Back at my father’s old desk, I worked on a drawing. Mom’s car door slammed, and I put my drawing pencil down. The ‘big meeting’ would begin soon, and Detective Roark had asked me to apologize to Officer Palmer. Another hard job. Palmy had such a bad attitude about kids, always assuming the worst.  

            I met Mom in the living room, and she reviewed what I needed to do and how I needed to act. She finished with all my instructions, and with perfect timing, a knock sounded on the door.

            She opened it and stepped back. “Hi, Butch. Won’t you come in?”

            Detective Roark stepped in with Officer Palmer behind him. “Hi, Patsey. I’m sure you remember Officer Noel Palmer.” 

            Mom partially lifted her hand and moved toward Officer Palmer, apologizing for having to meet again under ‘these circumstances.’ 

            Officer Palmer wriggled his lips and loosely lifted one hand with a ‘who cares’ gesture.

            Mom changed her hand motion to indicate seating. Good recovery, Mom. 

            Detective Roark’s face redden. “And, of course, you know Gavin.”

            I returned Officer Palmer’s nod and stood still.

             Detective Roark moved his head and eyes, indicating I needed to come from across the room. I walked over and offered my hand. After hesitating, Palmer lifted his fish-cold, floppy hand, and we shook once. I returned to my seat, and Palmer sat across from me. Mom sat next to me.

            The doorbell rang again, and Mom asked Detective Roark, still standing at the door, to answer it. He welcomed Mr. Johns, who entered wearing his full Saponi Indian dress, including moccasins. 

            He often wore tribal attire to important functions, except school events. He had worn it once to a school function and had been punished. The school board didn’t like different, but kids knew him as an adult who talked to us, not at us.

            Palmer turned his head and softly said, “Oh, god.” 

            Mr. Johns glanced at Palmer. Mom flinched and fingered her cross, and everyone avoided eye contact. No one spoke. Finally, Mom jumped up. “Hi, Ted. Thanks so much for coming.”

            Mr. Johns shook hands with her and sat next to Detective Roark. Palmer, arms recrossed over his coffee-stained light blue shirt, with a white t-shirt underneath, and now showing over his tarnished belt buckle, never left his seat. His eyes moved around and never made contact. I quickly looked away when Palmer, a bump in the circle, caught me staring.

            Detective Roark leaned forward. “We’re here today to devise a plan for Gavin, but first, I think Gavin has something to say to Officer Palmer, don’t you, Gavin?”

            Shit. Mom had warned me this would be coming, and they didn’t forget. “Yes, sir. I—I just want to apologize to you, Officer Palmer. We shouldn’t have set the fireworks—I’m sorry.”  

            Palmer uncrossed his arms. “You’ve offered an apology, and I think that’s a good start. However, the money you’ve cost the taxpayers of this community can never be repaid. Just keep your nose clean, and you and I won’t have any more problems.”

            Asshole

            Detective Roark leaned back. “It looks like we may be making some progress. The other thing that we wanted to talk about is keeping Gavin out of further trouble. Patsey, you’ve discussed Gavin’s summer plans, right?”

            “Yes and no. I’ve suggested some ideas for Gavin,” She turned to me, “but he hasn’t really responded.” Then, she turned to Roark, “He likes spending time at the kid’s art club, Prize 434, delivering the News and Record twice a week, and he has some lawns to mow. But budget cuts have reduced his time at the Prize, and his mowing has dried up with the drought.”

            Detective Roark began talking about the drought and his lack of talent at gardening, which happily took the spotlight off me. Then Mr. Johns spoke about his sister-in-law and how her neighborhood shared land, water, and work to benefit everyone.  

            Palmer coughed and put his hands on the upholstered chair arms. “Let’s stick to the topic of the hour. What kind of punishment is he receiving? I need to finish up some paperwork. I want to watch a baseball game from the West Coast.”   

            Detective Roark leaned toward Palmer. “Well, Officer Palmer, what would you like to see happen? 

            I couldn’t believe I had heard that. I’d already been grounded until Mom’s cheer gauge had topped out, and now this guy would demand a year.

            Palmer’s pits darkened, and he bared his teeth. “Yeah, there are a lot of things. I just can’t say it in front of his mom. Come on, you folks. These kids today are all a bunch of spoiled punks with no respect for authority. I mean, if they all had the kind of whippings I had as a kid, there would be no problems. One time my daddy whipped me with a belt until I bled, and no telling what would have happened if Mom hadn’t stepped in. I mean, my as—butt was raw—.

            Detective Roark opened his mouth—. “Ah—ah, there are many problems that need to be solved. Patsey, have you enacted any punishment for Gavin?”

            Mom glanced at Palmer. “Of course. He’s on restriction and can’t leave the property until I’m satisfied that he’s changed his ways.”

            “Wait, this needs to be fair. Dean only got a week, and now, you’re saying I might have to wait longer.” I pointed at Palmer. “And he still has Dad’s knife.”

            Officer Palmer jumped up and rested his hand on his gun. “You better believe it. You’re lucky you’re not in jail. You were carrying a concealed weapon. It’s just one of many things that I have to deal with on these mean streets.”

            Detective Roark spread out his hands and moved them in a downward motion. “Okay, okay. Gavin, I think you may have said enough. Just take it easy.” With eyes pleading for help, Roark turned to Mr. Johns. “Mr. Johns, is there anything you can add to this conversation?”

            I sat back in my chair. Officer Palmer stood for a second longer, settled into his chair, and recrossed his arms.

            “I’ve heard a lot today explaining a lot of things. I want to continue counseling and tutoring Gavin and hopefully guide him positively. I know Gavin likes art and drama—

            Mr. Johns stopped with Officer Palmer’s interruption. “Art and drama. Who are you kidding? He hangs at the Prize with all those other freaks. None of them play sports. Let him get a real job at one of the local businesses like Meggetts’s Department Store. Or—or he could work on my dad’s farm. That man will make him grow up fast.”

            Mom stuck her hand out. “Hold on a minute. I already have a farm job worked out for Gavin if he wants it.”

            I didn’t like the direction of this meeting. 

            Detective Roark’s smile softened his voice as he turned to Palmer. “So, you’re a baseball fan?”

            Palmer uncrossed his arms, and his eyes sparkled. “Yep. I’m strictly National League. I like the Giants.”

            “Ha. Well, there you go. We have one thing in common. The National League.”

            Mr. Johns sat forward. “It’s an American sport. Even some native Indians played a game they called “stickball.” It was sometimes used to settle tribal disputes. Nothing like today’s games, but still American.”

            Officer Palmer huffed. “That’s not an American game. Sticks and a ball. Come on. The guys on the real baseball field have to face ninety-mile-per-hour balls when at bat, and well over a hundred when the ball comes off the bat. And, then, there’s the game inside…

            I relaxed. There had been a change in the room. The tension had gone down, and Mom smiled at me. If only Dean and I had known the baseball thing on ‘dog shit’ night. Maybe I wouldn’t have been grounded the entire summer.

            Officer Palmer appeared relaxed for the first time, sat forward in his chair, and continued talking. “…many people think baseball is boring, but they just don’t understand.”

            After Palmer finished, Detective Roark stared at him for a beat. “Okay. Maybe at this point, I should summarize. We all agree that Gavin deserves some punishment. He apologized for his behavior and will continue counseling with Mr. Johns. Does everyone agree?”

            I counted three nodding heads. One head, Officer Palmer, with a frown, crossed his arms. At least he kept his mouth shut.

            Roark continued. “Mr. Johns, is there anything you can add?”

            “I…I think Gavin has come a long way over the past year. His grades are up, and I believe he truly was finding himself at Prize 434.  I think his punishment should continue through this coming Thursday, because at some point he needs his freedom so he can prove or disprove his ability to function within the rules. We are all fortunate that he and Dean didn’t hurt Officer Palmer or themselves because, as we all know, fireworks can take off fingers. It’s a reason they’re against the law.”

Detective Roark sat forward. “Well, I couldn’t agree more. I’d like to add I will stand behind Officer Palmer in taking Gavin to court if he gets into any more trouble. But one thing remains, what does Gavin want. So, Gavin, remember that many people have to do something they may not like for a while until they get to a place where they can do what they want. You’ve been given many choices today. So, what is it you want to do?

“I want to play baseball.”

Colors, Chapter 1, Endless Summer

       

Colors

Endless Summer

Chapter 1

            Lying is necessary when you’re a kid, so you can steer in and out of all the crap adults throw at you. My name is Gavin Mays, and this story is the absolute truth about how I plotted, planned, and lied one summer to avoid some crap. I only lie when necessary; I call it UL, Unavoidable Lying. 

            Adults like to think they know what a kid needs and often don’t allow them to make their own choices except when following the adult rules adults make based on other adult rules. What if the kid feels something different? I’m not talking about murder and robbery. 

            The summer started in my best friend Dean Smith’s basement science laboratory. Using my dad’s Old Timer pocket knife, I cut Camel Cigarettes into different lengths. “How many cherry bombs do you think we should set?”

            Dean opened his sink cabinet door and spoke fast with a lisp, as he always did when excited. “Be careful. Don’t cut one of those warts on your hand. I think at least ten.” He pulled out two stacks of Black Cat firecrackers. “Look, I have these Black Cats. We can light them as we leave the park. That’ll make someone call the police.”

            I stopped cutting. “Real funny, man. Leave my warts out of it. Ten might be too many. We need to hide before the cigarettes burn down to the fuses. Once we light the cigarettes, it’s out of our control, so we need to be gone, and I can’t run as fast as you. I like the idea of five with one extra, just in case?”

            Dean smiled too large. “I guess you’re right. You can’t afford to get caught.”

            “What do you mean? I can’t afford to get caught.”

            “Well, with the shoplifting thing—you have to be careful.”

            “Don’t remind me. We need containers to carry the cherry bomb sets, so the tobacco doesn’t jiggle out.”

            Dean’s eyes gleamed as he walked to the door. “I got just the thing. Come on.”

            I followed him out the lab door into a collection of dust-covered boxes containing old education magazines and classroom materials. His dad worked for the local school system and stored junk “he might need.” Christmas decorations, old sleds, bicycles, toys, and leftover construction materials rounded out the remaining space in this cobweb-covered basement. Dean chunked the top boxes further back on the pile.

            “Oh, there it is.” He pulled out an old wooden pencil box and a light blue canvas money bag. “We’ll use the box to protect the cherry bombs. You carry the box, and I’ll carry the bag with the Black Cats and a lighter. I can light the cigarettes, and then you can push them back on the fuse.”

            I held the box. “I like it. It’s almost like an assembly-line thing.”

            “Okay, let’s go.”

            Making minimum noise, we exited the basement door next to the lab and walked to the municipal park. Dean entered the mostly dark, empty park bouncing like a ball to the center. He stopped at an old fashion, fake gas light, flickering like the fireflies that would soon come out. My limp, a side effect from the accident slowed me, but I caught up. 

            The cast iron pole sat on a concrete pedestal supporting three-bulbs. One bulb flickered, and the other two were dead. The beacon’s mount gave off more paint flakes than light.   

            When I placed my hand on the pole, it tilted and revealed rusted bolts. My finger caught a peeling white paint chip with rusted metal on the back. Mom’s cast iron awning support did the same when I started my yearly painting chore. “I wonder why they don’t fix this thing. It’s been flickering since… I don’t remember when.”

            Dean smiled and glanced at the light. “Maybe we’ll save a cherry bomb for this piece of shit.” He pointed toward the pool. “Let’s set the first one next to the swimming pool. We can set the last ones up here and hide in the bushes over there in the Lowery’s yard.”

            I agreed, and as we ran to the pool’s cyclone fence, I glanced back at the entering fog curling around the flashing lamp and creating rainbow colors. At the cyclone fence, Dean held the lighter while I puffed on a cigarette and reattached it to the cherry bomb. I passed it back to Dean. 

            He squatted next to the fence. “This is going to be so funny.” 

            After setting five cherry bomb clusters around the park, we stopped at the flickering lamp. Dean shook the insecure pole. “Quick, let’s set the last one here.”

            I lit a quartered cigarette, attached it to the last cherry bomb, and gave it to Dean. “Be sure the cigarette is protected. The air’s damp.” 

            Then, we lit two sets of Black Cats and hid in a cluster of rhododendrons blooming with pink flowers. Peeking through leaves, the blue and red lights of a police car soon reflected off homes on Grove Avenue. Dean’s knowing grin at our perfect timing gave me a sense of pride about our plan. 

            The shadowy officer climbed out of the cruiser and looked over the park with his hands on his hips. The first cherry bomb exploded at the pool. The cop jogged in that direction, then halted midstride and ran toward the second explosion in an opposite park section. His actions, in the dimly lit park, now with flashing police lights and the strobing old park light, made him look bumbling. We covered our mouths to quieten our laughter.   

            The fifth explosion flashed near the police cruiser, but I couldn’t see the officer. One more cherry bomb, and we could go home. Unfortunately, my plan didn’t include waiting and watching the police cruiser’s lights flash, flicker, and reflect throughout the park.  

            Dean yawned and put his fist to his mouth. “We can’t sit here all night. He can’t prove it was us, so let’s just walk back to my house.”

            “I guess. It’s getting late, so I ought to call Mom.”

            “Alright. Let’s leave the box and the bag here and go. We can get them later.” 

            Dean exited the shrubs first and stopped. He held up his hand and formed a serious face. “Hey, look. We act surprised if the officer sees us. I mean, we are just two kids out for a stroll. — Right?”

            I agreed, and we stepped onto the sidewalk. The streets were empty, but lighted windows in several homes indicated curious owners. Or they could be witnesses. 

            Dean put his hands in his rear pockets and withdrew them suddenly. “On no.” 

            I stopped. “What’s wrong?”

            Before Dean could answer, a familiar voice came from between two parked cars across the street. “Hey, you two. Wait right there,” and a flashlight exploded into my eyes.

            Officer Palmer had questioned me on the theft of spray paint and the alleged destruction of public property, particularly traffic signs. I didn’t commit the vandalism but knew the offender, who lived nearby.  

            The officer emerged into the dimness of a fatigued streetlight. “What’re you two doing out this late? We’ve received complaints about fireworks.” 

            Dean theatrically stepped forward. “The asininity of some kids is amazing!”

            I’d never heard the too-close-to-ass word and didn’t know its meaning, but I did know Officer Palmy had won this contest. 

            The officer, who wore a police visor cap covering most of his eyes, set his feet wide apart. “I know you two. How do you know it was kids? Now, empty your pockets.”

            I stepped forward. “We’re not under arrest, are we?” 

            Palmer lowered his flashlight, leaned back, and placed his hand on his holstered pistol grip. “Listen, you little farts, you’re both suspected of committing a crime. —Empty your pockets. — Now! — Onto the street!” 

            The angry voice and the hand on the gun action darkened the night. I caressed the Old Timer pocketknife, pulled it out slowly, and held it in my palm. “This is all I have, and it belonged to my dad. I want to keep it.”

             “Drop it on the street. You should’ve thought about that before you opened your big mouth. You too, Smith. Turn your pockets inside out.”

            Instead of dropping the bone-handled knife onto the pavement, I stepped forward and gently placed it. Then, I stepped back beside Dean.

            “Okay, Smith, it’s your turn.”

            Dean turned the left side of his body toward the officer. Then, with dramatic movement, his left hand pulled his left rear pocket inside out, lifting to the sky, and he projected an innocent face. Simultaneously, he used his right hand to remove a crumbled package from his right rear pocket and ditch it.

            My peripheral vision caught the rear motion. The partial, beat-up package of Camel cigarettes landed between us. Dean needed acting classes. I snickered and swirled back. Maybe Officer Palmer didn’t see anything. 

            The officer pocketed the knife, walked between us, and secured the crumbled evidence. “What the hell you laughing at, Mays?”

            Dean and I shrugged at one another, communicating the end of our plan. The officer collared our arms and marched us toward his police car. He shoved us against the left rear door and, one at a time, lay our hands on the roof, kicked our legs apart, and patted our clothes.

            “Wait here. Leave your hands on the roof.”

            When the officer entered the driver’s side, Dean lifted his hands from the roof and leaned backward to watch the patrolman. However, he reversed when the officer began exiting the car. 

            “Did you disobey a direct command, Smith?” 

            “No, sir.”

            Officer Palmer frowned and shook his head. Then, using his thumb and forefinger, he held up one cherry bomb with a blackened, damp, partial cigarette still attached to the fuse. The moisture on the cigarette paper illuminated the brand name “Camel” stamped on the side. The missing sixth cigarette. In the distance, the twinkling, fake antique lamp blinked the colors in the increasing fog.

            “Now, boys. Turn around and look at me—I have all the evidence I need to convict you. If necessary, I’ll send this cigarette and cherry bomb to FBI laboratories to be analyzed for fingerprints and DNA. You and I both know your prints will be all over them.”

            Good god. The freaking FBI. Maybe we’d talk our way out of this before the notification-of-parents stage.  

            Officer Palmer opened the rear door. “Okay, climb in the back seat. You first, Smith.” 

            The officer entered the front seat, pulled out a metal police clipboard, and wrote. A reflecting mirror spun inside the police lightbar. The sound of clip-clip-clip-clip in the quiet car sounded like the wheel clicks of a passing train. Sitting on the other side of the vehicle, Dean pulled his elbows close to his side and ducked his head like a distressed turtle.

            Officer Palmer opened his door and walked by my window to the car’s trunk. Sounds of police things moving around joined the clip-clip-clip, but not in harmony. What was he looking for now? Some torture device? I smelled dog shit and checked my shoe treads for any clumps. 

Not seeing anything, I turned to Dean. “Hey, did you step in, dogshit?”

            “I don’t think so, but I smell it too. I think this guy has it in for us.”

            “I know he has it in for me. But—.”

            Officer Palmer opened the front door, and I clammed up. He threw a cellophane-wrapped package of papers onto the passenger seat and squeezed his swollen belly and long legs under the steering wheel. The dark surrounding homes contrasted with the one across the street, showing a dim light escaping from a lifted window blind. It wouldn’t take long for our involvement to spread across town. I confirmed my locked door suspicion by lightly pulling on the door handle. Trapped again.

            I cleared my throat and launched the most pleasant, innocent voice I could dig out. “Sir, is everything okay?” 

            Officer Palmer stopped writing, looked in the rearview mirror, and slid the plastic shoebox-sized barrier door open. “One of you turds say something?”

            Dean waved his hand to get my attention. He shook his head slowly, held up one finger, and whispered, “Stop.”

            I shrugged, held my palms up, and whispered back. “What the heck?” To the officer, I repeated louder, “Is everything okay?”

            Palmer turned to Dean, who intently peered out his window, then turned further to me. “Yeah, Mays. Everything is hunky-dory. I hunt you clowns all over the park get my uniform dirty and step in dog shit that some fine upstanding citizen failed to clean up all in an effort to make sure that everything is okay for you.” He jammed the plastic door closed and returned to his paperwork. 

            Dean held a finger to his mouth. “Shhhh. I didn’t know there was a dog shit charge.”

            I tried to stop my laughter with my hand over my mouth and leaned over, hiding from Officer Palmer. It was like the time in Sunday School with my friend Bishop. A substitute teacher told us the regular teacher was a constipated Christian. We couldn’t stop laughing. 

            The driver’s door propelled open, and the cruiser shifted on its springs as the officer exited. I sat up as Palmer stomped around the front of the car. Dean’s face turned white, his mouth opened, and his eyes followed Palmer as the rear door yanked open.

            “Get out, you little shit.”

            Dean lowered his chin and glanced back at me before stepping out. The officer snatched him by the left arm and tugged him toward a park sliding board several feet from the car. Officer Palmer talked and pointed his finger alternately to Dean and then to the cruiser. The fake antique flickering light beyond them prismed the rainbow colors in the increasing fog.

            Guided back to the cruiser, Dean stepped into the back seat, and Officer Palmer tramped around the front of the police car. 

            “What was that all about?”

            Dean’s lips trembled. “He’s just mean. He wants me to quick hanging with you.” 

            Another set of flashing police lights joined the chorus of reflections in the park, and Palmer jerked my door open. “You two turds stay here,” The door slammed.

            Dean thrust out his chest. “It seems that turds are the theme of the evening,” and he bent over to hide his laughter.

            I also bent over. Constipation again, but not in Sunday School. It wouldn’t be funny once Mom and Mr. Johns, my counselor and tutor, learned of our arrest.

            Dean sat up and peered out the rear glass. “I think another police car just pulled up.”

            I straightened up. The chorus of red and blue lights had increased, and Dean had a better vision angle. “You’re right. “What’re they doing?”

            “It looks like they’re just talking. The new one is wearing a coat and tie, and his lights are in the grille. Nothing on top of the car.”

            “Oh, man. That’s a detective’s car. It’s gotta be Detective Roark.”

            “Why’d you say, ‘Oh, man?’ Is he meaner than Palmy? And how do you know it’s a detective’s car?”

            “That’s a lot of questions, man. Detective’s cars don’t have lights on top. They’re in the grille. And no, he’s not meaner than Palmy, but he knows Mom. So, there’s no way we can dodge telling our parents.”

            “Oh,” giggled Dean. “I always doubted we had that chance.”

            I listened, trying to make out words from muffled voices. Officer Palmer’s angry tone rose several times, and Detective Roark responded calmly. The conversation stopped.

            Officer Palmer flung my door open. “You spoiled punks, get out of my car. You’re not going to jail this time because Detective Roark has saved your butts. But next time, and I bet there’ll be a next time, you won’t be saved, and you’re going straight to jail. Especially you, Mays.”

            I stepped out of the car and waited for Dean. The darkened homes across the street had two windows lit up with occupants looking back. I joined Dean, shuffling toward Detective Roark, who waited by his city car. I walked to the detective’s right side, and Dean went to the left side. I expected a reprimand, but the detective didn’t say anything. Instead, he glared unsmiling, straight ahead.

            Under the street light, the detective’s right temple showed a scar where a bullet grazed him in a shootout with an armed suspect. I touched my similar temple scar received in the train accident with Dad. Officer Palmer still had the pocketknife. 

            “Hey. Stop!” I turned to Detective Roark. “He still has my dad’s pocketknife.”

            Detective Roark looked ahead. “You do the deed; you take the bleed. Consider the knife gone.”

            “But it belonged to Dad.”

            Roark turned to me. “I’m sorry. I also miss my dad. Consider the knife lost and yourself lucky to be free. You can buy another pocketknife since you’re out of jail,” and he turned back to the patrol car.

            One more piece lost; before the pocketknife, I lost Dad’s army dog tags playing in the woods. Finally, Officer Palmer’s car squealed off with flashing blue and red lights. He ran the stop sign at Hodges Street and turned toward the hospital.  

            Detective Roark herded us toward his car’s rear door with his hands on our necks. “He’s angry at you two. It wasn’t easy to talk him out of the charges, particularly you, Gavin. You’re lucky that my police radio was on and I heard your names. I managed to get him to hold off on any charges as long as there are no more problems this summer.” We stopped, and Detective Roark opened the rear door. “Do you both understand?”

            We nodded and climbed into the back seat. Detective Roark opened the front door and settled in behind the steering wheel. He started the engine and put the car into gear but didn’t move. “How’d you guys get caught?”

            I glanced at Dean, who ducked his head. The detective worked with Mom on Vacation Bible School, and although it hadn’t been discussed, they may have had a couple of dates. He certainly had been in our lives more in recent months. 

Maybe I’d better take this question. “We set cherry bombs on cigarettes and watched the park. When the explosions stopped, we came out of hiding and started walking to Dean’s house. We figured he didn’t have any proof we did anything.”

            “Were you two the only ones out this evening? Did you see any other people?” 

            I guessed his point and rechecked my shoes. Let Dean have this one.

Dean whispered, “We were the only ones out.”

            “So, let me get this straight. No one is out this evening, but for some reason, you two figured that Officer Palmer wouldn’t suspect you. Do I have that about right?”

            Dean’s lisp increased. “Ye—yes, sir. That’s right. But he stole Gavin’s pocketknife.”

            “That’s what happens when you do the crime; you suffer the consequences. As smart as you two kids are, you can easily earn enough money to buy another knife. I’ll take you home first, Dean, and then I’ll take Gavin home.” 

            “I guess Mom knows?”

            “Oh, yeah. We were sitting in my car discussing the Bible school meeting when your names came on the police radio.”

            Shit. “What do you think she’ll do?”

            I’m not sure, but I suggest you both find something you can be proud of that will keep you busy for the summer. Breaking the law is not something to be proud of.”

            The car moved off, and I stared out the side window. The fog had thickened, creating deeper rainbow colors from the flashing, fake gas park lamp.

Colors, Chapter 2, The Meeting

            Two weeks ago, Dean and I attempted to make nitroglycerin in my basement laboratory. We claimed partial success because he dropped a test tube of the liquid, and it burst into flames with a ‘pop’ sound. However, our research revealed the product needed more refinement.

            Since my two-week grounding kept me on the property, I decided to clean my glassware and put away chemicals from the experiment. With Mom calling to verify my presence in the house, I couldn’t leave the property. The phone rang upstairs, and I ran from the lab. Bounding up the steps two at a time, I lunged to the phone on the fifth ring, just before the call went to the answering machine.

            “Hello!”

            “Man, you sound out of breath,” said Dean. “I bet you were cleaning your lab.”

           “Yeah–you’re right. I was putting stuff away, and an idea came to me about the nitroglycerin. We can refine it using a special piece of glassware called a retort. I’ll try to save enough money to order one. It looks like I’ll be working more this summer.”

            “You mean working is part of your punishment?”

            “Maybe. Mom said I’m on restriction for two weeks and can’t leave the yard without an adult. She thinks I need to set goals and stay busy, so extra work may be part of my punishment. I might even have to go to my Uncle Eugene’s farm and help Mom and Detective Roark with Vacation Bible School. But that’s not the worst part; I have to meet with Palmy, Detective Roark, Mr. Johns, and my mom later today.”

             “Watching Potbelly Palmy run all through the park was hilarious. I got grounded for a week but can leave to play baseball. By the way, the word is already out about us. Bishop and Henry, from the baseball team, called me.”

            “Why did they call you?”

            “They just wanted to be sure I could still play. I told them I’m still good for baseball.” 

            “When does baseball start?”

            “Tryouts are tomorrow. That gives me an idea. Why don’t you try out for baseball? I’ll speak to Coach, and you’ll be chosen for our team. Practice and games will keep you busy for the entire summer. Bishop and Henry are on the team, and you know both of them.”

            “Yeah, I know them, but no way. I don’t like sports all that much, and what if I’m not good enough to make your team? Besides, I’m not sure Mom would let me leave the house.”

          “This could be your goal for the summer! Make the all-star team! We have a couple of games a week and practice on some other days.”

        “It would be fun to be on the same team. We could have some good laughs. Could you and I practice together first?”

            “I don’t think we have time. Mom is taking me to see the doctor later today. Besides, almost everyone makes one team or another. I’ve seen you play in our pickup games, and you’re better than most of the players that are chosen for teams. So you’ll be picked for a team, even if it isn’t the Jaycees. I don’t remember. Are you left-handed or right-handed?”

            With my thumb, I rubbed the wart on my right middle finger knuckle to remind me of my right hand. “I’m right-handed, but there’s no way I’m trying out for baseball. I’d be out in the field, limping around and making a fool of myself in front of everyone. I’ll wait until after today’s meeting and see what happens.”

            “Okay, but keep the idea in mind. Tryouts are tomorrow. I have to go, so think about it.”

            The problem with Bible School was all the rules and snotty-nosed little kids running around. The problem with mowing lawns was the particular, snooty people. What difference did the direction make when everything was drying up? Dad would help if he were here. 

            The phone started buzzing because I hadn’t hung up. I returned it to its cradle, and my dog, Andy, scratched at the back kitchen door.

            “Good boy. How come I don’t get to be free like you?”

            Andy squeezed between the doorframe and my leg, turned, and sat. “Arf!”

            “That’s okay, boy. You can get on my bed,” and he ran to my room.

            I walked to the front storm door. Across the street, my twelve-year-old neighbor, Major Brooks, threw a tennis ball against the side of his family’s brick home and attempted to catch the rebound. Restrictions kept me on the property but not inside the house. If I couldn’t be free, I could at least watch freedom. I ran to my room, opened the window to hear the phone, and then walked to the street curb.  

            Major missed a lot of balls because he wasn’t positioning his glove correctly. He caught balls bouncing a step or two in front, but he missed balls to both sides and the ones at his feet. He missed another one, and it rolled close to the street.  

            Major ran and retrieved the ball. “Hey, Gavin. What’re you doing this summer?”  

            Major’s parents, Percy and Julia, were African-Americans and always kind and welcoming to me. Mrs. Brooks made delicious toasted tomato sandwiches, but many neighbors didn’t like that they had moved to the neighborhood.

            Major ambled to the curb across from me. “You want to play catch?” 

            “Not right now. Why are you throwing the ball against your house?” 

            “I’m getting ready to try out for baseball tomorrow. I need the practice, and I don’t have anybody to throw with.” 

            “Oh? I didn’t know they let black kids play. I hope you get picked.”           

            Major giggled. “I know! Right? But all I can do is try. If I don’t make it this year, then maybe next year. Do you have any ideas for me? I could use some help.”

            “No, I don’t think I can help you. I can’t leave the yard. Could you get your dad’s help?” 

            “Dad is always working, and if not he… I don’t know. It wouldn’t work. Are you trying out for a team this year?”

            “No. I don’t play baseball.”

            “I’ve seen you with a glove before. You, Dean, and some other guys with bats and gloves walking toward Carter Field.”

            “Yeah, I’ve played pickup games, but never on a team.”

            “Well, you should try out.”

            “Dean had that idea.”

            “Well, why not?”

            “I—ah. Well, right now, I can’t leave the yard. Besides, I don’t really like sports.”

            “You’re grounded. Why?”

            That’s the problem with little kids. They’re always asking embarrassing questions. “I got caught with fireworks. No big deal.”

            “Really? By the police?”

            “Yeah. But we didn’t get arrested or anything,” Not yet.

            Major used his glove to point back to the brick wall. “Wow! Well, I’ve gotta get back to practice. Remember that tryouts are tomorrow if you change your mind.”

            On the first throw, the ball returned to his side, and again, he set up wrong and missed the ball. 

            I walked back toward my front door. 

            “Hey. Why didn’t you help Major?”

            My next-door neighbor Tatum, also fourteen years old, stood at the end of a tall hedge separating the two front lawns. I changed course to meet her. She smoothed her short, soft-looking brown hair. Her clean jeans and new-looking multi-colored shirt made her look different. Or was it a blouse? I’d never thought of her as pretty. More like someone who liked to ride bikes, play kick-the-can, and swing on vines. “I’m not really a baseball player.”

            Tatum gestured down to the grass and gravel driveway in which we stood. “I’ve watched you do the same thing here in y’all’s driveway, and you catch most of the balls. You could have helped him.”

            She’s fussing at me. “Yeah, that’s right, but I can’t leave my yard.”

            She put her hands on her hips. “Give me a break. You could have brought him over here. Anyway, does your grounding have anything to do with Detective Roark bringing you home last night?”

            “So, you saw that?”

            “Yeah. We all did. Dad said,” she put up air quotes and lowered her voice, “That boy is going to jail one day.”

            “Ah—well. It was close last night.”

            “Did you get any punishment besides being grounded?”

            “I don’t know it all yet. I have more chores and still have to meet with Mr. Johns and the police.”

            “Oh, wow. So, it’s not over?” Tate pressed her lips in a fine line, crossed her arms, and waited for an answer. 

             “I hope it will be soon.”

            She uncrossed her arms and stepped forward. “Look, I’ve got to go. Mom is waiting for me. I hope all this stuff works out for you.” 

            “Thanks. I hope it does too.” She turned and cutely walked away. 

            Mr. Willard, a local handyman, rumbled into our driveway in his old, faded, red Ford pickup. Dean and I joked about how it sounded like some of the older teenager’s mufflers, but Mr. Willard used rust instead of cash. 

            “Hello, son. Your mom wants me to look at y’all’s arbor and give her a price for tearing it down.”

            “Yes, sir. She said you’d be coming by.”

            Mr. Willard, wearing his usual brown, sweat-stained hat, limped down the driveway, and I followed him. Sycamore trees lining our driveway would soon shed their bark between our home and the Pulling’s home. One more job to do. My Uncle Thornton called them and Magnolias “trash trees.”  

            The arbor’s wisteria grew thick with large vine stems. When in bloom, it smelled really good, but the wooden structure had rotted despite the gallons of paint I applied. The fast-growing vines needed trimming more than I liked and even popped up in the lawn.   

            Mr. Willard shook the wooden support. “Come here, boy, shake this, and you can see how rotten it is.”

            I didn’t care about the rot. I just wanted it gone. I placed my right hand on a wooden brace and moved it back and forth. The entire structure moved. “Yes, sir. It’s pretty rotten, and the vines grow like the ones in the woods behind the school. Even in the yard where I have to mow.”

            “You got that right. It’s not the frame holding the whole thing up. It’s the plant.” Mr. Willard pointed at my right hand. “Boy, that’s a mess of warts you got on your right hand. Do you go in those woods often?”

            I moved my other hand over the warts. “I… I go there to ride bikes and play with friends and to school and back.”

            “Well, just be sure to stay on the paths. Would you like those warts gone?”

            “I don’t want any shots or anything.”

            Oh, no. No cutting and no shots. I know this nice lady that will put a potion over them, and they will go away. You just can’t think about them.”

            I uncovered my hand. “If it’s alright with Mom, it’d be alright with me.”

            Mr. Willard laughed and took my hand. “It might take a couple of treatments, but we’ll blow them things away like crepe myrtle blossoms in a hurricane. I’ll come by sometime and give your mom the price, and I’ll mention it to her then.” He turned and hobbled away. “I’ll see you later.”

            Neighbors told stories about Mr. Willard hurting his right leg in Vietnam when he attempted to save the life of his friend, Tom Patterson, the husband of Mrs. Patterson. She lived down the street and should have been sent to Vietnam permanently.  

            Back at my father’s old desk, I worked on a drawing. Mom’s car door slammed, and I put my drawing pencil down. The ‘big meeting’ would begin soon, and Detective Roark had asked me to apologize to Officer Palmer. Another hard job. Palmy had such a bad attitude about kids, always assuming the worst.  

            I met Mom in the living room, and she reviewed what I needed to do and how I needed to act. She finished with all my instructions, and with perfect timing, a knock sounded on the door.

            She opened it and stepped back. “Hi, Butch. Won’t you come in?”

            Detective Roark stepped in with Officer Palmer behind him. “Hi, Patsey. I’m sure you remember Officer Noel Palmer.” 

            Mom partially lifted her hand and moved toward Officer Palmer, apologizing for having to meet again under ‘these circumstances.’ 

            Officer Palmer wriggled his lips and loosely lifted one hand with a ‘who cares’ gesture.

            Mom changed her hand motion to indicate seating. Good recovery, Mom. 

            Detective Roark’s face redden. “And, of course, you know Gavin.”

            I returned Officer Palmer’s nod and stood still.

             Detective Roark moved his head and eyes, indicating I needed to come from across the room. I walked over and offered my hand. After hesitating, Palmer lifted his fish-cold, floppy hand, and we shook once. I returned to my seat, and Palmer sat across from me. Mom sat next to me.

            The doorbell rang again, and Mom asked Detective Roark, still standing at the door, to answer it. He welcomed Mr. Johns, who entered wearing his full Saponi Indian dress, including moccasins. 

            He often wore tribal attire to important functions, except school events. He had worn it once to a school function and had been punished. The school board didn’t like different, but kids knew him as an adult who talked to us, not at us.

            Palmer turned his head and softly said, “Oh, god.” 

            Mr. Johns glanced at Palmer. Mom flinched and fingered her cross, and everyone avoided eye contact. No one spoke. Finally, Mom jumped up. “Hi, Ted. Thanks so much for coming.”

            Mr. Johns shook hands with her and sat next to Detective Roark. Palmer, arms recrossed over his coffee-stained light blue shirt, with a white t-shirt underneath, and now showing over his tarnished belt buckle, never left his seat. His eyes moved around and never made contact. I quickly looked away when Palmer, a bump in the circle, caught me staring.

            Detective Roark leaned forward. “We’re here today to devise a plan for Gavin, but first, I think Gavin has something to say to Officer Palmer, don’t you, Gavin?”

            Shit. Mom had warned me this would be coming, and they didn’t forget. “Yes, sir. I—I just want to apologize to you, Officer Palmer. We shouldn’t have set the fireworks—I’m sorry.”  

            Palmer uncrossed his arms. “You’ve offered an apology, and I think that’s a good start. However, the money you’ve cost the taxpayers of this community can never be repaid. Just keep your nose clean, and you and I won’t have any more problems.”

            Asshole

            Detective Roark leaned back. “It looks like we may be making some progress. The other thing that we wanted to talk about is keeping Gavin out of further trouble. Patsey, you’ve discussed Gavin’s summer plans, right?”

            “Yes and no. I’ve suggested some ideas for Gavin,” She turned to me, “but he hasn’t really responded.” Then, she turned to Roark, “He likes spending time at the kid’s art club, Prize 434, delivering the News and Record twice a week, and he has some lawns to mow. But budget cuts have reduced his time at the Prize, and his mowing has dried up with the drought.”

            Detective Roark began talking about the drought and his lack of talent at gardening, which happily took the spotlight off me. Then Mr. Johns spoke about his sister-in-law and how her neighborhood shared land, water, and work to benefit everyone.  

            Palmer coughed and put his hands on the upholstered chair arms. “Let’s stick to the topic of the hour. What kind of punishment is he receiving? I need to finish up some paperwork. I want to watch a baseball game from the West Coast.”   

            Detective Roark leaned toward Palmer. “Well, Officer Palmer, what would you like to see happen? 

            I couldn’t believe I had heard that. I’d already been grounded until Mom’s cheer gauge had topped out, and now this guy would demand a year.

            Palmer’s pits darkened, and he bared his teeth. “Yeah, there are a lot of things. I just can’t say it in front of his mom. Come on, you folks. These kids today are all a bunch of spoiled punks with no respect for authority. I mean, if they all had the kind of whippings I had as a kid, there would be no problems. One time my daddy whipped me with a belt until I bled, and no telling what would have happened if Mom hadn’t stepped in. I mean, my as—butt was raw—.

            Detective Roark opened his mouth—. “Ah—ah, there are many problems that need to be solved. Patsey, have you enacted any punishment for Gavin?”

            Mom glanced at Palmer. “Of course. He’s on restriction and can’t leave the property until I’m satisfied that he’s changed his ways.”

            “Wait, this needs to be fair. Dean only got a week, and now, you’re saying I might have to wait longer.” I pointed at Palmer. “And he still has Dad’s knife.”

            Officer Palmer jumped up and rested his hand on his gun. “You better believe it. You’re lucky you’re not in jail. You were carrying a concealed weapon. It’s just one of many things that I have to deal with on these mean streets.”

            Detective Roark spread out his hands and moved them in a downward motion. “Okay, okay. Gavin, I think you may have said enough. Just take it easy.” With eyes pleading for help, Roark turned to Mr. Johns. “Mr. Johns, is there anything you can add to this conversation?”

            I sat back in my chair. Officer Palmer stood for a second longer, settled into his chair, and recrossed his arms.

            “I’ve heard a lot today explaining a lot of things. I want to continue counseling and tutoring Gavin and hopefully guide him positively. I know Gavin likes art and drama—

            Mr. Johns stopped with Officer Palmer’s interruption. “Art and drama. Who are you kidding? He hangs at the Prize with all those other freaks. None of them play sports. Let him get a real job at one of the local businesses like Meggetts’s Department Store. Or—or he could work on my dad’s farm. That man will make him grow up fast.”

            Mom stuck her hand out. “Hold on a minute. I already have a farm job worked out for Gavin if he wants it.”

            I didn’t like the direction of this meeting. 

            Detective Roark’s smile softened his voice as he turned to Palmer. “So, you’re a baseball fan?”

            Palmer uncrossed his arms, and his eyes sparkled. “Yep. I’m strictly National League. I like the Giants.”

            “Ha. Well, there you go. We have one thing in common. The National League.”

            Mr. Johns sat forward. “It’s an American sport. Even some native Indians played a game they called “stickball.” It was sometimes used to settle tribal disputes. Nothing like today’s games, but still American.”

            Officer Palmer huffed. “That’s not an American game. Sticks and a ball. Come on. The guys on the real baseball field have to face ninety-mile-per-hour balls when at bat, and well over a hundred when the ball comes off the bat. And, then, there’s the game inside…

            I relaxed. There had been a change in the room. The tension had gone down, and Mom smiled at me. If only Dean and I had known the baseball thing on ‘dog shit’ night. Maybe I wouldn’t have been grounded the entire summer.

            Officer Palmer appeared relaxed for the first time, sat forward in his chair, and continued talking. “…many people think baseball is boring, but they just don’t understand.”

            After Palmer finished, Detective Roark stared at him for a beat. “Okay. Maybe at this point, I should summarize. We all agree that Gavin deserves some punishment. He apologized for his behavior and will continue counseling with Mr. Johns. Does everyone agree?”

            I counted three nodding heads. One head, Officer Palmer, with a frown, crossed his arms. At least he kept his mouth shut.

            Roark continued. “Mr. Johns, is there anything you can add?”

            “I…I think Gavin has come a long way over the past year. His grades are up, and I believe he truly was finding himself at Prize 434.  I think his punishment should continue through this coming Thursday, because at some point he needs his freedom so he can prove or disprove his ability to function within the rules. We are all fortunate that he and Dean didn’t hurt Officer Palmer or themselves because, as we all know, fireworks can take off fingers. It’s a reason they’re against the law.”

Detective Roark sat forward. “Well, I couldn’t agree more. I’d like to add I will stand behind Officer Palmer in taking Gavin to court if he gets into any more trouble. But one thing remains, what does Gavin want. So, Gavin, remember that many people have to do something they may not like for a while until they get to a place where they can do what they want. You’ve been given many choices today. So, what is it you want to do?

“I want to play baseball.”

Colors Prologue

Black Walnut Springs, Virginia, Seven Years Ago

            A loving hand on my back propelled me forward. I didn’t have a choice. Blinking my eyes to focus, a shiny, wet black steel beam displayed contrasting white letters of R&D RR. Railroad weed killer and creosote odors filled my nose. Then, gasoline drifted in.  

 Raindrops fell on my face, and a hand with pink nails reached into the engine compartment and disconnected a battery cable. The gasoline reminded me of my best friend, Jimmy, who barely survived burns when attempting to make a gasoline-powered rocket. A warm liquid ran down my right cheek. Trapped, I couldn’t move.  

            Dad and I had been at Uncle Eugene’s farm when a sudden storm developed. We raced to close windows at the parsonage ahead of the arriving newly hired preacher and his family. The wind, lightning, and rain had hidden the road and surrounding landscape, including our home. 

            A white-shirted lady with Jere sown on her shirt peered through the windowless passenger door. She asked if I felt pain anywhere, but I couldn’t answer. I tried to move, but movement created more pain in my right leg. What if a fire broke out?  

            Her trembling pink nails moved to my neck and stayed. “Don’t worry. We’ll get you out. What’s your name.”

            “Gavin.”

            “That’s a great name. You’re going to be okay. Sammy and Hunter from the fire department are here and have tools that will free you. Stay awake. I can’t let you go to sleep. I’ll put this bandage on your head and then step out of the way.”

            “Brum—Brum—Brum,” rang like Dad’s chainsaw. The stretching metal sounded like a tobacco trailer hitched to a tractor. Sparks flew like fireworks at the county fair. Where was Dad?

            Hunter and Sammy removed the car metal around me, and Jere bandaged my right leg. Then she wrapped a foam collar around my neck, and Hunter and Sammy slid a board under my back. In the increasing rain, the three pulled straps across my body and lifted me onto a stretcher. 

            The stretcher’s caster wheels convulsed on the railroad gravel path I had often walked. In the stop-and-go moments where Hunter, Sammy, and Jeri lifted the stretcher, I rallied and had time to think. Finally, the wheels smoothed out, and the rear doors of a waiting ambulance opened.  

            I rose on one elbow and light prismed through the rain around the white sheet-covered blue Plymouth twisted into a train coal car. “Wait, you need to get Dad.”

            Jere glanced toward the car, gently pushed on my chest, and tightened the straps. “We’re bringing him next. Just try to relax.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Harvey Mays hovered nearby and used two fingers to put the colors in Gavin’s eyes. “Son, I’ll always be with you. Be aware of the colors.”