They Tell Me of a Home: A Novel (4 page)
Read They Tell Me of a Home: A Novel Online
Authors: Daniel Black
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Contemporary, #Literary, #United States, #Women's Fiction, #Domestic Life, #Contemporary Fiction, #American, #Literary Fiction, #African American, #Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, #Psychological
The feeling’s mutual, I thought.
“You were Sister’s hero, T.L. Her dying hope was to leave this place and go find her brother. She told us we ran you away. Said your leaving was our fault. ‘Y’all were too mean to him,’ she would say. You know Sister said what she thought. ‘I woulda left, too, if Daddy beat me like that,’ she told me one day. I told her to hush up her mouth’cause she was talkin’ business she didn’t know nothin’’bout. But, yeah, you were her man. And you didn’t love her enough to send a card.”
Momma didn’t know about the letter, and telling her wouldn’t have made any difference.
Hearing about Sister’s love for me reignited my hysteria. “Momma, please! What the hell happened?”
“Why do you keep asking me the same question over and over again?” Momma began to get a little louder. “I told you everything.”
“No, you didn’t. I don’t know how she died!”
“Well, hell, I don’t, either!” Momma screamed, and walked out of the back door with the bag of fish guts.
I sat at the kitchen table with my head in my hands in utter disbelief. How could this be? Sister was dead and Momma had no explanation. My emotions changed from sadness to confusion. None of this made sense to me. Momma was acting like her daughter’s death was regular, ordinary, simple. My level of trepidation had not moved Momma’s peace one bit. I began to feel almost apologetic. This was insane, so I returned to the grave.
“Sister, Momma’s not telling me the truth. I know you wouldn’t leave me without seeing me first. You knew I would come back for you, didn’t you?” I was crying as I gently rubbed the petals of the artificial roses, which framed the tombstone. “How did this happen? Did Momma or Daddy hurt you?” I laid my head on the ground next to the headstone. I thought that maybe if Sister felt my tears she would respond. “Sister, tell me who did this to you. I don’t believe you died suddenly one day. You weren’t sickly as a child. Please tell me, Sister, and I promise—” I didn’t know what I promised. I was too disheveled, distraught, and disgusted to recognize any immediate recourse. A song came to mind I thought might soothe my lamenting heart, and I sang it loudly for Sister without shame:
“I come to the garden alone,
While the dew is still on the roses.
And the voice I hear falling on my ear
The Son of God discloses.
And he walks with me and he talks with me,
And he tells me I am his own.
And the joy we share as we tarry there
None other has ever known.
”
While the dew is still on the roses.
And the voice I hear falling on my ear
The Son of God discloses.
And he walks with me and he talks with me,
And he tells me I am his own.
And the joy we share as we tarry there
None other has ever known.
”
I was there at least an hour or two, telling Sister secrets about me she probably already knew. I told her about my experiences traveling the world and meeting all different types of people with tons of different ideas. I even mentioned the time I tried to kill myself because my past had overwhelmed me. She understood, I think. I felt better. I tried to explain it to her in detail, but I knew Sister and I never needed words to communicate.
“Git up off that ground, boy, and come git yo’self somethin’’teat,” Momma called from the kitchen window, ignoring both Sister’s grave and my pain.
I rose and reentered the house from the back porch. The reality of it all struck me when I saw Momma again.
“Momma, why is Sister buried in the backyard?” I asked, not realizing how crazy this was until I spoke the words themselves.
Momma said nothing.
“Momma? Why is Sister not buried in the graveyard at the church?” I was beginning to worry severely. Everything about her death was extraordinary and strange.
“’Cause I wanted her near me,” Momma said as though this explanation made perfect sense. “You had her in life; I have her in death.” Momma was losing her mind. She was losing her goddamn mind.
“After Shelia died, I wanted a little girl more than anything. One whose hair I could comb and who I could dress in pretty little dresses and send off to Sunday school. I wanted a little girl who all the boys wanted and who all the other little girls envied. And I got a little girl, but she didn’t want none of what I wanted for her. All she wanted was you. What could I do besides let her go? And once you left, I knew I’d never have my baby girl because her memory of you and her hope of your return was bigger than you had ever been. I couldn’t compete. But once she died, I decided I was gonna have what I wanted.”
“Momma, that’s crazy!” I said, astonished and bewildered.
“Maybe it is,” Momma wailed, “but when you ain’t neva had nothin’, you do what chu can to hold on to the little bit you got. Dat’s why you left here. You was always searchin’ for things to hold on to, somethin’ that could be yours by yo’self. Wunnit no readin’ and writin’ jobs for no black boys round here, so you left.”
I wanted desperately to correct her poor reasoning, but she was on a roll and I didn’t stop her.
“I never got a chance to have nothin’. A woman can’t do nothin’ but mind her man and have his babies. Dat’s what de ole folks believed and I believed it, too. When Scooter drowned, I thought I was gon’ die from the pain in my heart, but I didn’t. I learned how to live without givin’ my heart away. He was my baby, and I couldn’t figure
out why God took him back. Then God took Shelia, too. I didn’t have nobody but Willie James left. Momma told me it’s all part of being a woman. I decided I’d better learn how to lose and still have peace of mind. Then you came along.”
out why God took him back. Then God took Shelia, too. I didn’t have nobody but Willie James left. Momma told me it’s all part of being a woman. I decided I’d better learn how to lose and still have peace of mind. Then you came along.”
Momma started setting the table. I think she was crying, but I couldn’t tell. I didn’t know what to say.
“Sister was a pretty baby,” Momma continued, placing forks and glasses next to the plates in perfect proximity. “She never did cry. All she did was smile. I used to tell folks she knew a secret she wouldn’t tell nobody. A pretty baby girl seemed like a welcome gift to me. I started makin’ her cute little dresses and I’d plait her hair real nice, but she never liked any of it. All she wanted to do was play wit’ chu. She didn’t care nothin’’bout no lady things. No, no. She wanted to fish and swim naked in de pond and read all dem damn books. She didn’t want nothin’ to do wit’ me. That’s why I gave up. I quit trying to make her my little girl. She wanted you, so I let her have you.”
“I didn’t know Scooter drowned,” I said. “I thought it was epilepsy.”
“Lot of stuff you don’t know. More stuff you don’t know than stuff you do.” Momma put the fish and salad on the table. She placed her hands on her hips, leaned back in exasperation, and proclaimed, “Ten years is enough time for a whole lotta stuff to happen. You jes’ got to catch up wherever you can. I don’t know what happened to Sister, and if I did—”
“You wouldn’t tell me, would you?” I interrupted with a sharp edge.
Momma wasn’t moved by my tone. “I don’t know. If you didn’t care about her in the last ten years, I ain’t too sure she means much to you now.”
“That’s not fair, Momma.”
“Fair? Ain’t nothin’ been fair in my life, boy. Shit. I done worked hard for damn near fifty years and still ain’t got nothin’ to show for it and you talkin’’bout fair? I done buried three children, lost one,” I
guessed she was referring to me, “and been married to a man thirty-five years who loves what I do—not who I am. Don’t I deserve somethin’ fair? You ain’t the only one who want a life of pleasure and joy. You ain’t hopin’ for somethin’ nobody else in the whole world ever wanted. Don’t fool yo’self. I been wishin’ all my life for what you jes’ thought about a few minutes ago. Don’t show up after ten years and start talkin’ to me’bout what’s fair and what ain’t.”
guessed she was referring to me, “and been married to a man thirty-five years who loves what I do—not who I am. Don’t I deserve somethin’ fair? You ain’t the only one who want a life of pleasure and joy. You ain’t hopin’ for somethin’ nobody else in the whole world ever wanted. Don’t fool yo’self. I been wishin’ all my life for what you jes’ thought about a few minutes ago. Don’t show up after ten years and start talkin’ to me’bout what’s fair and what ain’t.”
Momma walked away from the table toward the bathroom. She seemed satisfied she finally said what she had been hoarding for years. I had never heard her speak so matter-of-factly. She seemed more human to me than before. Yet I still didn’t know what happened to Sister.
A
grave in the backyard. Who had heard of such a thing? My visit home was becoming more than I ever imagined. I had spent every day of those ten years longing to hold Sister again, waiting to laugh at people with her again, and when I get home she’s buried in the backyard? This was crazy to me. Momma walked around the house—and the yard—tranquil about Sister’s death to the point of being numb. She hung clothes on the line out back, amid the tombstone, with a contentment at once disturbing and fascinating. I looked at her, at the house, at the peace of the woods, trying my best to figure out why I was the only one troubled. Of course there was no need to confront Momma again, for she had said what she was going to say. For the possibility of my return—she knew Sister’s spirit would summon me—Momma had undoubtedly rehearsed exactly what she’d say to me. My questions, which she had not anticipated, she simply circumvented. She definitely wouldn’t dignify me with a discussion.
grave in the backyard. Who had heard of such a thing? My visit home was becoming more than I ever imagined. I had spent every day of those ten years longing to hold Sister again, waiting to laugh at people with her again, and when I get home she’s buried in the backyard? This was crazy to me. Momma walked around the house—and the yard—tranquil about Sister’s death to the point of being numb. She hung clothes on the line out back, amid the tombstone, with a contentment at once disturbing and fascinating. I looked at her, at the house, at the peace of the woods, trying my best to figure out why I was the only one troubled. Of course there was no need to confront Momma again, for she had said what she was going to say. For the possibility of my return—she knew Sister’s spirit would summon me—Momma had undoubtedly rehearsed exactly what she’d say to me. My questions, which she had not anticipated, she simply circumvented. She definitely wouldn’t dignify me with a discussion.
I left Momma in the house eating fish. It was about seven o’clock and beginning to get dusky. I walked outside, trying like hell to find some meaning, some logic, to this madness. I noticed three or four of
Daddy’s cows grazing in the field east of the house. They looked peaceful, unconcerned. I wondered if they had known Sister. I thought maybe she had fed them a time or two and had petted them tenderly in her sweet way. If she had, they would have remembered her soft touch and mourned her sudden disappearance. I wanted to ask them what happened, if they had seen or heard anything strange. They seemed to read my mind, for they began to survey me intensely, although having no words by which to express their thoughts. I walked closer to the fence that separated their world from ours. Leaning there, I hoped for some type of revelation, but I got nothing.
Daddy’s cows grazing in the field east of the house. They looked peaceful, unconcerned. I wondered if they had known Sister. I thought maybe she had fed them a time or two and had petted them tenderly in her sweet way. If she had, they would have remembered her soft touch and mourned her sudden disappearance. I wanted to ask them what happened, if they had seen or heard anything strange. They seemed to read my mind, for they began to survey me intensely, although having no words by which to express their thoughts. I walked closer to the fence that separated their world from ours. Leaning there, I hoped for some type of revelation, but I got nothing.
I walked around the edge of our land like a lost fawn trapped and seeking a way out. It was still hot, though a bit cooler than when I had arrived. The sky was transforming into a dark, ominous purple, suggesting rain. The wind was strong, and pollen lingered in the air. I saw the garden where Momma and Daddy had planted peas and okra and potatoes and collard greens. The cabbage heads were shaking excitedly from the wind. I stood there and stared at the big collard green leaves, which, bunched together, trembled intensely and resembled a church choir on Sunday morning rocking with the power of the Holy Ghost. Yet I could not hear them. I sensed the urgency of their message but received no communication. I felt chill bumps cover my skin. What was going on in Swamp Creek?
I walked onto Grandma’s back porch and sat down. I didn’t know who lived there, but at the moment I didn’t care. It was beginning to rain. The rain would bring some relief from the heat although no relief for my heart. Tree limbs were swaying in the wind like old women in church, listening to a good sermon. Dust was flying in the air, covering everything in sight. I sat with my knees to my chest, feeling the cool breeze and praying for an answer. I knew Daddy would be coming down the road any minute and I would have to deal with him, but for the moment I was simply trying to regroup.
Grandma’s back porch had been my refuge, other than the barn. It was nothing elaborate. Old mason jars, a rusty garden hoe, an old gas
can that no one ever used, some battered work shoes from thirty years ago, and an outdated push mower. It was more like a junk house than a back porch. As a child, I would go there to sit and think or read or get away, and when I left, I felt prepared for battle once again. The hay barn was my other respite from the world, but I didn’t want Daddy to catch me off guard, so I sat on the steps of Grandma’s back porch instead, watching the rain and awaiting his arrival.
can that no one ever used, some battered work shoes from thirty years ago, and an outdated push mower. It was more like a junk house than a back porch. As a child, I would go there to sit and think or read or get away, and when I left, I felt prepared for battle once again. The hay barn was my other respite from the world, but I didn’t want Daddy to catch me off guard, so I sat on the steps of Grandma’s back porch instead, watching the rain and awaiting his arrival.
“I like rain,” I told Grandma one day as we shelled purple hull peas.
“You do?” she responded nonchalantly.
“Yes, ma’am. It makes me think of Noah and the flood in the Bible when it starts raining. Think it’ll ever rain like that again?”
“Naw, boy! De Lawd done promised us it wouldn’t never rain like dat no mo’. De rainbow is de sign of de promise.”
“What if God doesn’t keep His promise?”
“Is you a fool?” Grandma said sternly. “God don’t neva break no promise.” She kept staring at me wild-eyed.
“Maybe God changed His mind. Ain’t that possible?”
“No!” Grandma screamed, jumping up spilling the bowl of peas. “You must ain’t got good sense, boy! De Lawd don’t neva need to change His mind ‘cause eva’thang He do is already perfect! He ain’t got to rethink nothin’! He done planned out what’s gon’ happen in de world and dat’s what’s gon’ happen! Ain’t nothin’ you can do’bout it and He ain’t gon’ change His mind to fit you!”
I was on thin ice, but I pushed ahead anyway. “If God done planned out everything, what’s the use in praying?”
“’Cause you don’t know what God done planned out!”
“It doesn’t matter! According to you, if God done planned it out, it can’t ever be any other way, so what’s the use in asking?”
“’Cause prayer changes things, boy!”
“Oh! God might change His mind after all if we beg Him hard enough?”
Grandma glared at me silently for a second, carefully planning her
response, then suggested, “God already knowed what you was gon’ pray for befo’ you was eva born. He done already took yo’ requests into account when he was planning de world.”
response, then suggested, “God already knowed what you was gon’ pray for befo’ you was eva born. He done already took yo’ requests into account when he was planning de world.”
“What if I pray for something different from what God thought I would?”
“It ain’t possible, boy! You can’t neva do nothin’ God didn’t already know about befo’ it eva happened.”
“That doesn’t sound like free will to me, Grandma. ‘Cause if it was truly free will, God got to wait to see what I’m gon’ do and say.”
“God ain’t got to wait to see nothin’ from you, fool! Who you thank you is?”
I let it go at that point. I wasn’t going to win, and too much was at stake for Grandma to lose. She was trembling. I suppose I tugged at the very fabric of her beliefs, although I hadn’t meant to. I was trying to resolve some of the conflicts I had after church service on Sunday mornings. Pastor would always say at least one thing that simply didn’t make sense to me, especially his belief that “to understand de Lawd, you can’t use yo’ mind.” What kind of nonsense is that? On the way home one Sunday, I asked Daddy how a man was supposed to understand God if he didn’t use his mind and Daddy said, “You too damn smart fo’ yo’ own good.” I didn’t understand that, either. If indeed God was smarter than everybody in the whole world put together, how could my little intelligence be too much? I didn’t ask this out loud. Daddy had made it clear he didn’t want to hear any more of my intellectual bullshit, as he called it.
Momma never entertained my childhood wonderings. She simply shook her head and mumbled, “You idiot,” and walked away. Therefore, the only person I knew to go to was Grandma. However, after seeing her extreme anger, I kept all my questions about God to myself.
The rain had stopped. I knew it wouldn’t pour down long enough to run the heat away permanently, but I had hoped for more than a mere dust-settling shower. Arkansas summers were famous for gathering
black clouds together and blowing 25 mph winds yet delivering ten-minute rains. Rethinking Momma’s words, I realized her jealousy of me. She wanted a relationship with Sister like the one I had with her. Maybe if I had known, I would have encouraged Sister to pay Momma more attention. Maybe not.
black clouds together and blowing 25 mph winds yet delivering ten-minute rains. Rethinking Momma’s words, I realized her jealousy of me. She wanted a relationship with Sister like the one I had with her. Maybe if I had known, I would have encouraged Sister to pay Momma more attention. Maybe not.
The end of the rain disappointed me. Generally, storms gave me a hiding place and hours of quiet contemplation, and, the day I returned home, I needed both. Thunder and lightning disturbed me as a child because Grandma associated storm with the announcement of God’s apocalyptic wrath. Yet, in later years, I grew to appreciate the beauty of a storm. The whistling of the wind, rain beating diligently upon the rooftop, clouds colliding nervously into one another, and the darkening of the sky together formed a tapestry of nature both exhilarating and soothing. In the midst of storms, I enjoyed watching the rain fall, imagining each droplet as a tear that fell from my own eye. That’s why I cried when it rained. The earth’s cleansing provoked my own and served as catalyst for the release of baggage and pain lurking in my soul. My friend George asked me, as an adult, why I liked rain so much. I tried to explain how it allowed me to purge my heavy heart and make room for a new day, but he said my explanation made no sense. George offered an argument about the depressing nature of rain and the cloud of gloom it left behind. Hence rainy days contributed nothing to the union of our brotherhood.
I met George Thornton in New York City, and he quickly became my best friend. Our relationship was strange from the inception because we shared an intimacy unusual for black men. We wore each other’s clothes, wrote weekly letters—we lived in the same apartment building—and wept openly together without shame. We were definitely more than friends, although I never found the word or category to describe adequately the extent of our bond. We were committed to meeting each other’s needs and making sure nothing happened to each other. For a while, we were roommates, but the level of our comfortability often resulted in our insensitivity toward and even disrespect
of each other. So I got an apartment next door. It worked out really well. When I was broke, George fed me, and when he didn’t have food, I fed him. We nurtured each other through our relationship blues and retreated into our secret hiding place whenever our girlfriends pissed us off. George offered to go to Arkansas with me, but I refused him. “T., man, you might need some support from a brother after yo’ folks get through cussin’ yo’ ass out,” George said jokingly. I knew then not to take him. He clearly didn’t understand fully the seriousness of my return.
of each other. So I got an apartment next door. It worked out really well. When I was broke, George fed me, and when he didn’t have food, I fed him. We nurtured each other through our relationship blues and retreated into our secret hiding place whenever our girlfriends pissed us off. George offered to go to Arkansas with me, but I refused him. “T., man, you might need some support from a brother after yo’ folks get through cussin’ yo’ ass out,” George said jokingly. I knew then not to take him. He clearly didn’t understand fully the seriousness of my return.
George was an actor and a good one, too. He did mostly off-Broadway shows, although occasionally he landed a small part in a Broadway hit. Acting was his natural-born gift, but acting was also his problem. He feared reality. He didn’t know what to do with life outside of the theater. I was his closest friend, and even I didn’t know anything about his family. He simply wouldn’t talk about it. I asked him about his mother once and, through tearstained eyes, he told me never to ask him again.
He kept a diary under his bed. I know because, well, let’s just say I know. I started to steal it and read it one day, but I decided against it. Any man who would reveal himself to a book before he would another human probably had some heavy shit to deal with, and if I read it, I would feel responsible for the truth of his life. Ain’t no way I was about to assume that responsibility. Yet, even with his idiosyncrasies, George Thornton was my dearest friend. It’s sad more brothers couldn’t hang like George and me.
When I first got to New York in September of 1987, I bumped into George at La Guardia Airport.
“Excuse me, sir,” I said shyly.
“Sir?” he cackled.
“Well … I mean … I don’t know your name … so …”
“My name’s George Thornton Junior,” he stated abrasively, examining me from head to toe and laughing the entire time.
“What’s funny, Mr. George Thornton Junior” I inquired curiously.
“You must be from down south somewhere, huh?”
“I am. Arkansas. How’d you know?”
“Because nobody in New York would ever call me ‘sir.’ They hardly say ‘excuse me,’ either.”
“Oh,” I returned, relieved that this stranger wasn’t laughing at me.
“What are you doing in New York?” he went on.
“I’m going to graduate school.”
“Is this your first time in the city?”
“Yeah, It’s my first time up north actually.”
“Good! Welcome to crime and poverty and one-thousand-dollar studios!”
“One-thousand-dollar what?”
“Studios. It’s a glorified name for a small room with an even smaller bathroom and kitchen. Most of them are about as big as first-class areas on airplanes.”
“For a thousand dollars a month?”
“This is New York, baby!”
“My God. I had no idea.”
George sensed my apprehension and said, “You’ll do fine. Country boys know how to survive. Most of my friends from the country aren’t very materialistic, so New York won’t kill y’all.”
“I hope I like this place,” I said to lighten the conversation.
“You will. You already have one friend. Come on. I’ll show you around.”
George took one of my bags and started walking with me as though we had been friends for years. He told me about the World Trade Center, the theater district, and the Schomberg Center for Research in Black Culture. He went on and on about how dynamic the clubs were in New York and how he was the quintessential party animal.
While we were waiting for a cab, I asked, “Are you sure you have time to show me around? I mean, I know you probably have a job to get to or things to do. Please don’t rearrange your schedule for me.”
“Why not? Aren’t you worth someone rearranging his life?” George glared at me and smiled.
I didn’t know what to say. “I’ve only known you a few minutes, and I don’t want to consume your time.”
“I do with my time what I like. And I like you.”
“OK,” I said slowly as George opened a taxi door for me.
“Don’t worry. I’m not some crazy person out to rob you. I could use a friend in my life and I think you could, too.”
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