Chapter Fourteen
I see my red door and must have it painted black
Maybe then I’ll fade away and not have to face the facts
It’s not easy facing up when your whole world is black
“Paint It Black”, the Rolling Stones
The first day back to school, mother let me off at the curb. I hobbled past the nearest gingko tree, trying not to step on any berries, and sat on the low wall.
“Here I am, giving it another throw,” I thought. I wore my new shirt, the new belt and slacks, the new socks. I probably combed my hair with the new comb. January 3rd, 1967. Everything new. It should be a fairly easy day, I reasoned. I had a written excuse to get out of gym class – the most miserable period of most days. If I could make it through science class – my first appearance since my colossal knock-out blow of Alson Reed – I might be able to sail through the day.
I found my seat in science and, apparently, the desk behind me had been removed. What, did I kill him? I really didn’t think so, and breathed my relief at not having any neighbor seated behind me. Ray Melcher walked in, dressed in everything new as well. I was somewhat envious of the navy blue sweater he wore. “Nice sweater, Ray!” I blurted. He shot a glance at me, and turned away without any change of expression. Oh well, I thought. I said what I said. Feeling a little more expansive this morning. I felt the two weeks’ rest had done me some good.
In French class I slid into my desk next to Rob. “How’s the foot, Tetrarch Terry?”
“It’s a little better,” I said. “But I’m out of gym for a few more days. And basketball practice, too.”
“I am sorry about your foot.”
“You don’t have anything to apologize for,” I said.
Suzanne saw me after French. “Why are you limping again?” she said. “What happened?”
“A stupid accident playing basketball.”
“Ooo, be careful!”
“Sometimes I wonder if my body is breaking down,” I lamented.
“I hate to hear you say that,” she said. “Don’t you think your gland problem is getting a little better?”
“I don’t know, Suzanne,” I said, leaning against my locker. “I usually feel slower and tireder than ever. But no, I don’t want to bring you down. I’m actually in a decent mood today. Strange to say.”
The life of the school surged past us through the hall. Students looked fresher and crisper to me than before. They gaily greeted each other as they met.
“Strange or not, you want to cultivate that.” She rummaged in her pocketbook, pulled out a small mirror, and fluffed her hair. “Listen, Terry. I think I need to tell you about an encounter I had with one of those pests who’ve been bothering you.”
“What! An encounter?” I felt the grip of panic.
“Yeah, that squirt named Hugh,” she said, with a half eye-roll. “I wanted you to hear it from me rather than him.”
“Oh, this is just getting worse and worse,” I moaned.
“No. really there wasn’t that much to it,” she said. “He told me a few pretty immature things about you until he seemed to run out of stuff to say. Then he stammered, thrust this letter into my hand, and rushed off.”
“So it was Hugh. Suzanne…” I felt that familiar weight bending down my shoulders. “I’m just so sorry they’ve involved you in this. He gave you the letter? This is awful!”
“Terry, it’s okay, really.” She put her hand on my shoulder. “I appreciated your letter, too. It was sweet and sincere, and I don’t know why they would have gotten so excited about it.”
“Only because they want to make my life miserable, and they know how.”
“That may be, I guess,” she considered, “but honestly, I wasn’t very impressed with this guy. He struck me as really awkward, kind of like he doesn’t know how to talk to people.”
“I think you’re right about that,” I said.
“So please don’t feel bad about this – not on my account. In fact, I won’t allow you to. It was a sweet letter… you know something, Terry? Someday you’re going to think back on this and wonder what the big deal was with these boys. I promise you will. Well, I gotta go. Feel better!”
As I often did, I wondered at the fact that this nice, bright, pretty girl really seemed to care a little something for me. I basked in these thoughts until I got to gym.
Coach Smallen divided the students into teams for twelve to fifteen minutes of competitive basketball. I showed him my excuse. He handed me a lanyard with a whistle.
“I’ll let you referee this game,” he said. “You know the rules.”
I figured this was something I could do with little problem. It happened that both Ray Melcher and Hugh Elroy were on one of the teams on my half of the court. This didn’t feel very comfortable. I wondered how they would feel with me being in authority over them. James Huggins was on the opposing team.
I decided to call a fairly relaxed game – I mean, what the heck, this was gym class. The game began smoothly. James was the tallest player on either of the teams, easily reaching for rebounds, and putting a couple of layups in. I noticed Ray cutting his eyes over at me. The next time James got the ball, Ray started covering him like he was on the football field. He grabbed the ball away from James and cackled: “Let’s see if I can make him blow the whistle. I bet he won’t.”
James next possession, when Ray came at him, he dribbled out of his way and passed the ball to a teammate. The teammate missed his shot and James took the rebound, moving back out to mid-court. Ray was on him and scuffled with James for the ball. The ball came loose and James’ teammate picked it up. Ray laughed again. “He’s not going to do it. He just won’t.” I began to grow tight, anxious. He was daring me. Typical of Ray – making an incident out of something like a pick up game in gym class. James’ teammate passed the ball to him. Ray went up to James and hacked him on the arm. I blew the whistle. “Foul!”
“Oh come on, ref!” shouted Ray, a smirk on his face.
Hugh ran over to me. “You gonna call a foul on him for stealing the ball from that nigger?” he said, just loud enough for me to hear. “You’re a damn loser, Owens. Oh, but I forgot. That nigger’s your sweetheart. You’re bound to take up for him.” He trotted away.
James couldn’t have heard what Hugh said, though he may have been able to guess. He glanced at me and gave a quick wink as he moved to the foul line. He made both shots.
The games began to wind down on both ends of the court. James’ team on my end had notched fifteen points so that ended the game. I returned my whistle to the Coach. I was ready for this class to be over. I needed to attend my English class so I could set an appointment with Mr. Warren. No need to delay. I started toward my stack of books. A basketball rolled in front of my feet. I scooped it up and turned toward the basket. I stood a few feet beyond the top of the key, maybe twenty-five feet out. I didn’t want to jump and possibly land wrong on my foot, so I put up a set shot. It sailed in a high arc toward the basket. Swish! Never touched the rim. Somebody let out a whistle. Ray Melcher pivoted and walked straight to me, his face a white grimace. He stopped, and without a word grasped my new shirt’s pocket and ripped it to the bottom. I stood frozen, unbelieving, as he walked away. I turned then, picked up my books, and walked into the hallway, breathing in short, tight gasps.
#####
I want to run, far away. I want to evaporate. I want to sink into the floor, out of sight. I want to extinguish all the light, move only in darkness. I want the shadow to pass over the sun. I want it to be a perpetual black night. I want to be blind. I want everyone to be blind.
This is intolerable. I can’t do this anymore. I refuse to do this anymore. My guts are shaking inside. The blood pounded in my ears. Numbly I am walking to English class, where I will slide into my desk and stare at my textbook until the end of class when I will make an appointment with Mr. Warren. After that, I will leave. I will lose myself in downtown Congaree, my new shirt ruined, its pocket dangling by the remaining threads. I will never go back to science class. I will never go back to gym class. I am done with this. I don’t have the strength for this and I still don’t have any idea when or why I became such an utterly weak human being. Trying to figure it all out is making me crazy, and I’m not strong enough for that either. I will fight no more.
But I will try to enlist others to fight for me.
And hey! Where is Scott Santiago when I need him?
In English class I sat down and put my head on my desk. When class was over Mr. Warren skipped all the chit chat about “how was your holiday” and wore a look of concern. We set up an appointment for Wednesday afternoon – the next day. My legs felt like lead, and I still trembled inside as I made my way to the school basement. I studied the Board of Disgrace. Oh look. I was up to thirty-one unexcused absences. Plainly, the three days of suspension had been counted against me. I guessed that was as it should be. I saw Eddie Tinsley’s name on the board: forty-four absences. It struck me as a shame we couldn’t have coordinated our absences so we would never be at school on the same day.
I don’t remember howI spent the rest of that day. I probably was carrying some Christmas money so I may have gone to the newsstand and dropped some coins for the new Spiderman. I may have bought barbecue chips, a coke, and a Mickey cake. Mainly I wandered around in a daze. Finally, I remember walking the couple of miles to my mother’s office at the Atlantic campus. I had forgotten the pain in my ankle. I would pay for it later, as I tried to fall asleep.
My mother was surprised to see me.
“I left school after English. I have an appointment with Mr. Warren tomorrow. I can’t keep going like this.”
“What happened to your shirt?”
I explained.
“My goodness!” she exclaimed. “Shouldn’t you have reported him to the teacher? That’s destroying someone else’s property.”
“I’m afraid that would have made it worse,” I said.
My father was tired. It was a difficult time for him in the student work. At home, he struggled to make sense of what I was going through. He was an extravert. When he was a schoolboy growing up in 1920s Kentucky, fighting was simply the only way to deal with such conflicts. There were bullies and victims then, but a victim could usually find a big brother or cousin or uncle to help even things up.
Kentucky was completely segregated then. Rural Kentucky, where he lived, was mono-cultural for most white people. Things were vastly different now. My father was, however, a very patient man. He would continue the struggle to understand. He was on my team.
“I’m simply not going to those classes again,” I said. Something in the way I announced this made them believe me. I would not budge. “I’ll keep up with the assignments, take the tests, do the papers, but not in the class.”
They looked at each other. “Surely a school as big as Central would have more than one section of your science class,” said my mother.
“They probably have four or five,” I said. “I’ll ask Mr, Warren to check on that.”
“So, we’re agreed you’ll take all of this to Mr. Warren tomorrow,” said my father. “He sounds like a good counselor.”
“He’s great!” I said. “He went through this same thing when he was a student at Central.”
“Your mother did mention that.”
“Okay, then,” said my mother. “Tell Mr. Warren we’ll cooperate. We’ll sign papers, whatever we need to do. I don’t see why this couldn’t be done pretty quickly. We don’t want you to fall behind.”
It was also plain to Mr. Warren I would never attend my science or gym classes again. I sat across from him, nervously bouncing my knee. “I’ll put in a word with Miss Corliss about the class syllabus and upcoming assignments,” he said, “and you can meet with her in a couple of days. Meanwhile I’ll check in with Mr. Devereaux and begin the paperwork for your class transfers.” There was a Study Hall during 1st period where I could spend the time working on my science classwork.
“Thank you, Mr. Warren. Thank you so much. I know that you know I’m not trying to make things difficult. I still have very little idea how this has all happened.”
“Terry, you are more than welcome,” Mr. Warren lay his hand on my shoulder. I lifted myself slightly. “I had people help me through my difficulties here as well. I’m happy to guide you through this.”
Somewhere deep in my brain I could hear a trickle. It was the trickle, I guessed, of the merest beginnings of relief. This trickle of relief could slowly, very slowly, displace the massive weight of anxiety that had bent me over since the beginning of school and before. I told myself I should listen for this trickle frequently. I will cultivate this, Suzanne.
I met with Miss Corliss on Friday after her class. She was more sympathetic to my dilemma than I had expected. “Those boys are difficult,” she admitted. “I could tell they were bothering you. But that sort of thing is so widespread at this school there’s not a lot a teacher can do. Well, unless there’s an obvious incident… which unfortunately there was when you knocked Alson out of his chair.” I couldn’t suppress a slight grin. “It’s not a perfect system, but I will be happy to work with Mr. Warren and Mr. Devereaux to get you a reassignment.”
“Thank you, Miss Corliss. I know I’m way over the limit with my absences, but I plan to fix that once I’m reassigned.”
I talked to James after French class. “I’m out of the gym class,” I said. “They’re finding another section for me.”
“Aw well, man, I’ll miss seeing you there.”
“I think you probably know the reason.”
“I think I know two or three reasons,” he said. “I’ve been meaning to tell you I’m sorry what happened the other day. Ray acted like a complete jackass. Hugh, too.”
“And I really don’t know why.”
“They really don’t need to act that way,” said James.
“Anyway, I’m still here in French so we can keep up.”
“Good enough,” he said.
He didn’t mention B-squad. Obviously I wasn’t at Tuesday afternoon practice, and would not play for the game Friday night. I discussed it with Rob. My ankle was not 100% plus I had to take care of all this crap with the class transfer. I would talk with Coach Larkin when I could. Maybe if I dropped off the team, Eric Harper could take my place. He was a good kid and deserved a chance.
In English class, Mr. Warren had some announcements. “As you know,” he said, “you have a test on Friday on A Tale of Two Cities, so that segment of our syllabus will be wrapped up. Next Monday we will begin a new project. We’ll spend a week or so on some English folk tales, and then will be moving into the world of Master William Shakespeare – yes, we’re reading the Bard of Avon. Please don’t be intimidated by Will. Everybody liked him down at the Globe. He used some odd words and phrases, it’s true, but if you look at our textbook you’ll see that our play – The Tragedy of Julius Caesar – is thoroughly annotated. We’ll study his use of language and make sure no one is left behind. Just be sure to raise your hand and ask, if you’re not sure about something. If we don’t know the answer, we’ll make something up.”
“To that end, I’d like to introduce the one who will guide you through this journey – this is Mrs. Judy Rhame. Mrs. Rhame will be our practice teacher for the next several weeks. She is a senior in education at Atlantic University and she knows her stuff, I promise you. Mrs. Rhame, may I present my premiere English class.”
We all clapped. She made a brief speech of introduction and I wouldn’t lie if I said I remember not one word of her speech. I did look at her, though. I couldn’t not look at her, because there was so much to see, and everything I saw was most agreeable. Tall at – I would say 5’7” or 5’8” – rather thin, light brown hair with a strawberry tint, crystal blue eyes. She wore a plain blue shift – matching her eyes – with a white collar and cuffs. Oh my…
“Rhame” – I knew that name from somewhere. Anyway, I silently toasted Will the Bard and Julius Caesar. And I toasted the tall, fair-haired damsel who stood before me, and who would lead me in that literary journey.
ijustcantstopwriting 