They Tell Me of a Home: A Novel (7 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

BOOK: They Tell Me of a Home: A Novel
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Daddy rose to hang the hoe back on the barn wall. He had that don’t-ask-me-no-more-questions expression on his face, but I ignored it.
“You came home and saw your daughter’s grave in the backyard without knowing she had died?”
“Somethin’ like dat.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean dat yo’ momma said she found her dead in her bed early dat momin’ right after I left for the fields, and wunnit no needa waitin’ till I got home to bury her, so they buried her right then.”
“They who?”
“I don’t know. She said a coupla folks gave her a hand.”
“Daddy, there was no funeral or anything? This is the craziest thing I’ve ever heard of in my life!”
“I done tole you what I know.”
“No, you haven’t.”
“You callin’ me a lie, boy?”
This was getting a little out of hand. Of course I was calling Daddy a lie, but I couldn’t admit it to his face.
“No, sir,” I acquiesced, a bit more softly.
“I knowed you and yo’ sista was close, and dat was good. But I can’t tell you no mo’.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Boy, don’t make me mad, hear?”
“Daddy, I come home after ten years and find my baby sister dead and nobody knows how she died? This can’t be real.”
“Well, it is real. Sister was sweet, but de Lawd called her home.”
“Oh, don’t give me that bullshit.”
Daddy swung and hit me in the mouth with the back of his hand. “Don’t chu neva cuss at me as long as you live, boy! Is you done gone plumb damn crazy?”
I was lying on the ground with Daddy standing over me breathing hard. My teeth were still in place and nothing was bleeding, so I pushed my luck.
“No, I ain’t crazy, but y’all are!” I jumped to my feet.
“Well, we might be, but it ain’t got nothin’ to do wid you. You ran away from dis place ten years ago. You ain’t got nothin’ to say far as I’m concerned.”
“I’m not trying to run anybody’s business, Daddy. I’m trying to find out what happened to my sister. Is that too much to ask?”
“From me it is,’cause I don’t know. Don’t ask me again!” Daddy stormed out of the barn.
I sat down on the feed bucket and tried to make sense of it all. Daddy said he didn’t know anything and Momma didn’t, either. Of course, both of them were lying. Who could I turn to? Tears came to my eyes as I felt a warm trickle of blood flow from my bruised lip. If I had left at that moment, my folks would probably have been glad. But I didn’t leave. I couldn’t. Not yet.
Sunday
morning was bright and shiny. I awakened to the smell of smoked ham and eggs and knew everyone was up except me. I rose, washed myself quickly, and dressed for church. When I emerged from the bathroom, I realized everyone had already eaten. We exchanged phony “good mornings,” and I sat at the table praying church would be as good as it had once been.
The family waited on me to finish eating. Sitting at the table alone, I could feel their disdain for my lateness and their disgust at my interruption of the normal Sunday morning flow. Consequently, I ate hurriedly, although I didn’t eat fast enough to pacify their impatience, for moans, grunts, and nasty facial expressions confirmed they were about to leave me if I didn’t hurry. Choosing not to face their wrath, I left my plate half-eaten, and we got in the car and headed on our way. As we approached the church, I could hear Miss Odella singing “I Woke Up Dis Moanin’ wid My Mind Stayed on Jesus.” That was her favorite song. Every time Deacon Tilman asked somebody, which meant anybody, to lead the congregation in a song, Miss Odella would jump up and start singing her song. Grandma commented, “The song is fine and all, but Odella know she lyin’! If hu’
mind was stayed on Jesus, she wouldn’t have hu’ ass in the honky-tonk on Saturday nights.” Miss Odella loved to party and drink, although nobody really minded, I guess, because no one ever said anything directly to her about it. Grandma used to titter and say, “That woman oughta be ‘shame’ o’ hurself. Ain’t no way she woke up dis moanin’ wid hur mind on Jesus. She ain’t neva been to sleep!”
Daddy parked the car in the same place he had parked it for thirty years. We got out in reticence and prepared for the ritual. Daddy had on his one navy blue suit, although people had given him others in hopes he might experience change for a moment, but no luck. Momma wore a pink two-piece dress that I didn’t like, and her hairstyle was exactly as it had been since I was born. Never anything different, never a risk. Convention was Momma and Daddy’s theme. They walked into church first, suggesting at least the appearance of love and order in our home. Willie James followed in his black slacks and white shirt. These were his “meetin’” clothes, and any time he dressed up, I was sure, this was his attire. I asked him once if he wanted some other clothes and he said, “Why would I?”
I concluded the Tyson family processional in a pair of khaki shorts and a dashiki. Daddy said I reminded him of something straight out of the African jungle.
When we entered the church, I laughed aloud at the sound of the old piano. It had been out of tune for fifty years. Mr. Jared, the pseudo-musician, played in a kind of juke-joint style, producing a “plunkety plunk, plunk, plunk” rhythm that made every song sound alike. He had not learned one new chord in ten years. If I had asked him about it, he probably would have said exactly what Willie James said: “Why would I?”
The congregation saw me and immediately began to cheer the prodigal son’s return. I smiled at everyone and took my seat.
“Good moanin’, good moanin’,” Deacon Blue burbled cheerfully. “This sho’ is a gred day!”
“Yes, it is, brotha’ superintendent!” Ms. Polly confirmed.
“We see dat de Good Lawd done seed fit to brang one o’ our own back to us.”
Daddy and Momma didn’t say anything. They beheld everyone as though wishing we’d get on with the business at hand.
“Come say a word to us, T.L., befo’ we opens up fu’ Sunday school.”
A chorus of loud “Amens” reinforced the request and left me positioned behind the old wooden podium in front of the small congregation.
“Praise the Lord, saints,” I began. Everybody was glad to see I hadn’t lost Jesus.
“Praise the Lord,” they returned.
“It’s been a while, huh?” I snickered, embarrassed.
“I’m tellin’ you!” folks said as they nudged one another.
“Well, the Lord has been good to me. I went away to college, and now I have a Ph.D. in African-American studies. I attend church regularly and I work with young people in my community. Seems like every time I planned to get home, something came up. This time I refused to let anything get in my way. It’s good to see all of you, and I ask that you pray for my strength in the Lord.”
Most of what I said was a boldface lie, but it was what they wanted to hear. While returning to my seat, I could tell folks had more questions than I had answered. Miss Odella turned around, pinched me endearingly, and whispered, “Where you been at, boy?” She patted my leg affectionately, a sign she wasn’t finished with me yet.
Sunday school was hilarious. Deacon Blue misquoted “Stripture,” called Elijah “Isaiah,” and said Deuteronomy was in the New Testament. I barely held my peace. The Sunday school lesson was called “A New Creature.” It was based on II Corinthians 5:17, which says: “Therefore if any man be in Christ, he is a new creature: old things are passed away; behold, all things are become new.” Deacon Blue’s explanation of this verse sent me to the bathroom.
“See, what de Lawd is sayin’ here,” he explained self-righteously,
“is dat we got to get rid o’ all dat old stuff in our houses. Somma y’all got clothes and little ceramic stuff you been had fu’ fawty years. Dis Stripture is tellin’ us we got to get rid o’ dat. All yo’ old stuff you got to th’ow’way!”
He stepped back from the podium, proud of his assumed profundity. I couldn’t hold it any longer. I started coughing to keep from screaming, and I ran to the restroom before I embarrassed myself irreparably. Had Sister been there, she would have known exactly why I was laughing. In fact, she would have followed me a few seconds later, and we would have laughed together back in the church kitchen. Yet Sister wasn’t there. The thought of her stole my ephemeral joy. I sat on the commode thinking, instead, about the time I had spent in that old church. I had been the musician, once upon a time, learning new songs from the radio and attempting to teach them to the choir. Folks couldn’t sing parts, thought notes were too high, and wanted to know what was wrong with the old songs we sang. Forget it, I said to myself. Progress simply had no luck in Swamp Creek.
I suppose I was the problem because I wanted more than a mediocre country existence. I was never satisfied with the bare minimum or with things being the way they had always been. Rather, I wanted to experiment with new foods and creative forms foreign to Swamp Creek culture. My goal as a teenager had been to birth some new ideas in Swamp Creek—like reading for pleasure—and to question the validity of long-held traditions, the meanings of which no one knew. As an adult, much of what I once believed I didn’t anymore, but had I exposed this truth at church, I might have been crucified. Homefolks would certainly say I had lost my salvation. Like the time I objected when the church voted to excommunicate Ms. Janey and Ms. Pauline. I knew even back then the church was dead wrong, but Momma and everyone else said the two women had to go because they were “funny” and God didn’t like that. Whether they were funny or not, both women were kind to me. If they loved each
other, I thought, they’d done better than any of us. “Maybe the Bible is incorrect on this matter,” I suggested boldly when the church met for the vote. Daddy shot me a glance more threatening than an automatic rifle, so I shut up and complied. I wasn’t afraid to disagree with church folks, but I was scared to death to defy my father.
I saw an old fan on the bathroom floor with the name Mosley Funeral Home across the top. That was the mortuary that had buried Grandma years ago. I had dreaded seeing her in a coffin. However, when Mosley finished with her and opened the casket at the funeral, she simply looked as though she were asleep. She wasn’t ashen and stiff, as I had feared. Actually, I remember thinking how pretty she was. Old Man Mosley and his son had dressed her in pink, her favorite color, and I asked them if I could comrow her hair. It was a strange request, I know, but Grandma loved it when I braided her hair, so they let me. In the morgue, I told her things I had never told anyone.
I returned to my seat in church as Sunday school was about to end.
“Seem lak to me,” Deacon Blue said, “we oughta git T.L. to come on up heayh and review dis lesson. He done gone and got all dat learnin’ and I sho’ would lak to heayh him talk.”
“Amen, amen,” said everyone except my folks.
I stood, a bit unsure, because I had not studied the Sunday school lesson, but soon calmed, for it didn’t take much learning to do what they were asking.
I spoke for a few moments, inserting a little drama here and there, and then resumed my seat. “Dat boy sho’ can talk, can’t he, Louise?” I heard Ms. Peggy say as she grinned proudly. Ms. Louise nodded her head repeatedly.
“Dat’s what dat schoolin’ do fu’ ya!” proclaimed Deacon Blue, returning to the podium. “I been tryin’ to git mine to go and git some learnin’, but seem lak dey don’t wanna do nothin’. But chu cain’t make nobody drank water. All you can do is hold de glass.”
“Dat’s de truf,” the congregation returned in chorus.
“T.L., it sho’ is good to see you back round here. Dese chillin needs somebody like you to come and tell em how to go’bout. I tries all de time, but dey don’t wanna lissen to no ole man. You talk to’em while you’s heayh, OK?”
“Oh, sure,” I said, knowing I planned to break town as soon as I got a chance.
Sunday school dismissed and church began. Aunt Cookie opened with “I Shall Not Be Moved.” I sat there, very still, trying not to cry, but I couldn’t help it. “Just like a tree, planted by the waters,” she bellowed from the pit of her soul. That woman could sing for me any day!
They did the announcements, took up collection, sang another song, and Reverend Dawson got up to preach. To this day, I don’t have the slightest idea what he said. He started somewhere in Genesis, and by the time he got to hoopin’ good, he was in Revelation. I tuned him out after a while. Since folks in Swamp Creek obviously enjoyed—or endured—him, I decided to roll along. I said amen occasionally, simply out of respect. His entire sermon was filled with trite clichés and lines from old Baptist hymns. It was funny, really, how people could go to church their entire lives and listen to the same sermons week after week. When black folks drop the fear of critique, I thought, our liberation can come.
Church ended and we headed home. Again, no one said anything. I sat behind Daddy, staring out of the car window at the open land that used to be full of trees. “Who cut all this down?” I asked.
“Willie James,” Momma sighed, probably hoping I wouldn’t ask anything else.
We arrived home and the first thing I saw when I exited the car was Sister’s grave. I instantly recalled that no one had said a word about it at church. Daddy, Momma, and Willie James walked by the tombstone and into the house unmoved by its presence. I shook my head in disbelief, walked over to the mound, and sat like a zombie. Momma peered at me through the kitchen window.
“Sister, I don’t understand,” I confessed softly, staring into oblivion.
“What the hell is going on? Something is horribly wrong! Everyone else is fine, while I’m the one traumatized! Are niggas crazy? This doesn’t make any sense. What happened, Sister? What happened?” I rocked myself back and forth with my arms folded as the sun beamed down hard on me. “Girl, girl, girl!” I cried as rivers of tears meandered down my face.
Then, wondering whether I had lost my mind, I wailed, “This doesn’t seem crazy to anyone but me?” Momma was still surveying me with a devious smile. Her ability to witness my pain without reaction was uncanny. I rose to my feet and rubbed the tombstone gently. “Sister, is this real?” I searched back and forth from the grave to the house, totally bewildered. “I must be in the Twilight Zone,” I crowed, walking into the house.
“What’s so funny?” Willie James asked. He had changed into his overalls and was sitting at the kitchen table waiting on the rest of the family to sit for Sunday dinner.
“Man, I must really be crazy. I mean, for real. Do you see that grave, Willie James?” I pulled back the curtain from the kitchen window.
“T.L., please!” Willie James whispered intensely.
“Please what? Man, what’s wrong with y’all? This shit ain’t crazy to you?”
“Yeah, it is, little brotha, but I cain’t say nothin’. You oughta jes’ leave it alone.”
“And how am I supposed to do that?”
“By keepin’ yo’ damn mouth shut.”
“Man, fuck that!”
“See? You still talk too damn much. You always thought you knowed everything. You never listened to nobody long enough to learn nothin’.”
Willie James was implying he might talk later; so I humbled myself and whimpered, “Sorry.”
“Trust me when I tell you dat you don’t want to know what happened to Sister. It ain’t a pretty picture.”
“I don’t care how ugly it is! I want to know!”
The kitchen table vibrated from our vicious murmuring. I was trying to get what I could out of Willie James before Momma and Daddy got to the table.
“The only thing I can tell you is that she was on her way to see you.”
“What?”
“One Thursday night, Sister came to my room and said, ‘I’m leavin’ tomorrow, Willie James. I ain’t stayin’ here anotha day. I’m goin’ to find T.L. I think I know where he is.’ ‘How do you know?’ I asked her. ‘Trust me,’ she said as she sat on the edge of my bed and started cryin’. She was desperate and hurting bad. ‘I gotta go. I can’t take it no more. Tell Momma and Daddy not to worry.’ ‘You got money?’ I whispered. ‘Yeah, I got some. I got enough, anyway.’ We hugged each other like we knew it would be the last time. She asked me if I would give her a ride to the bus station about five o‘clock the next morning, and I told her I would. I was jealous she loved you more than she did me, but wasn’t nothin’ I could do about it. I wished her well and told her to take care of herself.”

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