Chapter Thirty-One

Travis thought in quick sketches on paper. He had drawn so many people over the years, even ones he didn’t know. He had a “disturbing” talent as his grandmother put it, practically a put down from anyone else’s lips but not from hers. He knew Marge was the type of woman who found change and newness and unimaginable beauty to be quite formidable. So, when she had caught him doing it when he was seven, sitting down on the hardwood living room floor to sketch the face of his mother, that was the only word she could think of to conjure up. And Travis had taken it as the highest of compliments.

His grandfather Walt, on the other hand, said the things that needed to be said. He told Travis that his hands were proof of God’s existence, that beautiful things grew on paper, and on the ground, and in people’s hearts only because of Him. And that both awed and scared Travis, as if he had the power to darken his own hands and keep God from getting anywhere near him.

His other grandfather, Franklin, carried a similar ideology with him as cherished as his worn-out Bible. But he had a hard time looking at the pictures. He’d try to make his face work out a sense of admiration, but he always ended up looking pained. Travis knew now that it was because he reminded Franklin of his son, a man Travis barely knew but wore around his shoulders like a stuffy coat. For all its warmth and comfort, it was suffocating. He just wanted to be himself.

If he had to pin why he spent so much time with Douglas, it was because Douglas was the kind of person who was thoroughly himself to a fault. Douglas lived for Douglas, each moment a new possibility where he could either win or lose. Travis had never seen life like that before. He had spent so much time with his grandfathers growing up that he either looked at life like an opportunity to be saved and grateful or saved and sad to where the sound of your own breathing had you searching the sky.

And it had worked for a time. He went to church Sundays and Wednesday nights at St. Andrew’s and everybody loved him. He never felt like an outcast because of his skin. He told Franklin that once, and Franklin had nodded although he hadn’t looked convinced. On the Sundays Travis spent with him, they’d go to Franklin’s church, a black church on State Street, and Travis learned that Jesus loved him even if the white man didn’t. It hardly made sense, and Travis, even at ten years old, wanted to raise his hand. He wanted to tell everyone about Walt so that everyone would be relieved. At least there was one righteous man still breathing, like Noah.

But Travis never said anything. He could tell there was tension, particularly between his grandmother and Franklin. Not that Marge didn’t love Franklin—the years and the history they shared wouldn’t see to it any other way. But there was an obvious divide between them. Marge’s daughter was still alive, and Franklin’s son wasn’t.

Travis had lived in that divide unknowingly over the years. He could feel Marge’s shifting gaze, could sense the way Franklin held his breath. They lived very different lives but believed in the same God. They wore different colored skin, and sometimes, Travis worried it made them understand the world in irreconcilably different ways.

But there he was, always in the middle.

“What ‘sat?” Roman asked, getting so close to Travis, he could smell the boy’s unbrushed teeth. Roman was always looking over Travis’s shoulder or trying to get him to talk. He was older than Travis, closer to Douglas’s age, but he was behind the eight ball, mentally. Travis always tried to be kind, his heart missing his uncle, Garrett, and the unchained way he could watch life through Garrett’s eyes. But Roman was a different type. He was in juvie because of his need to start fires and hurt animals. Travis couldn’t stomach it, and every time Roman opened his mouth, all Travis could think about was the old man in the back of Douglas’s car, touching his hand. 

“It’s...” Travis wanted to say “nothing” and to shove the paper under his bed, but he let Roman sit next to him, watching him shade the light shadows of his mother’s face. “. . . my mom.”

“Mine’s dead. Dad killed her,” Roman said like it was an old story Travis should already know. 

“My Dad’s dead. And my mom killed him.” It was uncomfortable having this much in common with a kid who’d light a bunny on fire given the opportunity. But Travis nodded anyway. He remembered what his grandfather Walt was always saying. That thing about extending grace to others like God did with each of them who believed. Travis did believe, but there was always something inside of him that tried to edge that belief right out of his body. It was like there were two voices in his brain—the one meek and barely audible that always wanted to do what was right and the other, a dark, deep voice that overtook the conversation. It always felt like that voice grew hands, pushing against his spine until he always seemed to be in step with Douglas.

“You ever kill anyone?” Roman said, his way of making conversation. Travis blinked away the old man’s face.

“No. Technically, no.” He didn’t return the question. He didn’t have the guts.

“Sometimes, I wonder what it had been like for my mama. For her breath to be coming in and out and then it get all caught up in her throat because of his choking. I done that. Not with people, but I done that, and you can feel it, you know. You can feel it come out, that energy, that sense of something inside them. And when their bodies go limp, it feels like their power is inside of you.” Roman whispered it, but Travis almost expected a look of pride on the boy’s face. But there was no pride. Only fear.

“It’s because it’s not yours to take,” Travis said, his pencil defining one of his mother’s curls. “The devil knows it, knows what will happen, so he makes you think you need it, that you actually want it. But what all you really want is a hug.”

“Devil,” Roman said, chuckling to where Travis could feel his body stirring on the bed next to him. “Devil nothing but my daddy. And he’s dead now too.” Roman quieted and looked ahead. “But I know what you mean. About the hug part. But no use wishing for something that won’t ever come.”