They Tell Me of a Home: A Novel

by Daniel Black

  I asked Ms. Janey about the funeral. She said everybody cried except Momma and Daddy. They sat in church as though required to be there against their will. As soon as the funeral ended, Ms. Janey said, Momma and Daddy accompanied the casket to the graveyard, covered it up, and never mentioned Shelia’s name again. I wouldn’t have known I had another sister if I hadn’t overheard Daddy’s conversation. Of course, I told Sister about it. She was surprised but accepted, quite easily, the reality of another sibling. Yet Shelia’s death puzzled me for a long time. I seemed to have all the details, but I wasn’t at peace about it. I asked Grandma, but she didn’t know any more than I did. Then, one day, it hit me. It wasn’t Shelia’s death that was troublesome; it was the funeral. The way Ms. Janey described it didn’t fit the conventions of a Swamp Creek homegoing. I went through some of Momma’s old papers to reexamine the obituary, but I didn’t find it. In fact, I realized Momma didn’t even have a copy. She had kept no record of the passing of her daughter from life to death. Maybe she wanted to rid herself of all memory of Shelia. I remembered what Ms. Janey had said: “Marion was fine. It was the rest of us who were crying. She never shed a tear.” Momma undoubtedly told them, “Oh, don’t cry, baby. Shelia’s all right.” I couldn’t figure out why, but there was another reason Momma didn’t have Shelia’s obituary. I went to Ms. Janey’s house and asked, from the porch, to examine her copy. Everything was normal until I got to the poem Ms. Janey said Momma told everyone Shelia had written before she disappeared:

  I play hide-and-seek

  with myself sometimes.

  “Ready or not, here I come.”

  But then I can’t find myself

  And the game ceases to be fun.

  “What?” I exclaimed aloud.

  “Your mother said Shelia wrote it. It seems a little bizarre to me, too, son.”

  I knew I was on to something. Ain’t no way a five-year-old could have written a poem that complex. If Shelia didn’t write it, who did? And, more important, why? No one lived in Swamp Creek who was literary enough to care about poetry, except Ms. Janey and Ms. Pauline. And of course, Momma wouldn’t have made any such concession on their behalf. I didn’t understand. I pondered for weeks, trying to piece together some sort of explanation, but nothing materialized. Eventually, I let it go.

  Instead of going inside, I turned abruptly and decided to walk down to Old Man Blue’s place and visit Ms. Polly. The house was dark except for a lamp burning in the living room window. I was usually scared to walk those dark dirt roads alone, yet for some reason, I wasn’t scared that evening. I suppose Sister’s death made me immune to fear. I heard hoot owls and all kinds of rustling in the grass next to the road, but the sounds didn’t bother me at all.

  I stepped onto the porch and stood there a moment. The house was nothing grand. It was made of two-by-fours and had a tin roof. There were only four rooms—a living room, bathroom, kitchen, and bedroom—but the house had always been squeaky clean. I hesitated a moment because I thought about how content Mr. Blue and Ms. Polly were. They were old folks who owned few worldly possessions and had no desire for them. They didn’t have a brick home, a fine car, or a heavy bankroll, although people said Mr. Blue had a coupla thousand dollars hidden away. Their kids sent them money every month and he sho’ ain’t spent it on nothing, others said. The things that brought them joy were children, honeysuckles, and fresh catfish. They didn’t care about mink coats or forty-dollar Stevie Wonder concert tickets. Their health seemed to be their joy.

  I knocked hard because Ms. Polly’s hearing was bad even when I was a child.

  “Come on in,” she said without moving from her rocker.

  “How y’all doin’,” I said loudly as I entered the front room.

  “Oh Lawd, chile, come on in heayh and sit down! I’m sittin’ up heayh half-noddin’. I’m sho’ is glad you done made it back home.”

  She grabbed the arms of the rocker and began to rise, offering me her seat.

  “Oh, no ma‘am, I’ll sit right here on the couch. I came by to holler at y’all since I told Mr. Blue I would.”

  “Well, I’m sho’ is glad you seed fit. Go’n in de kitchen thar and fix you a plate. Got some roast and cabbages and collards, and you can have one of dem fried pies if you wont it.” She started grinning because she knew that’s exactly what I wanted.

  “No, ma‘am, I just ate. But I sho’ will have one of those pies.”

  “Help cho’ self, boy.”

  That fried pie almost made me hurt myself. The crust was extra flaky, crumbling heavily every time I took a bite. The cinnamon, nutmeg, and brown sugar made my mouth water like a salivating canine’s.

  “Ms. Polly, your fried pies are the best!” I exclaimed.

  “Oh, boy, hush yo’ mouth. I throwed dem thangs together dis moaning when I was half-’sleep.” She chuckled.

  “What cho’ momma nem doin’ dis evening?”

  “Sittin’ round watchin’ TV, I guess.”

  We both smiled at each other like we were about to speak, but neither of us did. Mr. Blue said nothing more than, “How you doin’ dis evenin’, boy?” the entire time I had been there. The silence was becoming awkward so I decided to direct the conversation.

  “How are your children, Ms. Polly?”

  “Oh Lawd, chile, dey’s jes’ fine. You know dey calls me every weekend and lets me talk to my grandchi’ren. Dey wears me out on dat phone, chile!”

  Ms. Polly knew if her children didn’t call every Saturday night she would have a fit. All the fuss about being worn-out was simply drama.

  “I sure am glad to know they all doin’ fine.” I couldn’t say much more than that because I hadn’t called my own mother in ten years.

  “You sho’ looks well, boy! You done gone off’way from heayh and got right handsome. Jus’ as tall!”

  Ms. Polly grinned at me as she spoke. I was grateful for her attempt to make me feel good, but I was neither tall nor handsome. Both of us knew it.

  “What chu doin’ back round dese parts?”

  “I’m not sure. In my heart, I felt the need to come home.”

  “What for?”

  “I don’t know, Ms. Polly. I been tryin’ to define my life, and, somehow, I ended up back in Swamp Creek.”

  Mr. Blue rocked in his rocker, seemingly oblivious to our exchange.

  “Well, you back now. What chu done found out?” Ms. Polly asked curiously.

  I could tell she didn’t mean to ask that question. At least not yet. Her mouth twitched, both from the desire to retrieve her words and from the frustration of knowing she could not.

  “Ms. Polly, you’ve been like a mother to me. Can you please tell me what’s going on round this place? No one will tell me anything.”

  “I don’t know what—”

  “You know’zactly what he mean, Polly,” Mr. Blue said softly. He neither raised his head nor said anything more.

  “Baby, that thang done troubled me since it happened, and I still ain’t got no understandin’. I walked ova theah early one afternoon and saw yo’ momma diggin’ like a wild woman. I stood beside that big oak out from the yard and watched her. I didn’t say nothin’’cause I didn’t want to disturb her. She looked frantic and panicky. I started gettin’ scared’cause I ain’t neva seen nobody act like dat befo’.” Ms. Polly shook her head from side to side sadly. She continued, “All a sudden she dropped the shovel and ran into duh house. I started to follow her and ask her what was duh matter, but my spirit told me not to. I stood dere, tryin’ to make sense of all this. A minute or two later, I saw her draggin’ somethin’ big out of duh house. It seemed like a body wrapped in a sheet, but I wasn’t sho’. The sheets were bloody and dirty. I covered my mouth to keep from hollerin’. I still didn’t know what was goin’ on, but I knowed it was bad news. I turned to run and go get somebody, but I decided to wait and see what cho’ momma was gon’ do next.”

  Mr. Blue gazed at Ms. Polly, warning her not to say too much.

 
“Yo’ momma took what she was draggin’ and throwed it in dat hole she dug. Then she started coverin’ it up real fast like she was scared. In a minute or two, the hole was full of dirt again. She stared at it real hard and walked away real slow like she was satisfied. She took the shovel back to the barn, I guess. I don’t know fo’ sho’’cause dat’s when I left. I was scared, chile; I didn’t know what to do. I come home and started readin’ my Bible and askin’ de Lawd to give me understandin’.”

  “You didn’t tell anybody?” I asked.

  “Not for ‘bout three days. Blue keppa astin’ me what was de matta wit’ me, but I didn’t say nothin’. Then I got up one morning and he told me he heard yo’ baby sister had died and she was buried in y’all’s backyard. That’s when I couldn’t keep it no mo’. I told Blue everythang.”

  “Is that all you know, Ms. Polly? Is that everything?” I leaned forward in desperation.

  She studied Mr. Blue’s face before she proceeded. “Well, I don’t really know if I oughta be the one tellin’ you this, T.L.,” she said skittishly.

  “Ms. Polly, please! My family won’t tell me anything. I deserve to know! You know how close Sister and I were.” I was about to scream.

  “Yeah, Lawd, I remembers you two runnin’ round heayh like y’all ain’t got a care in de wurld. I’d see y’all and jes’ go to grinnin’. Y’all was really somethin’!”

  I knew she was evading the subject. I dropped my head to make her feel bad. It worked.

  She was silent for a moment; then she said, “After ya’ momma dropped dat bundle in de hole she throwed somethin’ else in dere, too.”

  I waited for Ms. Polly to go on although I could tell she didn’t want to.

  “It looked like framed pictures. One of them I saw pretty clear ‘cause she dropped it on de ground. When she bent ova to pick it up, she jes’ happened to be holdin’ it wheres I could see pretty good.”

  “Was it me?” I asked slowly, already knowing the answer.

  “Yes, T.L., it was a picture of you. I believe de other one was yo’ sister, but I ain’t sho’. I couldn’t believe what I was seein’. It didn’t make no sense.”

  Mr. Blue had been unusually silent the entire time. He sat in his rocker like God, overseeing things. Ms. Polly proceeded.

  “Like de day yo’ daddy brought you home.”

  “Polly!” Mr. Blue hollered. He surged upward and gleamed at her, a sign she had committed a crime.

  “Ms. Polly, I don’t understand. What are you talking about?”

  Ms. Polly realized Mr. Blue’s objection. She had said far too much. Now she was praying God would take back her words, but He didn’t.

  “Mr. Blue, please tell me what Ms. Polly’s talking about.” I had no idea what they were about to reveal.

  “Son, we ain’t the ones oughta tell you this,” Mr. Blue despaired.

  “I was sho’ you already knowed. Lawd have murcy!” Ms. Polly was about to cry.

  I simply waited for one of them to speak. I wasn’t leaving until they told me the truth, and they knew it.

  Ms. Polly began to mutter methodically, “Yo’ daddy brought you home when you wunnit nothin’ but two or three days old. You was born in de winta and he had you wrapped up tight like a Christmas present. Blue saw him walkin’ down de road and went out to meet him. He knew what yo’ daddy was carryin’. Everybody knew. Blue said he peeked in dat blanket and yo’ eyes was wide open and you was jes’ grinnin’ like you knowed eva’thang.”

  “Where was he bringing me from? I still don’t understand. If Momma jes’ had me, how could I be—”

  Then I knew. Daddy had been with someone else. Oh my God. “Son, I swear we thought you already knowed! I mean, I can’t see why yo’ daddy ain’t told you de truth by now!” They knew they had said too much. I was weeping.

  “Yo’ daddy told me on de road dat it didn’t make sense to try to act like you wunnit his. He said he was gon’ raise you de bes’ way he could and he was gon’ ask Marion if she would be yo’ momma. He said he knowed he done wrong by bein’ wit’ dat otha woman, but he couldn’t do nothin’ ‘bout it. I told him I’d pray for him and his family, and if he needed me, to let me know. I watched him walk home and shook my head’cause I knowed dat household was gonna have a rough time. But de next day yo’ momma startin’ braggin’’bout dis baby she had when she ain’t neva been pregnant! Folks went along and acted like dey was surprised, but dey knowed de truth. Everybody knowed.”

  “Except me, huh?” I was trembling all over. “Who was the other woman?”

  Mr. Blue and Ms. Polly wouldn’t say. “That’s for yo’ daddy to tell you,” they said.

  I got up to leave. The pictures of their children plastered on the walls made me envious of their familial unity. I saw baby, graduation, and wedding pictures. Such closeness only exacerbated the unrest in my heart concerning my own family.

  “T.L., I am so sorry, baby. I didn’t know you didn’t know. I mean, you’s a grown main. Yo’ daddy oughta be’shame’a his self not tellin’ you.” She rose to hug me. “You’s still my boy, and don’t chu neva fugot dat!” Ms. Polly was trying to comfort me, but it wasn’t working.

  “I need to go,” I whined.

  “Come back and see us again befo’ you go, won’t chu?” Mr. Blue invited awkwardly.

  “Sure,” I said, simply to be nice. I walked through the front door and onto the porch. Tears were still streaming down my face. I turned, prepared to holler, “Thank you,” for the fried pie and the information, but I realized the two were standing right behind me.

  “Thank you, Mr. Blue and Ms. Polly. You’ve helped me out more than you’ll ever know. I came home for answers and you’ve certainly given me a few.” I chuckled; they didn’t.

  I stepped off the porch and began to walk out of the yard as Ms. Polly said, “T.L.” I turned. “Go with God.” She was crying, too.

  It took me over an hour to get home that night. It was hot as hell, but the heat was irrelevant. I was trying to ascertain how I could have been so stupid. I should have guessed my questionable maternity years ago. Momma never claimed to have loved me. Her contempt for me should have been my first clue. All mothers love their children, don’t they? All my life, Momma had been courteous to me, careful to make sure my clothes were clean and my food prepared. However, she was also careful never to touch me or say a kind word to me. She had distinguished meticulously between love and civility. I suppose Daddy made her take me—she never would have done it otherwise—but he couldn’t make her love me.

  My tears flowed freely, blinding me, as I walked down that pitch-black road, and now I could see clearly why Momma never loved me. I was a bastard child, the living proof of Daddy’s infidelity. I just didn’t know it. I always felt unloved and rejected, and finally I knew why. I went out of my way sometimes to please Momma—clean the house, cook, whatever—in hopes that she would accidentally hug me, but she never did. Because I was not of her womb, I could never enter her heart. I didn’t know why as a child, so I kept trying to make Momma love me. Anything I thought would make her happy I did. However, my efforts only angered her. She accused me of trying to “outdo” Willie James and Sister and told me my biggest problem was that I needed too much affirmation.

  Finally, after twenty-five years of wondering, I understood why she hated me. Yet why did Momma blame me for Daddy’s indiscretion? She should have resented him. He was the one who had committed adultery and had insulted her by asking her to embrace his sin and his son. He was the one arrogant enough to lay his crime before her and ask her not for forgiveness but for understanding. It was Daddy’s patriarchy that allowed him to assume that Momma’s commitment to him was unconditional while his commitment to her was ephemeral. Why was I made to carry the weight? In fact, Daddy asking Momma to raise me was like asking Momma to celebrate his extramarital exploits. I suppose that’s why Momma couldn’t despise him. She had accepted him and everything that came along with him, including his patriarchy, sexism, and
self-assumed superiority. Consequently, she couldn’t fault him for the same reason she had married him. Momma embraced all men as the same. If a woman was to have a man at all, and every woman needed a man, Momma said, she would simply have to tolerate his shit, and there was nothing she could do about it. I found it funny as a child that Daddy got all kinds of breaks while Momma was told to endure or get the hell out.