Linden Hills

by Gloria Naylor

  “Couldn’t get a rise out of her, huh?” Willie said, staring at the ceiling.

  “Now, what would she want with my tape? She knows it pisses me off to have her touch my stuff.”

  “Maybe she likes listening to him—that’s one heavy dude. And you said she studied black history in college.”

  “Yeah, and what good did it do her? You know, when Kiswana Browne came around collecting clothes for the Liberation Front in Zimbabwe, Roxanne told her—and I quote—that after careful consideration, she’d reached the conclusion that the people of Zimbabwe weren’t ready for independence. You got that one? I guess that’s why Grandma Tilson said Nedeed’s great-grandfather backed the Confederacy—we weren’t ready to get out of slavery. And he went to one of those fancy Eastern schools, too. She’s a true prodigy of the Hills, that one. Man, Kiswana took one look at the lot of us and got the hell out of this house. And for a looker like that, I was ready to pull off my jocks for Zimbabwe and hand ’em right to her, but she wanted nothing to do with us after that. And that two-faced porky’s got the balls to play my tapes? The X would turn over in his grave to know that.”

  “He might be turning over in it when you play ’em too, Les.” Willie was still staring at the ceiling. Then he turned over on his elbow to face the hurt and confusion he expected in his friend’s eyes. “I mean,” he began slowly, “I’ve been listening to you make speeches all day about how fucked up the people in this neighborhood are and how hopeless your mom and your sister are, but to paraphrase another heavy dude—methinks the nigger doth protest too much. ’Cause you still live here, Shit. You still live here, with all your hollering and screaming Uncle Tom at other folks, and I think you like living here. And all I’m saying is call a spade a spade and leave it at that.”

  “Hey, wait a minute, Willie.”

  “No, you wait a minute.” Willie sat up on the edge of the bed. “I’ve heard you out, now it’s my turn.” He sat there quietly for a moment. “I grew up with five brothers and sisters in three rooms, three small rooms. And when we came out here on Wayne Avenue and had four rooms and a tree in front of our building, we thought that was moving up in the world. My mom got beat up every night after payday by a man who couldn’t bear the thought of bringing home a paycheck only large enough for three people and making it stretch over eight people, so he drank up half of it. And she stayed, Les. She stayed because a bruised face and half a paycheck was better than welfare, and that’s the only place she had left to go with no education and six kids. You think people should live like that, Shit? Because these folks in Linden Hills didn’t want that kind of life doesn’t make them freaks. You wouldn’t want it. I don’t think you’d trade this big bedroom for the third of a studio couch I had most of my life. And I don’t think that playing Malcolm’s tapes and calling your sister’s old man names makes up for that, either.”

  Lester went and sat on the bed beside Willie. His eyes followed the pattern in the rust carpeting and he began to trace it with his toe. Then he sighed and looked up. “You’re right, Willie. I’ve never had to live that way and I wouldn’t want it now.”

  “Because this is your home, man,” Willie said gently, “and that’s why you’re still here.”

  “Yup, that’s why I’m still here—this is home.” Lester sighed again. “This is home, a house with a thousand-year-and-a-day lease. I hate it, but I eat well and my laundry’s done for me and my TV’s fixed when the color fades …” Lester frowned into the carpet. “Willie, I never meant that having an education and a comfortable life was wrong. Malcolm believed in education.”

  “I know. The Muslims even set up their own schools, and they ran businesses. They still do.”

  “Yeah, but these people have gone beyond that—I can’t really explain it. You know, my grandmother called it selling the mirror in your soul.”

  Willie tapped his chest. “Since when did we get one?”

  “A soul?”

  “No, a mirror.” Willie smiled.

  “Well, I guess she meant giving up that part of you that lets you know who you are. She would often say, ‘Child, there’s gonna come a time when you’ll look at the world and not know what the blazes is going on. Somebody’ll be calling you their father, their husband, their boss—whatever. And it can get confusing, trying to sort all that out, and you can lose yourself in other people’s minds. You can forget what you really want and believe. So you keep that mirror and when it’s crazy outside, you look inside and you’ll always know exactly where you are and what you are. And you call that peace.’ Ya know, White?”

  “No, Les, not really.”

  “Well, anyway.” Lester sucked his teeth. “These people have lost that, Willie. They’ve lost all touch with what it is to be them. Because there’s not a damned thing inside anymore to let them know. And if that’s what a degree or a five-syllable job title is going to cost you, then you don’t want it, believe me, Willie. But you’re right, I’m probably not much better than the rest of Linden Hills. I haven’t gone all the way, but I’ve sold myself for a pair of clean socks and a chicken dinner.”

  Lester looked so dejected that Willie wanted to put his arm around his shoulder, but he punched him lightly instead.

  “Hey, blood, look at it this way—if it’s any consolation, your mom says she’s laying five to one that you’ll die without a pot to piss in. And you know, even though we hate to admit it, our moms are usually pretty much on target when they predict stuff like that.”

  Lester brightened. “You know, I think you’ve got something there.”

  “Sure.” Willie nodded. “There’s hope for you yet.” And they laughed.

  “You wanna split a joint?” Lester asked.

  “Great. I think a little light entertainment is what we need after all this heavy bullshitting. Let ’er rip.”

  Lester went into the back of his closet and brought out a brown envelope.

  “You got any incense?”

  “Naw, my mom’s too hip for that. We gotta crack the window.”

  They cut off the lights and sat on Lester’s bed with their backs resting against the headboard, silently passing the reefer between them and watching the luminescent circles cast by the street lamps mellow and expand on the windowsill and floor. A cold burst of wind shot in through the cracked window and brought with it a long, thin wail as it trailed along the floor and gently shook the edges of the bedspread.

  “Jesus, there it is again!” Willie’s mouth went dry.

  They sat frozen on the bed, waiting for it to come again, and when it snaked in through the open window, Lester and Willie forced themselves not to reach out and touch each other. They each sat alone in the dark, trying to link some sort of human emotion to that sound because an ancient instinct told them it wasn’t an animal sending out that cry into the world. They knew it didn’t sound like someone in pain or danger. And it didn’t echo the heightened edges of despair. Lester and Willie were totally confused, since there was really nothing that had touched their twenty years to help them locate its cause—they had not lived long enough to recognize a plea for lost time. Up from the bottom of Linden Hills, winding between bare branches, it came sliding into Lester’s room again, clear and distinct now that they had even stopped breathing to await its arrival. This time it moved across their chests, up the far wall, and over the ceiling before dying at the base of the window.

  Lester’s bladder loosened and he jumped up. “I’ve gotta take a leak.” He almost ran to the door and went into the hallway.

  Willie went to the window, slammed it shut, and then turned on the lamp at the nightstand, telling himself the cold air in the room was making him tremble. The lighted room reassured him that nothing had changed. The books, the poster, the television—the world he understood was still intact. He went back to the window and cupped his hands against the cold glass and peered down the slope. The streetlights threw the shadows of the naked tree branches onto the roofs in Second Crescent Drive and then Linden Hills d
ropped off into a dead void.

  The wind brought the cry again, but it went unheard by Willie as it rattled against the closed window and then returned back over the, treetops and houses below. Back through the brick pillars on Tupelo Drive and along its shrubbed meridian. Back across the frozen lake in front of the white clapboard house. Then down through a basement air vent. Down to die in the aching throat of a woman who was crouching over the shrunken body of her son.

  December 20th

  The clock on the morgue wall ticked for the sixtieth time past midnight. She sat on the edge of the cot with her son’s head resting on her shoulder. The limp body was hugged to her chest while the pale, shriveled arms and legs dangled behind her back. She could taste the blood in her raw throat and her jaw muscles ached from the strain of clamping her lips together. Hours ago she had decided that she would scream no more. So she closed her eyes and let her mind swing with each movement of the clock’s rusty gears … Sec-onds … Sec-onds … She knew how to die. Just let the mind swing out—and bring it back a little less. Swing out—then back a little less. Let it slip. Slip. Toward the edge. Toward sleep.

  Time. You let time take your son, now let it take you. She had only wanted those last few seconds—was that asking so much? She begged them to come back—and they would not come back. She knew the days were gone. So many days ago when she could have taken her body, pressed it across his face and put her baby to sleep. But she waited for the door to open. Surely Luther would unlock the door since the child was sick. He was testing her, that’s all. He wanted to see how long she could endure. So she had feared something more than the dying eyes of her son. She feared releasing him and then hearing the bolt slide back from the door. Hearing the intercom click on and say she could come up now—it was over—only a breath after killing her son.

  Sec-onds … She was so terrified of those seconds, looming white and huge in that eternity of space between the numbers on the clock. They kept her listening to the heaving chest, enduring the fevered touch. Mama, help me. And she did not. She waited—in fear of those seconds. But she begged them to come back. Just one. Give her one so she could help her child. Time. She would scream no more for time. No. Just let the mind swing out—she could never leave this basement alive now. Because Luther knows that he’s a dead man. Swing out—he knows that she would rest, eat, grow strong. And wait. Yes, she was doomed here. So put your mind on the clock. Right there. On the clock. And let it swing you to death.

  Luther fixed himself his nightly brandy and soda, and then sank his head back into his leather recliner. It had been a difficult day and tomorrow would be even busier. There was the Parker funeral in two days, so the body had to be dressed for the wake tomorrow. And then he had to squeeze in a few hours to act as an usher at Winston Alcott’s wedding tomorrow morning. Why did he keep thinking tomorrow? He looked at his watch. It was a quarter past midnight, so all of that had to be done today—dammit. And he was so keyed up he knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep for hours. He pressed the tired lines on his forehead and sighed. Nothing had gone smoothly since his wife had been downstairs. It annoyed him that her absence was much more intrusive than her presence had ever been. It had an irritating way of showing up in his dwindling supply of clean laundry, the accumulating dishes, and the light film of dust on his desk. Where was he supposed to find the time to take care of all that? He wanted to have a fire in his den. Burning logs gave a nice atmosphere to the room around the holiday season, but he couldn’t spare the effort now—and with Mrs. Thomas away until the beginning of the year … He sighed again. Not that he truly regretted the necessity of dismissing their housekeeper. She never made his eggs like his wife had. Three minutes—every morning it was the same damned argument—no more and no less than three minutes, and you start with tepid eggs so they don’t crack in the boiling water.

  He took another sip of his drink and grimaced. He always managed to add too much brandy. Now her absence even lay at the base of his burning throat. Six years of a decent brandy and soda weren’t going to wash down the drain because of one problem. His father was right: breaking in a wife is like breaking in a good pair of slippers. Once you’d gotten used to them, you’d wear them until they fell apart, rather than go to the trouble of buying a new pair. Well, in a few weeks she would have learned her lesson. And then next spring, she’d conceive again and he’d get the son he should have had in the first place. God, it would have taken him seven years. But the world had changed so much since his father’s time—women had changed dreadfully. Ideally, he should have married a woman who was the age of his fathers’ wives—sixteen, seventeen at the most. But today, that was impossible because they were pampered and irresponsible. Now women that young were nothing but empty-headed children, totally incapable of managing a household like this. And he didn’t dare marry any of the ones he met during his college days. The black women on that campus had an arrogance about them, an overinflated sense of their uniqueness in getting that far. Sure, they had wanted a husband but not at the cost of their future—a sullen, discontented lot—it was too much to ask them to share your future and legally own half of what they’ve never worked for. But he had known when the moment was right to pick the perfect woman for Tupelo Drive.

  At his tenth college reunion, he’d moved carefully among the ones who had never managed to marry at all by that time. And he noticed those who had lost that hopeful, arrogant strut. There was a certain edge of bewilderment in their voices when they spoke about their advanced degrees, their apartments, and their jobs, because obviously none of that had made them desirable enough. And tipping the scale at thirty, the only thing they envisioned for their future was dying alone. Marriage was a sigh of relief at that age. She had been a teacher, an accountant, a chemist—but now she could be a woman. And she’d quickly forget the foolish dreams that she’d had for a mate ten years ago. She was more than willing to join the life and rhythms of almost any man—and for a man like himself, she’d bend over backward. So he had lived alone for many years and waited to choose such a woman at that college reunion and bring her to Tupelo Drive.

  But he couldn’t understand what had gone wrong. He had never been cruel or abusive to her. He must have given her at least six lines of credit in his name, never questioning what she bought or why. And he asked so little of her in return. Just come into his home and respect him and the routines of his household. Work along with him to continue the tradition of several generations. Simply honor what his family had done, just as he honored it. And she couldn’t bring herself to do even that. Through some sort of twisted willfulness, she had not only disrupted his home but almost managed to destroy lifetimes of work, to erase the labor of those proud, strong men. And then she had expected him to accept that without a murmur. No, he was definitely not his father’s son. His father would have let her rot down there. But he was trying so hard to adjust to the new world around him, and nothing could be served by going to those extremes. And besides—he looked at his drink—she did have some qualities worth saving.

  He tapped his glass thoughtfully. She probably thinks that she wants to poison me. If he let her up now, she would—or put a knife through his back. It’s too soon after the child’s death—that was certainly regrettable. But it had been an expedient turn of events, for he hadn’t really thought about what to do with it once she was allowed to come back upstairs. It certainly couldn’t have stayed in his home. But it was a pity the child had to suffer that way because of its mother’s ingratitude. By now she understood that he controlled her food and water and light. Whatever she had been allowed—upstairs or down—was hers not by right, but as a gift. And she had only herself to blame for the child’s death. She wouldn’t have been down there in the first place if she hadn’t tried to make a fool of him. With all her willfulness, she now saw that she couldn’t save her bastard—but she’ll want to save herself. Yes, Luther nodded, she’ll want to save herself.

  He had seen enough people with their dead to understa
nd the course of grief. At first, there is always the overwhelming sense of despair and some even think of joining the dead. But then as time increases in minutes, hours, days—the survivors are eventually surrounded with enough of it to be awed by the privilege that separates them from that coffin. And they begin to see that they aren’t mourning that shell of flesh; they are mourning the loss of life itself. Yes, if he let her sit down there with that body long enough then she’d realize that she didn’t really want to kill him. No, she only wanted what she had wanted so badly when she married him. He was no fool; he knew she would never have looked at him if it weren’t for the feel of the name Mrs. Luther Nedeed as she slipped on that white satin and brocade, the cold smooth rings. The touch of the name in her silver, mahogany, and velvet. The smell of it in her imported colognes. The sight of it on thick, embossed invitations to the best homes in town. And the sound of the name—yes, the sound of the name on the tongues of the idiots who were panting and pushing to be somewhere in the corner of her memory. And to have those things, you had to be alive. And she wanted to live. She wanted to live so badly that if she thought there was no more food coming, she would even look upon that body alongside her as a way to stay alive. Having thought that, she would come upstairs and think no more of killing him than she had thought of saving her own life. He would give her a chance at life.

  Luther went to the water valves under the kitchen sink and turned them on. Then he clicked on the intercom: “Mrs. Nedeed, I’m giving you some water now. There will be no more food. Please catch as much as you can quickly because it won’t be on all night.”

  He left the valves open and went back to sit down. He started to fix himself another drink, but changed his mind. He didn’t want a headache tomorrow; there was too much to do and he would have to drink at least one toast at Winston’s reception. Winston had him worried for a while: he thought Linden Hills was going to lose him. But it seems to have only taken that one letter to his father to straighten things out. Old man Alcott had brought him around in no time. Yes, they all come around. He sighed, got up, and turned off the lamps in his den. The huge, lighted fish tank in the corner cast whirling shadows on the carpet as the dark, bloated catfish slithered through the long weeds, their thin whiskers undulating slowly among the smooth blades of grass.