They Tell Me of a Home: A Novel

by Daniel Black

  “Oh, Willie James,” I said exhaustively, and reached for his hand. To my surprise, he didn’t resist.

  “I know; I know,” he repeated, rotating his head slowly. “It’s de best we knowed to do.”

  “Do you think Momma knew the baby was yours?”

  “She mighta knowed.”

  “How? You think Sister told her?”

  “No. Sista would neva have told her. The night we made life, I thought I heard footsteps in de hallway. I closed my eyes and tried to listen real hard, but I didn’t hear anything more. But I could have sworn I heard footsteps. I told Sista the next day, but she said she didn’t hear anything, so I forgot about it. Then, one day, Daddy told Momma dat a mouse had got in de house. She said, ‘I know. I know everythang dat go on in dis house.’ She threw me a threatening look. I got nervous, but I tried not to show it. She wuz definitely tellin’ me somethin’. You know how Momma do.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “Don’t tell nobody what I’m tellin you, T.L. Ain’t no tellin’ what’s li’ble to happen to me. It jes’ don’t make sense fu’ you to come all dis way afta all dese years and leave here not knowin’. Now you know.”

  He started walking again, but I grabbed his arm and stopped him. “What about Daddy? Didn’t he ever say anything about all this?”

  “Nope. Notta word. At least not to me. Maybe him and Momma talked about it, but I didn’t hear Daddy say nothin’’bout it.”

  “Did you ever ask him?”

  “Ask him what?”

  “Ask him about Sista’s death?”

  “Daddy knows something, Willie James.”

  “I know he do. He got to. He don’t let nothin’ happen round dis place’less he know’bout it.”

  “Big brother, this is madness.”

  “You tellin’ me?” Willie James said, squeezing my hand tighter. “I been carryin’ all dis shit round wit’ me fu’ years. It done near ‘bout drove me outta my mind. I’m glad somebody else know’bout it now, though. Hell, I don’t care no more, T.L. Momma nem can do whatever dey want to to me. I’m tired o’ bein’ scared o’ dem and I ain’t gon’ do it no mo’.”

  Willie James released my hand and sobbed freely into both of his own; I massaged the nape of his neck and cried along. “We’ll make it, Willie James. Somehow, we’ll make it.”

  “Yeah, I hope so.” He lifted his head and wiped away his tears.

  He looked different to me in the moonlight. His face had an innocence of which the daylight robbed him. For the first time in my life, I saw the core of Willie James’s heart. It was caring, sensitive, and compassionate. I supposed I hadn’t seen it before because those kinds of hearts in a southern black man either get destroyed or are masked thoroughly. The darkness of the night, ironically, assisted in his heart’s exposure and allowed him to express its contents unashamed. The darkness also reminded us of the temporal nature of comfort zones, for we knew that, as morning approached, the routine of our regular lives awaited our embracing like a newborn child its mother.

  Willie James’s head, like Christ’s on the cross, hung in a submission and humility that forbade reprimand. He was willing to die for his convictions, for the weight of the truth had forced him to tell it, and he simply refused to carry the guilt I was fashioning for him. He kept breathing sighs of relief, glad the lies were over. I stood beside him as the moon and stars glowed effervescently above our heads. It was nice, actually, just my brother and me, in the middle of the universe together, without other eyes limiting the intensity of our sharing. I was still livid about him and Sister, but for some reason, my anger abated. Maybe I felt sorry for Willie James and what he never had. Such neglect didn’t justify what had happened, but it did explain it. We knew we couldn’t stay in the woods long because Momma would get suspicious, but neither of us wanted to disturb this tranquillity we had discovered. Once again, I extended my hand toward Willie James and he smiled and grabbed it. We laughed simultaneously, knowing that, to the outside world, this scene would probably have appeared ridiculous. To us, it was divine.

  “Sing the song for me, please,” Willie James begged. “Please. I need to hear it one more time.”

  My brother’s face expressed a longing I could not refuse. For the first time ever, a member of my own family extended to me the opportunity to share in his healing. I cleared my throat and sang richly:

  “Oh, they tell me of a home

  Far beyond the skies;

  Oh they tell me of a home,

  Far, far away;

  Oh they tell me of a home

  Where no storm clouds rise;

  Oh, they tell me of an uncloudy day!”

  Willie James’s hands, like a drowning victim’s, waved freely in the air. His head was flung back and swaying with a sensual rhythm accented most perfectly by the moans of pleasure his throat emitted. Tears flowed down his cheeks, shimmering in the moonlight like icicles on a sunny winter afternoon. He was free. I sang the second verse more boisterously:

  “Oh, they tell me of a King,

  In his beauty there;

  And they tell me that mine eyes

  Shall behold where he sits

  On the throne that is whiter than snow

  In the city that is made of gold!

  Oh, they tell me of an uncloudy day!”

  My big brother was gone. He was in a land and a place I had never been before. His arms were stretched toward the heavens and, with closed eyes and a soft whimper, he danced through a spiritual zone unfamiliar to me. I held him in my arms and rocked him in my bosom like church folks begged Abraham to do, hoping our openness was also the birth of our lifelong intimacy. “Oh, they tell me of an uncloudy day!” I repeated, purging our souls of familial hatred and freeing ourselves to dream. I wasn’t singing loudly anymore; I was singing earnestly. I had never felt the song so passionately, probably because I had never sung it to one whose heart lay vulnerable before me. I loved my brother that moment in a way unexplainable.

  “Wow,” Willie James said once he calmed, studying my face for clues about how to sing someone into ecstasy. “I always did like dat song. Every time I hear it, I start imaginin’ a place where de sun shines all de time and everybody treat everybody else real nice.”

  “I wish it wasn’t imaginary,” I said as we began to walk again.

  The house appeared in the distance after a few minutes. We slowed our steps together, savoring the last precious moment.

  “Take care of yo’self, little brother,” Willie James said painfully without eye contact.

  A faint smile forced itself upon me. “I will, big brother.”

  “I’ll neva forgit tonight. It wuz a long time comin’. I’m glad you came home’cause now I’m free.” He examined the night like an excon who had forgotten what it looked like.

  “I’m glad you’re free, too, Willie James. More than you know.”

  We hugged tightly. “Thanks for all the info,” I whispered in his ear.

  Willie James nodded and winked at me. “Do somethin’ with it,” he muttered. “Write a book or somethin’. Jes’ don’t tell nobody I told you nothin’. Lord Jesus, don’t put my name in it nowhere!”

  “Don’t worry. Nobody’ll know anything. I promise.”

  “Thanks, T.L.”

  “No, thank you, Willie James.” We walked the last few steps in perfect harmony.

  22

  I awakened Saturday morning at the crack of dawn while everyone else was still asleep. It must have been four thirty or five, for Daddy would already have been awake had it been a half hour later. I went to the bathroom and splashed my face because I had nothing else to do. Returning to my room quietly, I clicked on the night lamp and sat on the bed’s edge, staring at the beige linoleum floor. I wanted desperately to sleep, yet everything about my return—Ms. Swinton’s request, David’s unexpected entry into my life, Willie James’s heinous confession—converged into an insomia I couldn’t shake. We were about to bury my own mother when, a few days ag
o, I didn’t even know she was my mother. I loved her, but knowing I once had lived in her womb bonded me to Ms. Swinton inseperably. All those books were a sign of how much she believed in me, but I didn’t know what to do with them. I’d have to conceive a plan, however, since I couldn’t leave them in Arkansas and I definitely couldn’t transport them to my miniature New York apartment. Ms. Swinton would surely haunt me if I didn’t make good use of her literary legacy.

  I leaned over the side of the bed and retrieved one of her journals from my suitcase.

  Dear Diary,

  I’ve had more than I can take. Teaching in Swamp Creek has exhausted me beyond repair, it seems. Children don’t want to learn anymore. I go to school day after day, hoping at least a few get inspired, only to return home in the evenings frazzled, dejected, and overwhelmed. The days of the good student seem past now. No one wants to read anything other than what they must, and no one strives frantically for the A. I miss T.L. That boy would read anything he could get his hands on. I remember the excitement on his face when I gave him Go Tell It on the Mountain for his birthday. That’s the kind of student I long to teach, but I think they’re extinct now. Kids come to school tired, cranky, and having done no homework at all. We went wrong somewhere as a people. Children weren’t allowed such parameters in the black community once upon a time. Clearly, parents are to blame. We stopped insisting on discipline and character and, instead, granted our youth the choice to do nothing, and most of them took it. Hence, I shouldn’t expect much, I’m afraid. Yet I’m a teacher—not a babysitter. I love to discover, argue, analyze, debate, write, think, reason. Unfortunately, my students care little for any of these “useless” activities. All they want to do is play new video games or watch idiotic sitcoms on television. I’m worried about the future of the black brain trust. From where will our next George Washington Carver come? Who will write our stories when Toni Code Bambara, James Baldwin, John Killens, and Gwendolyn Brooks retire? Out of thirty years of teaching, I know I should be more encouraged, more hopeful, but I just don’t see the prospects. Honestly, I want T.L. back. I need a class of students who’d stay up late to finish a good book or revise a paper four times to assure its perfection. I need a guarantee that what I’m doing is not in vain. A teacher’s life boasts few rewards; thus the best we can hope for is an exemplary student. I guess I’ve had my one.

  I thought Cynthia Tyson might be another, but it didn’t work out that way. After T.L. left, she lost her motivation, her academic spunk. He meant the world to her, and I think she felt abandoned by him. He left in May of 1983, and when school started in the fall, her usual flair and drive were gone. I asked her what was wrong, and she said, “I’m fine, Ms. Swinton. Just a little lonely.” I hugged her reassuringly and told her not to worry about Thomas. She smiled, but my words did not heal her heart. Cynthia stopped raising her hand in class and she started making Bs on assignments without complaint. I invited her to come see me if she needed to talk, but she never did. I knew what she needed. I just didn’t know how to tell her that T.L. wasn’t coming back. He’s gone for good and I know it. I’ll never get to tell him I’m his mother and he’ll never know how much Cynthia loves him unless he reads these pages one day. I can only hope for as much.

  Clutching the journal to my chest, I gazed at the ceiling. Sister’s depression saddened my heart and caused me to reevaluate the wisdom of my decision ever to leave. Had I known then what I know now, I would have taken her with me. Momma and Daddy’s response I could have ignored. I would have loved Sister, sent her to school, and dressed her in pretty things. Her hair would have been neat and she would have been the envy of all her girlfriends. But I never imagined my decision would disrupt Sister’s peace like Ms. Swinton described. In hindsight, I felt selfish and egocentric. Yet at the time, I thought I was saving my life.

  Guilt was seeking my attention, and I simply refused to acknowledge it. Instead, I went and took a bath, returned to my room, and began to pack my things. Unsure of how much time I’d have between the burial and the five o’clock bus, I decided to take my luggage to the funeral just to be safe. Plus, David and I needed time after the funeral to decide what I would do with those books.

  “What time you leavin’?”

  I glanced up, surprised, and saw Daddy standing in the doorway. I didn’t know how long he’d been watching me.

  “Uh … sometime after the funeral. Around five or so.” My hands trembled like a man on the way to his execution.

  “Oh. OK,” Daddy droned, and glared at me. He didn’t move, which meant he had more to say. I wished he would say it quickly and leave.

  “Who told you’bout Ms. Swinton?” he asked rather matter-of-factly.

  “Oh! David told me she died late—”

  “That ain’t what I mean.”

  I started to ask Daddy what he meant, but patronizing him wasn’t ever a wise thing. “I just … figured it out,” I said tremulously.

  “How?” Daddy was still standing in the doorway. Sitting on the bed in nothing but my underwear, I felt more vulnerable in his presence than I ever had before.

  “How?” he repeated more turbulently.

  I had no choice but to tell Daddy the truth, especially since I couldn’t compose a good lie fast enough. “I overheard you and Momma talking about it the other night. I mean … I didn’t hear everything, but I heard enough to figure it out.” My courage, like steam from a boiling pot, was escaping me quickly, but I had to ask, “How’d you know I knew?”

  “’Cause you too cool’bout everythang.” He paused and continued more humbly, “You walkin’ round here like you know’xactly what done happened in de last ten years, but you don’t. You really don’t.”

  “You wanna fill me in?” I sounded like a smart-ass brat.

  “You’bout to leave, so it wouldn’t do no good nohow.” Again, Daddy didn’t move, so I didn’t, either. “It ain’t what I meant,” he started explaining. “I was goin’ over there for somethin’ totally diff’rent, but one thang led to anotha and then you came. She couldn’t teach no school wit’ a baby out o’ wedlock, so I told her I’d raise you myself. She wanted you, though. She wanted you bad, and de best way she could have you wuz to teach you. That way, she could shape yo’ mind, she said, and give you all de learnin’ you might need to make somethin’ outta yo’self. She did de best she could, boy.”

  “I’m not mad at Ms. Swinton, Daddy,” I said and resumed packing. “She’s dead now, and nothing else really matters.”

  “Dat’s how I know you mad. You tryin’ to fugit even befo’ you know de whole story. Even still, yo’ heart don’t neva fugit hurt. Don’t chu neva fugit dat. Hurt’ll wait on you a lifetime to face it, but it sho’ ain’t gon’ disappear. I don’t want chu to leave hyeah today wit’ a whole lotta hatred in yo’ heart, boy. It’ll kill ya.”

  Daddy’s massive form in the doorway kept me anxious. Had he turned and left abruptly, I would have been relieved. I was starting to feel like I might cry, and I had vowed not to shed tears that day, even at the funeral. However, Daddy always managed to dismantle my peace before I had it built completely.

  “Ain’t no tellin’ when you might git back dis way, boy, so I’ma tell you a few thangs while I got a chance.”

  He sat beside me on the bed, barging his way into my intimate space.

  “She wanted me to give you somethin’ if she never saw you again. I promised her I would.”

  Daddy handed me an envelope. I opened it slowly, not wanting to discover another truth unknown.

  “Wow,” I said. “Is this me?”

  “Yeah. It’s you all right,” Daddy snickered. “She musta took dat picture de day you wuz born. I ain’t neva seed no newborn baby grin. You wuz diff’rent.”

  “How?” I asked enthusiastically.

  “You wuz always laughin’. When de midwife slapped yo’ ass, you started grinnin’. She said you looked at her and neva did cry. She thought it was a little strange’cause babies is s’pose’ to cry
, but you neva did. She told Ms. Swinton dat you wuz gon’ be somethin’ special ‘cause couldn’t nobody take yo’ joy away. I guess dat’s why Ms. Swinton took dat picture—jes’ in case you eva lost yo’ joy, de picture would be proof dat all de joy you need you wuz born wit’.”

  I was too overwhelmed to speak. In the picture, the baby’s eyes were really big and the smile on his face was subtle but detectable. I couldn’t believe it was me.

  “Yeah, dat’s you,” Daddy said, reading my mind. “The day I went to git you, Ms. Swinton cried like a baby. She kept sayin’ how unfair de world is and how wrong it is fu’ somebody to take a baby ‘way from his momma. I told her it wuz de best thang’cause if word got out, she would lose hu’ job and hu’ reputation, too. She said she didn’t care, but I knowed she did. She had to. Teachin’ was all she had and it meant de world to hu’. I couldn’t let hu’ give up all dat. Too many chil’ren woulda suffa. Dis community ain’t mucha nothin’ wit’out dat woman teachin’ dese po’ black chil’ren how to love theyself. We couldn’t lose dat. So I told hu’ I’d raise you myself and she could see you every day and any otha time she wanted to. She didn’t like it, but she went ‘long wit’ it. Befo’ she let me take you, she took dat picture.”

  “My God,” I mumbled as I kept examining the photograph.

  “She wuz quite a woman, boy. She woulda gave hu’ life fu’ you. In some ways, dat’s’xactly what she did.”

  Daddy leaned over my shoulder and looked at the picture again. “You always did have a big mouth.” We both snickered. “And you neva did cry—till you came here.”