Gray baby: a novel Read online

  Gray Baby

  Scott Loring Sanders

  For my father, who taught me to take on the world. And for my mother, who taught me to give back to it.

  Accomplishments have no color.

  - Leontyne Price

  Chess is the greatest game ever invented, because it only

  looks like a game.

  - Scott Kerns

  I never believed in Santa Claus because I knew no white man

  would be coming into my neighborhood after dark.

  - Dick Gregory

  "Poor Babes in the Woods"

  My dears don't you know, not so very long ago

  Two little children whose names I don't know

  Were stolen away on a bright summer day

  And left in the woods, so I've heard people say

  And when it was night, so sad was their plight

  The sun went down and the moon gave no light

  They sobbed and they sighed and they bitterly cried

  Till the poor little things, they laid down and died

  And when they were dead, the robins, so red

  Brought strawberry leaves and over them spread

  And all the night long, they sang them this song

  Poor babes in the woods, Poor babes in the woods

  -Author Unknown

  Chapter 1

  "But how are we going to hear it ?" asked Clifton from the back seat. "That's what I don't get."

  Mr. Carlson looked away from the road and over at his wife. Even though it was dark in the car, Clifton could still see their silhouettes as they smiled at each other.

  "All we do, little man, is drive up to a parking spot in the field. There'll be posts on each side of the car. On those posts will be speakers. That's how we'll hear the movie. Ain't nothing to it."

  Clifton looked out the window and thought about that. His mother, who was a bit of a worrier, had only recently decided that he was finally big enough to graduate from his booster seat (he'd just turned eight). The switch made him feel more grown up, but it also changed his perspective on things. For one, he couldn't see out the window as well. At

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  the moment he was gazing at a splinter of moon that seemed to follow the car no matter how fast or slow his father drove. It might disappear for a moment when his father turned onto a new road, but usually, as soon as he made another turn, there it was again, stuck in the sky and keeping watch like a voyeur. Clifton's mind drifted back to the drive-in movie. "How will we see it if we're parked out in a field?"

  Mr. Carlson lit a cigarette and cracked his window. From Clifton's vantage point, when his father sucked on the cigarette, the reflection of the orange cherry bounced off the windshield, oddly illuminating his face in the glass.

  "They've got a giant screen set up. Not a screen like at the theater, but more like a huge wall," he said as he took a heavy pull from the cigarette. "You know, think of a wall at school that you might play dodgeball in front of. That's all it is. Just a giant wall in the middle of a field. There's a little stand set up at the opposite end of the wall. They got hot dogs, Cokes, popcorn, candy. That kind of stuff. Up above the stand is the little movie house. They got a projector up there that plays the films. It's just like a regular movie theater, only it's outside. There ain't too many left in the country, so this is a real treat." He took his hand off the wheel and sucked on his cigarette again, then turned and blew a stream of smoke at the open window.

  3

  Clifton enjoyed watching his father smoke. His large dark hands made the cigarette look like nothing bigger than a toothpick. When Mr. Carlson took a draw, he would squint slightly. Then a tiny wraith of smoke would mysteriously escape his mouth, only to be sucked up again by his wide nostrils. Clifton especially liked it when the smoke would pour out of his father's mouth while he talked. He looked like a dragon then. A big, black, muscular dragon, more powerful than any other man in the whole state of Virginia.

  As his father put the cigarette to his lips, Clifton could just barely discern the raised and irregular welts that dotted his father's right hand and then traveled up his arm. They were smooth and seemed to shimmer in the faint light. He'd once asked his father about the scars, the way a curious young boy who doesn't know any better might ask a fat woman why she's so fat or a bald man why he doesn't have hair. But all his father had said was "Work accident. Got burned." And that had been the end of it.

  "So what happens if it rains?" Clifton now asked. He was sucking on a McDonald's straw he'd found pinched in the folds of the back seat, aping his father every time he took a draw. "What do they do then?"

  "Man, you're sure asking a lot of questions tonight," said Mr. Carlson, adjusting the rearview mirror so he could get a

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  better look at his son. Clifton saw him smiling, the cigarette bouncing gently in his lips. "Ain't he asking a lot of questions, Sabrina?"

  Mrs. Carlson looked over and smiled. Her smooth white skin, where it was pulled tight over her high, rounded cheekbones, shone as it caught some of the moon's light. Her long auburn hair was bunched in a ponytail and seemed to stretch her pretty face even tighter. "He's curious. It's good for little boys to ask questions."

  "Better to ask than not, I reckon," said Mr. Carlson. He reached toward his door, cranked the handle all the way down, and flicked his cigarette out. A meteor shower of orange swooshed by the back window, much to Clifton's delight. The air, still warm but not unbearably humid like it had been during the day, filled the new Dodge with the fresh smells of late spring. Honeysuckle slipped into the car as sweetly as if a bee had brought it special delivery. Newly mown grass and the warm smell of a pine forest mixed with the honeysuckle, filling Clifton's head with wonder.

  "So?" said Clifton.

  "So what?"

  "So what happens if it rains? What happens then?"

  "Ain't nothing happens, little man. Darth Vader don't care if it's raining or not. You saw what kind of hell he gave Luke Skywalker in the first movie. It's only gonna be better in

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  this one. That badass dude is gonna kick some tail again. He's gonna checkmate Luke's sorry butt. Ain't no rain gonna stop Darth Vader. The show must go on. Especially on your birthday."

  Clifton chuckled. He now chewed on the end of his straw even though his father had already discarded his smoke. "You're the only person I ever heard of that cheers for the bad guy, Dad. Nobody but you likes Darth Vader."

  "He's a badass, that's why. And he's black. That's another reason. Shoot, your mama likes him too." He took his eyes off the road to look at his wife. "Don't you, Bri?"

  "I like Han Solo. Now he's one good-looking man."

  "Han Solo? Hell. His best friend's a hairy ape that can't even speak English."

  Clifton started laughing and so did Mrs. Carlson. "I could say the same thing about some of your friends," she said. "I think someone's a little jealous."

  "I ain't jealous of nothing. Just remember, I'm Darth Vader and I'll kick Han Solo's butt from here all the way to Roanoke if he tries to mess with my wife."

  Mrs. Carlson reached over and patted him on the knee. "I'll make sure to warn Han the next time I see him."

  ***

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  The drive-in was on the other side of Crocket's Mill, on the outskirts, about twenty minutes from Clifton's home. It was a little off the beaten path, and there were several back roads that had to be traversed to get there. It was an oasis of popcorn, Goobers, and The Empire Strikes Back, all out in the middle of an abandoned cow field.

  Once they reached the countryside and the prominent lights of Samford--the more populous city across the river from Crocket's Mill--disappeared, Clifton saw all of the stars shining, along with the m
oon that still tailed them. As he pressed his forehead to the window and stared out at the night, he felt curious and excited about the prospects of watching a movie outdoors. He couldn't wait to get there. However, he became instantly nervous and anxious when a flash of blue lightning caught the corner of his eye. His father had downplayed rain, but he hadn't mentioned anything about lightning.

  "Oh, shit," mumbled his father, apparently having seen the lightning too. He readjusted the rearview mirror and began slowing the car. Gravel crunched and a stray rock popped up and hit the steel undercarriage with a loud thud directly beneath Clifton's feet. As Mr. Carlson rolled to a stop along the tree-lined road, a chorus of crickets and peepers began chirping so loudly from a nearby stream that it sounded as if they were sitting right there in the back seat.

  "What's the matter, Jim? Why are you stopping?"

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  "We got the law on our tail," he said, throwing the car in park and killing the engine.

  Clifton felt his heart beating in his chest. Looking out the side window, he saw the fat trunks of oak trees flashing blue as they eerily stood guard. A throng of dormant vines hanging off the branches made him think of the frazzled gray hair of witches. He got on his knees, turned around on the Naugahyde seat, which stuck to his bare, sweaty legs, and was greeted by the blinding high beams of the prowler. He put the edge of his hand across his forehead as if shielding the sun and saw the blue rooftop lights spinning and blinking. The click of Mr. Carlson's lighter caught his attention and then a moment later the sweet smell of tobacco overpowered the dank, earthy odor of the forest. Two uniformed men approached the back of the Dodge, one on each side. Clifton spun around and said, "Mama."

  "It's okay, baby," she whispered as she glanced into the side mirror. "It's going to be okay."

  In addition to the strange penumbra of blue light flashing through the woods, there were now two bright spots illuminating his parents. Each officer held a heavy-duty flashlight near his ear, blinding Mr. and Mrs. Carlson as they tried to see what was happening.

  "Well, what do we got here?" said the officer on Mr. Carlson's side.

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  Because of the prowler's headlights behind him, Clifton saw the profiles of the two cops pretty well. The man who had just spoken was tall and broad shouldered. The hair that was visible from underneath his cap was dark but reflected spots of silver where he was just beginning to gray. Severe pock-marks covered his cheeks and chin as if someone wearing metal spiked cleats had stepped all over his face. The other man was much younger and built like a wrestler. An inch of Hitler mustache crept like a fuzzy caterpillar from underneath his nose.

  "We're just heading to the movies, officer ..." said Mr. Carlson as he read the name tag pinned to the man's uniform. "Officer Brader." He gripped the top of the steering wheel with both hands, sat upright, and turned to stare straight ahead through the windshield. The cigarette smoldered between his fingers. "Going to the Star Night, sir."

  Clifton immediately noticed the change in his father. The change in his tone. The formality of his speech. He'd never heard him speak like that in his life. His dad almost sounded scared, which made Clifton become nearly frantic with apprehension. He'd never seen his father scared or nervous before. He hadn't even known it was possible.

  "Why don't you look at me when I'm talking to you, boy?" said the pock-faced man.

  "Sorry, sir," said Mr. Carlson, turning to make eye contact.

  9

  He drummed the grip of the wheel with his thumbs, causing the muscles of his forearms to ripple like pond water. His jaw tensed as he gritted his teeth.

  "You know, we've seen you before. Driving your new car around Crocket's Mill with this white woman. You kinda stand out. We've been keeping an eye on you--did you know that?"

  "Uh, no sir, I didn't," said Mr. Carlson. "But I haven't done anything wrong, have I? So I don't see what the problem is, officer."

  "I'll tell you what the problem is. When I see someone like you driving a white woman around, I get awfully suspicious. You passed us a little ways back. Don't reckon you even saw us now did you?"

  "No, sir," said Mr. Carlson. "I guess I didn't." He chuckled nervously.

  "Well, we saw you. Recognized your car right off. Thought we'd see what you were up to. See why you were way out here in the country with this pretty lady. This pretty white lady." The officer turned his beam to Mrs. Carlson's face for a moment, then dropped it back to Mr. Carlson.

  Clifton shrunk his turtle head deeper into the shell of the back seat but not so far that he couldn't see. He watched as his father took a draw off his cigarette. Then, instead of using the plastic ashtray by the radio, he reached over and flicked the ash out the window, directly in front of the scar-faced man

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  who now rested his hands atop the door and windowsill. "That pretty white lady is my wife, if you gotta know. And I already told you, I was taking her and my son to the Star Night. It's his birthday. I mean, what the hell is this anyway? I thought it was 1980, not 1880."

  Clifton became a little more at ease when he heard his father speaking normally again. He didn't like hearing, nor was he used to hearing, his father kiss up to anyone. But that feeling was short-lived.

  Before Clifton knew what was happening, the officer opened the door, grabbed Mr. Carlson by the shirt, and tried to pull him out. "We got us an uppity one here, Randy," said the officer. "Get over here and help me."

  In a split second, the other officer, who so far hadn't said a word, ran around the front of the Dodge and began to assist Scarface. But Mr. Carlson was a big, strong man. He'd played football in high school and now worked for an industrial pipe shop, making storm drains and sewer pipes. He didn't take kindly to being forced from his vehicle.

  "Get your goddamn hands off me," he yelled. "I didn't do nothing." He squeezed Scarface's wrist, but the other officer pulled out his billy club and whacked him on the elbow. Hard. Mr. Carlson let go and yelped out in pain. The officers each grabbed an arm and ripped him from the car. In the struggle, the heavy door slammed shut behind him.

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  Mrs. Carlson began screaming frantically from her position in the front seat. "Get off of him. He didn't do anything to anyone. Please, I've got a child in here."

  Clifton started crying and sank further into the back seat, crouching on the floor mat, where bits of dirt and tiny pebbles dug into his knees. He squeezed his eyes shut and put his hands over his ears. But despite his attempt to stopper the noise, the brutal thuds of two truncheons against his father's arms, legs, and back seeped through. Mr. Carlson let out agonizing yelps and tried to fight back, but the force of the clubs was too much.

  Clifton heard a car slow down and then quickly speed up and disappear as the melee continued in the middle of the country road. And then there was a nauseating crack, like the snap of an ice-laden tree branch, as one of the solid hickory clubs connected with skull. The next thing he knew, his mother was in the driver's seat and had started the engine. He popped up and cautiously stuck his head above the seat as if peeking over a brick wall. His mother's hands shook so badly that she couldn't seem to put the car in drive. He looked back just in time to glimpse the officers struggling to stuff a limp body into the back seat of the prowler. The bright lights nearly blinded him, but he was able to see a man at each end of his father, one at his feet, one at his shoulders. Mr. Carlson's body bowed like a slack power line, and the butt of his jeans nearly

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  scraped against the gravel. The officers were having a difficult time holding him up, as if he were a wet, rolled-up carpet.

  A moment later, Mrs. Carlson had the car in gear and was about to pull away when Scarface hurriedly approached the door. "Looks like your husband had a little accident," he said, panting heavily. His elbows were ripped open, and trickles of drying blood were painted down the right side of his face. The sleeves of his brown starched shirt looked like the tattered ends of a weathered flag. "You best get your whore-ass
the hell out of here and get that little half-breed home. These swamp monsters out here eat gray babies for supper."

  The officer had looked directly at Clifton as he said those last words. Clifton shrunk back into his seat once more and tried to concentrate on the songs of the peepers through the warm night air. But they had gone completely silent. As if they were scared too. A moment later his mother, now hysterical, spun the tires in the dusty hardpack and sped off toward home.

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  ***

  Chapter 2

  Clifton drummed two pencils against the edge of his desk as he stared at the handful of other kids who were imprisoned with him. One boy sat in the corner, dressed from head to toe in black. Black combat boots, black pocket pants, and a black T-shirt with The Dead Kennedys written across the front. He had a small pair of tweezers and was busy plucking out all of his eyelashes. Not his eyebrows, his eyelashes. He'd already finished with his right eye and was diligently working on the bottom row of his left. A tiny pile of black hairs sat on the edge of his desk, as if he were collecting them for some sort of experiment. There was another guy who looked normal enough, but Clifton soon found out that he'd mooned a substitute teacher on a dare. "I got ISS," he whispered to Clifton when the stern, lifeless monitor, who resembled a professional female wrestler, left for a moment to get a cup of coffee.

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  "But I got a dollar from every person in the class, so I ended up with like twenty-two bucks. A couple of chicks haven't paid up yet, but it was totally worth it."

  And then there was Dweedle, who was a freshman and a year behind Clifton, but Clifton had known him forever. In fact, everyone--from the best-looking girl in the senior class all the way down to the biggest burnout at Crocket's Mill High--knew Dweedle. For one thing, his name was Dweedle. For two, he dressed and acted exactly like you'd expect someone named Dweedle to dress and act. He generally wore jeans or corduroys that were too tight and too short, which exposed yellow-stained socks when he wore sneakers, though sometimes he wore what can only be described as elf boots. They were bright green, went up to his calves, and were made of some sort of soft velour fabric. He was tall, skinny, and had a severe case of acne. Acne so bad that Clifton had a difficult time looking at him for more than a second or two. At the moment, he wasn't wearing his boots, but he did have a black cape tied around his neck that draped over the back of his chair. He was busy reading a Dungeons and Dragons Monster Guide. Probably reading, Clifton mused, about how to kill Hobgoblins or Harpies or some other weird creature that Clifton couldn't even begin to imagine.