They Tell Me of a Home: A Novel (14 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
“I want to have peace of mind, Ms. Swinton,” I said vehemently and resumed my seat beside her. She reached for my hand and I gave it to her. “I didn’t come home to start confusion like my folks think. I simply wanted to see Sister and ask Momma and Daddy some questions. That’s all.” I hesitated a moment and then inquired, “Did you hear about what happened to Sister?”
Ms. Swinton nodded affirmatively. “Yes, I heard. It doesn’t make sense to me, either. I didn’t ask anyone any questions, though, due to fear of impropriety. I prayed that, when you learned the truth, it wouldn’t crush you too badly. I know how much you loved her.”
“Yeah. I loved her a lot.”
Ms. Swinton squeezed my hand harder and said, “Thomas,” but then stopped.
“Yes, ma’am?” I responded curiously.
“Oh, forget it. It can wait.”
“Are you sure?” I pressed, wanting to hear what she had to say.
“Yes, I’m sure.”
She took a deep breath, a sign exhaustion had returned, but she tried to smile anyway.
“Thomas, the Lord has answered my prayer today. I asked Him to send you back to me before I die. I wanted to see you, hold your hand, and know that your life is abundantly blessed.”
Ms. Swinton’s physical affection frightened me, although less than her fervid heart. Within me, I would have to make room for her character to be other than that of the stoic woman of my childhood.
“I guess I’d better be getting home. I’ve been here awhile now and I don’t want to drain you. I only wanted to come see you and to let you know I was back home. Also I wanted to thank you for all your kindness and help over the years.”
I hugged her very gently and struggled to rise, but she held on to me and would not let go.
“Stay a little while longer, son,” she beseeched. “I don’t have company too often and you always were my favorite student. I want to study you real good”—her eyes squinted—“so I can take you with me when I go home.”
I obliged, of course, continuing to hold her hand as she rubbed mine amiably. Honestly, the woman was scaring me. Her plea for my presence forced the realization that, indeed, she was dying. Now, more than ever, I needed her to speak to me and say whatever would set her spirit free, but, instead, she lay silent in bed, rocking herself slowly and lamentably, dealing with me more as a memory than a real person. I had no choice, it seemed, but to endure, for Ms. Swinton was in her final hour. Her quietude and inner bliss were at once admirable and ominous. She manifested absolutely no fear; rather, her heart’s desire, it seemed, was to transition while I held her hand. I didn’t know how much time she had, whether days or moments, but it wouldn’t be long. My arrival, I was afraid, had been the defining factor.
I gazed at this irreplaceable legend of a woman. Everybody in Swamp Creek had a story about how Ms. Swinton whipped them in school until they “got their lesson out” or how she slapped their hands with a ruler until their penmanship was impeccable. She had given her students her best. Yet never once did I consider whether Ms. Swinton felt loved and appreciated. People’s reverence for her never left room for me to consider her pain or loneliness. I assumed her heart was always satisfied. I never knew she, too, had left Swamp Creek in search of a life more abundant.
“Thomas,” Ms. Swinton said, barely audible.
“Yes, ma’am?”
“I have a favor to ask of you.”
“Sure, ma’am. Anything. You need water or food or—”
“No, son. It’s much more serious than that.”
“Whatever it is, just ask,” I said. I saw no need for reservations.
“Fine. I want you to know, though, I’ve thought this through thoroughly and I know it’s right,” Ms. Swinton whimpered intensely.
I began to worry. She sounded more serious than I wanted to entertain. “I want you to take my position as Swamp Creek’s schoolteacher.”
“What?” I screamed, jerking my hand from hers.
“No one else is as qualified as you, Thomas. You know the people, you know the territory, you have the education, and you have the intellectual savvy. I recognize this is a lot to ask from such a young, brilliant man, but there is no other choice.”
“I can’t do that, Ms. Swinton! I’m sorry.” The fire in my eyes was disrespectful, certainly, but I had no intention of entertaining what she had requested, even in further conversation. She pressed on irreverently.
“I know the children will love you,” she complimented me, ignoring me perfectly. “They are eager to learn and full of life. You’ll have to be strict and firm, for Swamp Creek parents don’t value education very much. The money isn’t very good, but the reward comes when you see the children transform.”
I wasn’t even listening anymore. “Ms. Swinton! I can’t do that! I can’t live here again! It’s out of the question.”
I stood, preparing myself to go because Ms. Swinton had angered me. How dare she ask me to take over the school and move back to Swamp Creek permanently! I was seething with wrath and exuding irascibility well beyond my comfort zone.
“Yes, you can do it, Thomas,” she declared calmly. “You must. There is no one else.”
“I’m sure there’s someone else somewhere! I know lots of recent black college graduates who might like a small country school. I’ll get in touch with a few and see what—”
Ms. Swinton cut me off. “It must be you, Thomas. These children need to know who they are. I’ve done my best, but my day is over. You know enough black history to transform these children’s lives completely.
The Harlem Renaissance, the Negritude Movement, the Scottsboro Incident, the Berlin Conference of 1850 where Europe divided Africa like a puzzle and decided which European country would colonize which part of Africa … these children need to know these things. You, T.L., could explain to them why they loathe their own black skin and despise nothing more fiercely than beautiful kinky African hair. And, most important, you could show them the connection between their own rural black culture and elements of traditional African cultures so they would be proud to be African instead of fighting not to be. You’ve traveled the world and seen people and places most of them will never see. Furthermore, they can relate to you. You and the children are cut from the same cloth.”
The Harlem Renaissance, the Negritude Movement, the Scottsboro Incident, the Berlin Conference of 1850 where Europe divided Africa like a puzzle and decided which European country would colonize which part of Africa … these children need to know these things. You, T.L., could explain to them why they loathe their own black skin and despise nothing more fiercely than beautiful kinky African hair. And, most important, you could show them the connection between their own rural black culture and elements of traditional African cultures so they would be proud to be African instead of fighting not to be. You’ve traveled the world and seen people and places most of them will never see. Furthermore, they can relate to you. You and the children are cut from the same cloth.”
It was my turn to cut her off. “I’m sorry, Ms. Swinton, but I can’t. I already have a job,” I lied, “a home, and other things I want to do that I can’t do here. I’m flattered you’d ask me—really, I am—but I’m sorry.”
I began walking toward the door.
Ms. Swinton yelled, “Do not walk as I’m talking, boy!” I froze, feeling like a third grader again.
“I know this seems unfeasible, Thomas, but we need you.” She paused. “And you need us. Pray about your answer before you give it.” She breathed wearily and then turned her head to examine me. “You may go now.”
Distraught and disillusioned, I had begun to walk out of the bedroom when she stopped me abruptly.
“Thomas?”
I said nothing. I kept my back turned toward her.
“Thomas Lee Tyson?” Ms. Swinton called more emphatically.
“Yes, ma’am?” I mumbled.
“Look at me,” she insisted. Tears stood fragilely in her eyes. I could hardly behold her.
“Thank you. And … I love you.” She expelled a weighted sigh, obviously relieved of a very great burden.
“Ms. Swinton, I’m flattered and all, but—”
“Do not insult me, young man!” she roared, then gasped deeply to regain her strength. “This is not about flattery or your ego. This is about the salvation of black children in Swamp Creek. They need your brilliance, Thomas. No one else is going to believe in them like I know you will. That’s why it must be you.”
She hesitated, in order to catch more breath, and continued. “I envision you rising proud and strong,” she proclaimed with a smile as she closed her eyes, “leading the students in ‘
Lift Every Voice and Sing’
until they know it perfectly. They’ll beam at the power of your voice, T.L., and seek nothing more earnestly than to match it. I’ll be so happy!” Her voice broke and tears formed rivers down her cheeks. “You’ll tell them about Frederick Douglass, Ida B. Wells, lynching, Black Codes, and the Little Rock Central High Integration Incident. Or maybe you’ll read
The Bluest
Eye and teach them the dangers of black people embracing European standards of beauty. Or maybe you’ll study
Native Son
and contextualize black rage so they won’t think African people in America are livid for no justifiable reason. Whatever you study, the children’s lives will be changed forever. They’ll never forget you because you showed them that their savior is a real-life black man who shares their genesis. Consequently, they’ll finally believe that, maybe, they, too, can save another’s soul. See, T.L., you know things most college graduates do not. I’m sure of this. You left here with a thirst for knowledge and you were not going to be satisfied until you learned enough to see your own beauty. And it’s that beauty you must teach these children, son. They’re dying constantly. They think they’re too black and too stupid to be of any value. Unfortunately, their folks inadvertently reinforce such notions, and I am too old to fight the battle any longer. But you’re not.”
Lift Every Voice and Sing’
until they know it perfectly. They’ll beam at the power of your voice, T.L., and seek nothing more earnestly than to match it. I’ll be so happy!” Her voice broke and tears formed rivers down her cheeks. “You’ll tell them about Frederick Douglass, Ida B. Wells, lynching, Black Codes, and the Little Rock Central High Integration Incident. Or maybe you’ll read
The Bluest
Eye and teach them the dangers of black people embracing European standards of beauty. Or maybe you’ll study
Native Son
and contextualize black rage so they won’t think African people in America are livid for no justifiable reason. Whatever you study, the children’s lives will be changed forever. They’ll never forget you because you showed them that their savior is a real-life black man who shares their genesis. Consequently, they’ll finally believe that, maybe, they, too, can save another’s soul. See, T.L., you know things most college graduates do not. I’m sure of this. You left here with a thirst for knowledge and you were not going to be satisfied until you learned enough to see your own beauty. And it’s that beauty you must teach these children, son. They’re dying constantly. They think they’re too black and too stupid to be of any value. Unfortunately, their folks inadvertently reinforce such notions, and I am too old to fight the battle any longer. But you’re not.”
“Ms. Swinton, I’m sorry. This is more than I can handle.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“Yes, it is! Do you know what you’re asking of me?”
“Of course I know. That’s why I’m asking you. I asked God for a sign you were the one to do this, and today I’m staring at the sign.”
“I’m not the one, Ms. Swinton. I promise you, I’m not.”
“Oh, you’re undoubtedly the one. No need to be volatile, Thomas. You’ll do splendidly. When I glance down from heaven and see those children loving themselves and believing in themselves, I’ll put in a good word for you!” she chuckled.
“This is not funny, Ms. Swinton. I can’t help you this time. I’m sorry, but I can’t. I’m only here until Saturday.”
“Then you’ll go get your things and come back to where you belong.”
“No! I don’t belong here anymore. I grew up here, but my life is elsewhere. New York feels good to me, and I have a girlfriend whom I can’t simply abandon without notice. I am really honored you would think of me to walk in your footsteps, but I have to decline the offer. I’m sorry.”
I was trying to go, but Ms. Swinton wouldn’t release me.
“You can’t decline it, son. It’s your destiny, your heritage. You can never get away from that.”
“I’m not trying to get away from anything! I simply refuse to relocate back to Swamp Creek. There’s nothing here for me anymore. I need a life, things to intrigue me. Don’t misunderstand me, however. Swamp Creek is good for whoever wants to live here, but it’s not for me.”
“It’s not about you anymore, son,” Ms. Swinton announced soothingly. “It’s about what you can give, what you can do. This alone will be your joy and your satisfaction. When you see these poor black country children ascend and declare their own history and their own beauty, therein will be your pay sufficient. Give your all and you shall be great.”
I opened my mouth to protest further, but I knew I could not dissuade her. I wasn’t sure what more I could have said anyway. What I knew for sure was that I was not living in Swamp Creek ever again.
“Good-bye, Ms. Swinton,” I said attitudinally.
“Good-bye, Thomas,” she said with her eyes still closed and a slight smirk on her face. “And thank you. You will not be sorry.”
When
I left Ms. Swinton’s house, I paced the woods for hours contemplating her request. Never had it crossed my mind to live in Swamp Creek again. Escaping from it was the achievement, and God knows I had absolutely no intention of returning to it permanently.
I left Ms. Swinton’s house, I paced the woods for hours contemplating her request. Never had it crossed my mind to live in Swamp Creek again. Escaping from it was the achievement, and God knows I had absolutely no intention of returning to it permanently.
Daddy was leaning against his pickup truck when I got home. As I approached, he fidgeted like one preparing himself for an uncomfortably imminent encounter. He was dusty brown from working in the fields, and his slight grimace caused him to resemble Morgan Freeman, especially when his brows furrowed at the feigned clearing of his throat.
“Where you been all day?” he asked.
“I went to see Ms. Swinton,” I droned with my head bowed.
“How she gettin’’long?”
“All right.”
“All right? How a woman gon’ be all right who dyin’?”
“I don’t know,” I whimpered, about to cry.
Daddy frowned and asked, “What’s wrong wid chu?”
I didn’t want to divulge the source of my turmoil, but I did anyway.
“Ms. Swinton wants me to take her place as Swamp Creek schoolmaster.”
“Ms. Swinton wants me to take her place as Swamp Creek schoolmaster.”
We observed silence for a very long time. Then Daddy asked, “Well, what’d you say?” He began to move toward the barn.
I followed him. “I told her I couldn’t do it.”
If I hadn’t known Daddy better, I might have thought he was disappointed.
“So what chu cryin’ fu’?” Daddy asked, pouring the cows’ feed.
“I don’t know.”
I filled the other bucket and we walked to the cows’ trough in yet more silence. The sun was setting, and the blue, orange, and purple in the sky were incredible. I didn’t remember Arkansas sunsets as breathtaking. When the cows heard the feed hit the trough, they came running. Daddy and I backed away quickly to avoid getting trampled. We stood there examining the cows because neither of us could figure out what to say next.
“Folks round here sho’ is gon’ miss dat woman,” he asserted, and turned to walk back to the barn. “Specially dem kids.”
“I’m sure someone will come along who is just as good as she was,” I stated. “No one is absolutely indispensable.”
“Yeah, I guess so,” Daddy replied, more to himself than to me. Then, peering into my eyes he asked, “You couldn’t see yo’self livin’ back hyeah with us crazy backward country folks, huh?”
He had caught me out on a limb.
“Oh no, it’s not that,” I fumbled. “It’s just that … um … well, I … um …”
“I don’t blame you, boy. Dese hyeah folks ain’t got much sense and they sho’ ain’t tryin’ to hear from a youngun like you.”
“Living here again wouldn’t be a big problem,” I said as Daddy walked out of the barn and into the evening dusk. Again I followed, disgusted with myself for not having the courage to speak truth to my own father. His broad laughter, however, exposed the lie I was trying desperately to conceal.
“I ‘member de day I told myself dat I was leavin’ this old country place. I was ‘bout sixteen.” He chuckled again, at what I don’t know. “I wunnit nothin’ but a li’l bitty fella back den. The days was long and hard. We chopped cotton from mornin’ dark till evenin’ dark. Wunnit no such thang as goin’ shoppin’ or sittin’ down readin’ a book. We had to work, boy. The only time you wunnit workin’ you was sleepin’.” Daddy shook his head slowly.
I was trying to discover why he was talking to me. Daddy and I had never had an extended conversation, and this one felt unnatural. I didn’t say anything, though; I kept listening.
“You thank you de only person eva had a hard time?”
I knew the question was rhetorical, but the pause left an awkward silence momentarily.
“Well, you ain’t. Plenty folks done had hard times, boy. I sho’ done had my share.”
Dusk evolved into night and I wondered how long Daddy was going to talk. I wasn’t about to interrupt, however, for although mosquitoes in Arkansas have no mercy, I was still a boy to him. In other words, I knew when to speak and when not to speak.
“When I was a boy, we had to git up ‘bout five every mornin’ and do our chores. Feed the hogs, gather cookin’ wood, milk de cow. Wunnit no such thang as sleepin’ late. Hell, six o’clock was late to us. We ate breakfast, which wunnit nothin’ usually but some fat meat, grits, biscuits, and molasses. We was grateful to git it. Some mornin’s we just had de biscuits and molasses. Then we’d load up on de back of de truck and make our way to de cotton field. It’d be black as midnight, but we didn’t have no choice. We had to eat. Didn’t nobody have no high education where dey could get no good job. All we could do was sweat like damn slaves. Every coupla hours de water boy would come round and give everybody a sip o’ piss-warm water dat didn’t do nothin’ but make you wanna whip his ass. You couldn’t fault him, though. He had de hardest job in de field. Runnin’ from de well to de workers all day made you’preciate dem long rows a little better.”
Daddy cackled, but I knew he hadn’t meant to be funny. His story was intriguing, so I continued listening much more earnestly.
“If you didn’t work fast enough, de old folks would tear yo’ ass up rat dere in front o’ everybody. Dey meant for you to pick at least two hundred pounds o’ cotton a day. Some folks was good at it and some wusn’t, but you sho’ betta make like you was killin’ yo’self or either you was gon’ git a good whoopin’.”
Daddy suspended his tale, surveying the stars in seeming awe and wonder. Whether the beer or his nostalgia softened his countenance I could not ascertain, but, for some reason he was impetuous about my knowing his life saga. How it would empower me I didn’t know, yet I was clear Daddy was trying painstakingly to bequeath something to me.
“I had enough whoopin’s for a lifetime, boy. My grandpa would catch me playin’ when I wuz s’pose’ to be workin’ and start beatin’ me like a carpenter beats a nail. I would scream and holla, but it didn’t make no difference. I thank he liked it. I don’t know why, though. I tried to cry enough to convince him dat he was killin’ me, but dat’s when he started hittin’ me harder. I thought I hated him till I got grown and knowed betta.”
A mosquito landed on my arm and Daddy shooed it away protectively. He had never told me the specifics of his past before. All I ever heard about was how people worked hard all the time and never had enough. It was ironic, to say the least, that he began telling me this after I told him about Ms. Swinton’s
request.
request.
“Didn’t you hate this place?” I asked, seeing the pain on Daddy’s face.
“Naw, I ain’t neva hated it. I always loved it, to tell you de truth. The land, the cows, the fishin’, the farmin’ … I’m a country boy at heart. I just hated how we lived back then. Hard times make hard people, boy.”
Daddy reached into the bed of his truck and got another beer. He handed me one, too, and although I didn’t want it, it didn’t seem right to refuse the truce.
“You ain’t neva had no hard times, boy. You always knowed you was gonna eat somethin’. It might notta been what you wanted, but you knowed you was gonna git somethin’. When I was comin’’long, we wusn’t sure if we was gon’ eat sometime. If we didn’t find some berries or muscadines or fruit on somebody’s tree, we woulda been up shit creek. Or sometimes we’d find a old fishin’ pole and go down to Blue’s pond and see couldn’t we catch a mess o’ fish. If we didn’t, then we’d just be hungry. Folks was too proud to beg, so we starved and smiled about it.”
He gulped the beer greedily. I still didn’t understand what I was supposed to do with all this information. I was leaving in a few days and failed, quite frankly, to see the relevance. Then Daddy shocked me.
“When you come along, I promised myself dat my kids wusn’t gon’ have to work theyselves to death for no white man or no other man. I told Momma dat she was crazy if she thought I was raisin’ another generation of cotton-pickin’ colored people. She told me not to talk too fast, but I didn’t listen. I meant what I was sayin’. My kids gon’ go to school and learn theyselves somethin’ and be somebody. But I saw pretty soon dat I wasn’t nobody, so dat’s what I raised y’all to be.”
“You are somebody, Daddy,” I protested, unable to look him in the eye.
“I wanted one o’ y’all to be a lawya. I heard ‘bout how dey talks in cote and makes a whole lotta money. You come’long and like to talk so well, I thought it might be you. But I guess you can’t make nobody be nothin’. You got to live fu’ yo’self. But see, boy, I didn’t have no life to live. Dem cotton fields and all dat damn work had done took my life. I was hopin’ thangs I didn’t have no business hopin’. I neva could go to school too long’cause de folks needed me to work. So by de time I had my own kids, I knowed dat I wasn’t gon’ neva be nothin’. I ‘speck dat’s what kept my mouth stuck out all de time. I seed you learnin’ and readin’ dem books and how Ms. Swinton went on’bout how smart you was. And I was proud. Real proud. But I was mad, too, ‘cause dat was s’pose’ to be me. You didn’t seem to want it like I wanted it, and it came to you so easy. It just seemed lak you was gittin’ my life.”
“Why didn’t you leave here and go find what you wanted?” I asked empathetically.
He gaped at me and burbled sadly, “Leave here and go where? Wit’ what? I didn’t have a quarter to catch de bus to town, let alone travelin’ to anotha city. I neva finished school, so I knowed it didn’t make no sense thankin’’bout no college. I wunnit no dummy now; don’t git me wrong. But I knowed I couldn’t catch up to de other chil’ren. So I stayed right heayh.
“It’s all right, though. A man can make a livin’ anywhere. He just got to know what he doin’ and know how to do without sometimes. But every now and then, he thanks about what he was s‘pose’ to be or what he coulda been and he might drink a little bit to help ease the memory.”
Daddy was trying to make me feel guilty, I decided. This was absolutely not the man I had grown up with. He sounded like he had a heart, a dream, a desire for more than he could see. This wasn’t my father. He had always been an angry man, one who knew how to reduce the world and the people in it to manageable terms. This new man was one who sensed another existence belonged to him. He spoke now of peace and familial joy that was beyond the man who had raised me. I was confused.
“Don’t be too surprised,” Daddy declared, reading my mind. “You ain’t the only one who thought about leavin’. You just had enough nerve to do it.”
“It wasn’t because I hated the place, Daddy.”
“Yeah it was. That’s exactly why you left. You hated everything about Swamp Creek, and I don’t blame you. I just thought I’d let you know dat you ain’t de only one thought ‘bout escapin’. When you left, I knowed you wunnit comin’ back. Fu’ what? Wunnit nothin’ here fu’ ya. Even Sista wunnit enough. I always knowed dat. I thought she’d leave here, too, and find you somewhere. But I knowed you wunnit comin’ back. I wouldn’t have come, neither.”
It was pitch-dark. Only the night-light emitted a shadow sufficient
for Daddy and me to see each other. Its burning hot surface euthanized flies, mosquitoes, gnats, and lightning bugs as they danced too closely, tempting a deadly foe. I watched excitedly until Daddy interrupted.
for Daddy and me to see each other. Its burning hot surface euthanized flies, mosquitoes, gnats, and lightning bugs as they danced too closely, tempting a deadly foe. I watched excitedly until Daddy interrupted.
“You might wanna thank about what Ms. Swinton asked you. It ain’t about you really; it’s ‘bout de rest of dem kids. They really needs somebody what knows somethin’ more than readin’ and’rithmetic. Maybe you de one.”
“And maybe I ain’t,” I muttered a bit too loudly.
“Maybe you ain’t. But since you left here without havin’ enough dignity to say anythang to anybody, seem like to me you could at least thank about it. Ms. Swinton carries on’bout you so you’d thank you was God.”
“I love Ms. Swinton, too, Daddy, and I’ve already thought about what she asked. I’m flattered and all, really I am, but I can’t do it. It’s not my calling. My life is elsewhere now, and anyway, I don’t want to lose the modicum of peace I’ve found by coming back here.”
Daddy glanced at me quickly.
“I didn’t mean it like that, Daddy.”
“Yeah, you said it right. You said it just like you meant it.”
“No, I didn’t. What I meant was that I don’t know how to live here anymore. I can’t pretend and ignore truth the way we’ve always done. I need compassion and honesty in my relationships.”
“If you could get that, would you stay?”
What I wanted to say was no because I also needed a lucrative job and a life personally fulfilling to assure me all those years of study would eventually pay off, yet, somehow, this sentiment felt arrogant.
Croaking bullfrogs kept the silence between us from being deafening, and the cacophonous chirp of crickets confirmed there would be no easy solution.
“I need change, Daddy. New things, new ideas, you know?” I shuffled a little, demonstrating my discomfort, grateful for the shield of the dark night. “I can’t go on in the world ignoring truth like you and
Momma, I can’t watch abuse and simply turn a blind eye, and I can’t allow white folks to keep oppressing our people without fighting back.”
Momma, I can’t watch abuse and simply turn a blind eye, and I can’t allow white folks to keep oppressing our people without fighting back.”
“White folks ain’t got nothin’ to do wit’ you comin’ back here or not.”
Daddy was right. I didn’t have anything else to say.
“Well,” Daddy announced, and began to walk away.
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