The End of the Rainbow (Hudson 4)

after you had told me about it. I guess it's not great, but you can get the idea at least."

"Great? It's more than great. Harley, this is wonderful. You have such a talent."

"I can do a little," he reluctantly admitted.

"Stop it. Harley Arnold. Stop making yourself sound like nobody. This is the best picture..."

My throat closed and opened with the ache in my heart.

"Oh Harley," I cried, the tears streaking down my cheeks freely. "It's the best gift of all!"

I threw my arms around him and hugged him and then kissed his cheek, but held onto him. He had his arms at my waist and for a moment, as if we had just opened a door, we stared into each other's eyes, neither retreating from what seemed to be the inevitable kiss, the soft meeting of our lips, the surrender of ourselves in a caress so gentle and yet so complete. I felt my heart soar. For a long moment after we parted. I kept my eyes closed as if that would keep his lips on mine and lock the memory forever in my heart.

"I gotta go," he said quickly and jumped to his feet. "Harley."

"I'd better get back and face the music." he said.

As if he had to flee from his true feelings, he rushed away, practically running.

Then he stopped, turned, and waved. "Happy birthday." he cried.

"Thank you."

He walked on. Moments later, he passed through a shadow and appeared on his front porch. I saw him hesitate, open the door, and disappear inside.

Finally.

I took a breath,

4

The Oak Tree

.

Every morning since he had bought himself his

motorcycle. Harley would be right behind Daddy and me as Daddy drove off to take me to the Dogwood School for Girls. Sometimes. Harley would be a little late in riling started, but he always managed to catch up to us before we made the turn at Spring Creek Road. We would go left and he would go right to the public school, Often. I would turn and wave, and he would lift his right hand, his face forward as if he had eyes at the side of his head or somehow could sense when I would look back to say so long for the day. I'd watch him disappear around the turn.

Almost the moment Harley bought the motorcycle with his savings and brought it home. Daddy made me promise in front of Mommy, practically keeping my hand on a stack of Bibles. that I would not ride behind Harley on his motorcycle. I suppose it wasn't very difficult to understand why they lived in such fear of any accidents. I remember how careful Daddy was teaching me how to ride a bicycle and how restrictive he and Mommy were about where I could ride it. Even though most of my friends were permitted to ride on the highway (some even riding from their homes to Dogwood). I had to remain an the property or ride in the park with Daddy.

Just as Mommy had ridden horses in equestrian class at Dogwood, so did I, I was told that I was a very good rider. Some of my girlfriends had their own horses and often I was invited to go on rides. I knew how nervous that made both my parents, considering what had happened to Mommy, somehow. Mommy swallowed the lump of terror in her throat, closed her eyes and said okay. Even so. I knew she was sitting on pins and needles until I came home safe and sound.

Weighing on her mind beside the fact that she had been so terribly injured in a horseback riding accident was her continual fear that the shadow of bad luck still hovered in the corner of our family's destiny, waiting for another opportunity to harm us. I could never forget the time when I was only five and I tripped while running down the stairs. I rolled and rolled, knocking my head against the steps. Mommy was so scared for a moment she couldn't find her voice. I sat up dazed, more frightened than injured, but she had me taken to the doctor nevertheless. It had always been like that for me: more panic than necessary whenever I cut or bruised myself, had a cold or the flu. Considering all that, it was not unexpected for my parents to be filled with terror the moment Harley showed up with his spiffy, new cycle.

Harley was so proud of it. He had taken most of the money he had earned working with Uncle Roy on construction jobs and working for Daddy cutting grass or doing odd jobs around the property; then shopped and shopped until he found the motorcycle he wanted and could afford. Uncle Roy didn't give him permission to buy it. but Harley somehow managed to get Aunt Glenda to agree and cosign an insurance policy. Uncle Roy swore he wouldn't pay a penny to maintain the motorcycle or pay for gas. From time to time during the year. Harley worked weekends at a roadside diner busing tables just to make enough to keep up his motorcycle and give himself some spending money. I guess he always had a sense of independence, but it really took shape when he reached the age of fourteen. He had that air of maturity about him, that self-confidence boys don't achieve until they are either nearly finished with college or out in the working world.

His independence made me nervous because I began to sense Harley's increasing detachment from his family. Too often he acted and lived like a tenant in his own home, a tenant who knew that the day was soon coming when he would pack up and leave for good. Uncle Roy still considered him to be a burden and Aunt Glenda wasn't taking enough interest in him. The only time Aunt Glenda went shopping to buy him any clothes or any of the things he needed was when Mommy practically forced her to come along with her.

Aunt Glenda hated being in public ever since the death of Latisha. It was as if she thought everyone was looking at her and somehow blaming her for her daughter's horrible illness. Mommy was afraid that deep inside her heart. Aunt Glenda really did feel responsible for Latishas death. There were enough religious and bigoted fanatics out there to tell her that she had defied some moral rule by marrying an African American and having a child with him. I never thought God would be any about something like that, certainly not if the two people really loved and cherished each other. Also. I thought it was just terrible that they believed God would take out his wrath on an innocent little girl.

"They don't think of it that way, honey," Mommy told me. "It restores their hate and their ugly thinking-- that's all they care about really. I'm just worried about Glenda,' she said, and she tried in so many ways to draw her back into social activities.

Aunt Glenda's reluctance was too strong, however. Time did not heal her it thickened and widened her scar, so that she became more and more withdrawn, even from concerns and activities that involved her son. Eventually, it was really up to Harley to get things for himself. On occasion, most often when I or Mommy and I were willing to go along with him. Uncle Roy took Harley to buy things Harley needed, but that was so rare. I could count the times on my hands.

And so Harley hardened and became further and further insulated. Sometimes. when I looked out my bedroom window and saw him strutting across the grounds, he did look like a trespasser. Uncle Roy forbade him to smoke: so he did it secretly, standing behind the garage or off in a wooded area-- just to be defiant, I thought.

When Harley was just a little boy, Uncle Roy made him keep his room and his things neat and organized as if he was sleeping in a military barracks. Harley often told me about Uncle Roy's sudden, unexpected inspections. To this day he wouldn't permit Harley to have a lock on his door. Up until last year, he was still running his inspections occasionally. If he found a pack of cigarettes or the bed sloppily made or clothes strewn about-- as I had found them the morning of my birthday-- he would rant and rave and then issue some punishment. Now, I thought Harley was being deliberately messy, just to show Uncle Roy that all his effort, all his growls and penalties were wasted efforts. The purchase of his motorcycle was the crowning moment in all this.