Disgruntled: A Novel

by Asali Solomon

  “Don’t do that, Kenya. Please.” He looked stricken. “This is important.”

  “What are you talking about? What are you ever talking about?”

  “Look, just so you know, all that stuff, the philosophy—I got rid of that when I went to prison. I was too fucked-up back then to be telling people how to live. I didn’t know who I was. But the story of the butler: that was real to me then and real to me now. That is The Key, or a key. Maybe it’s a blueprint, maybe a cautionary tale, maybe it’s nothing. I don’t know. But what I’m also telling you is that I’m not making it up. It’s coming from me, but I’m not making it up.”

  Kenya remembered when they’d talked back in prison, how he’d been under the tutelage of a man named Garrett Hadnitch. She had learned later why his name was familiar. The newspapers covered his grim circus of an appeal hearing, complete with the parents of the one Puerto Rican and two black women whose partial remains had been found in his freezer. There had been a picture of him, looking like an extremely dirty Jesus, on the front of the Daily News.

  Kenya made herself laugh. “Baba, you know that guy in prison, your writing guru, he was—”

  His face turned grim. “I know. I didn’t know, but then I found out. We’re getting way off track here. This isn’t about him, or even about The Key. I’m trying to tell you about what happened with your mother, with our family. I’ve wanted to talk to you all summer. I’m sorry it’s happening in this way now, but—”

  “Please go on,” Kenya said drily. “What else have you been dying to tell me?”

  “Look, I don’t want you to misunderstand me when I say this, but another part of all of it was that I wasn’t quite ready to be a father when you were born.”

  “You didn’t want me,” she said.

  “Of course I wanted you.”

  “I have to get out of here.” Kenya started walking again but changed her course, heading back through the cultivated land to the house. “Somebody needs to give me a ride to the bus. Not you. I’ll throw my shit in a bag and you can get a member of your harem to take me.”

  “Maybe we should finish this particular discussion before we get back. I know you have a lot more to say to me and I’m ready to hear it.”

  “Actually I think I’m done talking to you. Like, forever.”

  Now they were at the house. Kenya moved swiftly past the kids, playing jacks on the porch, and Cindalou, who kept saying, “What’s wrong what’s wrong,” and up into the Zen room. She slammed the door and then yanked open the drawers and closet as savagely as she could, throwing dirty and clean clothes in a pile on the floor. As on the first night, she heard murmurs downstairs that concerned her, but she couldn’t make them out.

  She meant to stay in motion, but she lost her spirit, surrounded by her things in haphazard piles. She was satisfied, however, that the room looked the way she felt; a pair of her underwear dangled on the Buddha, covering one of his eyes. She clambered up into the loft and fell sobbing into a fitful sleep.

  * * *

  Johnbrown must have warned them to stay away, because everyone did. Kenya awoke to find her stomach growling. When she heard what sounded like lunch happening, she slunk down to the kitchen. Just as she walked in, she heard Johnbrown praising Cindalou’s bean salad. All eyes turned toward her.

  “You need to try some of this,” her father said, adjusting his belt.

  “How are you feeling?” asked Sharon.

  “Fine,” Kenya muttered, wondering what her father had told them. It was impossible to know.

  “Do you want some tea?” asked Sharon. “I have a chamomile mint blend that’s good for anything that ails you.”

  “I just need to eat,” Kenya said. Rage and sadness had made her ravenous. She tried to seem distant while shoveling cold beans that were annoyingly delicious into her mouth.

  “What’s wrong, Kenya?” said Nannie, oblivious to the fact that the adult women had not asked. Kenya wondered what she must look like that even a four-year-old would inquire after her well-being.

  “I’m leaving tomorrow,” Kenya said.

  “You really don’t have to,” said Johnbrown.

  Kenya had come downstairs so spent that she’d felt almost calm. All she’d wanted to do was eat and go back to sleep. But sitting with these people and their rustic-gracious living on their forty acres of land, watching her father enjoy his lunch after all that he had said to her, turned corn bread to dust in her throat.

  “No, I really do have to go.”

  Johnbrown finally put down his fork. “I want you to think about what you’re doing, Kenya.”

  “What am I doing, Baba?”

  “You’re storming off angry because I can’t give you money.”

  “Do you need money, sweetheart?” asked Sharon.

  “Sharon,” said Johnbrown.

  Kenya fumed.

  Everyone stayed where they were. No one ushered Nannie, Dennie, or Amandla out of the room. But as far as Kenya was concerned, just she and her father faced each other.

  “So were you ready to have kids when you got Cindalou pregnant?” she said suddenly.

  Cindalou made a curious noise.

  “Of course not. I was committed to another woman.”

  “But of course by the time Sharon got pregnant!”

  “What? That’s supposed to mean something about the fact that she’s white?”

  “I think that’s enough,” Sharon said. “Johnbrown, Kenya, that’s quite enough. If you guys want to continue—”

  “I’m saying this in front of all of you,” Johnbrown said, his voice rising angrily. “In fact, I was the least prepared when Sharon got pregnant. I had just gotten out of prison, but—”

  Kenya stood up from her chair. “So you didn’t want any of us,” she said. “He didn’t want you,” she said, pointing at Amandla, who looked interested rather than distraught.

  “Kenya,” snapped Cindalou.

  “Well, it’s true and you know it. But why are you even talking to me? Your whole confused Kentucky Fried act! You knew exactly what you wanted when you met my mother. The good man she had at home. Or rather the good man she thought she had at home. Or the man in her home she thought was good!”

  “Daddy, did you want me?” asked Nannie. “Did you want us?” Dennie echoed.

  “Of course I wanted you,” barked Johnbrown, though he clearly hadn’t meant to. Dennie started to cry.

  “I hate you, Kenya!” yelled Nannie.

  “Nannie,” Kenya said, listening to herself with equal measures of horror and glee, “you’re a fucking brat. And didn’t you hear what your baba said? He just told me that he wanted you least of all. But you guys are the golden eggs keeping the goose here.”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” snapped Sharon, looking especially feral. She had stood and for some reason was holding a bottle of wine.

  “You’re the goose,” said Kenya.

  “Oh my God,” said Sharon. “Oh my God, why am I sitting here listening to this?” She finally jumped up from the table, sweeping the twins out of the room with her. Cindalou walked out as well, but Amandla didn’t budge, even when her mother growled her name. She sat looking at Johnbrown, as if he was an agitated creature in a cage.

  “You’re not making any sense,” said Johnbrown, “but you are causing irreparable damage!” Finally he yelled, “Get out of the kitchen, Amandla!”

  She slowly rose from the table and strolled out, and Kenya made as if to follow her.

  “Where are you going?” Johnbrown said. “You started this and we’re going to finish it!”

  Now he was standing in front of her, his jaw thrust forward. She had never seen her father do anyone physical harm, and she knew he wasn’t about to touch her now. But she thought about Teddy grabbing her. In a way, that was Johnbrown’s fault. All of it was.

  She punched him—not as hard as she meant, but low. “That is it! I’m calling the police!” yelled Sharon, who stood in the doorway. Johnbrow
n doubled over, making a soft, surprised sound, then snapped at Sharon that the cops were rednecks. In that instant, an unfamiliar wave of memory broke and washed over Kenya. She knew then that she’d been aiming the gun at Johnbrown and that Sheila had gotten in the way. Well, she’d finally hit her mark.

  * * *

  No one followed her back into the Zen room, but she could hear their voices raised at one another. Kenya packed her things and fell heavily into sleep. When she opened her eyes, the moon had burst in through the blinds as if it couldn’t help itself. Instead of being alarmed, she felt calmer when she woke and saw Amandla sitting below her on the rug, flooded in moonlight.

  “There’s some water,” said the girl. The glass was in the window cubby up in the loft. Kenya marveled that Amandla had gotten the glass up there without waking her. She gulped it down, hurting her throat.

  “What time is it?” she asked.

  “It’s nine o’clock,” said Amandla. “I’m supposed to be in bed.”

  “Jeez. Feels like the middle of the night. What’s up?”

  “I thought you might be thirsty.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Kenya managed.

  “Well, they’re really upset,” Amandla said. “But I’m not.”

  You just don’t know it yet, Kenya thought. It might take you years.

  “It was so dumb,” Amandla said. “My baba seemed like he wanted to tell Nannie and Dennie the truth. He wouldn’t just say that you had lied. Sharon was getting so mad at him. And my mom just kept shaking her head and saying she knew this summer was a bad idea.”

  That bitch, Kenya thought. “Amandla,” she said. “I feel so bad about what I said to you. It isn’t true at all.”

  “Yes it is,” she said sadly. “I used to pretend that he wasn’t even my real father. When he was in jail, my mother started dating this other guy for a while, Mr. Taylor. He was boring but he was normal. I used to pray that he would be my dad. I mean, I love my baba and I know he loves me. He’s supersmart, but he’s a spaz. You know. And he makes my mom act like a spaz. She’s so different when he’s not around.”

  Kenya wondered where the girl had learned the word spaz, considering she didn’t go to Barrett—or any school at all. And then she remembered a few weeks ago, describing Phyllis Fagin while Amandla laughed, grabbing her stomach.

  “Plus everything is so weird,” Amandla continued. “We live with Sharon. She’s okay, but when I grow up, I’m never doing anything like this. I’m either going to live by myself or there’s just going to be one other person. I used to want to go to school in town, but then I was like, what am I going to tell the kids in town about how I live? I mean, it would be bad enough being, like, the only black kid.”

  “Yeah,” said Kenya with a sigh.

  “Why’d you get so mad anyway?”

  “Baba didn’t say?”

  “Not really.”

  “It’s a long story,” she said. But maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it was a short story that was too petty to tell, but it was still breaking her heart. She imagined herself having dinner with her mother and the awful Teddy Jaffrey every night. It made her want to howl with misery. But she couldn’t stay here.

  “When are you leaving?” Amandla asked.

  “Tomorrow,” said Kenya. Earlier, she had hatched, and then quickly abandoned, a plan where she left the house in the dark. She liked the idea of scaring her father, who had breezily mentioned a Klan stronghold to the west of the farm. Let them find her, she’d thought then. Let them string her up.

  “I wish I could go with you,” said Amandla.

  “You really don’t.”

  * * *

  The next day, after a round of hugs ranging from stiff to hostile (except for the embrace of a quietly weeping Amandla), Johnbrown took Kenya to the bus station. They said little. She didn’t discover until he was gone that he’d put a manila envelope containing a sheaf of papers in her backpack. By then it was too late to rip them to pieces and let them fly out of the window in his face.

  Disgruntled

  Draft #1, Part 2, “The Martyr’s Tale”

  Perhaps it began when I was born black on that island across the sea. Perhaps it began when my father dropped dead and my grandparents told me that soon I’d have to leave school and join them in the fields. Perhaps the thing was well under way when the mistress told me that my services were no longer needed. This seems like years ago; it was merely this morning.

  “We are grateful for the service you have given us,” she said. “But we are going to have to let you go.”

  I knew if I asked why she would only tell a falsehood, and I did not want to say anything that could be mistaken for begging. I wondered idly also if she had talked to the Architect about this decision. He was out of town and I wondered if he would feel differently. Not fully wanting to, I asked, “Is there anything I can do?”

  We were in the large, square room where they entertain. She sat on the couch that was her favorite place to sit and I stood in front of her, the sun spilling in on all sides. She was waiting for me to say “ma’am.”

  We looked at each other.

  “No,” she said finally. “There’s nothing you can do. We will pay your passage back to New York. We are happy to provide letters of reference,” she said.

  “I will pack my things,” I said, thinking that I would not trust those letters. I’d once heard a story about a young, educated Negro searching for a job in New York who was chased around by letters informing people that they should not hire him and that they should not tell him about the content of the letters.

  “There’s no rush,” she said. “The new man doesn’t arrive until later in the week. We could use your help for several dinners before then. The furniture needs one more polishing, the rugs one last cleaning. You’ll need to train the new man as well. Of course you will receive your final wages and then some.”

  “Of course,” I said, bowing like an idiot. As I was walking away, she called me back.

  “Julian,” the cow said. “I’d like a word with Elizabeth. I’d like to explain.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” I said, taking a tone with her that I now felt free to take.

  “I’d prefer to,” she said, forcing her thin, pale lips into a hard smile.

  I went to the kitchen in search of Elizabeth, feeling violence in my hands. When she was not there, I went downstairs and groped my way to our room. As I entered the room, dark in the daylight, I heard the sound of someone retching. I, too, nearly became sick as I heard liquid hit the pail we used at night.

  “Elizabeth?” I said.

  “Yes,” she said in a small voice.

  “I have to tell you something.”

  “And I you,” she said. That was how I found out about you.

  * * *

  You will not believe this, but in that moment, it was I who was happy. A child! Your mother’s voice was sodden with despair. And so I was even more sorry then, to tell what I had to tell her. I did not light a lantern so I would not have to see her face. I could hear the look in her voice.

  “Oh, Julian,” she said. “What will we do?”

  “She says she’ll pay our passage back to New York.”

  “And then what will we do?”

  “She says,” I began with a smirk no one could see, “that she’ll provide letters of reference.”

  “Does this amuse you?” Elizabeth snapped. “Are you pleased?”

  A familiar and unpleasant jolt went through my frame as I wondered if this woman to whom I had sworn myself would ever understand me. “No,” I said simply. “I’m not pleased, but…”

  “But. What?” she said, each word a small harsh sentence.

  “But perhaps this is not what I’m meant to do.”

  “And what are you meant to do? And how are we meant to live?”

  “I know we are not meant to live like this. I know that I was not meant to live like this.”

  I heard her snort in the darkness. Then we heard the so
und of a large stick hit the floor above us. This was how they summoned us if we were downstairs.

  “She wants a word with you,” I said.

  My wife took one look at me, gathered her skirts, and walked up the rickety stairs. I paused alone in the dark. Then I went up as well. It was getting on time to prepare for the afternoon meal.

  I could tell the Irish housemaid knew, though she said nothing about it. I knew she was hoping now to work with more grimy white people like herself and her bedraggled compatriots, the hired men.

  Elizabeth came into the kitchen and set about rinsing vegetables. I looked at her back, which was slightly stooped, and I loved her. I felt comforted that though we might travel the whole earth, we would travel it together.

  “Do you know how many are eating?” I asked. I realized I had forgotten to ask the cow if there would be others besides herself and her horrible children. Well, it was not true that both were horrible; the girl was a shy child with a sad expression. But knowing her mother, I felt I knew what she would become. I thought, as I looked at Elizabeth, about parents and children. She had stopped her work to look out of the window. She glanced at me as if still looking through the clouds. “Seven.”

  “Are you well?”

  “I’m fine. And you can set the regular plate. The other guests are just the men.”

  Sometimes the cow, in the absence of the Architect, dined with the white groundskeepers. She had never extended this wretched courtesy to Elizabeth and myself, the excuse being that we were always required to serve. This was well and good; I never wanted to break bread with any of these people. I have to admit, however, that it galled me to have to gently place plates before men with barely a tooth between them, who had to be reminded by the housemaid to wash the grime from their faces and hands before they sat down to the Architect’s table. In these people’s eyes, I would never be as good as these men, who were not much more sentient than the horses and cows they watered and fed.

  I was not thinking much of them then, this morning when the day began. I was thinking of Elizabeth and our child as the kitchen clouded with Lucifer’s sweat. She was making the hot soup that the mistress required, even in August. She had confided in my wife that it was part of a regimen she followed hoping it would help her conceive a child, though she was past natural childbearing years.