They Tell Me of a Home: A Novel (24 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 was thinking the exact thing! We’ve had our first fight as brothers, huh?”
“Looks that way,” David chuckled. “Brothers are supposed to fight.”
“No, they’re not,” I said sadly. “Brothers are supposed to love and honor each other.”
“We’re on our way,” David said.
“We sure are.”
With that, David rose to replenish his coffee. When he returned, he asked, “So what good book are you reading these days?”
“I’m in the middle of a book called Two Thousand Seasons,” I answered vigorously, glad to change the subject.
“What’s it about?”
“It’s probably the best book I’ve ever read,” I had to say, although that was not his question. “It’s about a community of African people whose way of life gets challenged by outsiders. They are forced to
leave their own homeland in hopes of preserving their traditions and their sacred cosmology.”
leave their own homeland in hopes of preserving their traditions and their sacred cosmology.”
“What is their sacred tradition?”
“Armah, the author, calls it ‘The Way.’ It’s a bit complicated, but essentially it’s the Law of Reciprocity—the principle that everyone and everything in a community should both give to that community and be sustained by it. As an ideology, reciprocity assures no one gives too much of themselves and no one takes more than his share. It’s about communal balance and harmony.”
“It’s really good?”
“Armah is brilliant! His prose is so lyrical it reads like poetry. I must admit it’s a slow read because it’s very dense, but every line reflects authorial mastery of language. Some of his phrasing is simply magical.”
“Wow. I’ll have to read that one. Any time a teacher goes on like that about a book, it’s worth checking out.”
“Please read it. I promise you’ll love it.”
“I will.”
“You read anything good lately?” I asked in return.
“I’m rereading the Book of Job and it’s making me mad as hell.”
“Why?” I asked, surprised.
“Because I can’t believe God let Satan talk Him into destroying Job’s life just to prove a point.”
“That story is a literary creation, David. It doesn’t reflect the character of the real God. Rather, it’s a story about God and man with the purpose of teaching the fruit of endurance and patience and struggle. I never read Job as an indication of what the Divine God might actually do.”
“You don’t read the Bible literally?”
“Of course not; it’s not supposed to be treated as a compilation of factual events. It’s a set of combined allegorical stories, just as literary and fictive as any other creative text. The character God in the Bible is someone’s perception of what God might do or say. Remember, God didn’t write the book.”
“Yes, but those who did were inspired by Him,” David defended.
“Fine. However, that doesn’t mean what they wrote is exactly what God would have written had He or She assumed the pen. Indeed, I would be disappointed if God had written it, for I would’ve expected more.”
“You’re on thin ice,” he said with an edge of warning.
“Why?” I smiled. “In order for God to have written the Bible, God would have had to embrace the limitations of language. And if God could dwell within such limitations, how could God still be God?”
“That’s a good question.”
“Anyway, I think it’s important to read the character of God in Job as a creation of the writer’s imagination, not as a reflection of the Divine Creator. I’m not sure that such an enormous character could even be conceptualized in words.”
“Is the Bible the Word of God to you?” David frowned.
“Sure. Yet it’s not the only Word of God. God has spoken to everyone on the planet, David, so how could anyone be arrogant enough to suggest that the Bible is the only Word of God? In other words, what makes any text the Word of God? Someone’s declaration of it as such, right?”
David surveyed me cautiously and continued listening.
“Who could dispute whether a writer was inspired by God? How can we know what God has said and to whom? It’s all a matter of belief. Or better, faith. If you believe it, then it’s true.”
“It can’t be that simple,” David said, shaking his head.
“Sure it can. We need, or rather want, God to be complicated in order to rule and control Him. We need for most people to be confused about God and the Bible in order to crown a few scholars as Great Theologians who understand what the rest of us do not. Then we pay them to teach us. If we ever understand the simplicity of God, then God can belong to everyone freely. America fears affording people such religious liberty.”
“Why?”
“Because then rules and laws governing people’s private lives and their thoughts get dismissed as ridiculous. If every man gets to understand God for himself, then God can be anything, even if the perception appears contradictory to what another man believes. In other words, the control element gets dropped and then any person of any walk of life can be holy because ‘holy’ becomes self-defined. Interestingly enough, most people need God to be a tyrant in order to believe in Him. It makes Him powerful, majestic, and awe inspiring. I don’t think that’s how the Divine Creator is, though.”
“No?”
“No. I don’t think God wants to rule anything. I believe God gave us minds precisely because God didn’t want the responsibility of the worth of our lives. He or She gave us life—what we do with it is entirely up to us, and I don’t think God really cares one way or the other. I believe God wants us to live the fullness of our spiritual possibilities, but how we do that is up to us.”
“Amazing.”
“What’s amazing?”
“In a matter of moments, you’ve made me look at God from a totally different perspective. You have the gift of teaching, T.L.”
“Not that again!”
“No, I’m serious. I never considered the possibility that the God in the Job story couldn’t possibly be the true God. When I do, I get instantly freed from trying to understand what seems like poor judgment on God’s part. To see it as a story about God and not a reflection of God makes a lotta sense. Your students will be very lucky.”
“I hope so,” I said modestly.
“The only other thing you need to try to do is figure out what to do with all these books!”
“I know,” I sighed heavily. “I’ll figure out something by this evening. Right now I need to go.”
“Why? What’s the rush?”
“I told my brother I’d give him a hand again today. God knows I
don’t want to, but it’s the least I could do. He’s probably half-done by now, so I’d better hurry before I get cussed out. I’ll come back by tomorrow.”
don’t want to, but it’s the least I could do. He’s probably half-done by now, so I’d better hurry before I get cussed out. I’ll come back by tomorrow.”
“All righty, T.L. Thanks.”
“For what?” I said as I grabbed hold of the doorknob.
“For the lessons, Mr. Teacher.”
People
began congregating at the Meetin’ Tree around sundown. Friday evenings in Swamp Creek were community ritual time, when folks gathered and talked about their week or their children or someone who had died recently, and because Ms. Swinton had just transpired, I knew the tree would be crowded. I had asked David to meet me there at eight, and, sure enough, he was there when I arrived. Daddy was already there, too. He loved to hear the stories other people told, and he loved to share Mr. Blue’s grape wine. As long as I can remember, Mr. Blue brought a large jug of that gasoline, as Momma called it, and passed it around like we were having communion service. I always liked Friday nights at the tree because people relinquished their inhibitions freely and shared intimacies otherwise taboo. Folks who were solemn all week laughed easily once they arrived at the tree, for somehow the space released Swamp Creek residents from the confinements and constructs of the world, which told them they were not supposed to have joy. I use to sit under the tree, watch people approach from every direction, and notice how stoic expressions instantly transformed into smiles.
began congregating at the Meetin’ Tree around sundown. Friday evenings in Swamp Creek were community ritual time, when folks gathered and talked about their week or their children or someone who had died recently, and because Ms. Swinton had just transpired, I knew the tree would be crowded. I had asked David to meet me there at eight, and, sure enough, he was there when I arrived. Daddy was already there, too. He loved to hear the stories other people told, and he loved to share Mr. Blue’s grape wine. As long as I can remember, Mr. Blue brought a large jug of that gasoline, as Momma called it, and passed it around like we were having communion service. I always liked Friday nights at the tree because people relinquished their inhibitions freely and shared intimacies otherwise taboo. Folks who were solemn all week laughed easily once they arrived at the tree, for somehow the space released Swamp Creek residents from the confinements and constructs of the world, which told them they were not supposed to have joy. I use to sit under the tree, watch people approach from every direction, and notice how stoic expressions instantly transformed into smiles.
Everyone was there except Momma. She refused to go and watch niggas act a fool, she said. I remember her going to the tree only once when I was young. She arrived dressed like she was going to Sunday morning service. Stockings and all! Folk frowned and asked her where in the world she was going with all those clothes on. Momma murmured, “Ignut niggas,” and turned around and went home. People fell out laughing. “Why was Marion dressed like that?” they kept asking. I saw her leave and ran after her. When I caught up, I noticed she was crying. “Momma, you all right?” I asked, completely confused by her tears. “Oh yes, Son. Some dust blew in my eyes. I’ll be fine. I’m going home to find some eyedrops.” I didn’t think much more about it until the following Friday, when Daddy asked Momma if she was coming to the tree. “I can’t stand dem stupid-ass niggas,” she protested violently. “All dey do is drank liqua and tell lies all night long. I can thank of plenty otha thangs to do wit’ my time.” Her obvious anguish was apparently meaningless to the rest of us, for we went anyway. Daddy, Willie James, Sister, and I would prance around the house searching for something clean to put on because, come hell or high water, we were going to the tree. Usually we walked out of the house together and never said a word to Momma. She would sit in front of the TV, feigning contentment, but nothing could rival the fun and stories shared at the Meetin’ Tree. “She be a’ight,” Daddy said one night as we walked. We never talked about Momma’s absence from the tree again.
I was excited because I hadn’t been to a meetin’ in over ten years. Knowing Ms. Swinton’s death would resurrect even those who never mingled, I had readied myself for an extraordinary night of clowning, but no amount of preparation could have equipped me for what occurred that Friday night.
David and I sat next to each other after everyone introduced themselves to him. He blended in splendidly and said he felt right at home. Folks told him they were sorry about his momma, and he said, “Why?” Unsure of how to respond, they ignored the reply and took their seats.
Most folk brought their own folding chairs to the meeting. Two or three pews from the church always remained under the tree, rain or shine, serving as the throne of the elders. None of the chairs or pews was arranged in any particular order; people plopped their chairs down wherever they believed the entertainment would be good. One night-light stood some distance away, providing barely enough light for folks to see one another’s faces. No one complained, however, for brighter light would have meant more mosquitoes. The darkness also allowed people to relax and relinquish masks without fear of complete exposure.
“What time’s de fune’ tamorra?” Mr. Blue asked loudly of whoever possessed the knowledge.
“One o’clock sharp,” David volunteered with a smile.
“Sharp?” people began stammering. I started laughing.
“What chu mean, sharp?” Ms. Polly frowned like she was offended. “What’s du hurry? She goin’ somewhere?”
People hollered. You could have heard the laughter for miles. I supposed David realized the wisdom of her reply, for he laughed, too.
“Speakin’ of fune’s, I’member dat time Pa’nella and Nila Faye went to Poo Girl’s fune’.”
“Nigga, dis wuz a lie fifty years ago when you firs’ tole it!” yelled Smoked Neck Johnson. The man loved smoked neck bones, even as a baby, Grandma said, so his love became his name.
“No, no. Dis a true story fu’ real. Y’all ain’t heard ‘bout Pa’nella and Nila Faye?” Mr. Blue was chuckling as he surveyed faces unnecessarily. I knew the story would be hilarious.
“I don’t thank I heard dat one,” people mumbled to encourage Mr. Blue’s storytelling gift. Of course, they had heard it before, but the joy was in hearing Mr. Blue tell it.
Folks shifted their chairs around and frowned, pretending they were sick and tired of hearing these lies. This behavior was precisely the prerequisite Mr. Blue needed.
“What happened was, Pa’nella calls Nila Faye and say, ‘Girl, ain’t you goin’ out to de fune’?’
“And Nila Faye say, ‘What fune’ you talkin’’bout?’
“‘Out ta Elizabeth’s fune’!’ Pa’nella say.”
Everybody was either smiling or shaking their heads because we knew this was going to be a good one.
“And Nila Faye say, ‘Naw, girl, I ain’t goin’. I don’t thank I knowed hu’.’
“And Pa’nella went ta frownin’’cause she know Nila Faye knowed’Lizabeth. Dey growed up togetha right hyeah in Swamp Creek. She thought dat maybe Nila Faye was havin’ a hard time dealin’ wit’’Lizabeth’s death, so she didn’t push hu’ on it too murch. Nila Faye turned right round and said, ‘Now I’ll go wit’ chu if you want me to. I wun’t gon’ go myself.’ Pa’nella say, ‘Yeah, girl, come on and go wit’ me.’ So Nila Faye went.”
Mr. Blue was sitting on the edge of one of the church pews. His mouth was trembling from soulful merriment, but he was trying to hold it. Others were looking at him and acting like they couldn’t take any more, which, of course, meant that Mr. Blue should proceed.
“So Pa’nella went and picked up Nila Faye and dey went to de fune’. De whole time, Nila Faye sittin’ in de back o’de chuch sayin’ nothin’ to nobody. Folks is holl’in’ and fallin’ out and carryin’ on, but Nila Faye lookin’ like ain’t nothin’ movin’ hu’’cause she don’t know no’Lizabeth. Well, time come to go review de body and Pa’nella ask Nila Faye to walk wit’ hu’. Nila Faye say OK’cause she don’t know de woman noway and Pa’nella might get weak and need hu’ to lean on. So dey start walkin’ toward de casket and folks is touchin’ Nila Faye on the arm sayin’, ‘I’m sorry fu’ yo’ loss,’ and Nila Faye is wonderin’ what folks is talkin’ ‘bout’cause she ain’t loss nothin’. When dey almost gets right in front o’de casket, Nila Faye tells Pa’nella to be strong and know dat de Good Lawd knows’xactly what He’s doin’. Pa’nella shakes hu’ head, sayin’, ‘Sho’ you right,’ and they walks on.
“When dey gets right in front o’de casket, Nila Faye looks over at
de body and folks say she start screamin’ like somebody tryin’ to kill hu’ ‘Oh Lawd! Poo Girl! Girl, is dat you? Oh shit, Jesus! I didn’t know yo’ name wuz no’Lizabeth, girl! All I eva knowed you by was Poo Girl! Oh shit, Lawd!’”
de body and folks say she start screamin’ like somebody tryin’ to kill hu’ ‘Oh Lawd! Poo Girl! Girl, is dat you? Oh shit, Jesus! I didn’t know yo’ name wuz no’Lizabeth, girl! All I eva knowed you by was Poo Girl! Oh shit, Lawd!’”
Folks yelped with laughter. Some faces looked angry because the story was so ridiculously funny. Mr. Blue was wobbling from side to side and shaking like one having an epileptic fit. “Blue, you oughta be ‘shame’ o’ yo’self,” Daddy kept repeating every chance he could catch his breath. “Dat woman ain’t said all dat!”
“Sho’ she said it!” Mr. Blue screamed as he laughed. “I was sittin’ right dere! She jes’ kept on holl’in’, ‘Girl, I ain’t neva knowed yo’ name was ‘Lizabeth! Hell! Somebody coulda told me yo’ name wuz’Lizabeth. Girl, you my firs’ cousin! Oh shit!” And every time Mr. Blue hollered “shit,” people weakened all over again.
I was laughing at other people laughing. Ms. Polly’s laugh sounded like a soprano hyena. “Heheheeeeeeeeeeeee!” Every time she laughed I would crack up. People were desperate to hold on to their laughter, knowing it might be a long time coming again.
“Blue, you’s a fool!” Daddy said and shook his head in disbelief of the man’s antics.
“Cleatis, you don’t b’lieve it, do you?” Mr. Blue bucked his eyes as wide as they would stretch. He looked horrified by the mere possibility someone didn’t believe his story.
Again, Daddy’s expression was exactly what Mr. Blue needed in order to further embellish the tale.
“If you don’t b’lieve dat, you sho’ ain’t gon’ b’lieve dis.” He stuck out his bottom lip and shook his head from side to side, whetting people’s appetite for the remainder of the story. He took a long swig of home brew and said, “You’d think Nila Faye would jes’ go ‘head on back to hu’ seat and git hu’self togetha, but naw, naw.” He swallowed another gulp of wine to give our anticipation time to rise.
“What she do, Blue?” Mr. Somebody asked with an impatient excitement. He had acquired the name, Daddy said, because his
grandmother sought to build his self-esteem, as a child, by having him repeat, “I am Somebody,” over and over again. Actually, because the man was almost ninety years old, his birth name was irrelevant to most folks. The Mr. was the important part.
grandmother sought to build his self-esteem, as a child, by having him repeat, “I am Somebody,” over and over again. Actually, because the man was almost ninety years old, his birth name was irrelevant to most folks. The Mr. was the important part.
Mr. Blue continued. “Nila Faye stood at de casket fu’ a while and den all of a sudden she hollered, ‘Girl, you can’t be dead, shit! You owe me fifty dollars!’”
Mr. Blue toppled over with laughter! Mr. Somebody grabbed his cane and took off hobbling toward Uncle James Earl’s house, laughing so hard he could barely maintain his balance.
“Blue, you know you lyin’!” folks screamed.
“Cleatis, you know Nila Faye, wit’ hu’ crazy ass! You know dat bitch li’ble du say anything, don’t cha?” asked Mr. Blue insistently.
Daddy told Mr. Blue dat he wasn’t in it, but Mr. Blue wouldn’t let Daddy go easily. “Shit, you is in it! Dat’s yo’ cousin, too. Don’t act like y’all ain’t family. Shiiiiiiiiit! I practically raised all you goddamn niggas!”
No one could dispute him, so we laughed along. After Mr. Somebody returned to his seat, his shoulders continued jerking spasmodically. “Blue, you oughta be ‘shame’! You oughta be’shame’!” he sang repeatedly.
As the evening waned, the crowd grew larger. Mr. Blue kept trying to convince everyone the story was absolutely true until Mr. Somebody said, “I got one even better’n dat! Y’all sho’ ain’t gon’ b’lieve dis hyeah.” He spit out a mouthful of tobacco juice and leaned up on his cane to tell his story. He was sitting on the pew next to Mr. Blue.
“I went to visit my cousin down in South Car’lina’bout five years ago—”
“Stop lyin’, nigga!” interrupted Mr. Blue playfully. “Yo’ old ass ain’t left hyeah in de last thirty years! Who you thank you foolin’?”
“I did go see Cousin Wizerine! Shit! I know where I been! I went
right ‘fo’ we got all dat rain dat year. Shit, I might be old, but I ain’t crazy.”
right ‘fo’ we got all dat rain dat year. Shit, I might be old, but I ain’t crazy.”
Since Mr. Blue wanted to hear the story, he didn’t press the matter. Everybody knew Mr. Somebody hadn’t been to see anybody in the last five years or even fifteen, but his stories were always good, so he was allowed to proceed.
“Well, like I wuz sayin‘, I went down to see my cousin in South Car’lina. She and hu’ husband live way, way out in de country in a l’il ole bitty place called Sugar Ditch.”
When he said this, folks began to mumble and suck their gums.
“I ain’t lyin’! Dat’s what it’s called! Don’t blame me! I ain’t had nothin’ to do wit’ namin’ de place.”
“Go’head, nigga, shit,” said Mr. Blue, the only one with the authority to say what all of us were thinking.
“Dey was gettin’ ready fu dere pastor’s anniversary program at church, and Cousin Wizerine was picked to be over de program. She decided she gon’ put togetha a program like ain’t nobody eva seen befo’ in life. She take hu’ fat ass down to the local college and ask a white German man if he’ll come and be de guest speaker fu’ de pastor’s anniversary program. He got a buncha letters behind his name, so Wizerine thank dat mean he heavy and shit. I guess he tell hu’ he’ll be glad to do it,’cause she come home grinnin like a ole bear in a fish house.”
Mr. Somebody’s antics alone induced chuckling. His eyes, mouth, and hands worked together, like a puppet’s, in perfect gestural unity. Accompanied by a squeaky soprano voice far too high for most people’s liking, his trembling arthritic hands shaped each word he spoke, forcing others not only to listen but to watch him. Suddenly he leaned back and laughed loudly, and David and I did the same although we didn’t know why. The punch line of the story must have overwhelmed Mr. Somebody for a second, we thought, making us more excited to hear it.
“De mornin’ of de pastor’s anniversay, Wizerine get up and go to
hummin’ as she cookin’ breakfast. She know she’bout to blow de minds o’ de whole community. She so excited ‘bout dis German man comin’ dat she cook a German chocolate cake in order to take him a piece.
hummin’ as she cookin’ breakfast. She know she’bout to blow de minds o’ de whole community. She so excited ‘bout dis German man comin’ dat she cook a German chocolate cake in order to take him a piece.
“When we get to church, folk go to snickerin’ and whisperin’ ‘cause hu’ nose is’bout fifty feet up in de air. Plus, she got on canary yellow from head to toe! Hat, gloves, dress, scarf, stockin’s, pocketbook, and shoes. Everythang is de exact same loud-ass yellow. She look like goddamn Big Bird, but you couldn’t tell hu’ nothin’. We walk into de church and see dat de white man done brung a whole group o’ white folks wit him, so Wizerine know it’s’bout to be a gred day.
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