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 (32 page)
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“You ready to go?” he asked me.
“Yessir. I think I am.”
“Let’s go get yo’ stuff from de house and then—”
“I put it in the truck this morning before I left. I didn’t know how long everything was going to last, so I thought I’d better bring my bags to be on the safe side.”
“I see,” Daddy said disappointedly. “It’s gettin’ close to five, so you’d betta git on out dere jes’ in case de bus is a li’l early.”
“I’m ready whenever you are. Just let me say by to Willie James. I’ll be out in a second.”
I found him sitting on the back pew of the church, glaring out of the window. He appeared depressed.
“Big brother, I gotta go,” I said, interrupting his thoughts.
He turned suddenly, unashamed of his tears. “Please stay, T.L. Please.” His voice shimmered.
“I wish I could, Willie James, but I can’t. I got to get back.”
“Please, T.L.” He grabbed my hand, and my fingers buckled in pain. “I ain’t got nobody.”
“You got yo’self, Willie James,” I suggested weakly while struggling to free my hand.
He finally let go. “Then at least write, OK?”
“I will. I promise.”
Willie James stood and hugged me sensually. He lay his head on my shoulder and allowed himself to melt into my embrace. Then he blinked bloodshot eyes at me and said simply, “See ya.”
“See ya,” I returned, and left. I was trying to stay light about everything, but Willie James was not helping.
I bumped into Momma as I rushed through the church kitchen. We froze awkwardly, staring at each other like strangers.
“Bye, Momma,” I said coyly, trying hard not to feel anything for her.
“Take care,” she returned as I stepped around her. “And take this with you.”
She handed me the picture of the butterfly I had painted for Willie James years ago. “It made him cry’cause it reminded him of you, so I took it down. I thought you’d want it if you ever came back.”
Momma hung her head and walked away.
“Thanks,” I mumbled genuinely, disturbed by what appeared to be an act of kindness from one whom I thought incapable.
I ran to the truck and hopped in. “Ready to go!”
“You sho’?” Daddy asked, starting the engine.
“Yessir. I don’t think I’ve forgotten anything.”
“Ain’t nothin’ else you need to do? Or say?”
I froze. “I don’t think so.”
“All righty, then. Guess you betta be goin’.”
We started down the road. I knew Daddy had something on his mind, but I didn’t want to pry. Hence, I sat timidly, praying he’d let me off at the Meetin’ Tree and just go on home.
That didn’t happen. In fact, he pulled off the highway, parked the truck under the tree, and turned off the engine.
“I sho’ do hate it’s gotta be like dis,” he said after a minute or two. “A man and his boy oughta be able to do bettern we doin’.”
I was dumbfounded.
“You done found out a whole lotta stuff since last Sad’dy, and most of it’s done made you madder than a wet hen. I jes wanna say I’m sho’ is sorry, boy.”
Tears welled in my eyes but I held them.
“Ain’t nobody’s life perfect, son, but yours coulda been a lot betta if I had been a betta man back then. I jes’ want chu to know dat I’m sorry. Dat’s all.”
Every time I tried to speak, I got choked up. I wished Daddy had just dropped me off. Leaving would have been so much easier.
He started the engine again, a sign he was ready to leave. “De bus ain’t gon’ be long now. It’s nearbout five o’clock.”
“Daddy … um … take care of yourself,” I mumbled as I wept. “You’ve been a good father and I appreciate it.” That’s all I could get out.
“You take care o’ yo’self, too, boy, ya hear?”
“Yessir,” I said, recomposing myself. I got out of the truck and lifted my bags from the back. I walked to the driver’s side and reached my hand out to shake Daddy’s. He clutched my hand so tightly I could feel his energy run up my arm and into my chest. When I glimpsed Daddy’s eyes, I noticed they were glazed over with tears.
“Come back sooner,” he whispered and tried to smile.
“I will, Daddy. I will.”
He turned his head away and drove off slowly. I sat on the bench underneath the tree and cried like a baby. I never realized before how much I loved that man.
The bus came a few moments later. It was just as hot that day as the day I had arrived.
“Hey there, young fella!” the driver said as I boarded. “I thought you mighta died from a heatstroke.” He laughed.
“No, sir. I’m still kickin’,” I said, rumbling through my bag, trying to find my ticket. In so doing, I discovered a strange note written in Momma’s impeccable penmanship:
I didn’t hate you.
“Damn!” I sputtered aloud.
“Is everything all right, son?” the driver asked.
“Um, yessir. Here’s the ticket.” I dropped it on the floor and the driver retrieved it.
“You seem nervous ‘bout somethin’. You sho’ you all right?”
“Yessir,” I said as I began to move down the aisle toward a seat.
“Don’t let nothin’ worry you too bad, boy. My daddy passed last Sunday—had a heart attack in his sleep, they say—and I promised myself after we buried him that I wasn’t gon’ let nothin’ worry me too bad.”
I stood in the aisle and felt a cold shiver go all over me. “Shit,” I mumbled when I found a seat and sat down. I kept reading the one line over and over again as though hoping it would disappear. I only made myself more upset. Momma always had the last word, and now I felt like crap for leaving Swamp Creek—again. “But did you love me?” I asked aloud in response to the note. Peering out of the big bus window, I saw a field of butterflies dancing wildly in the air. Their movements were frantic, as though trying to remind me of something important I had forgotten. I ran to the front of the bus.
“Let me off, please,” I begged the driver.
“Excuse me?” he said, looking up at me, confused.
“Let me off. Now.”
He didn’t understand.
“Please, sir. Let me off. Please!” I was screaming.
“OK, OK. You sho’ is determined’bout somethin’!” The bus driver pulled to the side of the road. “It’s got to be at least two or three miles back to that big tree, son. You gon’ walk in all dis heat?”
“The ancestors did it,” I proclaimed.
He opened the big door and, as I exited, he said, “Take care o’ yo’self.”
“I will,” I returned. “I’m sorry to hear about your father.”
“Thank you, son. Jes’ be glad yours is still in the land of the living. Take care now.”
The bus pulled away. I surveyed those thousands of butterflies dancing, though now very gracefully.
“I’ll jes’ keep Ms. Swinton’s books right where they are,” I said
aloud as the heat wave greeted me again. “That house can’t be too expensive, can it, Mr. Butterfly?” A beautiful yellow and black one rested on my shoulder. “David’ll be glad to sell it to me, I’m sure.”
aloud as the heat wave greeted me again. “That house can’t be too expensive, can it, Mr. Butterfly?” A beautiful yellow and black one rested on my shoulder. “David’ll be glad to sell it to me, I’m sure.”
I was trying to talk myself into believing what I had just done. It was right, but I still couldn’t believe it.
“Never say never,” I chuckled, then took a deep breath, grabbed both bags, and began to walk home in the midst of a warm, uncloudy day.
To my literary elders: Sonia Sanchez, Michael Eric Dyson, Melvin Rahming, James Baldwin, Paule Marshall, Toni Morrison, Randall Kenan, Jonathan Franzen, Percival Everett, John Edgar Wideman, Ayi Kwei Armah, Zora Neale Hurston, Ernest Gaines, and Jeffrey Woodyard. You have blazed the trail upon which I now travel. Thank you for clearing the way.
To Tony Clark, my literary agent: Thanks for laboring on my behalf, brotherman.
To all the descendants of Blackwell and Happy Bend, Arkansas, especially my parents, Mr. and Mrs. Harold Black, and my siblings: Together, our history and memories make this novel possible. I hope I’ve made you proud.
To Akino Aeikbns, The Nation of Ndugu and Nzinga: Your healing power and love kept me sane when I thought I was losing my mind. Don’t worry about others’ evaluation of you. Everyone who ever changed the world was first thought strange. Thank you for saving me, and now let’s save the universe.
To the Norments: A crown awaits you in the kingdom of God.
To the members of First Iconium Baptist Church: Thank you for providing a place wherein my creative gifts could bloom. I pray that my presence has enlarged the body, and I give thanks for the embracing so many of you provided.
To the Clark Atlanta University family: The literary training I acquired while an undergraduate planted the seed for this achievement. Now, as a faculty member, I thank all of you for the support you’ve given. Thanks, Dr. Liddell, for encouraging me to write when this project was still an embryo. For your wisdom, Ms. Maolud, I am eternally grateful.
THEY TELL ME OF A HOME. Copyright © 2005 by Daniel Omotosho Black. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
Design by Phil Mazzone
eISBN 9781429929110
First eBook Edition : January 2011
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Black, Daniel Omotosho.
They tell me of a home / Daniel Black. p. cm.
ISBN-13: 978-0-312-36283-6
ISBN-10: 0-312-36283-8
ISBN-10: 0-312-36283-8
1. African American families—Fiction. 2. Conflict of generations—Fiction. 3. Parent and adult child—Fiction. 4. Children—Death—Fiction. 5. Young men—Fiction. 6. Arkansas—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3602.L267 T47 2005
813’.6—dc22
813’.6—dc22
2005044137
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