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ANONYMOUS

MINDEN, LA

JANUARY 1956

My untied shoelaces dangle midair from the bench I am sitting on. The parking lot in front of me, which was full of cars and people hours ago, is now completely empty, filled with puddles that reflect the gray sky. It is pouring harder. I shiver and pull my soaked, worn sweater as tightly as I can around myself, but it seems no good to block out the enormous gusts of wind and rain that keep coming my way, no matter how hard I try to shield myself away from it. My hair is wet and plastered to my face. In order to distract myself from my growling stomach, I try to focus on anything to take my attention away from it. My backpack is soaked to the marrow.

I count the raindrops dripping from the roof of the school building, whispering each number. It’s fascinating to me that they can come down rapidly at once, then very slowly crescendo into a light, calm rhythm. I am almost to thirty when the sound of two high heels clacking against the asphalt makes me jump up from the bench. I almost trip over my laces. A tall lady, wearing a thick coat with a flowered dress underneath it, is carrying an umbrella. Her large blue eyes are round with surprise, and she holds the striped umbrella over me.

It takes me a moment to recognize her. Miss Holt. I think she’s a replacement for the other class, whose teacher had to leave because they got sick. She laughs a lot more than the others do, and when she smiles at me, her teeth are very white. But she’s not very good at hiding the concern in her face. She looks down at me and slightly frowns, even though now that she doesn’t have shelter from the rain, she doesn’t seem to mind in the slightest. When she offers her umbrella to me; I hesitate, before holding onto the handle with both of my muddy hands.

“What on earth are you doing here all alone?” she asks. It’s not an accusatory tone—but a gentle one. “Where’s your mommy and daddy?”

I shrug, even though I’m fighting back the stinging in my eyes. Big kids don’t cry; that’s what Papa says to me all the time. Miss Holt doesn’t give me the time to reply anyway, because she’s already taking off her coat and wrapping it around me. She’s muttering to herself, shaking her head at my worn shoes submerged in a large puddle beneath me. The weight of her coat on me is a relief.

”You’ll catch a cold in this draft. Come on, sweetheart, let’s go inside. We can’t wait out here.” Miss Holt holds out a hand. “Come.”

I glance behind me at the empty parking lot.

“Don’t worry,” she says. “My classroom is right by the window, so we can see when your parents will come by, yes?” A smile flashes across her face. “You just point and tell me what color their car is. I’m sure they’re just running late.” With a sigh, she glances at her watch. “It’s past four thirty. Let’s give them more some time, shall we? The weather is practically in a bad mood today, but that doesn’t mean we have to be in one either, do we?”

I take her hand, and she leads me back into the building. It’s empty, with only the janitor there down near the end of the hallway, who is mopping the floor and whistling a loud tune. Miss Holt smiles as he waves as both to us. I don’t like how quiet and empty it is are, and when we enter her colorful classroom, I am unable to hold back my tears. They are dribbling down my face and curling around my chin, and Miss Holt immediately kneels in front of me and takes both of my wet hands into hers. The sobs are shaking my entire body, making my chest ache a great deal.

“There, there now,” she softly says. “It’s alright, sweetheart. It’s alright.”

I sniff and wipe my nose with my palm.

Miss Holt reaches into her pocket and pulls out a wad of thick napkins, before dabbing against my cheeks. “I’m not going to leave you here by yourself. I’ll stay here as long as I can until your parents arrive. Until then, I need you to be brave and wait here with me. Can we do that? Can we at least try that?”

I nod, releasing a hiccup.

“Good,” she replies. “Very good.” She sighs and glances at my wet clothes, before picking up my backpack. “You not dressed right for this weather. When your mother comes, I’m going to have to ask her to make sure you don’t leave your house tomorrow morning without a decent outfit. It’s raining cats and dogs, for heaven’s sake.”

I’m relieved that she doesn’t ask for her coat back. She’s placed her large purse her desk and is digging through it. It’s still freezing, and it smells strongly like her—ginger and honey. I sit down at one of the round tables, now neatly placed in order with pencils and crayons in each plastic container. The wrinkling of a brown paper bag catches my attention, but I try not to look at it as she opens it and places it on the table. I’m too nervous to look at her. She smiles at me and pulls out a foil wrapped square, which glows between her bright red nail polish.

”How old are you, darling?”

I hold up five fingers.

“So you are in kindergarten?”

My stomach growls.

“Well, I’m just silly. “ Miss Holt asks. “I was so busy today that I forgot to even have lunch. Spent all of last night packing it, just to not eat a thing. I’ve been forgetting a lot of things lately. First my glasses, my car keys, and then this. I’m lucky if I walk out of here and leave my shoes behind next.”

I finally make eye contact with her. It’s quite hard to imagine her with glasses. Her eyes are so big I don’t think she has trouble seeing anything, like my grandmother does. But my hands tear at the foil before I can stop myself. It’s a ham and cheese sandwich, slightly smushed with the crust at the end. I am cramming it into my mouth as she places an apple and a package of cookies on the table as well before standing up, pursing her lips.

“Who’s your teacher, darling?”

Chewing and smacking loudly, I pick up the crumbs that have fallen on the table. I take a large bite of the apple. I’m a bit afraid to answer, but she gives me a warm look. “No need to be shy. You are not in trouble. I just need to make sure you are eating properly during the day. That you get the hot lunch if your parents don’t send you in with a cold one.”

“Mrs. Crenslaw,” I whisper.

”Come again?”

”Mrs. Crenslaw,” I say a little louder. “She won’t get in any trouble, will she?”

Miss Holt shakes her head. “I think you need to worry about finishing that first. Your classroom is right down the hallway from mine. I’ll pass the word to her tomorrow.”

I want to ask what sort of word, but I don’t know how. The taste of apple is sweet against my tongue as I watch her reach into her drawer and pull out some thick pieces of construction paper, brushes, jars of acrylic paint, and some small cardboard boxes. There are a ton of pictures of nature and that cover the cinderblock walls, including the gigantic, colorful rug that covers the floor. This place is like a rainbow, and I don’t remember it being so decorated like this. In the corner is a rocking chair with a pillow on top, next to a neatly polished bookshelf. The rain is pounding hard against the window.

”I like your classroom,” I whisper.

Miss Holt sets down the items with a thump on the table and beams. “Thank you. I looked up some pictures in a catalogue for inspiration.” She raises an eyebrow. “Who says waiting has to be boring? I thought we could just do some activities in the meantime.” As she holds up both of her hands, I notice that they’re still stained with paint. “See how messy mine are?”

I look down. “I can’t paint. I’m not a good artist.” My cheeks burn. “Nobody likes my drawings. They laugh at them.”

”Now, in my classroom, we have a rule. We don’t say the word can’t. As long as you work hard, you can achieve anything you wish.” Miss Holt sits down across from me. “You can either listen to what they say, or choose to believe in yourself.” Her blue eyes sparkle. “I know that you are a wonderful artist, and I would love to see your work someday.”

I faintly smile. “You think so?”

“I know so.” She shuffles through the pile of thick construction paper. “Which color?”

With my hand, I point to a bright orange one. She selects red, and sets a jar of clear water between us, which soon becomes murky and cloudy due to our dirty paintbrushes. My hand is clenched around the plastic edge of my brush, making a perfect arc around the strange creature I’m drawing based on Tom Corbett-Space Cadet— one of the shows on TV that comes one when Papa is usually asleep on the couch and that I sneak down and listen to. I’m almost done, since my fingers are stained with purple paint— when I point to one of the cardboard boxes.

“What’s that?”

“Ah,” Miss Holt says. “I thought we could play a board game.” She frowns and glances at her watch. “But given how much time—”

”What’s a board game?”

She looks up at me and smiles. “It’s a game with pieces that you can move on a flat surface.” With both hands, she taps her palms against the table. “Like this.”

”Like a game show?” I ask, ripping open the pack of cookie and chomping into one. “Is it like What’s My Line? You guess what jobs people have. It’s a game show on TV.”

“Sort of,” Miss Holt says, reaching the box that caught my eye. “But you know how you see the game show on the screen? It’s already played out for you. With a board game, you see it differently. You are in control. And you can play with other people.” She looked like she wanted to ask me another question, but stopped herself. “It’s a live game. Without any distractions or commercial breaks. No interruptions.”

”Oh,” I say.

“What does this say?” Miss Holt asks. “Can you read this for me?”

I point a purple index finger across the bold, rounded letters. “S-O-R-R-Y.” I pause. “Sorry.”

“Very good!” she exclaims.

“But what is the game Sorry about? Why would it be sorry about anything?”

“It’s called that for a reason that we will soon find out,” Miss Holt chuckles. “Would you like to play? Don’t worry, I’ll show you how. The rules are very simple. Once you master them, you’re on a roll. We can switch up cards.”

I open the lid and pick up a four-sided dice.

* * * * * * *

There is some arguing down the hallway, and I can make out staggered footsteps. At first, Miss Holt and I are laughing so hard we don’t hear it. But it’s not until the classroom door bangs against the wall that I quickly jump up from the table knocking over the game pieces. They fall and roll down on the carpet.

Papa stands in the doorway.

His eyes are bloodshot and his dark hair sticks upward. My stomach churns, and all of the warmth in the room seems to evaporate. My breaths become shallow, and I gaze up at him. Miss Holt quietly stands up, and although her demeanor is calm, I can see that the color has drained from her face. The janitor is leaning against the wall outside in the hallway, clutching his stomach and wincing in pain. Outside, the sky is darkening. It is no longer gray, but a midnight black.

For a moment, Papa examines the classroom, his black eyes scanning the area like a hawk. When he finally notices Miss Holt, he tilts his head at her and smirks. Stubble has gathered across his cheeks around lower chin. I can see that he’s not in his work clothes, rather, jeans and a white shirt and jacket, all soaked to the bone.

“Evenin’ ma’am,” he says.

Miss Holt loudly clears her throat. “I’d like to request that you please pick up—”

Papa’s gaze settles on me. “Get your bag.”

I freeze.

”Now.”

A sweat has settled upon me. My fingers wrap around the strap of my backpack as I sling it across my shoulder. I keep my head low as Papa roughly grabs my left arm. His shoe smashes a game figure into pieces. I forgot to grab my picture, as I really wanted to hang it in my room, but he’s already yanking me, roughly pulling me forward down the hall. He’s a lot taller than me, and I’m struggling to keep up, but he only quickens his pace.

Outside, the scent of fresh rain and soil meets my nose. His fingers tighten around my arm once we approach the car. I keep glancing behind me as Miss Holt and the janitor gather around the entrance of the school building, still talking. The scent of alcohol and cigarettes grow stronger as I climb into the back seat and Papa slams the door in my face. He’s mumbling something at first, but as soon as he speeds from the parking lot, his voice grows louder. The windshield wipers are beating harder against the rain.

“Fucking hell,” he snaps.

My fingers dig into the stained seat.

“That fucking bitch.” He takes a deep swig of beer. “Now she’s gonna call the authorities, have them do a visit at our house.” His stone eyes met mine in the rear view mirror. “All because you couldn’t keep your goddamn mouth shut. Spreading fuckin’ lies. What the fuck did you tell her, huh?!”

”I ain’t tell her nothing,” I say. “I ain’t!”

“I don’t want to hear your mouth.” Papa slams his fist against the steering wheel. “Shut up. Shut the fuck up. You can forget it. You’re not going there anymore. I come back from a long day of work for this shit? Got people looking me at me like I’m the crazy one.” He presses harder on the accelerator. “And then I gotta deal with your attitude.”

“I ain’t tell her nothing,” I quietly say.

Papa swerves past another driver in front of us, causing them to loudly blare their horn. “Where the fuck is your mother? She the one who set me up for this shit. Talked me into it, and now she’s too lazy to pick you up? I told her to homeschool you. You know how much money this is costing me, sending you there for a full day? When I’m trying to keep up with bills?” He licked his lips. “I ain’t letting no woman disrespect me like that. Not when I’m the one providing a roof over your head.”

“Wait,” I whisper, “can we go back? I forgot my drawing. I was drawing with—”

”You say one more word and you won’t be able to draw anything,” Papa yells. He slams on the brakes; we are at a red light. “God damn it.” When he turns his head to face me, his eyes glow with rage. “I fucking hate you, you know? I hate you. You ruin everything. I’ve sacrificed so much for you, and here you are, running around and causing more problems, when I’ve told you to stay put. All you have to fucking do is sit at that place and wait. You ain’t put no value in no one’s life. You ain’t doing it right now, you won’t do it later.”

I remain still, staring at him, my breathing getting heavy. My eyes are stinging again.

“Don’t start with me,” Papa spits. The silver chain of his dog tag glistens on his neck. “Don’t start that foolishness. You want to know what real tears are? Real tears are waking up and realizing that your friends are dead. When their fucking heads are blown off for this fucking joke of a nation.” His voice slightly wavers. “When you’re on a beach and the water is red with their blood. When you come home and everyone treats you like shit.” He slams his fist against the passenger seat. “You don’t have the right to cry. And I don’t ever want to see you cry in front of me, or your mother, or anybody again. Crying is what’s got you here—what’s got me in this predicament. You need to shut the fuck up about a drawing, because there are more important things you ought to be concerned about. Like keeping your mouth shut.”

My hands are shaking.

“Look at me when I’m fucking talking to you.”

I slowly raise my head.

Papa glares at me. “You don’t have the right to cry.”

The light mercifully turns green, and he mashes on the accelerator again. The rest of the ride is a blur, a tangled mass of colors.

I hate you.

By the time we reach the house, I am cold, so very cold. I can see Mommy standing on the front porch, wearing a pink bathrobe and slippers. Her eyes are puffy and red. But Papa doesn’t even turn off the engine. He leaves the car on. The moment he pulls into the driveway, he gets out, strides over to where Mommy is, and begins striking and kicking her to the ground without a word. She tries to run to the front door, but he yanks her backward by her long hair and slams her against the door. One of her teeth dislodges and flies into the bushes; fresh blood runs down her mouth and chin. She yells.

I won’t cry.

I hate you.

I climb over to the passenger seat and turn on the radio to the highest volume, before curling into a ball against the material and trying to not look outside the blurry windshield. Hugging my knees, I focus on the halfway empty beer bottle Papa left behind and try to count the raindrops slowly to myself, which are starting to leak down though a crack in the window, pooling on the seat.

One, two, three, four….

I won’t cry.