Color the Sidewalk for Me (14 page)

Mr. Cander's rib cage pulsed. He opened his mouth and his upper lip disappeared. “I'll kill you, boy.” The promise was gravel in his throat. I sucked in air, heart congealing, as he gathered his strength, then plunged toward Danny with a roar, head lowered.

“Danny!” Mrs. Cander screamed, pushing to her feet to help her son.

Danny faced the attack straight on; then at the last second he pivoted, pulling a knee up high to slam it under his daddy's chin. I could hear the teeth snap at impact. Mr. Cander's head jerked up and he stumbled. He fell forward with a dull thud, then rolled over on his back. In an instant Danny was astride him, hands pummeling, a torrent of words hurling from his mouth. The blows landed with wet smacks across his daddy's chest and head, like the sound of my mama tenderizing meat.

Mrs. Cander shrank away, knuckles blanching as she gripped the skirt of her dress.

With a sudden bellow Mr. Cander brought both arms up and encircled his son in a bear hug. Danny's yells ceased as he struggled to break free. His daddy slid a knee up, straining to dig into the ground with his heel, then pushed with a loud grunt. He raised his hip and rolled, trapping Danny underneath.

I thought my heart would stop.

“Anthony, don't!” Danny's mama raced to her husband, sank fingers into his wrist and yanked with all her might.

Mr. Cander let go of Danny with one hand and flung out his elbow. It caught her in the waist and knocked her aside, breathless. I flinched as my own ribs imagined the blow. Danny dragged his arm out from under his daddy, curled his fingers, and smashed his fist into Mr. Can-der's left eye.

“Aagh!” Mr. Cander slapped a hand over the wound. Danny snarled and pushed his daddy off his chest, then spun over and leaped up to kick his attacker's ear with the heel of his shoe. Mr. Cander cried out again, protecting his head with an arm as he tossed to his side, away from the blows. Danny closed in on his father.

“I hate you!” he cried thickly, kicking Mr. Cander's head once more. “God help me, I hate you!” He aimed his foot again and again at his daddy's ribs and back and spine, the words spewing from his mouth with each violent stroke. “I . . . hate . . . you, . . . you . . . stinkin' . . . drunk!”

“Stop!” Mrs. Cander reached for Danny, her fingers stiff as she tried to grab his upper arm. His movements were so erratic, she couldn't find a hold. “Danny! Danny, stop.
Stop it!”
Wrists fluttering, she snatched at him until she finally caught him with both hands.

“Lemme be!” Danny jerked away, still kicking viciously. Mr. Cander's arms slid noiselessly away from his face and splayed, dirt-covered and still, upon the ground.

My fingers pressed against my lips.

“Danny!” His mama gained hold of him again, her grip firm. “Don't kill him!”

“I don't care!”

Her fingers tightened.
“No!”

The fear in her voice finally pierced him. I watched, a lump in my throat, as Danny's vehemence drained away, his blows ebbing until, with a halfhearted kick, he stopped. He turned to face his mama, gusts of breath popping his ribs in and out. Spittle flecked his lips, and his mouth hung open. His eyes were hazed.

“That's it,” Mrs. Cander soothed, holding him by the shoulders and urging him toward her. Briefly she looked past him at her unconscious husband. “Come on, now.” He stiffened, then slumped. “Come on, Danny.” His eyes closed with exhaustion.

Quietly he dropped his bruised hands and sank against her side, letting her draw him away from the figure at his feet. His mama put an arm around his waist, casting another anxious glance at the motionless Mr. Cander, then led Danny slowly across the yard. After they'd walked a few steps, Danny brought his left hand up, examining it idly, then halted, reaching over to turn his mother's face fully toward him. She flinched and he took his hand away.

“It's nothin',” she said quickly. “It doesn't hurt.”

With a shaking finger he touched the drying blood on his mama's chin. He started to say something, then choked on the words. A quiver rippled across his cheekbones, crumpling his face. His legs started to wobble and he dropped to his knees, pressing his head against her waist. Her arms slipped around him as a wrenching sob racked its way through his lungs and up his throat.

“I'm sorry,” he blurted into her dress. “Lord forgive me for hatin'; I'm sorry! But I just can't
stand
it anymore.”

His shoulders and back heaved as he began to cry, clutching her. Between sobs he said other things but I couldn't understand the words. Nor could I hear what she said to him as she smoothed his hair, tears tumbling down her cheeks and dropping onto her neck. Not in my life had I heard a boy cry like that. My own chest was tight, my hands still clasped against my mouth. I was trembling all over, a daisy tickling my ankle. I knew I shouldn't be there, that I should walk away while I had the chance, but I couldn't summon the strength. Only because of the intensity of the fight had they not seen me yet, standing in plain view at the edge of the field.

Leave now,
a voice whispered in my head. But I could only watch Danny's anguish. I hurt deep inside, for the first time really understanding what he'd lived with all these years, the cause for the shame written across his features when he'd bloodied Gerald Henley's nose. I wanted to run to him, to comfort him as he'd once comforted me. But it was not my place.

Leave,
the voice repeated. And I would have obeyed, had Danny's mama not seen me at that moment.

Who can say why she lifted her head just then and turned toward me? Perhaps from the corner of her vision she'd caught a glimpse of my blue shirt against the yellow-white field, her gaze absently finding its source as she murmured to her son. When she realized what it was, her hand stilled against the back of Danny's head. Our eyes locked. Then she looked back down, fingers moving once more. “Danny,” she said.

He quieted slowly, his gasps diminishing until he no longer shuddered. Mrs. Cander slipped her hand to his shoulder in a gentle grasp. He must have sensed the change in her because he pulled away, shooting a distrustful glance at his daddy. But the man remained motionless. Tipping his head back, Danny searched his mama's face, following her eyes as they traveled in my direction. His head swiveled. When he looked at me, I couldn't breathe.

“Celia?”

The startled tone told me what I already knew. I should not have let him see me.

He sprang to his feet in an awkward two-step, backing in embarrassment away from his mama. “What're ya doin' here?” He headed toward me, sweeping an arm self-consciously under his nose. “What're
ya doin'
here?”

I tried to swallow the lump in my throat as I lowered my hands from my lips, searching for an explanation. If I'd been caught peeping in his window, I couldn't have felt more ashamed.

“Celia, why are ya here?” His voice rose with accusation and he picked up speed. His features were pinched, angry. A vein stood out on his right arm.

“Danny!” Mrs. Cander's voice was sharp.

“Just . . . ,” I stammered. “I didn't . . .”

He swiped at his face again with his hand, flushed with indignation. He was ten feet away from me, his mouth twisting, a deep red mottling his neck.

I rocked backward, eyes stinging. “Please.”

“Came to see for yourself, didn't ya?” He wiped his hand against his jeans.

“Danny,” his mama called again, “don't!”

“Came to see, huh?” He stopped abruptly in front of me, close enough for me to see the etch of tears through his dust-covered cheeks. I could smell the dankness of his sweat. “Well, you seen it. Now git home.”

His voice was sludge, and he threw the words in my face with all the force of his mortification. I reached for him, shaking my head. My mouth opened, then closed, the denials dying in my throat.

“Go, Celia!” he commanded.

“Danny, please—”

“Git outta here!”

“But I—”

Swiftly he lurched forward, grabbed my arm and shoved. I stumbled back, staring at him in disbelief.

“You don't belong here,” he whispered fiercely, eyes glittering with tears.

“Danny!”
His mama's harsh reprimand brought no response.

“I didn't mean—”

“Git.” He slashed a hand toward the river.

Once more I tried to touch him, brushing his arm before he jerked it away.

“Git home, Celia Matthews!” he shouted, choking on my name. “Git on back to where you belong!”

The rage on his face sent me spinning toward the field. Before I knew it, my legs were pumping up the trail and into the grove of trees, away from Danny Cander. He yelled at my retreating back, but I couldn't make out the words over my own ragged breaths. I heard his mama call him again, and then their voices faded in the distance.

I ran through the trees and then into sunshine, gulping air that whined through the tightness in my chest. Flowers and weeds smacked my legs; my hair slapped up and down against my back. Blurry-eyed, I focused on the path before me. I did not slow until a wave of nausea roiled through my stomach, sending goose pimples popping down both arms. I was going to be sick. A cold sweat flushed over me and I stopped abruptly, tossing my head to one side as my throat bulged. The acid in my mouth reminded me of Kevy, wax-lipped and throwing up on the riverbank. In the next instant I pictured Danny later walking this same trail, seeing the mess and knowing it had come from me. I would not give him the satisfaction. Swerving, I staggered off the path and through daisies while my intestines crimped, then bloated. Sourness tumbled up my gullet.

Sinking down, palms crushing into the ground, eyes watering, I retched until my stomach held no more.

~ 1997 ~

chapter 15

S
he looks so old.

The thought paralyzed me as I faced Mama on the front porch. Rays from an overhead light spilled over our shoulders, casting us in a pallid sheen. I had not needed to knock; she apparently had heard the crunch of my tires on the gravel driveway, the trunk lid opening and closing. In each of my hands was a large suitcase.

“Celia.”

She breathed my name, holding the screen door open as we studied each other's face. Her hair, swept back in a bun, was dull and gray-streaked, silver at the temples. Her once translucent skin now matched that dullness, with wrinkles cut deeply from her nose to the turned-down corners of her mouth, around the eyes, across her forehead. She looked heavier, a pink robe tied at her waist.

She did not move. I supposed she was waiting for me to make the first gesture, since I'd been the one to leave so long ago. Or maybe it was because she didn't want me there; after all, it was Daddy who called for me. On my way from the cemetery, the imagined sight of him had sliced like a knife through my self-centeredness, reminding me that I had come for his sake and that my emotional pain would have to be pushed aside. For pain required energy, and my energy was to be spent on him. Waiting now for a hint of welcome from Mama, I told myself I must get along with her; fighting too would only sap my strength.

“Hello, Mama.” I set down the suitcases and put my arms around her awkwardly. Feeling her stiffen beneath them, I pulled away.

I found busyness in my bags then, bringing them inside while she held the door. Toting them into the hallway, I scanned the living room. They had replaced Granddad's old color TV. The couch also was new. Mama's chair remained where it had always been, but with new solid-blue upholstery. I looked back toward the formal dining area, to the oak table dusted and empty, and a pang shot through me. How often when I was a teenager had Granddad and Jake Lewellyn played checkers there. The phone remained on its little stand by the wall that separated the dining area and kitchen. The carpet was the same as I remembered. The same off-white paint on the walls was dingy.

A sudden shiver ran through me and was gone. It was the air, I thought. The very air in this house was dull like my mama's hair, barren like the dining table. Laden with sadness.

“Your daddy's already asleep.” Her voice was accusing. “He waited for you as long as he could, but you were too late. He's been so excited about you comin'. He seemed so much better today, like the happiness alone was healing him. He was smiling for the first time since his stroke. He smiles crooked, you know, 'cause his left side's not working, but at least he was smiling, hearin' your name.”

She stopped abruptly, a hand on her neck, staring vacantly at my suitcases, as if surprised at her own flow of words. I was surprised as well, wondering at the spillage from this woman who had always kept her feelings inside until they burst forth in a torrent of anger. A stunning realization hit me.

She had been as anxious about this moment as I.

“I . . . I'm sorry it took me so long. It was a long trip.”