Colour Blind

Lyle Webber was the son of a man that my Pa used to tell me had saved his life. I never learned his name, not even from Lyle, but Pa must’ve owed him a favour or something because one day he turned up on our doorstep.

I was ten years old. I’d been playing out in the garden, running about and climbing trees when I noticed them walking up the driveway. After brushing back my hair, I’d raced over to the doorstep and greeted them myself.

“Why’a got no shoes?”

The man had stared at me with a slight smile, the boy standing in front of him staring at his feet.

“Ain’t no reason ta be ashamed of that,” I’d amended immediately, noticing the stricken look on the boy’s face. “Pa makes me wear mine. Says I’ll get splinters if I don’t.”

The boy had simply glanced up at his father, who placed a gentle hand on his shoulder and smiled slightly. “Your Pa about, son?” he had asked gently, his voice awful rough for someone of his age.

It was about then that Pa had come outside and shooed me up to my room, and when I grew bored of throwing the ball about I’d cracked my door open and peeked down at the living room. I couldn’t quite hear them, but eventually I’d heard the door slam shut and my father had called me down.

“Armand,” he’d shouted, “you ought to come down here and meet someone.”

It hadn’t taken me long to race down the stairs and into the living room, and immediately I saw the boy standing by the window.

“What’cha looking at?” I’d demanded, walking over to the window and ignoring Pa’s warning. When I was beside him I peered out, and I could see the outline of his father walking away in the distance. “Where’s he going?”

No one answered; just continued to watch him walk away. I didn’t know he’d never walk back. I don’t think Lyle knew, either.



We grew up together. The only difference was that Lyle would spend a lot of his time working out in the garden, and he called my Pa Mr Doyle instead. Some days he’d spend all day outside, even when I asked him if he wanted to play. When I asked Pa why that was he’d always say the same thing. “That’s the way the world works, kid. You ain’t always gonna like it.”

Some days Pa would have visitors. Ladies — dressed up all nice in their long skirts and blouses, and they’d treat me real sweetly and offer for me to sit down with them. I’d always be huffed, feeling more like a man than the young boy that I was, but when I asked whether Lyle could join us Pa would send me a look that told me to shut it.

They’d look so disgusted, too. Glance at him up and down, eyes lingering on his bare, muddy feet.

“That’s just Lyle,” I’d explain. “He don’t like wearing shoes.”

Lyle would look at the ground and head back outside, and the women would look over at me with an odd look on their face. “Aren’t you a sweet one?” they’d say, giving me a smile that made my skin crawl. “Ain’t no reason to treat him like that, though.”

Later on they’d head up to my Pa’s room and I’d walk outside to join Lyle, not liking the noises they’d make when they stayed. One time I sat down on the grass and Lyle joined me, and we’d sat there together picking the grass out of the ground and staring at the sky.

“Why don’t they like you?” I’d asked eventually.

Lyle had sighed, glancing down at his feet and rubbing at them with his fingers. “Cause o’ my colour, Armand,” he’d said. “I ain’t like you and your Pa.”

“Why not?”

Lyle had snickered, glancing at me quickly before turning away. “You’re awful dumb for a twelve year old, Armand. World ain’t always the way you want it to be.”

Eventually the sky had grown dark and I’d placed my head against his shoulder, leaning against him and looking up at the stars. “Ain’t nothing different about you, Lyle Webber,” I’d said eventually, before letting out a hearty yawn. “They’re all jus’ being dumb.”

He had stayed silent, plucking the grass from the ground and throwing it away with the wind. “Think Pa’s done with that lady?” I’d asked after a while, pulling away from his shoulder to look at him.

He’d snickered again. “Your Pa sure likes them ladies.”

I hadn’t understood what he meant by that but I’d thrown the grass at him anyway, before leaping up off the ground and running away. He’d chased after me, laughing loudly as he’d grabbed me ‘round the waist and threw me to the ground.

Eventually Pa had come outside and called our names, and we’d brushed the dirt and grass off our clothes before heading over.

“Always getting into trouble,” he’d muttered as we passed him. “You kids’ll be the death of me.”