They Tell Me of a Home: A Novel (16 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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“Oh, is that what you been doin’? Tryin’ to convince me dat you sorry? Well, you can let dat go right here and now’cause I forgave you the day you brought T.L. home. What I’m fussin’’bout is dat you ain’t neva corrected yo’self. And de only way to make right what you made wrong is to tell T.L. de truth. If you ain’t gon’ do it, I will, ‘cause since both of us know, I guess we both wrong and I ain’t gon’ be wrong wit chu no mo’. I done been wrong long enough.”
“Then we gon’ be wrong some mo’, ‘cause you ain’t sayin’ nothin’. Did you hear me?”
“I done said what I needs to say. You gon’ do what de hell you wanna do anyway. That’s what you been doin’ ever since I knowed you, so ain’t no need in me thinkin’ you’bout to change now. But I’m gon’ do what I gotta do, too. I done lived with you, but I ain’t got to die with you, too.”
Momma must have turned over, for her words ended the conversation. I arose from the floor dazed, went to my room, and sat on the bed in the dark. “Oh my God!” I whimpered. “Ms. Swinton? How could it be? She and Daddy? I don’t believe it!” Yet I had no choice. The truth was the truth, and I simply had to accept it. I never thought of Ms. Swinton having sex, though. Of course, she, like other women, has a vagina and breasts, but I never associated sex with her. “My mother?” I couldn’t make sense of it. “Ms. Swinton is my mother?” I kept whispering it over and over, hoping my words might make the truth more bearable. “Why didn’t she tell me?” I wondered. All the special attention, books, and extraordinary love made perfect sense now. She was loving her own son. But, again, why didn’t she tell me? Was she embarrassed by her actions? Having a
child out of wedlock was certainly a no-no in Swamp Creek fifty years ago, but I thought certainly times had changed.
I leaned back on the bed and peered out of the window. The moonlight and a few stars glistened brilliantly in the clear night, exposing shadows of things once very familiar to me. The old barn, the cows, the junk cars in the field all functioned like stage props placed there to help me remember bygone days. But remembering the past has never been difficult for me; forgetting it is my struggle.
“Ms. Swinton?” I marveled again as I released the curtain and resumed my place on the bed. It was beginning to make sense. There were days at school when she would scrutinize me constantly and I couldn’t understand why. I would glance up and she would smile lovingly but then shake her head briskly, as though exiting a fantasy. Whenever this happened, she would ignore me the rest of the day. I would have my hand raised, either to ask or answer a question, and she simply disregarded me. I thought she was affording other children a chance to participate, but maybe she was trying not to illumine her bias toward me. Or maybe she was trying to keep from getting overwhelmed in a public place. One thing for sure, I would never have guessed she was my mother. I began to cry. “Why me, Lord? Why is it always me?” I retracted my body into a fetal position and held myself tightly. Trembling and hurting badly, I didn’t know what to do and I didn’t have anyone to talk to. Grandma always affirmed that Jesus was a “friend in the midnight hour,” so I began to pray:
“Lord,” I droned through snot and tears, “I don’t get it. I don’t understand why nothing is ever right in my life. Did I do something wrong? One thing after the other keeps taking my joy away. You know how much I longed for a mother to love and hold me, and the day I find her, she’s dying. This doesn’t make any sense. I come home and find a dead sister, a terminal mother, and who knows what else! Is this my punishment for sins unatoned? If it is, I’m sorry, Lord. I’m really, really sorry. Please forgive my transgressions against you. You know how much I love you, Lord, so please don’t hold my weaknesses
against me. Hear my cry, Jesus, please, and help me understand what you’re trying to show me. I know you don’t put more on a person than he can bear, but this is too much for me, Lord! I’m losing it. Please help me! How can Ms. Swinton be my mother? This is asinine, God.”
I reached despairingly toward the heavens and dropped my arms back down in powerless surrender.
“Am I not supposed to understand? Am I to wait until death before I see things clearly? If so, Lord, give me comfort in the interim. Please don’t leave me. Send me a balm in this, my weakest hour. Don’t let the devil get the best of me. Be my strong tower, Lord, and take me into your bosom. Sometimes I can’t see why things have to be the way they are, but I know your wisdom is perfect. If this is a test to make me stronger, give me the strength, Lord Jesus, to endure. Do me like you did the woman at the well, Lord, and forgive my sins even before I recount them to you. Stand guard over my soul, Master, and as I walk, let me walk close to thee.”
I cried myself back to sleep.
Wednesday
morning I awakened like I did every other morning at home, exchanging fake pleasantries and talking about the beauty of the day. I didn’t want either of my parents to know I had overheard them the previous night, yet I sat at the breakfast table and ate with a contentment that should have left them suspicious.
“You sleep all right, boy?” Daddy inquired as I finished eating. His loud smacking on salmon patties and fried potatoes irritated me more than years before.
“Yes, sir. Quite fine. Slept like a baby.”
Momma glared at me incredulously. I smiled in return, hoping to anger her before she ascertained what I knew.
“Lotta work to do round hyeah today,” she said. “Willie James could use a hand in the hay field.”
I didn’t respond immediately. Momma had a habit of speaking in parts, and I waited for her to continue. However, she remained silent. I hated the way Momma left herself enough room to backpedal if necessary.
“I’ll see what I can do,” I avowed, and moved away from the table.
Then I remembered Ms. Swinton’s request. “Did Daddy tell you what Ms. Swinton wants me to do, Momma?”
“Naw.”
“She wants me to take over the school.” I was standing at the sink washing my plate. My back was turned toward Momma and Daddy at the table.
Apathetically Momma asked, “Is that so?”
“Yes, ma’am. She says I would make an excellent teacher for the local children because I’m from here and I know everybody and everybody knows me.”
“Don’t nobody know you,” Momma declared sarcastically.
“Well, you know what she means. They know y’all and since I grew up here, she thinks I’m pretty well connected to the place.”
Momma kept eating like I had not said a word. I continued washing my plate over and over again, trying to bide a little more time.
“It’s flattering and all, but I told her I wasn’t interested. I do like it here, but I think I would be a poor replacement for someone as smart as Ms. Swinton.”
“Say you ain’t gon’ do it and leave it at that. Them other reasons is jes’ a waste of breath.”
Momma’s words sliced me like a razor. I had no defense when she leveled her critique, and attempting to convince her I was sincere would have been futile. I dropped the subject and left the kitchen to go get dressed.
While in the bathroom, I heard Daddy tell Momma not to forget the family reunion next month.
“A house full of niggas again,” she muttered back.
The first family reunion had been a blast. I was sixteen and eager to meet my extended family because most of them had moved away from Arkansas long before I was born. I met aunts, uncles, and cousins I never knew existed. And they were crazy! Uncle Jethro, my grandfather’s brother, was drunk the whole time and cursed people vehemently for absolutely no reason at all. He has ten boys and all of
them are preachers except the baby. His name is Thomas, too. Thomas went crazy after his momma died, people said. He was only fourteen, but folks say the day of her funeral, he returned home in the afternoon and put on his momma’s apron and started cooking supper like she had done every day. His brothers whispered about his behavior, but they were so damn greedy, folks said, they actually enjoyed the home-cooked meal more than they worried about who cooked it. In fact, Thomas handled all the housework like his momma had taken over his body and come back to life! Uncle Jethro was so confused about his boy acting like his wife that he started drinking heavily. Before Aunt Cil’s death he didn’t touch the stuff, Grandma said. But the day Cil died and his son became the wife and mother of the house, Uncle Jethro took to the bottle, and he’s been inebriated every since.
Rumor had it that Uncle Jethro never confronted Thomas. He remained completely unmoved as he watched his son piddle around the house in his mother’s clothes. At mealtime, he fixed his father’s plate and placed it before him like Cil did. At least, that’s what folks said at the family reunion.
“I b’lieve he and Jethro wuz sleepin’ together, too,” Uncle Roscoe, Daddy’s oldest brother, added with a smirk on his face.
“You lyin’!” an older cousin proclaimed.
“Naw, naw! If I’m lyin’ I’m flyin’, and I sho’ain’t got no wings! I was ova there’bout three or four days after Aunt Cil passed and saw that boy prancin’ round in her old housedress. I asked him was he all right and he said,’Yeah, I’m all right. Why wouldn’t I be?’ He looked at me like I was the one crazy. He offered me some lemonade and somethin’ to eat and said, ‘Don’t you mind me none now, Roscoe. I got to git dis house in order’fore dese mens get in here from de field.’”
Cousin Remmy interrupted, “What that got to do with them sleeping together?”
“I was jes’’bout to tell you dat, muthafucka!”
People roared with laughter. These two were like a tag-team comedy show.
“I asked Thomas if he wanted some help with his house chores and he said, ‘No, no. I jes’’bout got eva’thang done. I jes’ got to git in dere an’ clean our room.’”
“Our room?” Cousin Remmy hollered.
“Ain’t dat what I said? Then he froze and shut right up like he had done said somethin’ he didn’t have no business sayin’.”
“Dat nigga said our room?” Cousin Remmy repeated even louder.
“He sho’ de hell did! And I knowed he was talkin’ ‘bout Uncle Jethro’s room’cause he nodded his head toward it. Ain’t no tellin’ what kinda shit goin’ on in dat house, I said to myself. But jes’ then Uncle Jethro came stubblin’ in de door drunk as a skunk. He acted like everythang was normal, so I didn’t say nothin’ else. I jes’ nodded my head and left.”
“That’s why dat boy didn’t neva leave home,” Cousin Remmy stated. “Jethro told all de rest of ‘em that they had to find dey own place, but not Thomas. He got to be’bout thirty, thirty-five by now, ain’t he?”
“Hell, dat nigga damn near fawty! Shit, dat was thirty years ago when I was ova dere!”
Uncle Roscoe was the king of exaggeration. Everyone loved that about him.
“I hope he ain’t still livin’ dere now,” Cousin Remmy instigated, pretending he didn’t know the truth.
“Shit yeah, dat nigga still livin’ dere! He been cookin’ and cleanin’ for Uncle Jethro ever since his momma died and he ain’t neva stopped. He got on one of Aunt Cil’s dresses now. There he go! Jes’ look at him!”
They all turned and gawked at Thomas as he continued a conversation with another relative. Dressed in a soft pink spaghetti-strap dress with black high-heel shoes, Thomas laughed daintily, waving his hands dramatically. He wore a wide-brimmed floral-print hat that was a bit too much for such an occasion, especially since he stood at
least six-four, yet he walked around the family reunion in complete peace. He was known to speak to everyone in a friendly manner, hugging them longer than most appreciated.
“How come Uncle Jethro ain’t put his ass out?” Cousin Remmy agitated further.
“’Cause he miss Aunt Cil too bad,” Uncle Roscoe answered. “See, Thomas remind Uncle Jethro of Aunt Cil, prancin’ round de house doin’ for him. And he like havin’ somebody wait on him, specially somebody what remind him of his wife. He been in love wit’ her all his life.”
We waited for Uncle Roscoe to swallow the last gulp of his beer so he could continue.
“Uncle Jethro had been tryin’ to get Lucille ever since dey was young folks. Well, when he finally got her, he thought he was in heaven. Least this what folks told me. But when she died he jes’ couldn’t neva git hisself back together. Now when Thomas come home and start actin’ like his momma and doin’ what his momma did, Jethro felt kinda grateful, I guess. It kept remindin’ him of her and kept him from missin’ her so bad. That oldest boy of Jethro’s say Thomas used to sing in falsetto round de house, soundin’ jes’ like dey momma. I think it messed up Jethro’s head. He probably thought Thomas really was Cil all over again.”
“Aw shit, man, ain’t nobody dat damn confused!” Cousin Remmy asserted.
Uncle Roscoe shook his head compassionately while saying, “Sometimes people don’t neva recover from death. Dey jes’ go on actin’ like the person is still here. I guess dey can’t let go.”
“Roscoe, shit! You know well as I do dat that ain’t no reason for dem two to be sleepin’ in de same bed!’
“Maybe he got some pretty legs!” Uncle Roscoe teased.
Standing boldly and fanning himself with his worn-out fishing hat, Cousin Remmy exclaimed, “I don’t know what he got! But he ain’t got what a woman got!”
“You don’t know dat, Remmy! He might!” Uncle Roscoe yelled, leaning on Cousin Remmy to keep from falling over with laughter.
People howled at this insinuation. I wanted to ask someone why they didn’t talk to Thomas and ask him whatever they wanted to know. My position was too obvious to be right, however, so I laughed along.
Uncle Roscoe was the ringleader at family gatherings. He could tell stories and embellish the truth magnificently. People would sit and listen to him for hours tell tales about things that couldn’t possibly be true, although he always swore they were. He was always in the right place at the right time, ironically, to witness every strange event that ever occurred, and he would just happen to be the only witness.
“Come ova heayh and hung yo’ uncle, boy!” he would holler any time he saw me. “You ain’t dat damn grown yet!” And he would squeeze me until I couldn’t breathe. “You’bout to git big as me, nigga, shit!” Of course, that couldn’t possibly be true, for Uncle Roscoe has weighed three hundred pounds since I’ve known him. He used to tease me about being named after Uncle Jethro’s Thomas.
“It’s just a coincidence, Uncle Roscoe,” I told him at that family reunion.
“Oh, OK. If that’s what you think, I’ll let you think it.”
“Leave the boy alone,” Cousin Remmy prodded. “Ain’t no need in you messin’ up somebody else’s life wit’ yo’ shit.”
“Whose life I done messed up, muthafucka?”
And they were off to war. When I got older, I realized their battles were actually games of verbal signification. They had lived together for years, and whenever you saw one, you saw the other. I finally admitted to myself that I belonged to a family of people who liked to talk shit.
The family reunion was held in the field behind our house. That’s where most of the older ones grew up, so that’s where the reunion ought to be, they argued. Uncle Roscoe decreed, “We sho’ ain’t givin’ no white folks no money to rent no space. Shit, dat’s why we havin’
de family reunion. To remind us who in de family.” The argument made sense to all who mattered; thus they decided to have it on the “old home place.” “We can barbecue, fry fish, make potato salad, roast coon, and whatever else we want. Shit, jes’ have a good time!” encouraged Uncle Roscoe. So that’s what we did. Days before the event, Daddy made all of us pick up trash, mow the lawn, and get the land ready for all the crazy niggas comin’. And when they came, I mean they came! I had never seen that many people in one place in all my life. Illinois, Michigan, New York, Kansas, and California were among the license plates I read as people parked on the side of the dirt road and got out. They were clean, too, wearing suits, dresses, and hats that must have cost hundreds of dollars. “These niggas ain’t shit,” Daddy mumbled as he exited the house to greet them.
They had all been born in Swamp Creek, Uncle Roscoe said. “Nothin’ but a bunch of country-ass po’ black people who love to eat and love de Lawd. That’s who you come from,” he told me.
I stuck my chest out pridefully.
“Did yo’ daddy tell you’bout de time him and Chicken stole the teacher’s spelling book?” he asked me, cackling.
“Roscoe, stop lyin’, man,” Daddy warned playfully.
“I ain’t lyin’ and you know it, Cleatis!”
Daddy hadn’t told me this story, but whether he had or not, it didn’t matter. Uncle Roscoe was going to tell it again anyway.
“Where Lizzie Mae? She know!” Uncle Roscoe glanced around, feigning a brief search for Cousin Lizzie who could corroborate his story.
“What happened, Roscoe?” Cousin Remmy prompted, knowing he had heard the story a thousand times.
“Well, see, Cleatis and Chicken hadn’t studied for de spellin’ test. So dey come up wit’ de idea dat they gon’ steal de teacher’s spellin’ book and change de spellin’ words to make her call out words they knowed they could spell.”
“Roscoe, you oughta be’shamea yo’self lyin’ like dat,” somebody said.
“This de God’s honest truth,” Uncle Roscoe declared with his right hand stretched toward the sky. “Chicken was ‘spose’ to write out a list of words him and Cleatis could spell’cause Chicken had pretty handwriting jes’ like Ms. Swinton. See, she had about fifty spellin’ lists, and she would choose whichever list was on top to give out for that day. All Chicken had to do was sneak in her drawer and put a new spellin’ list on top and then the words she called out would be the ones they could spell. Cleatis’s job was to stand guard at de door and make sure Ms. Swinton didn’t catch’em in the act.
“Dey switched ‘em and thangs went real good. About eleven thirty Ms. Swinton told everybody to get out they writin’ books ‘cause they was’bout to have the spellin’ test. Chicken and Cleatis looked at each other and went ta grinnin’’cause they was sure they was gonna make a perfect sco’ on the test. Ms. Swinton told everybody to number they paper from one to fourteen. Now, this seemed strange’cause Chicken had only wrote ten words on the paper he left in Ms. Swinton’s drawer. They didn’t think too much about it, I guess, ‘cause they was real happy they was’bout to make one hundred on the spellin’ test.”

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