They Tell Me of a Home: A Novel (5 page)

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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

BOOK: They Tell Me of a Home: A Novel
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The taxi sped off and into more traffic than I had ever seen. For whatever reason, I felt absolutely comfortable with George. He seemed independent, self-assured, hilarious, and completely open. We spent the whole day together. Toward nightfall, he asked, “Do you already have a place to stay?”
“Actually, I had planned to search today for a room or an apartment, but you consumed all my time.” I smiled.
“Well, I guess you’ll have to stay with me. Poor me.” He hung his head, feigning sadness.
“Oh, shut up!” I said, poking him in the shoulder playfully.
“By the way, what’s your name?”
“Oh my God! I’m sorry. I’ve known your name all day and I never told you mine. I’m Tommy Lee Tyson.” I extended my hand to shake his.
“I don’t need to shake your hand, Tommy Lee. I’ve been with you all day!” We both laughed at the realization.
“Call me T.L.,” I said after the laughter subsided. “No one ever calls me by my full name.”
“That’s why I’ll call you Tommy Lee. I want to call you something no one else calls you. Is that cool?”
“Yeah, if you like. It doesn’t matter to me.”
“I do like. Come on; we’ll go home.”
My first night at George’s house turned into a six-month stay. He treated me like a king, cooking practically every night, paying for the two of us any time we went anywhere, and never making me feel indebted
to him. I couldn’t have asked for a better situation. The only problem was that I hadn’t been raised to accept such charity, and George had been charitable longer than my dignity usually allowed. I moved at the beginning of the seventh month. George understood. We talked every day thereafter, telling each other everything about ourselves, even the most risky information. That’s why I’d never let him go. We went places with each other I’d never been with anyone.
Yet George Thornton was not my main concern that evening in Swamp Creek. I was still trying to figure out what had happened to Sister. As I thought about it, I suddenly remembered Sister’s picture was missing from the living room wall. Momma once had pictures of all of us plastered throughout the house, but I didn’t recall seeing Sister’s picture earlier that day when I walked inside. Or mine, for that matter. I didn’t take note of their absence at the time, but they were definitely not on the wall.
Momma had every right to be a bit beside herself. Yet that was the funny thing—she wasn’t beside herself. She was the same calm, unmoved woman I had known all my life. She had worn one hairstyle for thirty years and still cooked fish on Saturday. I could never figure her out. If she was depressed and unsettled, why didn’t she leave Swamp Creek? She deserved happiness, too. Why didn’t she go somewhere and find the source of her joy? I didn’t understand. Why wouldn’t she tell me what happened to Sister? And how did it make sense for Momma to bury the girl in the backyard in order to keep an eye on her? Where did Momma think Sister was going? “Dead means ‘immobile,’ Momma,” I wanted to say.
I had an acute suspicion Daddy knew what happened. He would never have had Sister’s grave in the backyard without his wanting it there. It definitely wasn’t his idea, but he had to have agreed. However, it wasn’t the grave that troubled me most. It was the logic of it all. Didn’t folks who came by the house tell them this wasn’t right? I mean, surely Mr. Blue or Deacon Payne had seen the tombstone and asked Daddy about it. They attended the funeral, I was sure, and
didn’t they wonder about the place of interment? The more I thought about it, the crazier it became. When Daddy or Willie James mowed the lawn, didn’t Sister’s grave leave them discomposed? How did they ever get past the agony of Sister’s death with her body lying only a few feet away? Had folks gone absolutely insane in Swamp Creek?
I got up and began to walk back to the house. It was practically dark. I had thought Daddy would have been home by now, but, as luck would have it, he was late. I had wanted to meet him on the road in hopes of our encounter being eased by the chirping of birds or the slightest evening breeze, but now I had no choice but to encounter him within the confines of our small family room, and I had a feeling it wasn’t going to be pleasant.
I reentered the house. Momma had finished cooking and, because of the rain, was sitting in the dark quietly. No lights, no sound. Folks in Swamp Creek unplug everything electrical in the house except the icebox when it begins to rain. I never really understood it. I guess I didn’t need to, though, for my lack of understanding certainly didn’t stop anybody from unplugging their appliances.
“Where you been?” Momma questioned me.
“Walking around,” I said and took the nearest chair.
“What you find this time?” she asked sarcastically.
“Momma, why are you doing this to me? You knew Sister’s death would devastate me, and you make a joke of it?” I felt empowered in the dark. Momma couldn’t see me and I couldn’t see her, but we certainly felt each other.
“I’m not makin’ a joke. I was jes’ askin’ a querston. Yo’ whole life you been lookin’ for stuff, and I was jes’ askin’ if you had done found any of it.”
“Momma, why won’t you tell me about Sister? And please don’t say that same shit—I mean stuff—again.”
“I done told you all I know, boy. Now stop worr’in’ me’bout dat damn girl.”
“Momma, she was your youngest child and you don’t even know how she died?”
“No.”
“I don’t believe that for a moment.”
“Well, you ain’t got to.”
Willie James walked into the dark house, presumably soaked from head to toe.
“You seen T.L., Momma?” he probed without searching the room.
“He sittin’ right dere.”
Willie James turned his face in my direction but said nothing.
“Why didn’t you tell me about Sister?” I asked with more than an edge of ugliness.
He walked on into the kitchen and asked Momma what she had cooked.
“You know what she cooked. It’s Saturday. Why are you ignoring me?”
Momma rose to turn the lights on and replug the TV. She was more relaxed with Willie James at home.
“Miss Pearlie Mae sho’ is one’ o’nry ole lady. Ain’t nothin’ neva right and she always complainin’’bout how hard it is to git good help. She too cheap to pay anybody. Lawd, soon’s I got dere, here she come talkin’’ bout—”
“Stop it, Willie James. Stop it! What the hell is wrong with you? I asked you about Sister!” I was standing, ready to fight if it came to that.
“I don’t know nothin’’bout Sister,” Willie James mimicked. “Don’t ask me again!”
“Your own sister dies and you tellin’ me you don’t know anything about it? Oh, come on, man! I ain’t no fool.”
“I done told you I don’t know nothin’.” Willie James began to walk toward the bathroom, but I wasn’t giving up that easily.
“Willie James, what the hell is wrong with you?” I walked up on him, peering into his eyes deeply. “Don’t you think I deserve to know?”
“I don’t think you deserve shit,” Willie James whined resentfully.
I couldn’t take it any longer. I punched him in the stomach, and
the war was on. We were scrapping in Momma’s kitchen. Willie James put me in a headlock and slung me onto the kitchen floor. I raised my right foot and kicked his shoulder like I was trying to break down a door. Instead of hurting him, I only infuriated him. Willie James grabbed the broom and began to beat me like an old dirty, dusty rug. He was clearly overpowering me, but I grabbed the end of the broom and plunged it up against his throat. We continued fighting until I was simply exhausted. Willie James stood over me with that do-you-want-some-more-of-me expression and, since I didn’t, I said very softly, “Sorry.”
“You damn right,” he said furiously, and proceeded to the bathroom.
I peeled myself from the kitchen floor and noticed Momma had not moved the entire time. She simply watched us in excitement to see which son would overcome the other.
“Momma, what’s wrong with y’all?” I asked helplessly.
“We the same thang we always been,” she insisted.
Having no response, I dragged myself to the back bedroom and fell across the bed in tears. I had never felt so nihilistic in my entire life. Traditionally, Momma and Willie James weren’t allies, but I guess things do change over the years. She had the ability to consume people, and Willie James had fallen victim to her venom. Like the time Grandma got sick, it was Momma who decided she should stay with us. People praised Momma for being the committed daughter, the one who honored her mother enough to take care of the latter in her old age. Yet even back then, I knew Momma’s actions were not centered in love for Grandma. Momma treated her like an old sofa she couldn’t figure out how to get rid of. She told Grandma when she could move, eat, shit, and when to keep her mouth closed. However, in public, Momma acted like she was bearing the burden of her mother with love. People would ask, “Marion, how ya’ momma doin’?” and Momma would fake exasperation and say, “Momma’s doin’ pretty good. I tries to make sho’ she got ever’thing she needs.” People would
then extend their hearts in sympathy, admiring Momma’s commitment to an ailing mother. I wanted to tell everybody what was going on for real, but Momma would have destroyed me had I exposed her charade.
I rolled over on the bed and gazed at the wall. That’s when I noticed the butterfly picture was gone. The nail on which it hung was still in place, but the painting had been removed. Of course I knew who had moved it, but I didn’t know why. No need to ask that question, though. “No one around here knows anything,” I mumbled.
Momma called me to come eat, but I didn’t want any fish. I wanted her to tell me what happened to my baby sister. I lay there and acted like I didn’t hear her and decided to write George a letter. Fumbling quietly until I found pen and paper in my bag, I wrote desperately:
Dear George,
This is more than I bargained for. You wouldn’t believe it if I told you. People in Arkansas have gone absolutely crazy. I found out that my sister died almost two years ago, but nobody knows how. That’s right. Momma and my brother say they don’t know what happened, and I haven’t had a chance to ask Daddy yet. This is some strange shit, man. Can you imagine? I mean, you go home anxious to see your sister and find out she’s dead? And the way I found out—well, I’ll have to tell you in person.
I’m an emotional wreck. I jumped on my brother a few minutes ago and got my ass kicked. My anger got the best of me. This house, these people, this place, is making me crazy. It’s hard to believe I lived here once. Harder to believe I got out. Why did I come back, George?
I wish I had let you come with me. I could use your strength. Man, just being close to you would do me a world of good today. I can’t really explain it to you because I don’t understand it myself. All I know for sure is that I’ve got to see this through. I have too many
questions, especially about my sister’s sudden death. No need to write back because I’m not staying long. Just pray for me. I need you worse than you know.
Your friend,
Tommy Lee
I
heard Daddy come through the door about fifteen minutes after I finished my letter to George. Daddy told Momma he got caught in the rain and took shelter in Chicken’s shed house. Chicken was Daddy’s best friend since childhood. He and Daddy were born three days apart, and because Chicken’s momma’s breast milk wasn’t any good, she asked Grandma if she would feed her baby, too. Grandma agreed. Mr. Blue told me Daddy was on one of Grandma’s titties and Chicken was on the other. People called him Chicken because, as a baby, he was little and thin and resembled a frail baby hen. Grandma said she knew he’d be all right after he suckled her breast for a couple of months. She had some good milk, she bragged. In other places, folks might have found this arrangement bizarre, but when folks in Swamp Creek said children belonged to everybody, they meant it.
I didn’t hear Momma mention my name to Daddy, so I prepared for another intense collision. Emerging from the bedroom, wracked with nerves, I approached Daddy with his back toward me. I had no choice but to speak first.
“Hey, Daddy,” I said, sounding like a toddler.
Daddy turned around, and, for the first time in my life, I saw emotion in his face. He actually appeared moved to see me.
“What chu doin’ here, boy?” he asked after gathering his composure.
“I came to see how everybody’s doin’.” I didn’t know what else to say.
“Well, it sho’ took you a while to git heayh. You musta been a long way off for it to take you ten years to git back.”
Daddy started fixing his plate of fish and fried potatoes and onions. Tears gathered in my eyes again because I knew Daddy was about to give me hell, yet before they fell I blinked them away, trying to stay strong and focused before Daddy’s overwhelming energy crushed my ego.
“How’s the farming going?” I asked, fixing my plate. I needed something tangible to hold on to.
“Oh,’bout de same,” Daddy stated coolly and sat at the head of the table. I took the seat at the opposite end. Tension lingered between us thicker than homemade molasses. Daddy started smacking on fish and glancing at me in a way that made me uneasy.
“I … um … hope you’re not angry with me, Daddy. I know it’s been a while. I just … didn’t really think … um …”
“You neva did think. You was s’pose’ to be so damn smart, but you couldn’t think. Ain’t that funny?”
“No, it’s not funny,” I said, frustrated.
“Well, I think it’s funny.” Daddy laughed in mockery. “I think it’s real funny that a man who s’pose’ to be so smart can’t even think. Yeah, dat’s funny to me.” He roared in a way clearly meant to demean.
“See! That’s why I left here! How was I to grow and thrive with you tearing me down every chance you got?” I screeched.
“No, no, Son. I didn’t tear you down. If I had tore you down, you wouldn’t ever be able to build yo’self up again. I don’t half-do nothin’.”
Daddy stared at me contemptuously. I knew coming home wasn’t going to be easy, but I didn’t think it would be this hard.
After a moment, I said, “Daddy, I’m sorry if I ever dishonored you.” I kept my head bowed in fear of his retaliation.
All he said was, “Um.”
I had come a long way to resolve old family issues, I reminded myself, but I must have left my diplomacy in New York, because nothing was getting resolved.
The staring left me unable to chew. Every time I raised my head, Daddy searched my face desperately for the truth of why I had returned. His eyes were squinted narrowly, allowing me to see only his pupils, which never moved the entire time we sat at the table. Daddy’s bodybuilder frame intimidated me into a submission that disgusted me.
“What chu really heah fu’?” he asked softly after a while.
“I came to figure out some stuff about myself. And all of us.” I felt a trickle of urine run down my leg.
“What chu tryin’ to figure out? Ain’t nothin’ deep’bout us.”
“Well, I beg to differ. There are a lot of things about us that seem very deep to me. Like this grave in the backyard.”
“That ain’t deep.”
“What?”
“You heard me. I said that ain’t deep.’Cause it ain’t.”
“Your own daughter’s death ain’t deep?” I probed, feeling my courage return.
“Nope. People die every day.”
“Not like she did!”
“You don’t know how she died, so what chu talkin’’bout?”
I couldn’t argue. Instead I said, “Why don’t you tell me how she died and then I’ll know.”
Daddy dropped his head and continued eating, ignoring me perfectly. I would have to work on him much longer, I concluded, before he yielded any information, if he yielded any at all.
“Daddy, she was my sister!”
“I know who she was.” He raised his head slowly.
“Am I missing something here?” I purposely dropped my fork onto my plate. “This is all supposed to make sense to me?”
“You done missed ten years o’ shit, boy. You got a lotta catchin’ up to do. I ‘speck you betta keep yo’ mouf shut and yo’ eyes open. Never can tell what you might see.”
“What? Why can’t you tell me what happened? I know I’ve been gone a long time, but that doesn’t mean I’m not supposed to know. She was my best friend!” I pleaded desperately.
“She wuz? Well, I hope I ain’t neva yo’ best friend,’cause you sho’ don’t talk to yo’ friends very often.”
I almost told Daddy not to worry because he would never be my best friend, yet thinking the statement rude, I kept it to myself and bellowed, “Why I left here is not the point right now. I need you to tell me what happened to Sister!”
Nobody said a word. Daddy appeared rather amused at my insistence, thinking, I believe, that I was challenging him to some sort of game, which he certainly intended to win. He began to giggle.
“Did I miss the joke?”
“You are the joke,” Momma volunteered. She wore a smile on her face of vengeance and evil, a sign she and Daddy had conspired to create the whole ordeal. I would have to get Daddy alone before I could manipulate any information from him. I backed off and thought to change the subject, but Daddy beat me to it.
“I guess you done finished school by now.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What chu take up?”
“Black studies.”
“You mean to tell me you went to school all dis time to study black folks? You didn’t need to go to school fu’ dat.”
“There’s a lot about black people we don’t know.”
“We? I knows colored folks better’n I knows anythang.”
“But there’s a lot about our history most black people don’t know.”
“Like what?” Daddy asked, surprised at the possibility he didn’t know something about his own people.
“Like how we used spirit to survive the Middle Passage.”
“The Middle what?”
“The Middle Passage. It’s more correctly called the Maafa. That’s the boat ride we endured to get from Africa to America.”
“I know we was slaves, boy. You ain’t teachin’ nobody nothin’. Everybody know we came over here on boats. You gotta do better’n dat.”
“What you might not know is exactly what we endured along the way. First of all, many African villages were hundreds of miles from the Atlantic coast. How, then, did they get to the boats?”
“Dey walked, shit!”
“What if they had to be there in the next couple of days?”
Daddy didn’t respond.
“The slave catchers would march them for fifteen hours a day until they reached the boats. This period of the process is known as the Long March. Thousands died on this part of the journey from exhaustion or physical abuse. Children and elders were usually murdered on the spot, and pregnant women often lost their babies. All of this happened before we left Africa. When history books speak of how many died during the Middle Passage, the numbers must be horribly incorrect, because most scholars don’t even count those whose blood was spilled on African soil before departing.”
“OK,” Daddy conceded. “But when dey got to de water dey was loaded up and brung here. I know dat much.”
“No, sir. It didn’t happen that way.”
Daddy examined me with bucked eyebrows, outraged by my gall.
“Most often, slaves had to wait weeks before they were herded aboard ships. They waited in what became known as slave pens. These holding places of filth and unbearable stench claimed the lives of thousands more of our people. They were located all along the western coast of Africa, and millions of people died in them before any boat departed. Tourists go to Africa today to view them as historical landmarks. Isn’t that funny?”
“No, it ain’t funny,” Daddy said. “It’s crazy.”
“By the time they were actually taken aboard ship, they defecated upon themselves, vomited upon one another, and died chained together as people were forced to watch their brother’s or sister’s body rot. And there was nothing any of them could do. They were shackled aboard deck, despondent, weak, and depressed. Many of them simply decided to die.”
“You can’t je’s decide to die and then die, boy.”
“Most people can’t, but some of our people did. They pulled upon their own spirit and resolved they would rather dwell in the land of their ancestors than live in captivity with white strangers. Hence they closed their eyes and died. They commanded their spirit to move from the realm of the physical into the realm of the spiritual. Everybody didn’t possess such mastery of spirit, of course, but many did.”
“Uh-huh,” Daddy mumbled.
“That ain’t all. On those ships is where African people began to hum melodies and cry out to God in moans and hollers we use in churches today. Because they were in the same condition, the humming gave room for everybody to participate in the lyrical moment even though people of different languages were often bound together. Journals of slave traders speak of the noise belowdecks being loud at times, to the point where white traders became horrified at the energy of the sound. Our people were enslaved, but their spirits were not.”
“Dat’s how come we do so much hummin’ and moanin’ now?” Daddy asked, surprised at the connection.
“Yes, sir, it is. The moans and humming keep us from having to depend upon language to communicate with God or each other. Of course, most of us speak English, but the moaning tradition has a power we’ve not been able to replace.”
“Maybe you did learn somethin’,” Daddy said, signaling I had said enough.
He continued eating supper. A moment of silence ensued wherein I felt horribly awkward. I wanted to ask about Sister again, but the time wasn’t quite right.
“How’s everybody doin’ round here?”
“’Bout de same.”
I was trying to think of other questions to ask, but I couldn’t, so I sat there and nibbled on my piece of fish, too.
Daddy finally said, “Well, you back.” He didn’t look at me or raise his voice. He never was one for small talk. Any time he said anything it was the bare minimum, and he meant what he said.
“Like I said, I wanted to see how everyone was doin’.” My voice floundered a little.
“You done seen. How come you ain’t gone?”
Daddy had a way of asking questions that left one paralyzed. I took a deep breath, found courage in my heart, and said, “Daddy, I needed to come home again and find answers to some questions.”
“Questions like what?”
“Like why none of us ever loved each other, or why you beat me like you did.” I didn’t believe I had said it.
Daddy became silent and continued eating. He discovered slivers of fish between bones most people would simply have discarded. I examined Daddy’s face, waiting for him to respond to my statement, but, once again, Daddy ignored me. After a while, I knew he wasn’t going to engage me. Instead, he asked, “What chu doin’ dese days? You workin’?”
“No, sir, not yet. I graduated last month with my Ph.D. I’ll be teaching at a university somewhere this fall.”
“Good for you,” Daddy said smugly.
“Colleges need young professors,” I offered in my own defense, “so I’m sure I won’t have a problem finding a job.”
Daddy wasn’t interested in hearing about my future. He wanted me to explain why I had reappeared after ten years. He probably had a guess, but he wanted to hear me say it.
I held my peace. He finished his first piece of fish and got another. Every now and then he glared at me and shook his head up and down slowly, thinking thoughts he would never share. I felt immobilized by
his authoritative presence, and Daddy knew it. Since childhood, I was afraid of the sound of his voice. He would yell at me and cause sweat to break out all over my body, even in the winter. Whenever he was around, my equilibrium was shot, because I couldn’t hold anything steady or speak without stuttering heavily. To one extent or another, he affected everyone in the family this way. Years ago, we had to wait for Daddy to finish eating before we could leave the table, even if we finished before he did. I never knew why, and, of course, none of us were bold enough to ask. So, reminiscent of old times, I sat at the table wondering what the next few hours of my life would bring.

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