They Tell Me of a Home: A Novel

by Daniel Black

  I didn’t know where to begin or exactly what to say. “The world is beautiful, big brother. People speak differently depending on where they come from. They think differently; they do things differently; they believe differently. Some people believe in God, some don’t; some people love the opposite sex, some love the same sex; some people speak, some never say a word; and some spend their entire lives trying to determine who they are.”

  Willie James frowned. “How you gon’ be alive and not know who you are?”

  “Easy, actually. I don’t mean they don’t know their names or who their folks are. They’re trying to understand their individuality, trying to discover what’s unique about themselves. In truth, they’re searching for that thing about them no one else can boast. It’s what some people call personal identity.”

  “I see,” Willie James said curiously. “It’s wild. I ain’t never been outside this old place. I been to town and back, but that’s’bout it. Maybe I’ll get to see some of the world one day.”

  “Yeah, maybe.”

  Both of us knew better. Willie James would never leave Swamp Creek even if he had the chance. It was his comfort zone, his cocoon.

  The mosquitoes were about to carry us away, so we got a couple of old tires and set them ablaze to ward off the little black vampires.

  As the smoke ascended, I asked Willie James, “What’s the one thing you wish for more than anything?”

  He seemed to be ignoring me until he said, “I wish our family was a family.”

  I didn’t expect that response. I didn’t think he cared much about family love and unity, especially ours.

  “I wish we could talk to each other real nice and stand up for each other like we suppose to. I wish we loved each other. I wish you didn’t ever leave. I wish Sister was still here.”

  Willie James was more vulnerable than I had ever seen him. Maybe the beer helped loosen his otherwise reserved, inhibited nature.

  “We got to do better, T.L. We ain’t got nothin’ but each other. You, too. I guess that’s why you come back. Even with them degrees, you still ain’t got shit if you ain’t got family.”

  “I wouldn’t quite say—”

  “It’s the bottom line, though. Don’t feel bad. It’s true for everybody. That’s why God don’t let you choose yo’ family. You got to work with who you git. And you sho’ got to work with’em, ‘cause ain’t nobody gon’ stand by you like yo’ own folks.”

  “Family doesn’t always mean blood relatives, Willie James. Family is those people who choose to love and support one another.”

  “OK, but blood mean somethin’, don’t it?” Willie James asked desperately.

  “Yeah. It means those are the folks you come through to get here. That’s about it.”

  “Who chooses which folk you’ll be kin to?”

  “God, I’m sure.”

  “I can’t wait to hear God explain this one,” Willie James mumbled.

  “I want God to explain a lot of stuff,” I concurred under my breath.

  Willie James scoffed. My tone disturbed him and made him change the subject.

  “You found out anything interestin’’bout yo’self since you been home? You say dat’s why you came, right?”

  “Yeah, that’s what I said all right.” I started to tell him about Momma not being my mother but decided against it.

  “You know what they say: if you look long enough you can find anything.”

  Instantly I changed my mind and resolved to take a risk and tell Willie James. I didn’t have anything to lose, and neither did he. “Actually, I did discover something. It’s kinda complicated, though, man, and I don’t know if you truly want to know.”

  “Try me,” Willie James prompted sluggishly.

  “I was talking to Ms. Polly and Mr. Blue Sunday night and Ms. Polly told me—”

  “Momma ain’t yo real momma,” Willie James completed my sentence after taking another gulp of beer.

  “You knew?”

  “Yeah. Everybody in Swamp Creek know.”

  “Why the hell didn’t I know?”

  “’Cause you wasn’t supposed to.”

  “Why wasn’t I? It’s my mother we’re talking about here, isn’t it?”

  “Calm down, man. Shit. Ain’t nothin’ you can do’bout it now. It don’t mean nothin’ noway.”

  “Who my mother is does mean something!”

  “No, it don’t. You said blood ain’t deep, didn’t you? Plus, you still the same person anyway.”

  “It’s the truth I’m after, Willie James. Telling me Momma isn’t my mother shakes the foundation of my personal identity.”

  “Why?”

  “Because what I thought was my lineage ain’t. I’m searching for the origin of my beginnings in the wrong woman.”

  “Not true. It’s the woman who raised you who influenced you the most. This other woman simply carried you.”

  “Carrying a child is a sacred thing. There is a bond established between mother and child in the womb that lasts forever. The truth of this bond can never be erased.”

  “You sayin’ you been feelin’ this woman yo’ whole life?”

  “No, not exactly. Yet I have had a feeling I didn’t belong here, you know what I mean?”

  Willie James nodded.

  “Since we were kids, I felt like Momma didn’t like me, but I never knew why. Maybe it ain’t important to you, but it is to me,” I said contemptuously.

  “Do what chu gotta do, but don’t let the truth kill you. Bible say it’ll set you free if you let it.” Willie James finished the beer, then retrieved another from a cooler in the bed of the truck.

  I investigated the stars and asked, “How long have you known?”

  He shrugged his shoulders and said, “Long time. Folks used to talk about it all the time. How they kept it from you is a miracle.”

  “How did everybody else know? Daddy or Momma surely didn’t tell.”

  “Who told you?” Willie James posed sarcastically.

  We laughed. Whatever Ms. Polly knew instantly became known throughout Swamp Creek.

  “To tell you the truth, there’s a better explanation of why everybody knew,” Willie James said, peering deep into my eyes.

  “What is it?” I questioned curiously.

  “The fact that Daddy was a ladies’ man. He kept company with plenty of women other than Momma.”

  “Get out of here!”

  “Shit, man. There’s a lotta stuff you don’t know. Remember Ms. Hazel?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Folks said Daddy was fuckin’ her all the time she was livin’.”

  “Ms. Hazel?”

  “Hell, yeah! She had a pussy, too! I know she was sweet and all, but she wunnit no angel!”

  “Well, I’ll be damn’.”

  “Yeah. That’s just the tip of the iceberg.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Daddy done been wit’ half de women in Swamp Creek! At least dat’s what folks say. I ain’t actually seen him wit’ nobody, but all the rumors can’t be lies. It ain’t unbelievable, though. You know how he is. Gawkin’ at women and huggin’ sistas at church and comin’ home long after dark. It make sense.”

  “Daddy don’t seem like the romantic type to me,” I remarked, a bit puzzled.

  “Not to you,” Willie James reinforced. He lit another cigarette and inhaled like he was taking his last breath. As I watched him, he snickered from time to time, glancing at me with a this-is-crazy-ain’ t-it? expression.

  The more he drank, the more his disappointment surfaced. I wanted to fix his worries instantly, to tell him how wonderful he was inside and to comfort his fragile soul, but no words came. I thought about telling him that there were people all over the world waiting to befriend him. People who would let him be himself and never ask him to work all day to prove his love. However, I didn’t say any of this. It would have been very unreal to him. Honestly, it was rather unreal to me, too.

  “Big day tomorrow.
Guess I’ll turn in before these mosquitoes carry us off,” Willie James said, practically inebriated. I think he wanted to say more but decided against it.

  “It’s really good seein’ you again, big brother,” I sounded corny. “It really is.”

  Willie James chugged the last of his third Corona, examined me for a moment, and then embraced me so tight I couldn’t breathe. “Thanks,” he whispered into my ear as he rubbed my head gently. “I love you, li’l brotha. Don’t chu neva fugit dat.” Willie James wouldn’t let go.

  “I love you, too, man,” I said, and Willie James finally loosened his grip. He grabbed my right hand and held it endearingly, patted me on the back to affirm the moment with his left, and turned and walked away.

  I drank the last beer alone.

  11

  A Federal Express letter from George arrived on Tuesday. I had forgotten I gave him the Swamp Creek address and phone number in case of an emergency, yet I had a feeling the letter was more drama than trauma.

  T.L.,

  Man, I miss the hell out of you! I hope you’re having a great time in Arkansas, and I hope your folks ain’t trippin’ like you thought they would. I know you and Sister are having a ball! I wish I could come check you out and meet the folks. They probably ain’t ready for me though, huh?

  I saw your girl, Nzuri, yesterday. She said to tell you hello and that she has been trying to call you. Lying bitch! She claims she’s been working sixteen hours a day and hasn’t had time to come by. Do you believe that story? I certainly don’t. I told you that ho’ didn’t want you in the first place. But no, you had to pursue her anyway. Be careful what you pray for, my mother used to say.

  New York is what it is was when you left it—fabulous! I’ve seen a couple of plays lately and been to a few good fun parties. Jami had a gig at his apartment Saturday night that was incredible. Cuties for days.

  I’m reading a very intriguing book called Billy. It’s by this new brother, Albert French, who writes about southern culture and black folks in the late thirties. His writing style is nice. Of course, he ain’t as good as you, but I like him. I bought this other book, too, called A Gathering of Old Men, by a cat named Ernest Gaines, but I haven’t read it yet. Have you? I hope it ain’t boring.

  How are you, man? I felt in my spirit that your heart was bleeding right about now and needed my special touch. I’m praying for you, doc. Remember to do what you told me: when times get tough, hide in the bosom of God. I know I’m not a big churchgoer and all, but I do believe in God. And though I don’t testify all day like some people, I do call on God when I need to. Today, you might need to.

  I love you. I always will. Please don’t forget that. I can’t imagine my life without you right next to me. You are my best friend, my confidant, my everything. I joke around a lot and I guess I can be a bit obnoxious at times, but if you ever need anything, I’m the one to call. Maybe I’ll surprise you and show up in Swamp Creek. Psyche! But if I don’t, I’ll wait on you here. Anxiously.

  Yours,

  George

  What a friend, I thought to myself as I folded the letter and slid it into my pocket. Most folks wouldn’t have understood my relationship with George. I loved him more than anybody I knew, except Sister, of course. He reminded me of Anthony Barnes, a boy who lived across the hall from me at Clark. Anthony watched out for me, and after the first week or two, we were inseparable. We took classes together, partied together, and told each other absolutely everything about ourselves.

  “You tell me a secret you’ve never told anyone and I’ll tell you one,” Anthony suggested one night as we studied biology in his room. Because his roommate went home weekends, Anthony’s room soon became our weekend hideaway. I thought the request a bit bizarre at first, but then I complied. It could be fun and intimate, I told myself.

  “OK, but you go first, since this game is your idea.”

  “Cool.” Anthony sat up on his bed and began to think. The room was dim, with only the two study lights shining above the study desks. He turned his off and squirmed on his bed for a moment, a sign of discomfort, I thought.

  “You don’t have to say anything serious if you don’t want to,” I said, beginning to feel a bit uncomfortable.

  “Oh no. I know what I want to say. I’m not too sure how to say it, though.” Anthony glared at me, seeking permission to continue. I glared back.

  “Well, see … um … um … one time … I … um …”

  “Come on, man. Say it,” I blurted out impatiently.

  “OK. I kissed this guy once.”

  “What?”

  “I didn’t mean to, T.L. Damn! Don’t start trippin’ and shit.”

  “Oh no, I ain’t trippin.’ You just caught me off guard.”

  To tell the truth, I had never met a man who had kissed another man before. I didn’t tell Anthony, though, because he would have thought I was naive and sheltered, coming from Arkansas and all.

  “It wasn’t a big deal,” Anthony justified. “He was my cousin and we were playing house. Although I was nine and he was twelve he said he’d be the wife if I wanted to be the husband. I told him I wasn’t going to play if I couldn’t be the husband, so he had to be the wife. He agreed and we played.”

  Anthony believed this synopsis sufficient, but I pried further.

  “How did the kiss happen?”

  “Curious, huh?” Anthony smiled at me accusingly.

  “Oh no, I was simply trying to understand.”

  “It’s OK. I was kidding with ya anyway.”

  For some reason, I felt guilty.

  “I was playing like I had been at work all day,” Anthony continued, “and when I came home, I said good evening and he said, ‘When a man comes home, he’s supposed to kiss his wife,’ so I did. At first I wasn’t going to, but I did. He acted like nothing happened. In fact, he made it clear I had done what any good man would do. I thought nothing more of it.”

  “Was that the only time you kissed him?”

  “My, my. You like this story, don’t you?” Anthony laughed. I didn’t. “I kissed him many times.”

  I didn’t ask any more questions. I had heard enough. People had taught me all my life that homosexuality was wrong, and although I didn’t agree, I didn’t want my homophobia to disturb my relationship with Anthony. I didn’t think he was gay, yet because he had kissed a boy I had no other category in which to place him.

  “You ever kiss a boy?” Anthony asked me in return.

  “Nope,” I whispered as sweat beads blossomed all over my body.

  “Wanna try it out?”

  Suddenly the fire alarm sounded. Both of us jumped up, grabbed our books, and flew out of the room faster than we needed to. I learned later than some idiot had pulled the fire alarm as a prank. God works in mysterious ways, I thought.

  Anthony and I lived across the hall from each other the following semester. He wanted to be roommates, but I didn’t. He could be overbearing at times, and I knew better than to live with him. Nevertheless, we still shared clothes, shoes, books, papers, ideas, personal secrets, fears, and anything else we possessed. We declared each other soul mates and resolved to be friends for life.

  Yet my relationship with Anthony was not all fun. He would correct me incessantly and criticize me for being wimpish. He got on my nerves, but I still loved him dearly.

  George’s resemblance to Anthony made our union easy. Actually, George and Anthony were mirror images, only George was nosier, especially concerning my friend Nzuri. She and I were more acquaintances than mates, probably because I didn’t love her quite like I said I did. George told me to leave her alone because she wanted more than I was willing to give, but I pursued her anyway. We weren’t exactly girlfriend and boyfriend, since she hated labels and I hated commitments; thus ambiguity served us well. I loved her though. I wasn’t in love with her, but I didn’t believe in such notions anyway. She was sweet, kind, smart, independent, African centered, and cute. Yet we weren’t right for each another. I
had more shit in my personal life than I could deal with and Nzuri loved being with me more than anything in the world. Quite frankly, I didn’t feel like being bothered half the time. She wanted to be in my presence every chance she got, but I told her I wanted a companion, not a child. She got the message. Nzuri pulled back and started doing her own thing. She might have been seeing another man, one who could be more of what she needed a man to be. More power to her was my sentiment.

  Nonetheless, when I needed someone, I called her and she would come to my rescue. Nzuri said she was my friend because she had decided to be, not because she needed to be. She came to me by choice, not obligation, and I was too fuckin’ stupid and self-centered to appreciate it, she claimed. Nzuri knew she was in control of the relationship, and it didn’t matter if I knew. We stayed together, ultimately, because neither of us could find anyone else willing to tolerate our crap.

  George couldn’t stand her. He was jealous of our intimacy and thought she wasn’t good enough for me. He was protective of me in a motherly kind of way and felt that she was coming between us. Truth be known, Nzuri didn’t like George, either. She said he was possessive and a pitiful excuse for a man. One night, after Nzuri and I had sex—she said I had sex because she never got aroused, much less climaxed—she tried to convince me George wanted more from me than brotherly love, but I wouldn’t hear of it.

  “Of course you don’t agree,” she said blankly. “Like most men, you like having a girlfriend and a lover. It confirms your patriarchy.”

  “How am I patriarchal?”

  Nzuri smiled disingenuously and said, “This arrangement allows you to use a woman for what a man can’t do, while you still get to spend your most valued time with the one you love most.”

  “I love you most, Zu,” I purported unconvincingly.

  “No, you don’t, and I’m not mad at you for it. Western society does not teach men to love women. It teaches men to love what women can do.”

  “Bullshit!” I hollered.

  “No need to get defensive. Believe me when I tell you I’m not upset. This is not peculiar to you; all your brothers share in the fruits of patriarchy. Men love the notion that women enjoy being support systems for them. What could a woman want more than to stand next to a loving, strong man, right? Yet what most women don’t know is that men are excited by the use of our biology, not the potential of our company. Like when a man needs an heir, he searches frantically for a woman to bear him a child. The fact that she can bear a child is what he loves most.”