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 (8 page)
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Willie James stopped talking. “Go on!” I demanded.
“Ain’t nothin’ else to say. She died that night before she got a chance to leave.”
“She died? That don’t make no sense, man! How did she die?”
“That ain’t yo’ business, boy,” Daddy blazed sternly. His voice startled both of us. We glanced up into the face of a man who would have killed had we spoken another word. I gazed at Willie James, frustrated he feared Daddy enough to deny me the information I wanted.
The only other time, years ago, Daddy warned me about minding my own business was the situation dealing with the banishment of Ms. Janey and Ms. Pauline from the church. Momma said it was a disgrace and a damn shame, two women sleeping together. I didn’t see what was wrong with it. Ms. Janey and Ms. Pauline had set up the college fund at church for any youngster who wanted to get a college education.
God was glad about that, wasn’t He? Yet if He was, folks in Swamp Creek didn’t care, because they expelled Ms. Janey and Ms. Pauline anyway. It was ugly.
God was glad about that, wasn’t He? Yet if He was, folks in Swamp Creek didn’t care, because they expelled Ms. Janey and Ms. Pauline anyway. It was ugly.
Deacon Blue got up in church and said he had an announcement to make: “It hath been reported that some of our members is funny.” Immediately everyone began to look at Ms. Janey and Ms. Pauline. “We all know God don’t like dat. De Bible say homosexials is goin’ to hell.”
“Amen,” people chimed.
“The Bible say fomicators are going, too,” Ms. Janey said defensively and stood to her feet. “So if I’m goin”, Blue, I’ll definitely see you there!”
Everybody knew, back in the day, Deacon Blue had been a ladies’ man, and Ms. Janey was making sure Deacon Blue understood God’s judgment to affect every life. Her case didn’t carry her far, though. The church voted unanimously to excommunicate them. Ms. Pauline was silent the whole time, having anticipated the judgment.
To quell my dissent, Momma said, “They started that shit years ago, and what’s done in the dark got to come to de light.” I told her, if I were they, I wouldn’t have been doing anything in the dark. I would have done it in the light from the start. She told me I didn’t know what I was talking about and to keep my mouth shut about the matter. That’s what I did.
Ms. Pauline was a retired schoolteacher who came home to bury her daddy and decided to stay. He had left her plenty of land, and her retirement pension left her financially stable. She was tired of running the rat race in Chicago, she told Grandma upon arrival, so she shipped all her things to Swamp Creek and took root once again. She had grown up there and moved away at eighteen. Grandma said she acted shy and aloof even back then, especially when boys approached. Whenever girls asked her what was wrong, she would say softly, “Pardon me, but I don’t share your male obsession.” The girls would snicker at her, because of both her response and the structure
of her language. Ms. Pauline didn’t pay them no mind though, Grandma said. As long as she had a good book, she was fine. She wasn’t nasty, ugly, or mean; she just wasn’t consumed with men.
of her language. Ms. Pauline didn’t pay them no mind though, Grandma said. As long as she had a good book, she was fine. She wasn’t nasty, ugly, or mean; she just wasn’t consumed with men.
As a child, I watched her in church pull out some thick novel and read it as Reverend Samuels preached. One day I asked her why she read in church and she said, “No need to waste good reading time! If he were saying something substantive, I’d listen.” “Why come at all?” I asked in return. “Because every Sunday I hope he’ll say something worth hearing.” Ms. Pauline had an answer for everything. I loved to hear her talk because her words sounded clear, crisp, and smooth like church bells. Grandma said the woman had enough books to make a school library. I never saw the books, however, because Daddy said he’d whip my ass if I ever went inside Ms. Pauline’s house. I’d walk by there and wave vigorously, trying to tell Ms. Pauline I liked her but was forbidden to visit. She would wave with the same energy, confirming she knew my hesitation was externally driven. At times, I contemplated whether to go inside against Daddy’s command, but Ms. Pauline would smile sadly and I knew not to invite the battle.
Ms. Janey was a different story. She was loud, boisterous, and definitely wasn’t one to take any crap. Born and raised in Swamp Creek, Ms. Janey never left. She married Old Man Jake Harris and treated him like a dog, Grandma proclaimed. She wouldn’t cook or wash his dirty draws, and she definitely wasn’t giving him any pussy. I overheard Grandma tell Momma that Ms. Janey and Mr. Jake had their own bedrooms and Mr. Jake wasn’t allowed in Ms. Janey’s room. She just married him to keep folks from talking. Everybody already knew she was “funny.” When she was sixteen, somebody caught her and another girl out behind Mr. Blue’s barn doing something sexual. Exactly what they were doing is apparently irrelevant, because people filled in the blank themselves. Ms. Janey didn’t care. She kept on living like nothing had happened. Youngsters mumbled ugly comments at her, Grandma explained, and she would whisper lively, “Wish you were there, don’t you?” She smiled and walked away with her head held
straight up in the air. Grandma mocked her demeaningly and asserted, “Ms. Janey Harris was a pistol!”
straight up in the air. Grandma mocked her demeaningly and asserted, “Ms. Janey Harris was a pistol!”
Folks said she and Ms. Pauline had always been lovers, but when Ms. Pauline left Swamp Creek, Ms. Janey was depressed and decided to marry Jake. People knew she was still in love with Ms. Pauline. Grandma said Mr. Samson, the mailman, delivered mail to her from Ms. Pauline and told everybody in Swamp Creek Ms. Janey got a letter from her lover. When Ms. Pauline came home to bury her daddy, Ms. Janey was right there the whole time consoling and cooking for her. It was wonderful, I thought. I was about twelve years old and I remember thinking how great it would be to have a friend who loved me that much. I knew they weren’t blood relatives; thus the commitment seemed all the more amazing.
Momma and Grandma didn’t agree with me. “Janey Harris oughta be plumb ‘shame’ o’ hu’self,” Grandma argued. “She got a man at home and she runnin’ afta anotha woman. Lawd, don’t strike us dead!” I smiled and said, “Isn’t it great how they take care of each other? I mean, that’s what Jesus would do, isn’t it?” That’s the only time Grandma slapped me in my mouth. “Go play, boy, and stop actin’ so damn grown!” she yelled.
After Ms. Pauline’s daddy’s funeral, Ms. Janey moved in with her. I walked by the house the day she was moving in, on my way to the fishing hole, and asked them if they needed any help. “That’s mighty kind of you, T.L. We could use a strong man for a minute or two.” I started taking Ms. Janey’s things off the truck. Suddenly Daddy came by on the tractor and summoned me angrily. I met him on the road and that’s when he told me never to let him catch me at those women’s house again. I started explaining they had been very kind to me and I was only giving them a hand because some of Ms. Janey’s things were quite heavy. He didn’t care. He wanted me to stay away from those damn dykes, as he called them.
The day they were banished from the church, I wept. Ms. Janey cussed and accused everyone of being judgmental. She didn’t deny
anything they said about her; she simply wanted to know why she had to leave the church, but all the other sinners didn’t. She said, “We ain’t teachin’ dese children nothin’ but hypocrisy. Some of them exist today because y’all was in the wrong bed. Might as well tell de truth and shame the devil!” Folks got beside themselves and began to grumble loudly. That’s when the deacons physically threw Ms. Janey out the front door of the church. They weren’t thinking about her sin anymore; they were afraid she was going to tell the truth about their lives. Of course, they weren’t willing to suffer exposure. Truth and church folk never got along too well in Swamp Creek.
anything they said about her; she simply wanted to know why she had to leave the church, but all the other sinners didn’t. She said, “We ain’t teachin’ dese children nothin’ but hypocrisy. Some of them exist today because y’all was in the wrong bed. Might as well tell de truth and shame the devil!” Folks got beside themselves and began to grumble loudly. That’s when the deacons physically threw Ms. Janey out the front door of the church. They weren’t thinking about her sin anymore; they were afraid she was going to tell the truth about their lives. Of course, they weren’t willing to suffer exposure. Truth and church folk never got along too well in Swamp Creek.
Ms. Pauline sat and cried softly. She watched the deacons throw Ms. Janey outside and accuse them of things no one could possibly have proven. She was no coward, though. She rose to leave, knowing everyone was waiting for her to do so. Before she reached the door, she turned and pronounced, “I’m glad I met God before I met you.” I never forgot that moment. Ms. Pauline had taught me indirectly that God doesn’t think like people do. I didn’t agree with the church’s decision, but I was only a child, and children have absolutely no power in Swamp Creek. Daddy reminded me later that the church must have standards. “We can’t allow sin to live in the church and do nothin’’bout it,” he avowed. I wanted to ask him what we were going to do about the sin in his life, but he would have beaten me. Everyone in the church had committed transgressions against God, but I would never have told them God didn’t love them. I also knew in my heart God loved Ms. Janey and Ms. Pauline. Kicking them out of church was supposed to be a clear sign to me that God didn’t love them, but I never believed it. More important, I didn’t understand how God wouldn’t love them. They were the most righteous people I knew. Anytime someone died, they were ready to assist the family. If the church sponsored a program, they gave the most money and dedicated the most time to assuring its success. When I got ready to leave for college, Ms. Pauline slipped me a brand-new hundred-dollar bill and a note that read: “Study hard and do well, son. Education will
take you anywhere you want to go. If you need anything more, just call.” My own folks had not given me anything. Even when Ms. Pauline and Ms. Janey were abused and talked about, they kept their commitment to righteousness. And these were the people Swamp Creek citizens sent to hell for their sins?
take you anywhere you want to go. If you need anything more, just call.” My own folks had not given me anything. Even when Ms. Pauline and Ms. Janey were abused and talked about, they kept their commitment to righteousness. And these were the people Swamp Creek citizens sent to hell for their sins?
Before
Sunday dinner was served, I escaped the house long enough to gather wildflowers for Sister’s grave. The makeshift bouquet made the reality of her death more comprehensible. I begged Sister to speak to me, to give me a sign she knew how much I loved her, but I got nothing. Placing the flowers at the foot of the tombstone very carefully, I decided to call the area around her grave Eden. She was my first love and the only paradise I’d known, so to think Sister was resting in Eden comforted me.
Sunday dinner was served, I escaped the house long enough to gather wildflowers for Sister’s grave. The makeshift bouquet made the reality of her death more comprehensible. I begged Sister to speak to me, to give me a sign she knew how much I loved her, but I got nothing. Placing the flowers at the foot of the tombstone very carefully, I decided to call the area around her grave Eden. She was my first love and the only paradise I’d known, so to think Sister was resting in Eden comforted me.
Willie James called me to supper. Not wanting to eat but trying to avoid turmoil, I rose and entered the house.
The food smelled good and looked pretty on the table. Momma was famous for making ordinary things appear extraordinary. I sat down and Daddy said the blessing.
“Lawd, thank You for dis food we ‘bout to receive for de nourishment of our bodies and the benefit of our souls. Amen.” We each mumbled a Bible verse and began to serve ourselves. Meat loaf, green beans, okra, potatoes and onions, and baked sweet potato pie. The food was scrumptious, but the company was sour. Everyone’s head remained bowed throughout the meal like disciples saddened at the lost
of their Savior. No one dared speak. Sunday dinner had been the kind of ritual in our home where one’s presence was required yet one’s voice undesired. It was the time during the week when we reminded ourselves, in our attitude, how much we disliked one another. We chewed our food quickly, enduring the moment only because our flesh demanded it, and retreated into our own private worlds where we preferred to live. Once, Sister and I glanced at each other and burst into laughter. Daddy never raised his head, but Momma warned us, “Y’all better stop all dat damn clownin’ at de dinner table!” Daddy told me later, “Men don’t giggle, boy. That shit’s for women. Next time, I’ll slap de shit outta you.” I think my folks were afraid joy might come along one day and demand they relinquish their love for hatred.
of their Savior. No one dared speak. Sunday dinner had been the kind of ritual in our home where one’s presence was required yet one’s voice undesired. It was the time during the week when we reminded ourselves, in our attitude, how much we disliked one another. We chewed our food quickly, enduring the moment only because our flesh demanded it, and retreated into our own private worlds where we preferred to live. Once, Sister and I glanced at each other and burst into laughter. Daddy never raised his head, but Momma warned us, “Y’all better stop all dat damn clownin’ at de dinner table!” Daddy told me later, “Men don’t giggle, boy. That shit’s for women. Next time, I’ll slap de shit outta you.” I think my folks were afraid joy might come along one day and demand they relinquish their love for hatred.
I was about half-finished with my plate when Daddy queried, “What chu puttin’ dem weeds on dat grave fu’? She can’t smell’em, can she?”
“Yes, she can,” I defended. “Only her body’s gone. Her spirit is still alive.”
“Is dat so?” Daddy snickered.
Joking about Sister’s death and her grave angered me. “How can you belittle your own daughter’s death?” My tone infuriated him.
“Don’t start dat shit today, OK? I ain’t in de mood. It’s Sunday anyway.”
“What’s Sunday got to do with Sister? I keep asking you what happened and you won’t tell me anything. I’ve been here a day and none of you have tried to explain the specifics of her death to me. You know how close we were. Why are you torturing me?”
Daddy ignored me and kept eating, Willie James refused to make eye contact with me, and Momma acted as though she hadn’t heard anything.
“Will someone tell me what happened?” I implored after a moment or two of silence.
No one replied.
“I’m not leaving here until I get some answers.”
Momma glared at Daddy. My persistence hadn’t troubled her; the possibility of my extended stay was what worried her.
“TL., all I know is—”
“Shut up, boy,” Daddy told Willie James emphatically.
“Why shouldn’t I know, Daddy? You don’t think I deserve to know what happened to my own sister?” I slammed my fork on the table and gawked at Daddy with the meanest expression I could muster.
“Don’t get beside yo’self, boy. I’d hate to have to whip yo’ ass, especially since you thank you grown and all.” Daddy’s eyes assured me I did not want to push him. “Finish yo’ supper, and I don’t intend to deal wit’ chu about yo’ sister no mo’.”
“I’m supposed to let her go? Just like that?”
“Don’t be a fool, boy,” Momma patronized me. “Yo’ daddy don’t want to talk about it, so let it go.”
“Momma, please! Whatever Daddy says, you just go along with it.”
“Is you disrespectin’ yo’ momma, boy?” Daddy yelled. He stood up. “I’ll kill you if you disrespect yo’ momma again in my house!”
“Sorry, Momma,” I submitted quickly, more to satisfy Daddy than to honor her. “I didn’t mean to disrespect anyone. I’m trying to discover what happened to Sister.”
“We done told you we don’t know!” Daddy screamed, and pounded on the table.
“But y’all do know! How can you expect me to believe otherwise?”
“I don’t expect you to do nothin’. I didn’t expect you to come back to Swamp Creek, I didn’t expect you to amount to much, and I don’t expect you to keep worryin’ me about Sister! Now leave me the hell alone!” Daddy resumed his seat and continued his meal.
Tranquillity subsumed us again. Whenever we approached the point of real communication, we reverted to silence. Strangely enough, we used to go for days and not say a word to anyone. The beauty of verbal expression was never welcomed in our home. Sister’s death seemed, somehow, to contribute to the family vow of silence, and since the taciturnity was larger than me, I said nothing further.
After dinner, I followed Willie James out to the barn as he prepared to feed the cows and slop the hogs. That was once my job. I hated it, but come slaughter day, I didn’t mind.
“Why you followin’ me?” he interrogated.
“I don’t know, really. Maybe I was hoping we could talk.”
His eyes met mine. “About what?”
“Oh, whatever.” I was making a complete ass of myself.
“If you came out here to ask me about your precious little sister, keep it. I ain’t got nothin’ to say.” He filled the buckets with feed and proceeded into the field toward the cows. I ensued.
“I didn’t come out here to ask you about Sister,” I lied. “I came to ask you about you.”
“What about me?”
I hesitated a moment, then asked, “Why did you stay? I mean, you could have left.”
“What makes you think I wanted to leave?”
“Why wouldn’t you? Every man wants to explore the world. I knew how you felt about the limitations of Swamp Creek. I remember you cursing these fields and these animals and talking about how much you hated Daddy.”
“I never said that.”
“Oh, come on! At least let’s tell the truth to each other, Willie James.”
“Well, maybe it wasn’t as easy for me to leave as it was for you. You had the ability to walk away from things, you know.”
“What are you trying to say, Willie James?”
“I’m saying I was never as free from Daddy as you were. I was the oldest son and I was supposed to stay by his side, right?” His tone suggested regret.
“But, big brother, what about you? Is that what you wanted for yourself?”
“Nobody gets a chance to want anything for theyself around here. You know that. Ain’t that why you left? In order to have something all to yourself?”
“I suppose,” I pondered. “You didn’t have to stay all your life, did you?”
“I ain’t never knowed nothin’ but Swamp Creek, and I guess I never will. It crossed my mind to leave a couple of times, but I didn’t. Daddy needed me.”
“For what?”
“To work in the fields. You left and Sister was threatening to leave, and I felt I’d better stay so Daddy would have somebody.”
“He has Momma, doesn’t he?”
“Momma don’t belong to him. He didn’t create her. He needed to see somethin’ which wouldn’t exist if he didn’t. That was me.”
“Why are you so committed to keeping Daddy alive and feeling good about himself?”
“I ain’t. I’m tryin’ to keep Momma alive.”
“I don’t understand.”
He continued, “You know how Daddy feels about women. He’d just as soon rape one as tip his hat. He got mad with Momma when you disappeared. Said you probably wouldn’t have left if she had been doin’ what she was s’pose’ to. Whatever that was.” Willie James paused and then said, “Everything what done gone wrong in this family Daddy blame on Momma. I know you and her ain’t neva been friends, but I kinda feel like I oughta stick around for her sake.”
“What about your sake?”
“What about it?”
“Are you gonna let Momma and Daddy consume all of you? I mean, when are you gonna stand up and claim your own existence?”
“I ain’t got nothin’ to claim, T.L. I was never smart like you, I ain’t neva been too good-lookin’, and God ain’t seen fit to give me too many breaks in life. Look like to me I ain’t got no choice.”
“But you do, Willie James. You do. You got to insist upon your own happiness, on your own terms. You’re beautiful if you think you are. And you are smart. You never did too well in school because you didn’t try hard.”
“You wrong there, little brother. I tried real hard. I gave myself
headaches trying to memorize poems and learn algebra. It wouldn’t come to me. I acted like I didn’t care ‘cause I was failin’ and couldn’t help it. I didn’t wanna be a failure, not unless I chose to be one. It’s OK, though. I’m gettin’ by.”
headaches trying to memorize poems and learn algebra. It wouldn’t come to me. I acted like I didn’t care ‘cause I was failin’ and couldn’t help it. I didn’t wanna be a failure, not unless I chose to be one. It’s OK, though. I’m gettin’ by.”
“But gettin’ by ain’t good enough, Willie James.”
“It’s gon’ have to be. You got somewhere I can go?”
I did not. I wasn’t even sure what I was doing with my own life, much less his.
We finished feeding the cows. I wanted to say something profound to inspire my brother to take control of his own life, but I found no words. Once we left the field, we returned the buckets to the barn, and as we walked back toward the house, Willie James said, “I’m glad you left, T.L. I was hoping one of us would get out of this hellhole and live to tell about it.”
“Well, here I am.” I held out my arms like an actor at the close of a play.
“Yeah, here you are,” said Willie James with a fake smile. “Here you are and there she is.” He pointed to Sister’s grave.
I did not understand Willie James’s meanness. “Why are y’all doing this to me?”
“OK, I’m sorry. But I think you could have done better, at least by her. Now that she’s gone, ain’t no way for you to make things right. And just in case you were planning to ask me, no, I don’t know what happened. I really don’t.”
“How do you expect me to believe that?”
“It don’t really matter what you believe. I came in out of the field one day and saw the fresh grave. I ran from the tractor and asked Momma what was going on. She stared at the mound and said nothing. I kept asking and finally she screamed, ‘Yo’ sista done gone and killed herself! We buried her right away. I didn’t want you and yo’ daddy to face no funeral. She would have wanted it that way.’ I was going to argue, but I didn’t see no need. I couldn’t bring her back, so I parked the tractor and fed the cows. I knew Sister didn’t kill herself. But since I didn’t have any other explanation, I left it alone.”
“Why didn’t you keep asking Momma until she told you the truth?”
“Because I ain’t like you, T.L. I can live without knowing some things.”
“But can you live without knowing how Sister died?”
“I been doing it, ain’t I?”
“Yes, but that doesn’t mean you can do it for a lifetime.”
Willie James wanted to say something badly. “Momma had a strange look in her eyes that day. She kept saying, ‘My baby, my baby.’ I tried to ask her what happened. I was cryin’. I knew somethin’ was wrong, really wrong, but she wouldn’t say nothin’. She was drippin’ with sweat and rockin’ herself back and forth like she was in another world. I tried to grab her and ask what was wrong, but she wouldn’t budge. She just kept sayin’, ‘Yo’ sista’s dead, boy. Yo’ sista’s dead.’”
“Why don’t you believe she committed suicide?”
“Because Sister had a plan of how she was gonna leave here. She was sure about it, T.L. She didn’t kill herself. I know she didn’t.”
“I don’t think she would have, either, but you don’t have even a guess as to what really happened?”
Willie James studied my eyes deeply and said, “Daddy know somethin’. I know he do. But, T.L., he’ll kill you’fo’ he tell you. I ain’t asked him nothin’.”
“Then how do you know he knows something?”
“’Cause he come home and saw the grave and acted like it’s been there his whole life.”
“What?”
“It didn’t move him at all. I knew he was gon’ flip and trip out on Momma and act like a madman’cause his baby girl was dead, but all he did was nod his head when he walked by the grave. Dat’s why I think Daddy know what happened. Plus, don’t nothin’ happen round here’less Daddy give the OK. You know dat.”
“Man, I must be losing my mind. All this seems normal to you?”
“No, it don’t. But who I’m gon’ question? I ain’t neva been bold as you, T.L.”
“I got to question somebody. I can’t live like this. Maybe you can, but I can’t.”
“Maybe you ain’t got nothin’ to lose.”
“What do you mean?”
“I live here. I got to live here, ‘cause I ain’t got nowhere else to go. I can’t stir up shit and leave. I got to walk easy, man, or my life will be a livin’ hell every day.”
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