Snail - short story - Black South Fiction, Art, Culture

African American Review, Summer, 1993 by Alden Reimonenq

Perched atop the pine stump just off the curve of Duels Road, Renaldo swallowed a bellyful of breath to roar out over the din of the screaming school children, "THE BUS! THE BUS! YOU DON'T WAIT FOR IT - IT WON'T WAIT FOR YOU! With this, Aunt Hagar's children created their line, marked with bulky schoolbags. And what a line it was, peppered with all the colors of dusty Southern roads: Georgia red, tawny Alabama clay, bleached Mississippi Gulf sands, and Louisiana black humus. The line danced and sang until it unraveled itself on the grounds of Epiphany Grammar School.

This morning ritual began shortly after Epiphany purchased the used school bus from Orleans Parish School Board. The upperclassmen, largely responsible for the line's order, appointed themselves bosses with certain advantages for their labor. One important advantage was that only eighth-grade males were allowed to hold places for others. In the late sixties, skirts held fast to the line's rear, while khaki slacks proved a formidable opposition in the front. Twenty years later, a checkered line of khaki slacks and skirts connected in a bond broken only by the presence of the reconditioned but ever-decaying bus. And, unlike the sixties, when being first in line meant a seat in the front, now the most sought-after seats were in the very last row. Even a first grader knew that to prop oneself in those back seats was to be somebody - if only for the attention gained during the ten-block ride to school.

Abiku Waddell's first school day brought with it great trepidation and surprise; as he dragged his reluctance with him to take last place in line, he blinked twice, saw frowns rushing past him, and found himself standing in front of Renaldo. "Hey, you're new. That can be rough around here. You can sit next to me. Go on. Get on the bus. You're slower than a snail, Snail," Renaldo kidded, gently nudging Abiku.

"Snail? My name is Abiku, and it means..."

"Man, I won't remember that. You're Snail to me; walk up. Go ahead."

Abiku looked around eagerly as the older boys did a macho marck swaggering and rapping into the ears of unimpressed girls. He enjoyed the noisy confusion, music, and sudden popups, compliments of the bus's worn shocks and the potholed street. But, most of all, he was curious about the calmness in Renaldo's voice.

"You're African, huh? Must be in about fourth grade?"

Calmly and proudly, Abiku said, "No, fifth grade. And, yes, part-African. My mother is a Yoruba from Nigeria, she met my father here at the university. He teaches Zulu and Hausa, but he's American. I'm only going to Epiphany because my folks don't like the public elementary schools. We're not Catholic."

"Boy, you sure can talk. Ain't slow about that, huh, Snail?"

"I'm not slow; I don't want to go to school here. And my name is Abiku; it names..."

"Well, don't worry; you'll fit in. We're all Black'cept the nuns and Father Paul Look, there's the canal. Crazy stuff to laugh at always turning up - like panties and bras. And that shack? That's Couponbread's house. He don't like nobody, especially not Blacks. Always curses, chases us, and tells us to get off welfare. Ain't none of us on welfare, but he's mad at the world because he's still poor. Too close to us, says my Dad. And he'd know: My Dad went to Epiphany when there wasn't even a bus. Had to walk by Couponbread's house every day."

"What does his name mean?" Abiku asked.

"I don't know. Dad said it was a way to make fun of him for being poor like everybody else. Anyway, stay away from his house; he's got a shotgun, says my Dad. Shot a kid once and threw him in the canal. Well, here's Epiphany. Come on, Snail. We might sit in the back, but we always get off first. I'll show you your classroom. You have Sister Ephrem. She's the worst, but she's good at taming us, says my Dad. Watch out for spitballing, talking during prayers, and picking on the girls. Do any of those and you get Sire Paddle. You know about him?"

Abiku glanced sideways up to Renaldo, and said, "No. But he sounds like a whipping stick."

"Yeah. Same thing. Well, don't worry. You seem smart; that'll help. Ephrem pets smart kids. Here you go. Stand in the fifth line in front of her classroom. Fifth grade, fifth line - get it? See you at the bus line after school."

Abiku moved his hand slightly enough to approximate a wave and stood gawking until Renaldo cornered the far side of the gym. The entire line stared at Abiku as he approached Sister Ephrem's door, and one loud boy with knotty hair sneered, "Look at him. Where you come from talking like that? I heard you on the bus."

Abiku sucked his teeth and pretended the remark was not intended for him by walking to the end of the line and proceeding to rifle through his schoolbag for his pencil case. Others had hurled such questions his way before, he never answered.

Sister Ephrem appeared in the form of a huge black-and-white swishing habit, replete with dangling rosary and too-tight wimple. Before Abiku had time to think more about the knotty-haired kid, Sister ushered them into the classroom and assigned seats-girls near the windows, separated from the boys by a wide aisle which easily accommodated her bulk. All students sat in alphabetical order, surrounded on all four sides by Saints Maria Goretti, Martin de Porres, Rosa de Lima, and various displays of Christ's life. Once this order was established, Sister turned their attention to the front center of the room and the huge crucifix which hung there. "As I dedicate this school year today through prayer, we will come before our Lord daily to start our work." Saying this with her eyes closed, Sister led the students in prayer as Abiku mumbled gibberish.