They Tell Me of a Home: A Novel

by Daniel Black

  “Now I know you lyin’!” said Mr. Blue disgustedly.

  “No, sir, I’m not. I guess they saw slavery as a means by which they could make good money easily. They took advantage of the situation.”

  “How does a black man own his own people?” Mr. Somebody asked, puzzled.

  Before I could answer, Daddy said, “The same way a black man today pay another black man minimum wage ‘cause dat’s what white folks pay us. He don’t value his people no more than white folks do. It ain’t hard to understand. If a black boy can kill another black boy ova some goddamn crack, then we sho’ oughta understand how a black man can own another one. Same bullshit.”

  Mr. Somebody tapped his cane on the earth in frustration. “I ain’t neva heard tell o’ no black man ownin’ no slaves. Dat’s’bout de wildest shit I ever heard of.”

  “It’s the truth. South Carolina and Louisiana were the places it happened most.”

  Mr. Blue shook his head and proclaimed, “See? Now dat’s what education s‘pose’ to do. You s’pose’ to learn somethin’ dat make you think.” He paused. “Well, I’ll be damn’, a black slave master. I neva woulda dreamed of such a thang.”

  I couldn’t ascertain whether I had said enough or if I should continue. I chose the former because the rule of thumb in the black South is to be silent more than you speak. Various elders spoke simultaneously about what a black slave master might be like, comparing him to a black policeman or a black FBI agent, and then Mr. Somebody changed the subject abruptly.

  “Hey, y’all heard dat the last of the Horseman boys died, didn’t ya?”

  “The who?” people sang in unison.

  “The Horseman boys. Y’all didn’t know dem?” One could tell by his tone he knew no one knew these individuals. He was simply preparing the groundwork for the ensuing tale.

  “Dese folks ain’t old ‘nough to know’bout no Horseman boys, man!” said Mr. Blue.

  “Well, it was ten of’em and de last one died last week.”

  “What about’em?” somebody asked, taking the bait.

  “Y’all don’t know’bout de Horseman brothers?”

  Mr. Blue shouted, “I jes’ tole yo’ ass dat don’t nobody know nothin’’bout no Horseman boys but chu!”

  “Who were they?” I asked in an effort not to let Mr. Blue distract Mr. Somebody from the story.

  “Dere wuz a woman lived here’bout sixty years ago named Isabella Redfield. We called her Aunt Taint. She wuz kinda a strange woman, didn’t say murch to nobody, but she was nice. She had ten boys and neva did have sex wit’ no man.”

  “Oh, shut up, fool!” Ms. Polly hollered.

  “No, dis true! Ain’t it, Blue?”

  “Dat’s what dey say,” Mr. Blue confirmed reluctantly.

  “Sho’ it’s true. I was right here. I ain’t talkin’’bout what I heard; I’m talkin’’bout what I know. De boys did have a daddy, though.”

  “Dat’s why I can’t stand a nigga! How dey gon’ have a daddy, but de momma ain’t neva have sex wit’ no man?” Ms. Polly said, feigning outrage.

  “‘Cause dey daddy wunnit no man. See, looka hyeah,” and Mr. Somebody turned up the wine bottle as he got ready to make us believe the unbelievable. “When I was a boy, Momma baked a pie and told me to take it to Aunt Taint. I didn’t want to’cause I was scared o’ de woman, but Momma wouldn’t o’ understood dat, so I went on and took de pie. Momma said de boys’ daddy had passed and de least we could do was to take ‘em somethin’ to eat. I told her I didn’t know dey had no daddy, and she told me to mind my business and keep my mouth shut and dat’s what I did.

  “When I got ova to de house, people wuz everywhere dressed in black. Dat’s how I knowed somebody had died. I spoke to everybody real nice, found Aunt Taint, and tole hu’ dat Momma had sunt hu’ a pie. She said, ‘Tell yo’ momma I thank hu’,’ and I turned to go. Jes’ then, Henry, the son that was my age, come and asked me if I wanted to go walkin’ in de woods wit’ him. I didn’t’cause somethin’ didn’t seem right to me, but I felt sorry fu’ him’cause his daddy had jes’ died, so I tole him I’d go. As we wuz walkin’, I got up’nough nerve to ask him how come I ain’t neva seen his daddy.

  “‘You have,’ Henry said.

  “‘No, I ain’t. I ain’t neva seen no man come outta y’all’s house,’ I said.

  “‘He ain’t no man,’ Henry said.

  “Dat shit was way too heavy fu’ me to handle; dat’s why I didn’t say nothin’ else.

  “Suddenly Henry asked, ‘You wanna see Daddy?’

  “Dat’s when I shoulda took my ass home, but no, no. I was too nosy, so I said, ‘Yeah.’ And Henry turned and started walkin’ back toward de house. I asked him where his daddy was and he said he was’bout to show me. We got close to de house and I noticed a gred, big ole hole in de middle o’ de field.

  “‘What’s dat fu’?’ I asked Henry.

  “‘Dat’s where we gon’ bury Daddy,’ Henry said like it ain’t mean nothin’.

  “Henry kept walkin’ till we came to de barn next to de house. ‘Daddy’s body’s in here,’ he said. I didn’t have no mo’ sense but to follow him. It was real dark in dat barn dat day like it was midnight. Henry lit an oil lamp and asked me to hold it while he raked back some hay with a pitchfork.

  “‘Momma would probably kill us if she knew we wuz doin’ this,’ he said nervously.

  “‘Leave it ‘lone then! I ain’t got to know nothin’!’ I started walkin’ toward de barn do’, but Henry wouldn’t let me go. He started talkin’ to me like he wuz finally gettin’ to say somethin he neva got a chance to.

  “‘Momma tole us not to worry’bout what other folks said. She said dat everybody in de world wuz diff’rent and otha folks jes’ didn’t undastand. I used to tell hu’ dat I wanted to be normal like all de otha chil’ren, and she said dat wunnit gon’ neva happen’cause I didn’t come in de world like otha folks. I neva undastood what she wuz talkin’’bout till last year when Momma said I had a right to know de truth.”De truth ‘bout what?” I asked her, and she said,”Every boy oughta know his daddy and how he come in de world.” Dat’s when she tole me everythang.’

  “I didn’t know what to say. In de lamplight, Henry looked like he wuz ‘bout to cry, so I walked over to where he wuz standin’, thinkin’ dat I wuz’bout to comfort him. All o’ sudden, he bent down and pulled back a big black covering and showed me his daddy.”

  Mr. Somebody took another hit of wine as the rest of us waited anxiously. Mosquitoes were everywhere, but no one interrupted the tension to swat them.

  “What chu see?” Ms. Polly begged.

  “I saw de ole field mule laid up dere like he wuz’sleep. His coat was so black and pretty it looked like silk. Then I noticed, fu’ de first time, jes’ how much all dem boys looked like … dat … like de daddy.”

  “You know dat ain’t true, man!” hollered Ms. Polly as everyone else began to laugh.

  “Oh, it’s true,” Mr. Somebody assured, nodding his head. “I saw dis wit’ my own eyes. Ain’t nobody got to tell me nothin’!” He extended his bottom lip confidently, for no one could dispute his word.

  “Do you actually think the mule fathered those boys?” David questioned in utter shock.

  “Yep. I know he did. All o’ dem boys had dat kinda chin dat stick out too far. Dey voices wuz too deep to be called human. I neva did put two and two together till I saw his daddy out in dat barn de day he died.”

  “Somebody, you full o’ shit!” Mr. Blue accused. “Why is you callin’ dat damn horse dem boys’ daddy?” He was laughing hard.

  “‘Cause dat’s what he wuz! Henry cried dat day so hard I knew what de truth wuz. I’m tellin’ you dat mule wuz dem boys’ daddy!”

  “Shut up, fool!” and other expressions came from the unbelieving audience, but the rest of us sat there amazed at the mere possibility.

  “Lotta strange thangs done happened round here ova de years,” Mr. Somebody offered to soften the blow of his story.
“Like dat time Emma Jean Sanders birthed dat baby by hu’self.”

  “What?” I responded a bit too loudly.

  “Dat’s right. I guess y’all too young to know’bout Emma Jean, but it’s de truf.”

  David asked, “How in the world can a woman birth a child alone?”

  “Most women cain’t, but Emma Jean wunnit like no otha woman I eva knowed. She was a short woman, but you talkin’’bout stout! Dat heifa could lift a square bale o’ hay wit’ one arm and neva grunt. I’m tellin’ you what I seen myself.”

  Mr. Somebody perused the audience for verifiers and continued with, “One day we wuz all in the cotton field pickin’. It wuz round’bout Septemba or early Octoba. Emma Jean wuz big as a house. Folks said she looked like she wuz’bout to bust. But Emma Jean picked cotton dat day like she wuz a natchal-bom man. I ain’t neva seen nobody pick like dat! Both hu’ arms wuz going faster than a octopus in water. I remember watchin’ her and sayin’, ‘My God!’

  “When we stopped fu’ lunch, Emma Jean said she had to go to de house. Folks asked her if she was all right, and she said, ‘Yes.’ Said she had to go to the house to git dat baby out o’ her. Folks thought she was clownin’ so we didn’t pay hu’ no mind. When it come time fu’ us to go back to work, Emma Jean wunnit there. Nobody said much about it, but it wunnit like Emma Jean to miss work. ‘Wonder what happened to Emma Jean?’ folks started sayin’’bout one thirty. Then, ‘bout two o’clock, Emma Jean come walkin’ back to the cotton field, hu’ stomach flat as a pancake.”

  “Get outta here!” Mr. Blue hollered.

  “I ain’t lyin’! I saw dis myself! She walked up and folks’ eyes got big as quarters. My momma asked,’Girl, what chu done gone and done?’ Emma Jean looked round at everybody and said calmly, ‘Y’all ain’t neva heard of a woman havin’ a baby?’ Momma said, ‘Sho’ we done heard o’ dat. But we ain’t neva heard o’ a woman havin’ one by hu’self on hu’ lunch break.’ Emma Jean cackled a little and said, ‘Well, you done heard o’ it now.’ She went back to pickin’ cotton de same way she wuz pickin’ dat momin’.”

  “That’s amazing,” I told Mr. Somebody.

  “Not really. Black folks been doin’ amazin’ thangs since de beginnin’ o’time, boy.”

  “Why don’t we do them now?” I asked.

  “‘Cause we done’cepted what white folks think’bout us. And dat ain’t much. So we can’t do much neitha.”

  “Amen,” Mr. Blue cosigned.

  Others told stories and children played until about eleven o‘clock. Then the crowd began to thin out. Mr. Somebody rose and said, “I guess I betta be gettin’ on back to de po’ house. I’ll see y’all tomorra at de fune’.”

  “All righty, Somebody,” Mr. Blue responded affectionately. “You need a ride home?”

  “Noooooo, nooooo. Walkin’ good fu’ a old man. I been walkin’ all dese years. Ain’t no need in stoppin’ now.”

  I was surprised that a ninety-year-old man could walk such distances in the pitch-dark. He lived at least three miles from the Meetin’ Tree, down a long dirt road that had absolutely no lights. As he walked away, his body disappeared slowly into the abyss like a mystical being with spiritual powers of levitation. I wondered about the story of Mr. Somebody’s life—the things he had seen, the things he had done, the things that had made him cynical about young black folks. I made a mental note not to leave Swamp Creek until I sat at the feet of this man, who lived during a time when black people were amazing and knew it.

  The opportunity to ask about Sister’s death never materialized, so I decided not to force it. People’s awkward smiles were a sign they sought to circumvent the topic like one avoids a contagious disease. I left the tree, however, realizing my coming home was because, in all my academic pursuits, I had missed the most critical lesson any student can learn—that transforming the world begins with love of one’s own people.

  21

  Daddy walked home ahead of Willie James and me without ever having said a word to either of us. He surged from the church pew and proclaimed simply, “I’m gone.” Clearly he didn’t want company, so everyone honored his unspoken request for solitude.

  Willie James and I walked David home, then cut across the backwoods to our house. Midway, Willie James said, “Dem ole men is crazy, huh?”

  “Yeah, but they’re wise, too,” I told myself more than him. “They lived in a time when black people had no choice but to believe in each other. I like the stories myself.”

  “I like de stories, too, but I don’t b’lieve none o’’em.”

  “Why not?”

  “’Cause they ain’t real.”

  “How you know?”

  “’Cause they ain’t. All that stuff’bout a horse and a woman having kids? Come on, man. You know dat shit ain’t real.”

  “No, I don’t know that. When we were kids, I would have agreed with you, but I’ve grown to understand that reality is culturally determined.” I forgot where I was for a moment.

  “What?”

  “In other words, what’s real and what’s not real is defined by a people’s world view. African people once believed that everything is possible. Mr. Somebody, Mr. Blue, Miss Emma Jean … these folks are Africans and don’t know it. What was real in their youth is a little broader than what is real to us.”

  “OK. You de book man.”

  We walked on with nothing but the full moon to guide our way. Its illustrious shine, coupled with the radiance of the stars, made the night feel cozy and serene like a planetarium. Suddenly Willie James asked, “So you leavin’ tomorrow?”

  “Yep. I gotta go. I have to find a job.”

  “You ain’t gotta go if you don’t want to.”

  I was caught off guard.

  “Dis is yo’ home. You don’t neva have to leave yo’ home’less you wants to.”

  “I honestly have to go, Willie James. I need to start looking for a professorship somewhere.”

  “You ain’t got to’xplain nothin’ to me. I understand. I’d be leavin’, too, if I was you.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Nothin’. It jes’ mean dat you left here for good reason and I’m sho’ you got good reason to leave again.”

  I couldn’t figure out what Willie James was trying to imply. He wanted to tell me something, say some final words, but instead he said, “She was going to name the baby after you.”

  “What?”

  “Tommy Lee Tyson Junior. Dat’s what she started callin’ de baby soon as she knowed she was pregnant.”

  “Get outta here,” was all I could mutter.

  “She wuz happy, T.L. She pranced around all day like de Lawd had jes give’ hu’ evalastin’ life. Sometimes I’d see hu’ from a distance and she’d be singin’ at de top o’ hu’ lungs dat song y’all used to sing together.”

  “‘Uncloudy Day,’”I yielded.

  “Yep. Dat’s it. She’d have hu’ head throwed back and go to hollerin’, ‘Oh, they tell me of a home / where my loved ones have gone.’ I’d stop, close my eyes, and listen till she finished and I’d wonder where in de world you was.”

  He paused and studied me intensely. I lowered my eyes in shame.

  “When she got pregnant, we agreed to name de baby after you.”

  “I’m glad she asked you what you thought.”

  “She didn’t have no choice. It was my baby, too.”

  “What?” I screamed.

  “Don’t act so surprised. When you left here, she didn’t have nobody, and I neva did; that’s why we went to each other. We didn’t mean to have sex, though. She jes’ came to sleep in my bed one night ‘cause she was missin’ you, she said, and she asked me to hold her like you used to do. I didn’t know how to do dat, so she showed me. It felt good to have somebody dat close to me. I pulled her closer and she didn’t stop me. She was cryin’ and I was cryin’, too. But it felt … right. I ain’t neva knowed what love feel like, but I felt love right then. I asked her if she wanted me to stop
and she squeezed me harder.”

  I was in total shock. “Are you serious, man?” My fists balled in anger.

  “Willie James, are you sick? That was yo’ sister!”

  “She was yo’ sista, too, and y’all made love all de time.”

  “I neva had sex with Sister! Have you lost your fuckin’ mind?”

  “I neva said y‘all had sex. I said y’all made love. You did it all de time. And all I could do was sit by and watch. All dat laughin’ and lovin’, and all I eva did was work. Nobody wanted to laugh wit’ me, so I thought I jes’ wasn’t good enough to love nobody. When Sister came to me dat night, I felt like I could love somebody for de first time in my life. I knew dat, really, she wanted you, but even as a substitute I felt like I was somebody, T.L.,’cause somebody came to me, me, for once.”

  “But she didn’t come to you to have sex, man! This shit is immoral, not to mention illegal!” My bottom lip quivered.

  “So why ain’t it immoral and illegal to live a life without ever bein’ loved? Huh? Tell me dat.”

  I had no answer.

  “See, you can judge me ‘cause you’ve always had all de stuff necessary to make you a righteous man. You wuz smart and good-looking and people believed in you. Sister thought you wuz God and Daddy always knew you wuz sharper than he is. That’s why he beat you like that. Jes’ so you wouldn’t ever know how smart you really were and come to realize that you didn’t have to obey him’cause half de stuff he wuz sayin’ didn’t make no sense noway. He wuz scared dat you’d be bigger than him.

  “But didn’t nobody ever fear me ‘cause nobody thought I’d ever be nothin’. I wuz de family workhorse. But who wants to be known fu’ workin’ like a goddamn mule? Dat don’t leave nobody feelin’ good’bout deself. I wanted to be smart and to love somebody, too. So when Sister came to me dat night I gave her everything I had. I completely opened myself to being loved by somebody else. It felt great.” Willie James was crying. I saw a tear glisten in the moonlight on his cheek.

  “You can judge me if you want to. I don’t care ‘cause I ain’t sorry fu’ nothin’. I might not eva git a chance to feel dat feelin’ again, and I ain’t gon’ let you take dat joy away from me. I ain’t had but one my whole life. Don’t I deserve at least one joy?”