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 (3 page)
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“I have something for you, Willie James,” I told him before we went to bed one night.
“What is it?” he asked nonchalantly.
“You can’t laugh at me if you don’t like it, OK? I think you’ll like it, though.”
Willie James smiled and opened his palm to receive the gift. I asked him to close his eyes and not to open them until I told him to.
“OK. You can look now.”
Willie James gasped in amazement. “Oh my God, boy!” he said, taking the painting from my hands. “This is really good.” His approval boosted my self-esteem more than I cared to admit. He hung the painting on the wall over his bed, where it still hangs today, I suppose. Late one night, Daddy came into the room and, noticing the picture, he asked Willie James, “What’s dat bullshit?” and Willie James told him I had painted a picture for him. Daddy grunted something insulting and left. I promised myself that night not to stay in Swamp Creek a day longer than I had to.
I decided to take a shortcut through the Williams place and snagged my pants on the old, rusty barbed wire fence. “Shit!” I said. I knew better than trying to cross those old country fences with two bags in my hands. I suppose I thought I could do things now that used to be impossible. The fence put me in my place.
I was disgusted. Sweaty, hungry, frustrated, and mad my one good pair of khakis was ruined, I walked on in misery. I saw some old-looking cows and recalled the story about when Ms. Henrietta was kicked crazy. At least that’s what everybody said.
“Dat cow kicked de shit outta Henrietta,” I overheard Mr. Blue tell Daddy one Saturday night at the Meetin’ Tree.
“Did?”
“Hell yeah. She was callin’ hu’self milkin’ dey old milk cow in a hurry. Dey say she was rushin’ to git ova and see Billy Ray Henderson, so she was jerkin’ dem titties like she was tryin’ to pull’em off!”
Daddy and the other men spilt beer all over themselves as they laughed. Their mingled voices sounded like a chorus of deep, long, guttural cries. Darrell and I snickered, too, but we remained quiet in order to hear the rest of the tale.
“Bad thang about it, Billy Ray wun’t stuttin’ Henrietta. He wonted Jophelia Mae Walker!”
“Is dat right?” Daddy said, adding fuel to the fire.
“Sho’ he wonted her. He couldn’t stand Henrietta. Every night de Good Lawd send, he was draggin’ his stankin’ ass ova to Jophelia’s, lookin’ like a ol’ bug-eyed possum!”
The laughter sounded like thunder. Mr. Blue was the most incredible storyteller I had ever heard.
“Henrietta still wonted his no-good ass anyway. She thought she could steal him ‘way from Jophelia Mae. So late dat evenin’ she was milkin’ de cow too fast and too hard and’fo’ she knowed anythang ole Bessie hauled off and kicked hu’ right dead in hu’ right jaw.”
“Oh no. Dat’s terrible!” others mumbled sincerely.
“She ain’t neva been right since. Hu’mouth got a little betta, but it ain’t neva been back right. Dat’s how come she talk out de left side o’ hu’ mouth right now.”
“I bet she don’t drink much milk, neither!” somebody joked.
“Oh, dat’s ugly!” Mr. Blue repeated, laughing unashamedly. Darrell and I slipped from the company of the men into the dark and never talked about Ms. Henrietta’s twisted face. The story wasn’t
funny to us, maybe because she was lonely and depressed and we felt sorry for her. We offered to do work for her around her house, but she said, “No thank you, boys. I ‘speck I betta do it myself,” as though surrending to a divine punishment. We shrugged our shoulders and moved on. The other reason we never made fun of Ms. Henrietta was because Grandma told us, “Whoever you laugh at, you gon’ get the same thang they got.” We believed her, at least enough not to laugh at most folks.
funny to us, maybe because she was lonely and depressed and we felt sorry for her. We offered to do work for her around her house, but she said, “No thank you, boys. I ‘speck I betta do it myself,” as though surrending to a divine punishment. We shrugged our shoulders and moved on. The other reason we never made fun of Ms. Henrietta was because Grandma told us, “Whoever you laugh at, you gon’ get the same thang they got.” We believed her, at least enough not to laugh at most folks.
I chuckled to myself about how strange folks were in Swamp Creek. Some of that craziness I must have inherited, I admitted. Little did I know I was about to find out how much.
The
sight of the house unnerved me. It seemed smaller for some reason. Daddy or probably Willie James had painted it white, although it was once a dull blue. That’s one of the reasons I hated it. The color simply represented the cloud of depression that hovered over our family. The moments of fun and laughter we shared inside that house were few and never allowed to last long. More than anything, we were a family of people who despised our own blackness and complained incessantly about never having enough. Not until I went to college did I understand how hair relaxers and skin lighteners reinforced a self-perception of ugliness. While I was growing up, everyone teased me about liking the brown-skinned little girls with hair that didn’t require a perm. Of course everyone in my family had bad hair, so we searched elsewhere for models of beauty. When Sister was born, she had straight, silky hair and Momma rejoiced in having given birth to a “good-hair” child. Over the following year, though, her hair coiled until it was too tight to comb. Momma was pissed off. “We black and we can’t get around it,” Daddy told her.
sight of the house unnerved me. It seemed smaller for some reason. Daddy or probably Willie James had painted it white, although it was once a dull blue. That’s one of the reasons I hated it. The color simply represented the cloud of depression that hovered over our family. The moments of fun and laughter we shared inside that house were few and never allowed to last long. More than anything, we were a family of people who despised our own blackness and complained incessantly about never having enough. Not until I went to college did I understand how hair relaxers and skin lighteners reinforced a self-perception of ugliness. While I was growing up, everyone teased me about liking the brown-skinned little girls with hair that didn’t require a perm. Of course everyone in my family had bad hair, so we searched elsewhere for models of beauty. When Sister was born, she had straight, silky hair and Momma rejoiced in having given birth to a “good-hair” child. Over the following year, though, her hair coiled until it was too tight to comb. Momma was pissed off. “We black and we can’t get around it,” Daddy told her.
Grandma’s house, across the field from ours, looked the same. It had been my refuge. She was my best friend, and her house was the
place I went whenever I felt lonely and dejected. Born in 1910, she died my senior year in high school at age seventy-three. On her deathbed she said, “Sonny”—that’s what she called me—“de Lawd done blessed me to see you grow into a fine young man. You de one dis family been waitin’ on. I ain’t stuttin’ dem ignut-ass folks you livin’ wit’. I’m talkin’bout you, boy. You got to fugive folks and go’head on or dat hatred’ll kill you. I know you tries hard and you dos yo’ best. Keep dat up. But don’t treat yo’ folks lak dey treat you. De Good Lawd’ll handle them. Don’t never thank He won’t. He got His ways and He got His time. You jes’ keep yo’ head in dem books and make somethin’ outta yo’self. Now I ain’t gon’ live to see all this, and don’t chu go to cryin’, neither, but I’m still gon’ be wit’ cha. Ain’t gon’ never be a time when I ain’t wit’ cha. You remember dat, you hear?” I said, “Yes, ma’am,” and burst into tears. Most eighteen-year-old boys would have been embarrassed for crying in front of their grandmother, but I wasn’t. I could express myself any way I wanted in front of Grandma. During my back porch performances of Shakespeare she applauded like I was the best actor she had ever seen. When I started memorizing excerpts from black writers, Grandma said, “Amen! You comin’ on home!” She loved my Dunbar recitations best. His dialect poems made her laugh and cry simultaneously. After she gave me the first Dunbar book, she started getting me black books every Christmas and made me promise to read them and recite parts of them to her. I never failed. When she died, I knew one of my greatest connections to Swamp Creek, Arkansas, was gone forever.
place I went whenever I felt lonely and dejected. Born in 1910, she died my senior year in high school at age seventy-three. On her deathbed she said, “Sonny”—that’s what she called me—“de Lawd done blessed me to see you grow into a fine young man. You de one dis family been waitin’ on. I ain’t stuttin’ dem ignut-ass folks you livin’ wit’. I’m talkin’bout you, boy. You got to fugive folks and go’head on or dat hatred’ll kill you. I know you tries hard and you dos yo’ best. Keep dat up. But don’t treat yo’ folks lak dey treat you. De Good Lawd’ll handle them. Don’t never thank He won’t. He got His ways and He got His time. You jes’ keep yo’ head in dem books and make somethin’ outta yo’self. Now I ain’t gon’ live to see all this, and don’t chu go to cryin’, neither, but I’m still gon’ be wit’ cha. Ain’t gon’ never be a time when I ain’t wit’ cha. You remember dat, you hear?” I said, “Yes, ma’am,” and burst into tears. Most eighteen-year-old boys would have been embarrassed for crying in front of their grandmother, but I wasn’t. I could express myself any way I wanted in front of Grandma. During my back porch performances of Shakespeare she applauded like I was the best actor she had ever seen. When I started memorizing excerpts from black writers, Grandma said, “Amen! You comin’ on home!” She loved my Dunbar recitations best. His dialect poems made her laugh and cry simultaneously. After she gave me the first Dunbar book, she started getting me black books every Christmas and made me promise to read them and recite parts of them to her. I never failed. When she died, I knew one of my greatest connections to Swamp Creek, Arkansas, was gone forever.
Grandma was a tall, burly woman. She could whip any man’s ass, folks said. I never saw that side of her. What I saw was a woman who loved to hum church hymns and rock in her rocking chair, piecing quilts. She had a slight hump in her back, which reduced her normal six-foot stature to a modest five-nine. She told me once that her dream had been to be a gourmet cook. People came from miles around to taste her desserts, and Grandma always feigned rejection of their compliments with, “Chile, please! I messed this batch up!”
Cookies, muffins, pies, cakes, and cobblers were her specialties. I was the sampler. “Taste all right?” she would ask, and I’d offer sarcastically, “I didn’t get a good taste. After I eat some more, I’ll know.” Grandma would smile and say “Uh-huh,” and I knew not to eat another bite.
Cookies, muffins, pies, cakes, and cobblers were her specialties. I was the sampler. “Taste all right?” she would ask, and I’d offer sarcastically, “I didn’t get a good taste. After I eat some more, I’ll know.” Grandma would smile and say “Uh-huh,” and I knew not to eat another bite.
Someone’s car was parked in front of Grandma’s house, but of course I didn’t know whose. For a moment, I felt a sense of protective jealousy overcome me, and I contemplated walking in there and telling someone to leave my grandmother’s house. Of course I had no right to do so, especially since I hadn’t been home in ten years, but even the idea of someone else in her house troubled my spirit. Grandma and I had created a sacred space there, sharing secrets and crying tears together, and I simply didn’t want anyone else in her house. The truth of my childishness confronted me, however, and I was forced to let it go. “Oh well, whatever,” I mumbled in resignation.
Momma walked out of the front door. She didn’t see me, though, because I was standing behind the large cypress, which stood alone in the field in front of the house. For an instant, I felt the urge to run and yell, “Momma, I’m home!” but I decided against it. “Just take your time, T.L.,” I whispered to my unsettling nerves. I took a deep breath and, for the first time, wondered if, in fact, coming home was a good idea. Of course I couldn’t turn back, so I walked the last few steps slowly, trying to prepare myself for the encounter. She had checked the mail and was about to reenter the house when I approached her and said, “Hi, Momma.”
She turned quickly and froze, statuesque. Her eyes narrowed intensely and she examined me from head to toe with an expression at once painful and refreshing. She knew it was me, for she kept staring and nodding her head, the long-established sign of her unexplainable irritation. I immediately noticed she hadn’t changed much: newly pressed hair, yellow flowered dress, size 9. I was actually startled, for she seemed to have stepped out of time for ten years in order to pick up where we left off if I ever came back home. She was a rather pretty
woman, everyone in Swamp Creek agreed. Her baby smooth skin and hourglass shape had been maintained since high school, folks said, and no one—including her children—had ever seen her hair undone. I see why Daddy married her, I thought.
woman, everyone in Swamp Creek agreed. Her baby smooth skin and hourglass shape had been maintained since high school, folks said, and no one—including her children—had ever seen her hair undone. I see why Daddy married her, I thought.
Finally she smiled seethingly and said, “So you came back.”
“Yes, Momma. I came back.”
“Why?”
“Why?” I asked in return, trying to buy time.
“Yes, why? You hadn’t needed to befo’.”
“True”—I was beginning to stammer—“but I needed to now. I didn’t want to live the rest of my life estranged from my own family.” I hated how I sounded, and I wished to God I hadn’t said “estranged.”
“You came to start confusion.”
“No, Momma, I didn’t come to start confusion. I came—”
“Did you take the bus?” Momma cut me off, not wanting me to explain myself clearly. Clarity left no room for conflict.
“Yes, ma’am. I stepped off the Greyhound bus about an hour ago.”
“Dat’s good. Come on in de house and set yo’ bags down.” She turned and led the way with an amazing lack of sincerity.
I followed Momma into the house. The tension was so thick it made me restless. I set my bags down in the living room, noticing Momma’s rearrangements over the years. The piano, which she had hoped Sister would play, faced the wall opposite the front door. As far as I know, Sister never touched the thing. I was the one who played it, much to Momma’s chagrin. I was a boy, and boys who played the piano were usually “funny,” she said. I knew what she meant, but I didn’t care. The piano was fun and therapeutic for me. I ended up being the musician for a number of local churches and made some nice spending change playing for weddings and funerals. The piano soothed my troubled soul, although Momma often tired of hearing me practice. Some days, she wouldn’t let me play at all.
I noticed there was carpet on the living room floor. Folks in Swamp Creek didn’t have carpeted floors when I was growing up. I
also noticed it was a little—and I mean a little—cooler inside because of the fan Momma had running in the living room window. This didn’t feel like the house I remembered. I felt like a guest who knew his days were numbered.
also noticed it was a little—and I mean a little—cooler inside because of the fan Momma had running in the living room window. This didn’t feel like the house I remembered. I felt like a guest who knew his days were numbered.
I went into the kitchen, where Momma was cleaning fish in the sink. The house was totally silent.
“What’s been up, Momma?” I said, leaning on the countertop casually, hoping to initiate a healthy dialogue.
“Nothin’,” she offered coldly.
“Everybody round here doin’ all right?”
“Yeah,” Momma said, expressionless.
“Why aren’t you glad to see me, Momma?”
“I am glad to see you,” Momma lied as she wrapped fish guts in newspaper and placed them into a nearby plastic garbage bag.
“You could have fooled me,” I said sarcastically.
“Well, you fooled me ten years ago,” Momma said, gaining the upper hand.
“Momma, you know why I left. Don’t act like you don’t.”
“Yeah, I know why you left, but I don’t know why you stayed gone so long.”
“What would I have come back to? What was here for me?”
“Your sister,” Momma said with a demeaning smile. I couldn’t say anything to make her understand.
“Where is that girl anyway? I know she’s grown,” I said in an effort to lighten the mood.
“She’s out back,” Momma said, scaling more fish. “She’s been waitin’ on you a long time.”
Momma was not going to let up, so I decided to go see Sister. When I exited the back door, I immediately saw the tombstone:
Cynthia Jane Tyson
1970-1987
“loving sister and daughter”
1970-1987
“loving sister and daughter”
I fell to the ground in shock and horror, screaming at the top of my lungs, “Sister! Sister! No!” I rolled on the ground with snot pouring from my nose and tears streaming from my eyes. “Oh God! Sister, no! Please, Sister, no! Oh God, no! Not you, Sister! Please, Sister, not you!” I was slinging my arms, kicking my feet, and throwing my head from side to side, bellowing, “Sista! No! God, no!”
I heard Momma come from the house and say, “She’s been waitin’ on you. You were the last person she asked for. We had nothin’ to tell her, although whatever she wants to know, you can tell her yourself. Now.” She turned and reentered the house.
My heart was pounding like I had run a marathon. “Oh my God, oh my God!” I kept mumbling. “What the hell is this?” I felt like I was losing my mind. I embraced myself tightly and screamed even louder in agony, “Sister! This can’t be true! You can’t be dead! Sister! Sister!” Momma or Willie James should have prepared me for the truth. Their vengeance alone was the only explanation for their deception.
Sister was dead. My last joy, my childhood friend, my spiritual confidante, was gone. She had been my only reason, over the past ten years, for wanting to stay connected to these folks who obviously had no commitment to me. I could not hold her, touch her, hear her laughter, or see her make fun of Miss Josephine again. Sister was simply gone, and there was nothing I could do about it. I rolled around in despair, screaming, “No, Sister, not you! No, Sister! Please not you, Sister.” I tore my shirt in anguish, and my pants were covered with red dirt stains. “Please come back to me, Sister. I need you. Oh, Sister, please,” I cried. I began to lose my voice. Why had Momma done this to me?
Suddenly I jumped up furious and stormed back into the kitchen, screaming and crying profusely.
“What happened, Momma?” I yelled loudly. “Did y’all kill her because I loved her? Did you and Daddy decide to fuck up my entire life by taking the only thing about this godforsaken shit hole I enjoyed?”
“You betta watch yo’ mouth in this house, boy,” Momma whispered intensely.
I ignored her warning. “How did she die, Momma?” I screamed even louder, shaking and trembling and wiping snot from my nose.
Momma said nothing. She simply kept cleaning fish.
“Momma, if you don’t say something to me, I swear to God …”
“Not in this house you don’t!” She stabbed the knife into the cutting board violently. Her anger brought me back to reality.
“How did she die, Momma?” I asked slowly with my eyes closed.
“I don’t know. She just died one day, boy.”
“What?” I was yelling again. “What kind of nonsense is that? People don’t fall over dead arbitrarily! Not at seventeen! What the hell happened, Momma?” My tone was totally disrespectful and I knew it.
“You’bout to make me mad, boy,” she said, smiling softly.
“Fine! That’ll make two of us!” I retorted. I was really losing my cool.
“I ‘speck you betta watch yo’self befo’ you git in a heap o’trouble wit’ dat damn mouth.” The smile had evolved into a tight-lipped grimace.
“Momma!” I screamed. “You got to tell me more than simply she died. How did she die?”
“I don’t know, boy. We found her dead in her bed one evenin’. The bed was full of blood.” Momma was whispering. “Nobody knew what happened, so we just buried her.”
“What?”
“You heard what I said. She died; we buried her. Dat’s what you do wit’ dead folks.” Momma rolled up the last of the fish guts and put them in the same plastic bag with the others.
None of this made sense to me, but I decided to try a calmer approach. I certainly wasn’t getting anywhere yelling.
“Momma, wait,” I said more quietly, hoping my diplomacy might elicit more information. “I’m sorry for cursing. I really am. But to come home after ten years and find my sister dead is outrageous—”
“That’s right, ten years,” Momma interrupted. “That’s yo’ fault. If you hada kept in touch with us, you woulda knowed.”
“Momma, I can’t change the past! I’m asking for an explanation about Sister. Why is that so difficult?”
“Because your presence here is difficult.”
I appreciated her honesty, although it hurt badly. “What do you mean?”
“When I saw you today, it took everything in me not to slap the shit out of you.”
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