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 (30 page)

BOOK: They Tell Me of a Home: A Novel
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“Daddy
, can I speak with you please?” I asked as soon as I arrived back home. He and Momma were sitting at the kitchen table although they had obviously finished eating.
“This is important. Please?”
Daddy stood and followed me out to the barn. He wasn’t curious, nervous, or apprehensive. Actually, he appeared rather expectant.
My original courage had turned to mush. Yet I was determined to move forward in search of that joy that had once been mine.
“Daddy … I … um …”
“Spit it out, boy,” he said impatiently, then sat on an upturned five-gallon bucket. His voice further unsettled me, but I knew if I didn’t speak then, I would be voiceless for the rest of my life.
“I never really understood you, Daddy. Not until today.” Sweat beads gathered at my temples. “You gave me an understanding of Ms. Swinton that keeps me from being angry with her for a lifetime. That showed me you really do have”—my voice cracked—“a heart. You always seemed withdrawn to me as a child, and, in fact, I never saw you express love to anyone. I thought that meant you didn’t have feelings like everyone else, but when you came to me this morning, I saw that
that wasn’t true. Daddy, I never knew you loved people. I never guessed you spent your whole life protecting me and trying to make a home for me, especially when Momma didn’t want me. You could have sent me away to make life easier for yourself and your marriage, but you didn’t because you … wanted me, I think.”
Daddy bowed his head but never said a word.
I had to get it all out. “It’s funny what kids don’t understand, huh? I thought you were mean because that’s just how you were. I know better now, Daddy. You did the best you could and I appreciate it. I’m sorry for ever judging you.”
I stood there in utter fear. I was glad I had spoken, yet Daddy’s silence crippled my courage. Too far out on the limb to come back, I continued, “I suppose I’ve been arrogant my whole life. I thought my life was the hardest of any human being, but Lord knows I wouldn’t trade mine for yours. Of all your children, you really only had Willie James all these years.”
“Naw, I didn’t have him, either,” Daddy admitted. “He only stayed round hyeah’cause he didn’t have nowhere to go.”
“Daddy, I didn’t know the whole story. Your story. I made a lot of wrong assumptions and I left here thinking I hated you. I didn’t hate you, though. I hated the life I saw you live. The only thing you cared about was work. We never did any family stuff together and we were always scraping just to eat, and I knew back then I wanted more.”
“I wanted mo’, too,” Daddy interjected quickly, raising his head.
“I know that now, Daddy. I know. However, back then I couldn’t see anything but my own hurt and pain. Nobody explained to me how to live a life; thus I took it upon myself to build a fence around my heart and my life because I couldn’t take it anymore. I couldn’t see anything beautiful about this place, so I left it in search of a home. But life has taught me that a man doesn’t get to choose his home. God gives him a home, a birthplace, and He doesn’t ever let him forget it belongs to him. He can choose anywhere to live and call it
home, but each of us has a place to which we must return if we are to know ourselves. You know what I mean, Daddy?”
I was shaking like a wet dog in winter. Daddy nodded his head congenially and said, “Yeah, I know what chu mean, boy.”
“I don’t wanna leave today the way I came. That baby picture Ms. Swinton left for me showed me something about myself.”
“Like what?” Daddy asked.
“Like my joy is my own. Situations in life can distract a person from being able to see their joy, but the situations cannot ever take the joy away. In our fragile, naive understanding of life, we give our joy to people and things we fear. This means we can take it back, too. I need to do that today.”
Looking up completely, Daddy asked, “You sayin’ I took it?”
“No, not at all. I’m saying I gave it away to things and people in Swamp Creek years ago. You, Momma, Ms. Swinton, Sister, the church. Everything. I tried to find happiness in my relationship with all of you, but it’s taken me a lifetime to realize that happiness is not something you find. It’s something you create whether other folks want it or not.”
“How? How you gon’ have joy if don’t nobody want it but chu, boy?”
“By finding joy within yourself first. Then, if others choose to share it, great. If they don’t, it was yours to begin with. There’s nothing to lose.”
“How do a person find dat joy within theyself?”
“By realizing nothing and no one is more beautiful than they are. It’s something a person must believe. Other people are certainly as beautiful, but never more beautiful. Every human being gets the same amount of potential to be like God, Daddy. The result depends on how much each of us manifests in our lifetime. The picture Momma took showed me I don’t have to live in fear and dread, because that’s not the way God made me. When you came to me this morning and showed me a side of yourself I had never seen before, I realized I am
what I determine day by day. I don’t have to be tomorrow what I am today unless I concede power over my being unto other people. I don’t intend to do that anymore.”
I rubbed my hands uneasily. “Daddy, I, um—”
“I love you, too, boy,” he said quickly, rescuing the weight from my chest. My eyes met his and suddenly my head was buried in Daddy’s bosom. His enormous grip around my back felt safe and uninhibited. We were holding on to each other for dear life. I didn’t let go and Daddy didn’t, either, for quite some time, and then he said, “Guess we betta be gettin’ ready fu’ dis fune’.”
Our arms loosened and we stood there awkwardly, wondering what two grown black men do after they decide, for the first time, to express their love for each other.
“Daddy?” Pause. “Thanks.”
He dropped his head ashamedly and asked, “Fu’ what?”
“For giving your best.”
“That’s all I got, Son. That’s all I got.” He turned quickly and walked back toward the house. I could have sworn I saw him wipe his eyes.
When
I exited the limousine, I heard the choir singing:
“Je—sus keep … me near … the cross;
There’s—a pre—cious foun … tain;
Free—to all—a heal-ing stream
Flows, from Cal-v’ry’s moun … tain.”
This same verse was repeated until the deacons opened the big double doors of the church, welcoming the casket and the procession following it. Then the choir bellowed the chorus:
“In … n the cross!! In … n … the cross!
Be … my glo … ry e . . ver,
Til … my rap … tured soul … shall fi … nd
Resssst, beyond … the ri … ver.”
Packed like bales of hay in a barn, folks were fanning deliriously, and when I stepped into the church I understood why. It had to be a
hundred degrees or better. Somebody had forgotten to turn on the little window units the night before, and now they were doing no good at all.
“Praise de Lawd, church!” Reverend Dawson declared loudly, trying to steer the congregation’s attention away from the sweltering heat. “It’s hotter’n dis somewhere else!”
“Amen!” people shouted.
I frowned. Everything in black folks’ lives was a celebration of the lesser of two evils. We never got the best, and that didn’t bother us because we always stayed one step away from the worst.
Glancing around, I saw people everywhere. Some were standing along the walls and others were sitting in chairs placed at the ends of overcrowded pews. Some people’s clothing suggested they had traveled from places like Chicago and Kansas City, while others had obviously walked in from the fields. Most people had once been a student of Ms. Swinton’s, I assumed, and they were there both to pay their respects and to find out anything about her they didn’t already know. Black folks were good for keeping secrets all the way to the grave. When I was young, I remember going to people’s funerals with Grandma, a funeral hopper, and finding out things about them I had never known. Like the time we buried Miss Ella Faye. I always thought she was a loner who never got married for one reason or another. Yet at the funeral, I read her obituary and saw she had nine children by three different husbands! “Close yo’ mouf, boy,” Grandma whispered to me as I read. “Dat ain’t nona yo’ business.”
After the funeral, I asked Grandma why no one knew about Miss Ella Faye.
“Everybody knowed’bout Ella Faye, boy. Folks jes’ don’t talk about otha folks’ business.”
With a puzzled expression, I asked, “How come I ain’t neva met nona her kids or any o’ dem husbands?”
“’Cause,” and Grandma hesitated. Then she must have decided that dead folks don’t mind you talkin’ ‘bout they business. “’Cause
Ella Faye ain’t neva wanted no chil’ren or no husband. She gave’em all away.”
“What?”
“You heard me, boy. She got married three times and had three chillen each time. Said she jes’ wanted to see what de kids would look like. De menfolks said dey wanted babies and she had ‘em and gave’em to ‘em. They neva told her they needed her to want’em. When she got tired of ‘em, she told dem husbands to take dem damn kids and leave hu’ alone!” Grandma laughed thunderously. “Lawd, Ella Faye was a mess! She wuz so pretty dat near’bout every man round dis place wanted hu,’ but dey neva asked hu’ if she wanted dem for more than a night or two. She showed’em!” I snickered, too, thinking about a woman in Swamp Creek with that kind of disposition.
“Ain’t nobody done mo’ fu’ dis community than Ms. Swinton!” Reverend Dawson screamed, interrupting my recollection. “You gon’ be hard-pressed to find another woman that brilliant, disciplined, and upright.”
“Amen,” people hollered.
“Near ‘bout everybody here done got at least one whippin’ from Ms. Swinton and then another one when you got home! Hallelujah!”
“I know dat’s right! Uh-huh! Amen! Sho’ ya right!” the congregation responded.
“But it made us betta,” Reverend Dawson reminded.
“Yes, it did.”
“Ms. Swinton wunnit gon’ rest till she believed in hu’ heart dat you had done learned somethin’. Y’all remember! You bet not come to school wit’out cho’ homework!” Reverend Dawson bucked his eyes and searched for witnesses to confirm his testimony. “I remember one time when I came to school and hadn’t got my lesson out. Ms. Swinton grabbed my hand and walked me all de way home and told my folks not to send me back to hu’ classroom wit’out my work done. Daddy and Momma was hot about it, but Ms. Swinton wunnit
to be played wit’, so they said, ‘Yes, ma‘am’, and I got de beatin’ of my life. I bet I didn’t come to school wit’out my work done no mo’!”
The congregation laughed and remembered simultaneously. A few mumbled their own tales quickly, trying to top Reverend Dawson’s.
“She was a woman of conviction! A woman of standard!” Reverend Dawson whooped. “She believed in a thang bein’ done right!”
“Yes, she did!” folks said.
“And you talkin’’bout could read! I always said she shoulda been in Hollywood somewhere. I used to love storytellin’ time at school’cause I would stare hu’ in de face and let hu’ soft voice soothe me all over. I didn’t really care what she was readin’’long as she was reading out loud. And de books!”
“I mean!” Daddy echoed from the deacons’ corner.
“I went to hu’ house one day and when I walked in, I coulda fell out!” Reverend Dawson feigned fainting. “I ain’t neva seen dat many books in nobody’s house. I hadn’t neva been to no library befo’, so I hadn’t neva seen dat many books in no one place at one time. Lookin’ stupid, I went from shelf to shelf readin’ titles I hadn’t neva hear of befo’ and wonderin’ how any human bein’ could possibly read all dem books!
“‘You done read all dese books, Ms. Swinton?’ I asked in amazement.
“‘There may be a few I’ve missed,’ she said and smiled at me.
“‘Wow! You’s a real smart lady!’ I said.
“‘Not you is, son,
you are,’
she corrected.
“We laughed about my bad grammar as I kept shakin’ my head in wonder that one lady owned a million books.”
David glanced at me and I knew what he was thinking. Somehow, someway, I had to do something with those books. I squirmed in my seat, frustrated with the responsibility and too annoyed by it to grieve.
Reverend Dawson finished his eulogy and everyone read the obituary silently:
Ms. Carolyn Swinton was born the fourth child to the late Jimmy and Frances Swinton on June 4, 1923, in Swamp Creek, Arkansas. Ms. Swinton went home to glory on the evening of June 18, 1993.
Ms. Swinton was a pioneer in the field of education and was extremely devoted to the school in Swamp Creek where she taught for more than 40 years. She was also a devoted Christian and member of the St. Matthew No. 3 Baptist Church in Swamp Creek, Arkansas. She faithfully served her church as a member of the Sunday school teaching staff, a member of the No. 2 adult choir, and a past coordinator of the summer Vacation Bible School.
Ms. Swinton was a product of the same school in which she taught, having started her formal education in Swamp Creek School. She went on to receive her teaching diploma at Philander Smith College in Little Rock, Arkansas. She graduated with highest honors and went on to receive a master’s degree in education from the University of Arkansas at Little Rock. She began teaching at the Swamp Creek school in 1948 and taught until her untimely death.
Ms. Swinton loved and cherished the children she taught, accepting nothing but excellence from them. Yet, above all things, she loved the Lord with all her heart, soul, and mind. She lived the Bible instead of preaching it, and her favorite phrase was “I’d rather see a sermon than hear one any day.” She now rests with the Lord and walks the streets of gold, teaching children in heaven how to be their best.
Professor, as she was affectionately called, will surely be missed by the many lives she touched and the many hearts she enriched. Her insistence upon the best and her demand for quality have kept Swamp Creek alive for the past 40 years. It will take someone with very large feet to fill her shoes. She will certainly be missed.
Ms. Swinton leaves to celebrate her legacy Mr. David F. Gladstone, son, of Detroit, Michigan; Mr. Thomas Lee Tyson, son, of New York, New York; and a host of cousins, family, and friends.
“I didn’t know she had a master’s degree,” I leaned over and whispered to David.
“Yeah. She probably got it in the last couple of years while you were away.” David winked at me.
“Why are you winking at me?”
“Because Momma’s life resembles yours more and more every day, huh?” He smiled.
The choir rose and sang “Soon and Very Soon, We Are Goin’ to See the Kang.” Mr. Blue chimed in from the amen comer, and by the second verse the entire church was singing along. It was beautiful. I closed my eyes and listened to those black angels sing this song of warning and celebration. I imagined Ms. Swinton approaching the Gates of Heaven and the angels bowing slightly as she entered. Children cheer and shout while they watch her walk majestically around the kingdom in amazement at its beauty. A golden stool is where Ms. Swinton sits, fashioned by God Himself, and she smiles at all the children as they play at her feet, wanting nothing more than a little attention and affirmation from the Master Teacher. I begin to cry and this time I know why.
“I know I might be outta order, church, but I wanna ask T.L. if he’ll come on up and have a word or two. I heard he’s leavin’ us today and I want him to leave us wit’ somethin’ to chew on.”
“Amen!”
I could not deny Reverend Dawson’s pleading eyes. He had certainly caught me off guard, as tears rolled down my cheeks, but I quickly wiped them away and rose to a thunderous applause. I had not the slightest idea what I would say, but it had to be good. Folks were seeking to be impressed by my college education although had I lived there currently, they’d hate me for the same. I had to deliver.
The podium was my comforter as I said, “First giving honor to
God, Who is the head of my life, to Pastor Dawson, pulpit guests, members, and friends. I am both sad and glad. Ms. Swinton was first and foremost my mother.”
I don’t know what compelled me to say that. It was the first thing that came to my mind, so I offered it. What surprised me, though, was that nobody else was the least bit surprised.
“She loved me and taught me practically everything I know. She and my folks.” I glimpsed Daddy, and he stared in return, indicating that I should go on. “When I was a little boy, Ms. Swinton told me I could be anything I wanted to be. The secret to success, she said, was I had to believe it first. I asked her how to believe, and she told me something I’ve never forgotten.” I began to cry again, but I tried to hold it together. “She said you should never dream about being a thing. Just be it. Simply stand up and be it. I told her I wanted to be a teacher just like she was, and she said, ‘Then teach.’
“‘Who?’ I asked.
“And she said, ‘Anybody who’ll listen.’ I told her I was a child and nobody thought they could learn anything from a child. And Ms. Swinton said, ‘Then teach the birds in the sky. And the rabbits and the squirrels. Teach the trees, flowers, and the wind.’
“‘How do you do that?’ I asked naively.
“‘By assuming they hear you and understand your words. Assume their intelligence, T.L. Treat them as you would like to be treated. Let them know you are open to understanding their world and you want to share yours with them. Believe they all have a heart and a desire to know the true meaning of life. Love them hard enough to weep about it, and value the possibility of their perspective enough to seek it diligently. Only then can you call yourself a teacher. A teacher teaches everybody and everything he encounters. A teacher believes that everything seeks to know and to understand everything else. He is the medium through which this universal miracle shall occur.’
“Ms. Swinton changed my life that day. She opened up a world of possibilities that I would never have conceived. Swamp Creek transformed into the Garden of Eden as she took the ordinary things in my
life and showed me how to find the extraordinary things about them. She showed me that teaching is a spiritual calling, not an intellectual occupation. I had forgotten that lesson until my brother David reminded me about it yesterday. The utility of education is the element most pseudoteachers miss, Ms. Swinton always suggested, and she made me realize that if anyone ever had a true teacher, their lives were definitely changed. A teacher does that to a student. Always.”
“You betta talk, boy!” Ms. Polly declared.
“Amen! Amen!” others joined in.
“And now, I’m the teacher. It’s my turn to transform children’s lives and to insist they love themselves although they may never have done so. I must be the one who buys the books and reads them feverishly in search of new concepts and ideas that will intrigue the lost. I suppose I don’t have many to buy, though, because Ms. Swinton left me all of hers!”
“Is dat right?” Reverend Dawson exclaimed behind me.
“Yes, sir, it is. My promise to Ms. Swinton and all of you is that I will use them to make other lives better. If I can be even a portion of what she was, then my living shall not be in vain.”
BOOK: They Tell Me of a Home: A Novel
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