Color

8. Excuse Me, Sir

"Can you walk?" Willy said. "Don't make me throw you over my shoulder 'cause you know I will."

Henry wanted to chuckle, but he set weight on his left leg and winced. "I think so."

"We need to get you help," Willy said. "You still bleeding."

Henry touched the side of his head and his fingers came away a sticky red, not the dried liver-brown soaked into his Rooks shirt. His head still hurt something fierce but at least his nausea had subsided, and he had stopped throwing up; twice in the woods. Henry had heard stories of colored players who had literally gotten the sense knocked out of them, and whether the affects started right away or in a few weeks, those men were never right again. Certainly not right enough to play baseball.

"Okay," Henry said. "But where are we going to find help around here?"

"I know a place," Willy said.

Willy put a hand around the back of Henry's waist, and together they started across the bridge. Underneath, a stream flowed west, and the water tumbled like a giant mouth gargling giant rocks.

On the other side of the bridge, Henry and Willy continued along the dirt road. The only sign of civilization was the shallow groove of wagon wheel tracks, occasionally obscured by the tracks of deer, raccoons, or some other wild animal.

About five minutes later, they paused. Willy pointed to a tiny shack standing at a sharp bend in the road ahead. "Over there."

Henry had jogged the back roads of Hester hundreds of times but never along this undeveloped part of town. Most black business folk avoided this area like the plague. Said it was too close to the white side. Felt any racial retaliation would happen here before it happened anywhere else in the colored district.

They stopped in front of a meager tin shack set on a narrow plot no more than thirty feet wide and sixty feet deep where the woods had started to creep forward again. The flat roof was covered with fragments of dirt, leaves, and a fine coating of rust. The front door looked like it was made of cheap plywood, resting on ancient metal hinges, dark green paint peeling away like the dead skin off a shedding snake. A sign in the dust-coated window read: Al's Car Repair.

"Seriously?" Henry gave Willy a wide-eyed glare, attempting to ignore the painful thrumming above his temples.

"Yeah," Willy said. "My cousin's been here. Said an old guy runs the place. I bet he'll give you a clean rag for your head and let you sit a spell. Then when things calm down, we can head on home."

Henry sighed and tilted his head to the door.

Willy let go of Henry slowly, careful to make sure he wouldn't lose his balance.

"I'm not going to fall over," Henry said, a little irate, then waving a hand dismissively. "Just check the door."

Big Willy stepped up to the front door and gave the knob a couple quick turns...locked.

Henry and Willy exchanged disappointed looks when they heard the sharp clangs of metal striking metal. A hammer, maybe, banging on something. It was coming from nearby. Three bangs, four, five. Then it stopped.

Henry took a few cautious steps back and looked to the left. He looked back at Willy. Then he looked to the left again.

Beside the tiny shack, the next lot over looked enormous. The property was hidden by a rickety wood fence, some six feet tall, that hadn't seen a brush of paint or stain in years. The wood-paneled door in the middle of the fence was open.

Henry gestured towards the opening in the fence.

Willy dipped his chin in agreement.

Inside the fence, the lot looked like a graveyard of dusty cars, missing wheels, mirrors, and other vital parts. To his left, Henry noticed four jalopies lined up side-by-side like cadavers at the city morgue. Not that he knew anything about cadavers or the morgue other than what he'd read as a kid in the pulp magazines. Still, Henry admired the cars, uncertain if he could tell a Stanley Steamer apart from a Rolls Royce. Sad but true, baseball had been his full-time love.

Henry turned his attention to the back of the lot where he spotted a quaint wood-framed house, pear-green with brown trim, maybe five or six rooms inside, he guessed. Another shack, slightly larger than the one out front and in much better condition, sat beside the house almost like an afterthought. Together the two seemed like an odd couple.

Willy pointed to another odd sight to their right—an immaculate red-brick garage, large enough for two cars. The metal-on-metal banging resumed. Another five clangs. It was coming from inside the garage.

Willy shot Henry a puzzled look and shrugged.

"Let's get this over with," Henry said, wanting the pain in his head to go away.

The boys stepped in front of the open garage bay and peered inside the dim interior lit by a trio of oil lanterns. A figure in a baggy mechanics uniform hunched over the engine of a car, his back to them, a slender arm tensing as a wrench twisted in the gears.

"Excuse me, sir!" Big Willy said.

The mechanic paused and straightened up before dropping the wrench into his back pocket.

As the mechanic turned around, Henry let out a quiet gasp.

He was a she!

Author's Note:

Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed this chapter of "Color", please consider leaving a vote or a comment. I add a new chapter, sometimes two, every Sunday. I live in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania so that's EST.

This chapter was a challenge to write, because there's a lot going on in a relatively short time frame. I think this one will need a few rewrites before Color gets published.

When it comes to writing, I tend to be a perfectionist which is never good. But I'm getting better at enjoying the process of writing. That's where ALL OF YOU and your votes and comments have been such a big help! It makes me want to keep cranking out good material, but I know I don't have to be perfect. Just punctual, lol.

Anyway, if you see anything in this chapter that can be improved, please let me know. I promise, my feelings won't be hurt.

Best Regards,

Tom