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
They Tell Me of a Home: A Novel (19 page)
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“Your whole life’s story is in these journals, Thomas. It might take you a while, but you should sit down and read them carefully. Momma’s entire life was obsessed by what you were having for dinner, or what kind of girlfriend you might find, or whether or not you’d become a preacher.”
“A preacher?” I asked, startled.
“Yeah. Momma predicted you were going to be a preacher because you talked all the time, she said!”
“No I didn’t, man!” I lied. We both laughed.
“She was sure your parents or simply living in Swamp Creek was going to land you in the pulpit.”
“I can’t believe Ms. Swinton wanted me to be a preacher! She never was one big on church.”
“Oh no! She didn’t want you to be a preacher. In fact, she prayed you’d never preach, she said. She thought you’d do it because there wasn’t much else for a smart black boy to do in a little town like Swamp Creek. She never, ever wanted it for you. She used to tell me preachers were narrow and ‘limiting in scope.’ That’s the phrase she always used. She said she hated the fact most preachers could only see God through the eyes of the Bible and certainly God was bigger than the ideological premise any book could ever contain. She told me she had a dream one time you were in the pulpit preaching and you told the congregation the Bible wasn’t even real. It was the creation of writers who got together and decided they were going to write a book about God. Any group of people could do that, you asserted. Wonder what a book about God written by black writers might say? Momma said the church threw you out and told you never to come back. Such rejection is precisely why she hoped you’d never preach.”
“That sounds like something I just might say!” I envisioned myself
standing before a raised podium, sweating and hollering what I knew to be the truth.
standing before a raised podium, sweating and hollering what I knew to be the truth.
“Are you a preacher?” David pondered.
“No, sir. I never preached. Thank God! I have issues with church dogma and dictates. I probably would have left it years ago, but I love the music. Ain’t nothin’ like church folks singing.”
“Yeah, I agree. I have one of the best choirs in the country at my church.”
My entire foot was in my mouth. “You’re a preacher?” I asked, hoping he was not.
“Yeah, I am.”
“Oh God! I’m sorry, man. I didn’t mean to insult your profession.”
“Please! Don’t apologize. I know what you mean. The church has a few wrinkles here and there to iron out.”
“A few?” I offered sarcastically.
“Well, a church is only as holy as the people in it.”
“Amen to that.” I waved my right hand in the air. “Did you go to seminary?”
“Yeah. I went to the Interdenominational Theological Center in Atlanta”
“What? I went to Clark, right down the street. How funny is that?”
“Wow. Our paths almost crossed. Of course, when I was at ITC you were probably in diapers.”
“Incredible,” I said in amazement.
“Life is like that sometimes. God is always doin’ His own thing.”
“Or Her thing.”
“Right.”
We fell silent. I suppose we were trying to learn from each other and deal with Ms. Swinton’s death simultaneously.
“I want to have the funeral as soon as possible. Momma would want it that way. She always said she couldn’t comprehend why it took black folk forever to get a body in the ground. I was thinking Saturday?”
“That’s fine. I’m scheduled to leave Saturday evening at five o’clock, but, of course, the funeral should be over long before then.”
“Are you sure? I don’t want to rush you.”
“Yeah, it’s fine. It’s just that …”
“What?”
“Your mom, I mean our mom, Ms. Swinton, asked something of me that has really left me troubled.”
“What did she ask?”
“She made me promise to take over her job at the school here in Swamp Creek.”
“For real?”
“Yeah.”
“Did you promise to do it?”
“No, I didn’t. In fact, I told her in no uncertain terms I couldn’t handle it.”
“Why can’t you?”
“Excuse me? What do you mean, why can’t I?”
“I mean, why can’t you? It seems pretty simply to me.”
“It ain’t simple at all. When I left here after high school, I vowed never to return again. I got back Saturday and this is the first time I’ve been home since I left.”
“Are you serious?” David inquired in stark horror.
“Yes, I’m serious. It’s a long story, big brother, but I can’t live here. I just can’t. And that’s what I told Ms. Swinton.”
“What did she say?
“She never engaged me. Instead, she went on and on about how great I would be and how all the kids would love me and blah, blah, blah.”
“Do what you need to, but maybe you returned for a reason even you don’t know.”
Vexation prompted me to ask, “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying that maybe taking over the school is something you should think about. You must be a dynamic teacher if Momma implored you to do it. We both know she would only invite the best.”
“All that’s great, David, but it’s more complicated than you could ever imagine.”
“As Momma might say, if you can tolerate your own recalcitrance I have no choice.”
His reverse psychology made me vehement. I rose to leave.
“Don’t go, Thomas,” David pleaded sincerely, and grabbed my arm. “I’d like to know about your sister.”
The request weakened my resolve to leave and further frazzled my formidable strength. Clearly, Ms. Swinton had told him everything about me. Hearing him speak of Sister left me vulnerable and powerless enough to collapse, again, onto the floor and say, “That’s another matter altogether.”
“Momma called me and told me when she died. She knew the news would break your heart. She worried about you.”
“David, it’s asinine. I don’t even know where to begin.”
“Wherever you like,” he said, embracing my hand with his own.
I described how close Sister and I were and detailed, nostalgically, the fun we used to have. I told him how we sang duets in church and mocked people shouting. The butterfly story intrigued him most. Tangentially, I talked for hours.
“Wow. Sounds like she was pretty amazing. How exactly did she die?”
“I don’t know! That’s why I’m embittered. When I got back on Saturday I saw her grave in our backyard, and I’ve been perturbed ever since!”
“In the backyard?” David said, bewildered.
“Exactly! Ain’t that wild? Man, the entire story is bizarre! I’ve been trying to determine what happened, but nobody wants to divulge information. Everybody’s all evasive and hush-hush.”
“I’m sorry, Thomas. I wish there was something I could do.”
“Thanks, man.” Suddenly I discovered hope. “What if Ms. Swinton wrote about it in her journal? I mean, maybe she heard something about Sister’s death and noted it somewhere.”
“Maybe, but I doubt it.”
“Why?” I whined.
“Because Momma never wanted to be the source of your hurt. Your past is too painful, she would say. My guess is that she didn’t write anything about your sister because she knew that, one day, you’d be reading these journals. She would never write anything that would hurt you. That’s a promise she made to herself, I think.”
What David said made sense; thus I killed the hope. Anyway, when I thought about it, Ms. Swinton couldn’t have known the full truth. Nobody did except Momma and Daddy.
“What if you don’t uncover information about your sister before Saturday evening?” David asked, exposing my dilemma.
“I’m history,” I offered confidently. “Why would I stay?”
“Because it doesn’t make sense to leave before your questions get answered.”
“It does if you’re in my shoes.”
David stared at me pitifully. “Oh, I see.”
“For real, man. I’m not staying past Saturday. These last couple of days have been torture for me, and I can’t endure much longer.”
“Could you live without ever knowing?”
“I don’t know. I could if I had to, I suppose.”
The smirk on David’s face revealed he didn’t believe me. “All I’ll say is stay long enough to leave with peace, because if anything happens to your folks, the peace you have is all you’ll get.”
“Amen,” I chimed.
David preached on, “Every man’s gotta walk his own path and decide how much luggage he can carry. Don’t let me convince you to stay. That’s a decision only you can make.”
“And I’ve made it. I’d die here, David. I can’t stay. I’m flattered Ms. Swinton thought highly of me and I intend to find out what happened to Sister, but I’ve got to leave here. Sister was the only reason I came back anyway. And even if I find out what happened, why would I stay?”
David glared at me, sensing I was talking more to myself than him. “Again, do whatever you need to.”
He rose to his knees and began to place the journals into a cardboard box. I surveyed the room Ms. Swinton had left behind and became engulfed in emptiness, despondence, and agitation made most acute by David’s ascension to the role of quintessential big brother.
“What time Saturday?” I stood.
“I don’t know. Maybe around noon or one o’clock?”
“That’ll work,” I heralded, trying not to be melancholy about Ms. Swinton’s funeral. “Who has the body?”
“Marshall Brothers.”
“Oh, good. They’re the best.”
While exiting, I noticed an old picture on the wall. “Who’s this? Do you know?”
“That’s your grandfather.”
“What?”
“Yep. That’s Granddaddy Swinton. He was a buffalo soldier. The buffalo soldiers were black cowboys who went out west to—”
“Yeah, I know. I have a Ph.D. in black studies.”
“Are you serious? You have a Ph.D.?”
“Uh-huh. I graduated last month.”
“Did you tell Momma?”
“Yes. I told her the other day when I came by.”
“Good. She’s at peace then. I’m glad you told her before she died.”
I kept marveling at the picture. “Did you ever meet him?”
“Yeah, once. He was the funniest man! All he did was tell stories about the Old West. My father took me to see him when I was about eight. I don’t remember him well. I just remember that he was funny. And very dark.”
“Really? Darker than this photograph?”
“Much. That picture makes him look light skinned. He said his momma and daddy were full-blooded Africans. You look a bit like him, actually.”
“Yeah, right,” I chuckled.
“Honestly. He was thin like you and had a wide, flat nose. Look at him good.”
I examined the man’s profile intensely and suddenly saw myself. “Wow. I see what you mean. This is incredible.”
“Told you, didn’t I?” David smiled. “Take it with you. I knew him. The picture will help you know him, too.”
“No, no. I couldn’t do that.”
“Why not? Who else wants it?”
“You don’t want it?”
“I want you to have it. You need all the pieces of the puzzle you can get. They’ve been denied to you up to this point, and you deserve them.”
I slowly dismounted the black-and-white picture from the wall. It was framed in the antique oval style and had yellowed over the years. I held it out from me and perused it like I had found a treasure.
“Take these, too,” David said, handing me the box of journals. “They chronicle your life, so you should have them. You won’t really know yourself until you read them, and why not start today?”
David extended a warm smile and dismantled my hesitation. “Go ahead; take them. Under normal circumstances, I might be jealous, and I probably am a little bit, but I know Momma wanted you to have them. Please take them and keep them forever. They’re all you’ll have of her now.”
“Thank you, David,” I maundered, unsure of how to express my gratitude.
“It’s the least I can do,” he assured as I laid the picture on top of the box and embraced it with both arms. “Don’t thank me. Thank Momma.”
David resumed packing other items in the room, seemingly unmoved by his mother’s death. Knowing Ms. Swinton, she had prepared him for it.
“I guess I’d better go now. I told my brother I’d meet him hours ago.”
“All right. I’m gonna stay around here for the next day or two and pack the house up and finish other last-minute details. Come back and rap with me more if you get a chance.”
“I will. I promise.” I had turned to leave with what I hoped would not be Pandora’s box when David asked, “Do you want to be listed on the obituary as her son?”
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