by Alice Walker
She was afraid to see the person who created the beauty that was so much what her soul hungered for it made her weep.
Suwelo vaguely understood this, but he was also annoyed, because now he’d miss the concert—though she begged him to go ahead and take someone else. And he’d spent quite a lot of money on the tickets.
“Isn’t Arveyda old?” she asked hopefully. (He wasn’t.) “I’ll wait until he dies, or until I do, and then ... I will see him.”
And what could Suwelo respond to such a love, constricted by a so much greater fatalism and fear?
“Oh, my poor baby,” he’d said with exasperation and helplessness, holding her, knowing without seeing her face that tears of longing were flowing down her cheeks.
THE FIRST TIME HE saw Carlotta, what had he thought? Fanny had accused him of seeing only the amber skin and the long mass of black hair. The shapeliness. A woman of color, yes, but one without the kind of painful past that would threaten his sense of himself as a man or inhibit his enjoyment of her as simply a woman. But actually, he had these thoughts later on, after he had begun his affair with Carlotta. The very first time he saw her, at a faculty meeting at which she appeared restless and trapped, he’d thought she looked like a much younger, Latina Coretta King. There was a picture somewhere he had seen of Mrs. King, looking grief-stricken and betrayed, a beautiful woman, he thought, but slipping inexorably into the quagmire of Famous Widowhood. Run, run, he’d wanted to shout to her. Don’t let them close you up in the tomb! But perhaps this was partly how she felt, as if part of her was entombed with her husband. But surely there was more of her own life to live? Suwelo admired only one thing about Jackie Onassis, whose fate might have been similar, except for her canny refusal to let it be: her absolute success in slipping out from under her dead husband, Jack. In the picture of Mrs. King of which he was reminded, she was standing with a large group of Native American women, and she looked more Indian than most of them. Carlotta, as he studied her, had that same grief-stricken, betrayed look. But as he studied her more closely, ignoring the other faculty members, who were white, and whose university he understood it was, the more he saw that it was really not the look of Mrs. King. Or perhaps it was, but it moved him because he had seen it, felt the pain of it, and attempted to remove it from the weeping face of someone much closer to home: He was attracted to Carlotta because the expression on her face was identical to that on Fanny’s once she knew he had betrayed her. He had spent the entire time he was with Carlotta trying to remove the reflection, on her face, of Fanny’s grief. Without once daring, however, to force her to tell him its cause. Once he knew she was separated from her husband, with two children to raise on her own, once he’d seen her shabbily furnished apartment, and once he’d heard her bitter complaints about the racism of the Women’s Studies Department in which she worked, he assumed he understood her grief. Now he realized he’d probably understood nothing, and it also occurred to him what a superficial, ultimately fraudulent act it was to sleep with a person you did not really know.
He began to appreciate more than ever the story Mr. Hal and Miss Lissie were relentlessly telling him.
“MY FATHER WAS NOT so gay as my mother,” Mr. Hal said. “She was all the time laughing; giggling really. She just couldn’t help it. Everything was funny to her. Over my daddy’s head, though, there was always a cloud. Now you might not want to believe this, but you do live in California, after all. I read the newspapers from time to time, so I know that a lot of the men who go with other men are dying. Every time I read about it I think of my father, because I think he would have been glad. He was not an evil person—don’t get me wrong—but he just hated that kind of person and that was the only kind of person I ever heard him express any hatred of. Even about white people in general he never carried on the way he would about ‘funny’ men. While he was on his deathbed himself, he told me why.
“He grew up on the Island on a plantation that was owned by some white folks from the mainland and run by a black overseer. This wasn’t slavery time—the slaves had been legally freed a long time ago—but it seemed a lot like it, the way things were still being run. Anyhow, on some holidays like Christmas and Easter and always during the summer, these white people came out to their place on the Island. It was cooler on the Island in summer, much more pleasant than on the mainland. They’d sail over on their yacht—they were rich people—and bring everybody from the house on the mainland: the cook, the maids, the horse handler, even the gardeners. My father used to work for them as odd jobber and gofer, and he used to help unload the yacht, and they paid him in oranges, which we almost never had on the Island and which were the taste equivalent of gold. Anyhow, these people had a son, Heath, and he began to tag along with my father. The two boys liked each other right away, but it chafed my father that he always had to stay in his place. Heath had the run of my father’s house, for instance, and during the summers would often eat there, right in the kitchen with the rest of them, but my father, whose name was David, by the way, after little David in the Bible, could never get closer to Heath’s house than the back doorsteps. If you were black and you didn’t work in the house, you weren’t permitted. That’s just the way it was.
“Heath’s father and mother seemed cordial with each other rather than warm, and neither of them talked much to Heath. Still, the father seemed glad that Heath and my father were friends; the mother never appeared to notice it. She drank.
“Heath and my father were boyhood friends, seeing each other for holidays and summers, for many years. Then Heath went off to college and my father married. Eventually Heath also married, and he and his wife came to settle on the Island in the big house that Heath loved and that now belonged to him through his parents. My father was happy enough in his marriage. I don’t know that he ever expected any kind of skyrockets from it. On the Island you married young, you raised a mess of kids, you and your family worked hard, you ate and slept and worshiped as well as you could. You died. That was about it. And that was plenty to most people. Excitement? The stories and rumors you heard about other people, way over there on the mainland, was your excitement.
“Having Heath around again and for good was exciting, and as well as they could manage it, now that they were more than ever unequal in the eyes of society and the law—in other words, they were grown men—they carried on their friendship. Heath, though, had started to drink, and he really didn’t like black people. He was one of those whites who, drunk, would say to a black person he had his arm around: ‘You know, So-and-so, I don’t like nigras, but I like you!’ So you can imagine how this so-called friendship between him and my father had to walk that fine line between anger and fear. Naturally my father hated Heath’s racism. Just as he feared him as a white man, even as they laughed and joked together. My father had no idea—and I don’t think Heath himself knew—that Heath was drawn to him in love. I mean love of that most peculiar kind. It was an understanding that sort of crept up on them both, I imagine, as they saw how much time Heath put in at our house, and how much he and my father, in spite of everything, enjoyed it.
“I can even remember him. A heavyset, stocky, rather than fat, red-faced guy, with his high color sometimes seeming to come and go in his face. Hair that bleached almost white in the sun. Substantial teeth and a minty breath. A Teddy Roosevelt sort of guy.
“It was Heath who encouraged my father to get out of farm laboring and become a furniture maker. He’d seen and admired the things my father carved in his spare time: mostly toys and the children’s beds and cradles. I don’t think he could bear seeing his friend working in the fields like a slave. He didn’t care about the rest of the people, you understand; he thought that working like slaves on his plantation was no more than they deserved. But not David, with his thoughtful expression and always pregnant wife and his houseful of barefoot kids. He helped my father build a shop and bought the very first pieces he made, a table and some chairs. He found a market for my father’s work on the mainl
and, and we lived very well. Much better than we had on stoop labor, digging potatoes and picking beans.
“He wanted my father.
“Even on his deathbed this was a hard concept—no joke meant—for my father to get ahold of. It was curious, too, how no matter what words he found to tell me about the situation, they always made me laugh. Even he was finally able to laugh, a hollow cackle though it was. He wasn’t laughing at Heath, but at this possibility of a way of life that just seemed totally out of the realm of nature to him. Two men together, like a man and a woman? It was just too much. What would my father have made of San Francisco?
“The long and short of it is, the friendship was soon ruined. There was nowhere for any of their best feelings about each other to go. They couldn’t even sit down at a hot-dog stand somewhere to discuss the problem. They would have been arrested just for that. Heath became more drunken, nigger-hating, and sullen. He talked a lot about how his father had treated him as a boy, ridiculing and beating him for being slow to understand things said to him and slow to learn to read. He spoke of this to explain his ability to understand how ‘the nigras felt,’ but what it really seemed to explain was why he so often tried to make those he knew feel as bad as he’d once felt himself. Around him, my father retreated into what he called his old-time know-nothing niggerisms. Scratching his head and muttering under his breath. ‘Feelin’ like a damn fool.’ And of course you realize he called him ‘Mr. Heath’ from the time they were in their teens. But my father’s pretense of ignorance did not protect him. One day Heath came into the shop, and before my father knew anything he was being hugged drunkenly and, as he put it, ‘cried on from behind.’ My father felt pretty safe, though, because he could see my mother and some of the children playing a few yards away from the open door. Heath had been drinking heavily and fighting with his wife. It would soon blow over. It always did. My father would make coffee, lay on an ice pack, and scramble up something for Heath to eat. But this time, maybe because my father felt so safe, he really let himself feel the weeping body draped around him. Let himself feel the misery and feel the shame. Maybe he felt the love. Anyway, without ever dreaming it was possible, and looking down at himself as if someone had stuck a stick up his pants leg while he wasn’t looking, he responded to Heath, who had begun to fondle him.
“It was a moment that changed his life. Without understanding how it could be possible, my father wanted to be wanted by this man holding on to him, and he wanted to want. He says he saw my mother through the door and called to her, but his voice was so weak it didn’t carry. Then, a few minutes later, as if she felt something was wrong, and he was in trouble, she started briskly toward the door herself. Heath, caressing my father and feeling his response, watched my mother approach, over my father’s shoulder, and said, ‘Tell her not to come in.’ Which my father did.
“He was never the same person after that. He was gloomy. He seldom smiled. He continued to see Heath, though, and I can still remember the sullen bitterness of the fights they had. Fights that were full of a few well-chosen cruel and cutting words, and much drinking. Because, with time, my father drank as much as Heath. Whenever my father read about a lynching of a black man by whites and that they’d cut off the man’s privates and stuck them in his mouth, he said he understood the real reason why. Whether he ever did so or not, I’m sure this is something he must have wanted to shout at Mr. Heath. That he understood there was something of a sexual nature going on in any lynching.
“For the rest of his life he hated anything he thought was gay. He detested art, and the carvings by which he made his living he eventually did with disgust. He was the perfect carver for the heavy barbarous furniture that became the rage during that period before the Great War. His carved lions were snarling, his griffins were biting, his ravens were shrieking. Claws and teeth and drops of blood were everywhere. The stuff made me shudder as a child, and my mother failed to find in it anything to encourage her famous giggle, but white people bought it; pretty soon, black people did, too. It appeared even in the houses of poor people right there on the Island. Generally they liked their furniture and everything else to be straightforward and simple; God only knows what they really thought of it.
“My father hated my painting. It made him think there was something wrong with me. All my life he tried to keep me from doing it. When Heath finally died, of a heart attack, my father, the only black person permitted at the funeral, was still bitter. My mother, generally merry to the last, never acted as though she knew anything about any of this, beyond the fact that Heath was a nice if drunken white man that liked her husband, David, and sometimes ate dinner—which he always praised—at our house.
“My father wouldn’t have cared if the plague killed off all the gays in the world. He hated Heath because Heath had forced him to look at the little bit of Heath there was in himself. Nobody had prepared him for that vision. Nor could he pretend he hadn’t seen it. I’ve often thought of the battle my father must have had with himself when Heath was embracing him in the shop. What happened to him that day remained a burden on his soul. He died many unhappy years later of liver failure. There was a terrible smell, so terrible that painting over the old paint on his walls wasn’t enough. After he died, we had to scrape the paint off the walls, and burn it, then paint the bare walls many times to cover it up. This stench, I felt, must be the rotten smell of that part of my father that he murdered and tried to bury away from other people and from himself.
“When I told Lissie about my daddy’s prejudice against ‘funny’ men and hatred of that part of himself, and told her about what had happened that first time between him and Heath, the first thing she said was that my father had been treated like a woman; that was one of the reasons he felt so bad; and that the way he had responded only made him feel worse. His whole existence was compromised by what was happening, yet he could not prevent an erotic response. She also said he was wrong to think queers are unnatural. She said queers have been in every century in which she found herself—and she giggled when she said it—and claimed to have seen queer behavior even among the cousins, always the epitome of moral behavior where Lissie was concerned. One of them, she claimed, not only taught her how to dress, but to dress.”
AT LAST, ONE DAY, Suwelo had a story for his friends. They sat down for tea and cookies in the living room, and he began slowly, in a soft, rusty voice.
“She was in the back, in the garden, among the roses. It was a warm April evening, bright and clear as a day in fall, and there was nothing really in the garden to see. The rosebushes had already been pruned and the branches burned. And yet, when I think of that evening I see her among blooming roses, as she’d looked the summer before, brown and healthy, eyes bright and black, skin flushed, short hair curly and crisp as the day. She was wearing a long skirt, gaily printed, and a T-shirt. On her hands were gardening gloves, and she was trying to wrap part of a climbing rose cane back on its trellis.
“‘Oh, Suwelo,’ she said, when she noticed me on the walk near the back door, ‘you’re home.’
“She seemed glad of it. But did not rush to kiss me as she once had. I felt a pang at this, but hadn’t really expected anything else. After all, we had been discussing a divorce for months now. I moved closer to where she strained to place the rose, and she moved backward a bit as I reached to help her. She was small and slight and dark, there in the sun, and I loved the smell of her, as always, something flowery and fresh that made me long to be able to hold her as easily and as carelessly as I once had.
“I remember this evening so well because once again she brought up the subject of the divorce.
“‘It isn’t about not loving you,’ she said. ‘I will always love you. Probably.’ She smiled at me. ‘But I don’t want to be married.’
“This was not a new statement. What she said next was. ‘You will find another woman right away, or, rather, one will find you. You’ll see.’
“‘I don’t want another woman,’ I said.
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“‘It won’t matter,’ she said. ‘You’ll be that rarest of all quantities: black, free, gainfully employed. You’ll be snapped up in no time.’
“We were having dinner by then. She was not what anyone would call a great cook, but she was certainly a good one. In an hour she’d broiled pork chops with garlic and rosemary, the way I like them, made a salad, and steamed rice. All the while, I sat at the kitchen table watching her.
“‘The only problem with that,’ she said, frowning at her plate and adding more salt, ‘is that she’ll be jealous.’
“‘What?’ I said. ‘What are you talking about. She’ll be jealous. Who’ll be jealous? Of what?’
“‘She,’ she said. ‘The new wife. She’ll be jealous of me. You see, I don’t want to end our relationship; I want to change it. I don’t want to be married. Not to you, not to anybody. But I don’t want to lose you either.’
“‘Well,’ I said, ‘you can’t have your cake and eat it too.’
“‘But why not?’ she asked, seriously. ‘Say you are my cake. I want to enjoy you, to love you, to confide in you, to be your friend. Shit,’ she said suddenly. ‘It doesn’t work. What do you suppose it means, have your cake and eat it too?’
“‘What it means for us is, you cannot have your way this time. If you love me, stay with me.’
“‘I’ll stay,’ she said. ‘Most of the time. But unmarried. And on a separate floor.’
“I groaned. This is what I got for agreeing to buy a house with more than one floor.
“‘We were happier before we were married,’ she said.
“‘Everybody’s happier before they’re married.’
“‘Then why do they marry?’ she asked.
“‘Because everything builds up to marriage. Don’t say we haven’t been happy married,’ I said, almost angry. ‘We’ve been very happy.’
