by Tyler Odeneal
It was one of those days where we couldn’t stop laughing. No matter what we did, we couldn’t stop it. Everyone had told us to hush, to be quiet, to shut up. We refused. We laughed when Momma almost tripped down the stairs. When Grandma dropped the last egg she’d planned to make cornbread with. When Aunty mistakenly drank from a soda can Grandma had spat in. Even after Momma yelled at us, her eyes filled with rage. After Grandma deemed us little bastards. After Aunty slammed the bathroom door in our faces, but it popped back open. And she slammed it again, flattening irons in hand. We laughed although we were sure the thick black cord would meet our legs. We laughed and laughed all day. It was a superpower – no one could take it from us.
We wanted to go to the park but Momma warned it was too cold. Her voice was like thunder, so we rambled into the kitchen. There we discovered Grandma, the tips of her fingers white with flour. She was preparing chicken, and Jay and I gave each other the same look. He grimaced at me, his tongue sticking out of his mouth. He’d been drinking soda, refilling his cup, so now he had a bright red mustache. I laughed. Jay joined in. It was teeth showing, eyes closing laughter. It smacked the refrigerator, boomeranged throughout the kitchen. Grandma turned toward us slightly, placing a leg in the skillet. It sizzled – a condensed waterfall.
“What’s so funny?” she quipped, shuffling the chicken around in a bag. She placed it on the countertop, stopping to rest. “I need y’all to go to the store for me. I need milk. Butter. Two packs of ground beef.” She was caught up in thought for a moment. Her eyes rolled around, rested on the ceiling. “That’s it.”
“A whole cow,” Jay remarked, and we both cracked up. I thought of a story I’d read about a boy who trades his cow for magical beans. I imagined myself with those beans. I could see myself in the front yard planting them. I’d sit on the porch, the white paint on its planks peeling, awaiting a magic tree rather than the scrawny one that stood there.
After a reminder, I went and got my coat. Jay threw on a long-sleeved T-shirt with a faded mustard stain. I left the bedroom, Jay close behind, and went back to Grandma. She handed me the card, instructed me that it was only for food, then turned away. I paused to make eyes with her, inching closer to the countertop, but I’d become invisible. It was another superpower I possessed. She continued cooking.
“I’m getting a conditioner.” Jay didn’t look at me, his eyes fixed ahead. He half smiled, his cheeks rosy, dry. He placed a hand over the pocket where his money was.
“Why you want one of those?” I asked, turning my face. The wind was like frozen slaps from a giant’s hand.
“So my hair can grow more,” he answered, his face toward the wind.
“You not cold?” We trudged through an apartment’s parking lot, passed a car that’d been sitting with a flat tire. All the air had gone out of it now.
“No.”’
“You should’ve wore—”
“Nope.”
When we reached the beauty supply store, there was an old man outside. His foggy eyes pierced mine. I promised to give him change. We entered the store, embraced by the smell of fresh plastic and burning incense. Jay had only five dollars to spend. He pulled it out, rubbed it with his ivory thumbs. The man at the counter watched, his dark, squinted eyes like crescent
moons. He adjusted a rack of earrings near the counter, folded his arms. Wherever we went, he went. He was like the cat that would appear at our porch. Momma had spotted it and shrieked with excitement, feeding it bowls of warm milk. Then one day it scurried into our basement. Momma grabbed the broom, wielded it like a sword, and when the cat wouldn’t leave, she beat it. She cursed it for being a sneaky, conniving thing. We watched as it whimpered and leapt away. It paused at our door, turned and departed.
“He’s watching us,” I whispered to Jay. He continued his search, trotting rapidly down the aisles.
“No, he’s watching you,” Jay retorted and moved away from me. I stood in place, eyeing a fancy shampoo. The man’s eyes stayed with me. Jay and I were day and night. His daddy was the color of snow, he’d say. Mine was the color of dirt, he’d remind me.
When we left the store, the old man was still there, his hands outstretched. I bothered Jay for a quarter and gave it to the man. We walked on. I turned back but the man had disappeared. When we approached the grocery store, night had begun to fall. Jay gripped the black plastic bag in his hand, swinging it into the frigid air.
“They’ll think we’re stealing.” I stopped. “Just stay here.”
“Fuck them,” he replied without stopping.
“Just give me the bag. I’ll stay.” We were outside of the grocery store, its bright lights illuminating us.
“No,” he said, grabbing my wrist.
We journeyed into the store, bag in tow. We tugged along the meat and milk and eggs and chips Jay had added to the list. The cashier looked down at us, and at the bag. She smiled,
but her eyes wandered. We swiped the card. My heart beat. And we began to exit through the sliding doors.
A woman and a man appeared like ghosts. They instructed us to stop. We slowed and gazed at each other; our feet refused to stop. They wore regular clothes, like us. The large man wore a black t-shirt and a puffy jacket. The woman, a headscarf and a faded blue hoodie.
Come with us. Jay’s eyes locked on me like that of a pit-bull. We were preparing to run. Come with us.
We know you stole that. The man cursed and grabbed my arm. I could feel a lump rise in my throat.
“We got this from that store!” screamed Jay, pointing. “You can ask them!” They requested a receipt. We didn’t have one. Jay had released it into the winds, watching in awe as it floated away. The man tightened his grip. Jay continued to yell. The sun set again.
The woman and the man decided to take us in. They cautioned us that the police were on their way, that people hated thieves. Especially little black ones. They looked upon us with disgust, talked about us as if we were invisible. We weren’t. People passed us, women with large eyes and rowdy children. They glared at us, groaned, shook their heads. The man told us that if we’d been in a better neighborhood we’d have been shot. And then they stopped.
The woman grabbed a sales paper, peering over at the man. I thought those were on sale? They asked each other. And then they were gone. We ran as fast as we could. We pulsed through a small park that faced our house. The wind blew fervently. Leafless trees and dried bushes swayed hypnotically – they welcomed us. When we reached the front porch, Jay was laughing. His eyes were closed, his head tilted. It echoed between buildings, his laughter. He grabbed me, rubbed my shoulder. But laughter had escaped me.
