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 (6 page)

BOOK: They Tell Me of a Home: A Novel

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Upon closer scrutiny of Daddy’s face, I realized he shared features with James Evans from Good Times. The broad, flat nose, high cheekbones, and shiny black complexion gave Daddy a warriorlike aura. He would have been a handsome man had he cared about grooming, but Daddy was totally divested of form or fashion. When I was a child, he had one church suit and the rest of his wardrobe was work clothes. I was sure he hadn’t bought anything since I had been gone. He didn’t need to. Women talked proudly and boldly about Daddy’s deep-set eyes and his thick, bushy eyebrows. “Girl, dat’s a fine ole country boy!” I overheard Ms. Mae Helen tell Ms. Helen Faye one day after church. “Dem wide shoulders and dat thick ass could keep a woman warm on a cold Arkansas night!” They chuckled to themselves, thinking no one heard them. I felt proud, actually, that my daddy was attractive to women. I never could see it, though, probably because my eyes were blinded by my fear of him. His loud voice, big hands, and protruding lips intimidated me into a silence I never outgrew. Daddy enjoyed the power he wielded, even as we sat at the dinner table that day, although he was a bit nicer than I remembered. It may have been my own maturity that softened his presence, or it may have been his own aging process. Either way, I wasn’t totally frightened of him anymore. For that I was grateful, because over the next several days I would need all the courage I could get.

After what seemed like an eternity, Daddy rose, put on his hat, and headed for the door. “A man oughta spend his time outdoors, boy,” he used to tell Willie James and me. “The house is the woman’s territory. Bible’ll tell ya dat.” Daddy only came inside to eat and sleep. He used the bathroom outside, napped outside, entertained his buddies outside, and made Momma stay inside.

I rose and followed him. Although Daddy was direct, he never said all he wanted to say at once. I decided to join him outdoors in hopes of learning more about what happened to Sister. He went to the barn to get a bucket of feed for the cows, and I grabbed a bale of hay and walked slightly behind him into the field.

“Ole Bessie dere is’bout to have a calf, boy,” Daddy announced out of the blue.

We fed and watered the cows and returned to the barn. Daddy put the bucket back in its place and began to sharpen the garden hoe.

I sat on a bale of hay like a naughty child awaiting reprimand. This is ridiculous, I thought to myself. I am entirely too old to be afraid of this man. However, my fear kept my thoughts from ever being expressed.

“Ms. Swinton is down low sick,” Daddy reported nonchalantly. I think he spoke simply to relieve me. Maybe Daddy could be kind.

“Is that right?” I said, honestly moved. Ms. Swinton was the teacher at Swamp Creek School. The only teacher. I guess we didn’t need but one, since we only had a one-room schoolhouse. Swamp Creek was far enough from the next county that, years ago, black parents convinced the local school board to let them keep their one-room school instead of busing black kids thirty miles to the nearest white school. The board didn’t want Swamp kids integrated with white kids anyway, so everyone was happy with the decision. Ms. Swinton simply had to report attendance and test scores to the Pope County school board every six weeks. Other than that, white folks couldn’t have cared less whether we learned a damn thing.

Ms. Swinton cared about us, though. She was an incredible
teacher who taught every subject masterfully. Her aim in life was to help black children learn in order to love themselves. She started teaching in Swamp Creek in 1948, and rumor had it that she has given every child she’s taught pure hell. Daddy said she came when he was in the first grade and assumed every child was an Einstein. She read with such eloquence and emphasis, her students boasted, that they would sit and cry as they listened. Sometimes she would cry, too. She had a love for teaching most people can never fathom. How she managed to teach all elementary grades alone was phenomenal, but Daddy said, even in his day, no one was bored or misbehaved. She was immaculately clean every day, rain or shine, and when she wrote on the board, students marveled at her calligraphic penmanship. All the boys had a crush on her, and all the girls envied her. Everyone loved her.

When I started school, she gave me extra books to read and required my papers to be longer than other students’. I thought she was mean at first, but later I discovered she really perceived me as brilliant. Her applause of my intelligence meant the world to me. The possibility Ms. Swinton believed in me made me frantic to prove I was worthy of her admiration. By my senior year in high school, Ms. Swinton said she was tired of the classroom. She had taught for thirty-five years and was ready to give it up. I knew she’d never quit, though—not Ms. Carolyn Swinton. The classroom was her domain. She would walk around in our little schoolhouse like a queen in a castle, her head held high and her high heels tapping the floor with a remarkable precision. She would die before she stopped teaching, and I was afraid that was about to happen.

“Yeah, ole Doc Sanders say she prob’ly ain’t gon’ be wid us too much longer.”

Daddy loved Ms. Swinton. He talked about her all the time. His eyes would light up whenever her name was introduced into conversation, and he never failed to affirm how smart and exceptionally pretty she was. She loved Daddy, too. She told us stories about how
Daddy would come to school late, huffin’ and puffin’, running from the fields. She would make him stand in the comer for fifteen minutes as his friends snickered and jeered at him. She knew his lateness was not his fault. He couldn’t help it if his daddy made him do field work before school hours. Yet she was never one to accept excuses, regardless of whose they were. She said Daddy was probably the smartest little boy she had encountered, but he missed too many school days to be consistently bright. After his fourth year, he assumed the role of class clown, apparently without knowing how much Ms. Swinton abhorred aberrant behavior. She took him home one day, Daddy said, and told his folks his coming to school was a waste of time. He was absent two or three days a week, and consequently, he had simply given up the desire to catch up. Grandpa didn’t mind, Daddy said. He needed help in the field. Grandma, on the other hand, didn’t like the idea of her son not getting “somethin’ in his head,” but she took what Ms. Swinton said as a sign that Daddy was not school material. Many people in Swamp Creek drew similar conclusions about their children.

I wondered how old Ms. Swinton was. She’d have to be at least seventy, since she had taught in Swamp Creek as long as anyone could remember. She was the only glimpse most of us got of culture, protocol, and class. Momma said Ms. Swinton was full of herself and ought to come back down. “Down to what?” I wondered. She dressed nice and her language was impeccable. That’s probably why Momma couldn’t stand her, “walkin’ round tryin’ to talk like white folks.” Ms. Swinton was my idol, and I loved everything about her. She taught me things and exposed me to ideas, which have stayed with me a lifetime. I never will forget the day she told me to stay after school. I thought I was in trouble. I didn’t remember anything I had done, but any time Ms. Swinton kept a student after school, everybody knew he was in trouble.

Once the other children left, she told me to bring a chair and place it next to her desk. I was both disquieted and anxious. “What did I do, Ms. Swinton?” I asked very softly, about to cry.

“You have done nothing wrong, Thomas Lee,” Ms. Swinton pampered me kindly. I had never heard her take a motherly tone with any of us kids. I felt warm. “I asked you to stay because I have something for you.”

Ms. Swinton went into her desk drawer and pulled out a brand-new book. I began to sweat.

“I know how much you like to read, and I see how hard you work. Take this book, read it, and keep it for yourself. Don’t tell anyone you have it. It’s our secret. In fact, why don’t we start reading it together, if you have time?”

“Sure,” I said, grinning like a Cheshire cat. I knew I didn’t have time because Daddy was in the field waiting on me. He’d simply have to wait, I decided. I might get a whoopin’, but this was worth it.

The book had a shiny, bright green cover. This was the first brand-new book I had ever seen. All our books at school were used ones the white school had thrown away, and this new book belonged to me!

“This is your birthday present, Thomas,” Ms. Swinton declared as I pulled my chair next to hers. I knew she was lying. She never gave anyone birthday presents because she didn’t bother herself with such trivialities. My fifteenth birthday simply offered her the opportunity to give me the book without showing favoritism.

“I think you’ll enjoy this book a lot,” Ms. Swinton concluded as she handed it to me and asked me to start reading aloud.

The book was titled
Go Tell It on the Mountain
. I liked the title because it reminded me of the song we sang at church during Christmastime.

“Yes. This is the story of a young man, much like you, who has some difficulties in his life that he must overcome.”

“Is he black?” I asked excitedly.

“Yes, he is black, and the other characters are, too.”

I dropped the book from sheer excitement.

“You must take good care of this book, son. New books are hard to come by in Swamp Creek.”

“I’ll take care of it, Ms. Swinton. I promise!”

I began to read. Every word was like medicine for my wounded spirit. I would read a page and Ms. Swinton would read a page. We read for about an hour until she suggested I go home before my folks came after me.

“Finish the book whenever you get a chance. The sooner the better, for then you won’t forget what we’ve already read.”

“I will, Ms. Swinton. I will!”

In my excitement, I jumped up from my chair and hugged her tightly. I released her abruptly, however, when I realized I had invaded her personal space. No one ever hugged Ms. Swinton. She just wasn’t the touchy-feely type. Yet, much to my surprise, she giggled and hugged me in return.

“Get on out of here, boy,” she said playfully, and tapped me on my behind. If I could have married her at that moment, I would have.

I stayed up all night and finished the book. John, the main character, and I had similar lives. His daddy beat him just like mine beat me. “Why are black daddies mean?” I wondered aloud to myself.

Concerning our mothers, however, our lives were very different. John had a momma who loved him. She hugged him and told him he was special. He had an auntie, too, who gave him some relief from his daddy. What troubled me most, though, was how his daddy claimed to love God passionately yet treated John like dirt.

I woke up the next morning too tired to hold my eyes open. “I tole you to take yo’ black ass to bed, boy,” I remembered Daddy threatening. And I wished I had, but I couldn’t stop reading. The stuff in the book about church, God, singing, and hypocrisy made me realize I wasn’t alone in my confusion.

“I’speck you might wanna go see Ms. Swinton befo’ you go,” Daddy requested, interrupting my memory.

“I will. For sure.”

He kept sharpening the hoe. Clearly he wasn’t going to volunteer any explanations unless I proceeded with my questions.

“Daddy, what’s wrong with us?”

“Wrong wid who?” he quizzed without making eye contact.

“Us. Our family.”

“I didn’t know anythang was s’posed to be wrong.”

“Come on, Daddy.” I was beginning to get frustrated again. “My memory of this place hurts. I think about how we abused each other and how we’d go for weeks without speaking a word to each other.”

Daddy remained silent. I had probably hurt his feelings, but I had to say what I felt. Otherwise, I never would.

“I’m sorry, Daddy,” I apologized after a brief pause. My eyes were beginning to water.

“Ain’t nothin’ to be sorry fu’, boy. You jes’ sayin’ what you needs to say, I guess.” Daddy glanced at me briefly and raised his brows.

“Daddy, don’t make this harder for me than it already is.”

“I’m listenin’ to you, boy.”

“I don’t need you to listen to me; I need you to speak.”

“What chu want me to say?” Daddy asked loudly.

I began to pace around the barn. “I need you to tell me about some things.”

“Thangs like what?”

“Like what happened to Sister.”

Daddy gazed into space, probably wondering how he could avoid this confrontation.

“I don’t know what happened,” Daddy responded, and resumed sharpening the hoe.

“Stop it,” I screamed. “How can you tell me you don’t know what happened?”

“Because I don’t know, boy. What I do know is dat you on thin ice hollerin’ at me like dat!”

“Fine. Forgive me. But, Daddy, your own daughter dies, somebody buries her in your backyard, and you don’t know anything? Is that what you’re saying, Daddy?”

“Yep.”

“You expect me to believe this?”

“It really don’t make me no diff’rence if you b’lieve it or not. It’s de truth. And if you was here, maybe you’d know fu’ yo’self.”

“Well, I wasn’t here and you know why. Does that mean I don’t deserve to know what happened?”

“I told you I don’t know nothin’’bout what happened to dat girl. I came home and dey had done already buried her.”

BOOK: They Tell Me of a Home: A Novel

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