I Am Not Sidney Poitier

by Percival Everett

I nodded.

  “Well, I’d like you to think of us as your family, of this as your home. What do you say?”

  “Thank you.”

  Maggie opened the door, poked her head in, and then stepped fully inside. “What’s going on?”

  “Your young man and I are just sitting here having a chat, a little man talk,” Ward said. “We’ll be done soon.”

  Maggie backed out of the study.

  “Maggie’s remarkable, isn’t she?” he said.

  “I guess so.”

  He looked around his study. “This room makes you nervous. It has that effect on many people. You wonder why I have these heads. Well, I think they give the place a kind of warmth.”

  “They’re dead,” I said.

  “Yes, but they were once alive, weren’t they? I find them comforting. I find this room comforting. It’s filled with memories.” He pointed at the bearskin rug. “It seems like just yesterday that Maggie was a baby lying bare-bottomed on that fur. Imagine that.”

  “I imagine her as an adult,” I said. I knew it was an inappropriate utterance and in fact it wasn’t true; I wasn’t imagining Maggie at all.

  Ward’s reaction was immediate, but he contained himself. He cleared his throat and said, “Really?”

  All of a sudden, I understood my position of power, and I was heeding Everett’s suggestion that I have “fun,” as he put it. “Yes,” I said. “I especially like the idea of that rich dark brown fur set against her beige, almost yellow skin.”

  I had, in a manner of speaking, undone Ward Larkin. Though it was not visible to the naked and untrained eye, the man was trembling. Either from anger or fear or both, perhaps on a molecular level, but the trembling was real and physical, not psychic, not metaphoric. He had followed me into his own den, his own territory, and found me more than a mere lifeless head on his paneled wall, more than frightened prey. Even more was that he had found me armed, armed with the weapon that any human fears most, something he wanted. He was, I realized, so taken with my wealth that I could have pulled out my tallywhacker and handled it while we talked. But I didn’t. I didn’t for a host of reasons, the main one being that I was afraid.

  “Maggie tells me you like boating?” I said.

  He let out a breath. It could have been relief, it could have been merely breathing. “I do,” he said.

  “I like sailing,” I told him. “I love the salt air and the spray. What kind of boat do you have?”

  “I don’t own a boat.”

  “I see.” I looked at his desk. I was still seated behind it in his swiveling chair. “I see you like golf.” I pointed to the brass bag of club pens.

  “I do.”

  “I’ve never played,” I said. “Seems like a boring game. What is it you like about it?”

  “It’s a very difficult game,” he said.

  “If you say so.”

  Maggie poked her head back into the room. “Are you two done yet?”

  “Yes,” Ward said, “we are.”

  In the car, on our way to pick up much-needed cranberries for Violet, Maggie regarded me suspiciously. “So what was going on in there?”

  “We were just talking. You know, I think your father likes me.”

  “What?”

  “I think we hit it off.”

  She watched the road.

  “Does that surprise you?” I asked.

  “No, not at all.”

  “Maggie, tell me, why did you invite me here?” I asked. I really had no interest in trying to punish Maggie and I really didn’t consider it my place to even entertain the notion.

  “I like you,” she said.

  I saw no reason to challenge that. In fact I hardly doubted it. Still, I didn’t imagine that was the reason for my presence. I was making some kind of peace with my place in the rebellious daughter/overbearing parents tragicomedy in which I’d found myself.

  She said, “I didn’t want you to be lonely on Thanksgiving.”

  It was a lie, a patronizing one, that didn’t sit particularly well with me, and I found myself disliking Maggie and perhaps feeling a little sorry for myself. I looked over at her and found that, oddly, as my dislike took shape and grew, she seemed prettier. That minor observation meant little to me except insofar as it was an observation.

  “So, why didn’t things work out with you and Robert?” I asked.

  Maggie was caught off guard by the question and also by the relaxed tone with which it had been posed.

  “They just didn’t.”

  “Why?”

  “Like I said, we’re like brother and sister.”

  “I don’t know what that means,” I said.

  “I love him but I’m not in love with him.”

  I studied her face as she pulled into the grocery-market parking lot. “He seems like a nice enough guy,” I said.

  “He is,” she said.

  “Nice enough?”

  “Very nice.”

  Not caring was a comfortable place to sit. Comfortable enough for me to let the matter go. Comfortable enough to resolve to not actively pursue the having of fun, but to remain aloof and simply watch.

  My mother had been, if not disdainful then suspicious of holidays; she thought that they were all either some form of corporate extortion, religious indoctrination, or governmental propaganda. Thanksgiving fell into the third category—one big glorious lie to put a good face on continental theft. Then she would point out that the turkey is not a noble bird. She didn’t dislike the holiday as much as the Fourth of July, but she disliked it plenty. The upshot for me was that I never experienced a so-called traditional Thanksgiving family dinner with the bird, cranberry stuff, and all the trappings. Ted had steadfastly maintained any boundary that might have confused our relationship with some suggestion that I was an adopted member of the family. And as for my staff, the women who cared for me through childhood, well, they were employees and they had families and lives of their own. So, in a rather peculiar and perhaps anthropological way I was looking forward to Thanksgiving dinner with the Larkins.

  The dining-room table was fantastically long or at least it seemed so to me. Heavy. Wooden. And it was set for ten. There were two arrangements of plastic flowers, roses and something imaginary, that seemed to have little if anything to do with the occasion, and in the center of each arrangement was a silver reflective globe, what people put in their gardens and called gazing balls. From any spot a glance at a ball would yield a fish-eye view of most of the room. The tablecloth was red and the napkins were thick gold paper with a border of turkeys. I was standing alone next to the china cabinet watching Violet in the kitchen. I could hear Maggie and Agnes going at each other upstairs someplace, but I had no idea and every idea what it was about. Ward and Ruby were visiting in the living room with the first guests to arrive. Violet came to the table with a stack of plates.

  “Can I do something to help?” I asked.

  “No.”

  “Why do you dislike me, Violet?”

  “I don’t dislike you,” she said. “I don’t care enough about you to like or dislike you.”

  “Thank you for clearing that up. Let me ask you something. Most of the people in this house seem a bit crazy. You might be one of them. So, here it is. Do you have a problem with my skin color?”

  “What are you asking me?”

  I did not beat around the bush. “So, you think I’m too dark for precious little Maggie?”

  “Now I dislike you,” she said.

  “So, you care.”

  She put down the last plate at the head of the table. “As a matter of fact,” she said, then without saying another word walked back into the kitchen.

  I followed her. “As a matter of fact what?” I asked.

  “Listen, boy, Mister and Missus have worked too hard,” she said.

  “Too hard for what?”

  “To have a black boy like you come around Miss Maggie.”

  “Listen to yourself, Violet. Mister and Missus and Miss Ma
ggie. This is not the antebellum south and you’re not a house slave.”

  “Why, you nigger,” she said.

  “Violet, you and I are pretty much the same color,” I said.

  “No, we’re not,” she snapped. “I’m milk chocolate and you’re dark cocoa, dark as Satan.”

  I was stunned. Saddened perhaps, somewhat frightened, but mostly just stunned.

  Maggie came into the kitchen, surprisingly cheerful in a dark blue dress that made me somehow think of the Pilgrims. “Everything smells great, Violet. What kind of pie this year?”

  “Pumpkin.”

  “You haven’t had pie until you’ve had Violet’s,” Maggie said to me.

  Maggie took me by the hand and led me out of the kitchen and away from the burning gaze of Violet into the living room to make introductions. I was presented rather ceremoniously to Reverend Golightly, his wife, and their grown son. I nodded to each one in turn and was sickened that I had been so influenced by my experience in this household that I caught myself gauging the skin tones of the guests. Large Reverend Golightly was the color of coffee with a generous helping of cream. Slightly more cream had been added to Mrs. Golightly. Thirty-year-old Jeffrey was an albino. Jeffrey was also mentally challenged. He shook my hand too vigorously and for too long, prompting the Reverend to say, “Let go, Jeffrey.” When he did let go he smiled a genuine smile and became the first person I’d liked in days. I sat in a straight-backed chair next to him.

  “So, how do you like Washington?” Reverend Golightly asked me.

  “I find it interesting,” I said.

  “We haven’t had a chance to do much,” Maggie said. “We arrived just yesterday.”

  “Well, you must take him to the Mall,” Mrs. Golightly said. She sipped from her little glass of sherry. “The monuments, the Smithsonian, all of it. Maggie, you must take him.”

  “I will,” Maggie said.

  “I like Lincoln,” Jeffrey said. “He freed the slaves.”

  “A lot of good that did,” Ward said.

  The rest laughed.

  It was all so absurd. I expected the walls to wiggle in and out of focus and change color at any second. Yet I couldn’t seem to rise to leave. Big fat Reverend Golightly, a mound of yellow Jell-O on the davenport and human stick-figure wife stuck into the cushion beside him stared at me, smiled. And there was Jeffrey, whom I liked immediately—sweet, innocent Jeffrey, completely lacking pigment and outside the bizarre game altogether.

  Then Agnes came into the room wearing a red skirt, the hem of which was as far from her knees as her knees were from her red pumps. Maggie was immediately furious and gave me a look before stomping out. I sensed that I was expected to follow, so I stayed.

  The Golightlys, Reverend and Mrs., cleared their throats. Jeffrey simply stared at Agnes’s legs and said, “Legs.”

  “You look nice,” Ruby Larkin said, with unsubtle sarcasm. She nudged Ward with her elbow. “Doesn’t your daughter look nice?”

  “Yes, nice,” Ward said.

  Ruby stood and walked toward the door to the dining room. “Agnes,” she said. The come with me was clearly implied, and so Agnes complied. Ruby closed the pocket doors behind them.

  We sat in an awkward silence that was interrupted by the loud voice of Agnes saying, “It’s just a skirt.”

  “You’re right about that,” Ruby snapped back. “It is just a skirt, just barely a skirt.”

  Jeffrey looked at me, smiling, and repeated, “Legs.”

  “That will be enough, Jeffrey,” Reverend Golightly said.

  Jeffrey sat back straight in his chair, gave me a covert nod, tapped a finger on his leg, and mouthed “leg” to me.

  We sat at the table. Ward sat at the head. At least he called it the head of the table. His exact words were, “I’ll take my usual place at the head of the table.” If that were so then I understood Ruby to be sitting at the foot. I sat in the center of the table, Maggie to my left and Agnes across from me. Jeffrey was at my right. Mrs. Golightly was on Ward’s left, and there was an empty chair on his right. That chair was for Robert, who had not yet arrived. There was an empty seat beside Agnes that was supposedly for Violet and the Reverend Golightly was on the end beside Ruby. All of this matters little except for the fact the Agnes was near enough to me to attempt a game of footsie and far enough away to mistake Jeffrey’s foot for mine. Agnes wasted no time. Jeffrey paid no attention to the candied sweet potatoes, green beans, and dressing being heaped on his plate by his father, but sat there with his eyes rolling up into his head so that only the whites showed.

  “What’s wrong with you, Jeffrey?” Reverend Golightly said. “What are you doing with your eyes?”

  I looked across at Agnes and offered a weak smile that I think led her to believe that I was enjoying the foot rubbing.

  Ward Larkin carved the enormous turkey on a side cart beside his station at the table. He did so ceremoniously and placed the meat on a platter being held by Violet, still wearing her apron.

  “I love this,” Ward said. “I feel like the king of a pride of lions.” I imagined the large feline head on his study wall.

  “Jeffrey has a preference for dark meat,” Mrs. Golightly said. “He’d like a leg, I believe.”

  “A leg for Jeffrey,” Ward said.

  Jeffrey’s knee was bouncing wildly beside me, and there was a faint rumble of a moan in his throat. I could see the concentration in Agnes’s eyes, and every time I glanced at her, made eye contact, she became more focused on whatever it was she was doing to what she took to be my foot.

  “I forgot the cranberries,” Violet said.

  “Agnes, run into the kitchen and get the cranberries, please,” Ruby said.

  “They’re on the counter,” Violet said.

  “Send Maggie,” Agnes said.

  “You’re closer to the door,” Maggie said.

  “Yes, you’re right there,” Ruby said.

  Agnes gave me a sidelong glance, more side than long, and broke tarsal connection with the albino. Jeffrey whimpered. At least I thought I heard a whimper. Just as quickly as he had been transported he returned; his eyes fell back to center as his attention turned to the food on his plate. I believe Agnes worked her foot back into her red high heel and after that rose and walked into the kitchen with some indignant stomping.

  Agnes returned with the cranberries, and all plates became full. Ward took his seat, and the Reverend Golightly cleared his throat to announce the saying of the Thanksgiving prayer.

  It was not until this moment in my life that I realized that I did not believe in a god. My mother had talked quite insultingly about Christians and Christianity, and I had listened well enough to know what she might say about a number of things, including the forthcoming prayer, but I had never, I guess, cared enough to contemplate the question or, in my case, the lack thereof. At any rate, the most striking thing to me at that moment was the fact that Violet did not sit but stood by the kitchen door, her hands reverently pressed together in front of her closed eyes.

  Golightly began. “Jesus, our Lord God Savior Jesus, Godalmighty, Jesus God, thank you for loving us, one and all, each and every one, and providing this bounteous, munificent, and glorious meal as we bow our undeserving heads in the face and light and brilliance of your magnificence. Thank you, Jesus Lord God, for the presence of our beloved family and cherished friends, our visitor, and the help.”

  I glanced at Violet, since my eyes were open and saw no reaction in her face or posture.

  “And about this meal, dear Savior God Jesus, thank you for this succulent turkey, this big juicy bird, for this cornbread, and these candied yams with little marshmallows sprinkled on top slightly browned, and these mashed potatoes, and this creamed spinach, and these green beans, and this beautiful dressing full of walnuts and raisins.” The Reverend’s reverence was growing as he made his way through the side dishes.

  Across the table, eyes closed, Agnes had renewed her pedal activity, making Jeffrey distrac
ted from his plate and the prayer. His leg was bouncing again, but his hands remained still on either side of his plate.

  “We want also to thank you, Jesus God, for our good health and the right to live in this great country of ours, where free men are free to live freely, free to live where they choose, next to whom they please and away from those they choose not to be near. Thank you for our fine homes and our nice clothes and for money. Thank you for our lineage, our good blood, and our distance from the thickening center.”

  I was certain the food was barely warm anymore and even more certain that Jeffrey was about to finish up. His colorless lips parted.

  Jeffrey spoke. “May your stuffing be tasty. May your turkey stay plump. May your potatoes and gravy have nary a lump. May your yams be delicious and pies take the prize and may your Thanksgiving dinner stay off your thighs.” With that, he pressed his eyes even more tightly shut, and he had, I’m certain, a rather satisfying climax. He said, “A-men,” nodding, then shaking his head.

  “Amen,” Reverend Golightly said, staring angrily at his son.

  At first only I was aware of Jeffrey’s experience, but I looked across at Agnes as she became aware of her successful though misdirected efforts. I then looked to my left at Maggie, who had become aware of Agnes’s attention to me, but was unaware of her bad aim. Maggie shot me the evil eye and then began to eat, tearing into her turkey while glaring at her sister.

  Violet, who had yet to even graze her seat with her bottom, went to answer the front-door chimes. It turned out to be of course Robert. He was dressed, I must say, beautifully, though not to my taste, in a rust-colored suit and a dark yellow turtleneck sweater. He looked like autumn.

  Maggie made a fuss over him and guided him to the chair beside her as he made his apologies for being late. While Maggie, Robert, and Ward caught up at their end of the table, Jeffrey talked to me.

  “Something did happen that made me straight and now I have fallen, but I’m clearing my plate,” Jeffrey said.

  “That’s nice,” I said.

  “I feel somewhat sticky, messy, undone, and still eating dressing is oh so much fun,” Jeffrey said. He then held up his turkey and said, “Leg.”