“Cher bon Dieu! What you done let them do to you in Lafayette, Paul?” his mother bemoaned.
Paul Gagnier’s body was littered with scars, mostly old stab and cut wounds. The sight of his battle scars cautioned a few of the approaching boys, but not Cesaire.
“Blessed Mother, don’t let my babies fight,” Tante Sy-belle petitioned.
“Yawl ain’t gonna let your lil’ cousin in the party ’cause she darker than yawl?” Paul asked.
No one said a word.
The Same Porch, 1981
My little blond, blue-eyed cousin, Daphne, led me to her mother’s bedroom. Tante Sy-belle, partially senile, partially performing, unloaded pleasantry after pleasantry while Mother waited in the living room with plastic-covered furniture, thick, cheap carpet, and pictures everywhere of the Lemelle and Gagnier clans. Mother chose not to look at the pictures, knowing there wasn’t a picture of her anywhere on the wall or faux mantel or in the whole damn house, for that matter.
Cousin Cozette was around Mother’s age and bedridden. Father walked in behind me. Daphne stood by the door. Cozette looked at me for a long while, then said, “Thank you for coming to see me, Cousin.”
“Close the door behind you,” Father told Daphne.
Daphne left us alone with her mother.
“Ti’ John. We gonna go real slow. Take your time,” Father said.
What I would learn later is that the treatment would be more effective if the treater carried the patient’s blood, which was why I was treating and not Father.
He looked at me and nodded. We both made a sign of the cross and began.
About two hours later, we walked out of the bedroom to a huge crowd of beige relatives. Me. Father. And Cousin Cozette. The crowd applauded and yelped as Cozette took sickly but certain steps toward Mother and gave her a desperate, long hug.
“Cousin Patrice. Please forgive me, Cousin. I know we ain’t never treated you right, but please forgive me,” Cozette pleaded.
Mother nodded slowly, then bent down and kissed her aged aunt, who at this point was crying aloud. Fuckin’ family.
Cesaire showed up late but quickly hugged Mother—all smiles—asking questions like he ever really gave a damn about Mother. And Mother? She took it all in stride, but she added one punch for good measure—
“You know, I’m sure Ti’ John is tuckered out. I was thinking we’d sleep here tonight,” Mother announced.
Father and most of the room did a double take. It was a known fact that we had relatives within five miles in any direction, but Mother had planned this all along. I was sure of that. She was going to milk this situation down to the bone. Guess she was having a reckoning.
“That’s fine, chère. You stay right here. Cesaire, go light the pit and cook some rice,” Tante Sy-belle ordered.
None of these relatives spoke directly to me. They just stood back, maybe in awe, eyes trained on me with quick-moving lips. I was one of the youngest treaters many of them had ever seen.
I looked around for Father, but he had disappeared.
“Yo’ daddy outside,” Daphne told me.
I went to the porch looking for him. Father was speaking with a worried man next to an orange truck on the gravel road. Inside the truck, a young girl, maybe twelve or so, was crying and gripping the seat belt across her chest. We made eye contact. You better not tell nobody. That’s what I heard when I looked at her, but it was a man’s voice.
It appeared as though Father and the worried man were making plans, then Father spat on the ground. Suddenly the worried man appeared gracious and relieved as he returned to his truck and drove off. Father watched the truck drive away, then turned to me. He wasn’t smiling.
The tip-tap of the tin roof sent me to sleep quicker than Cesaire’s dirty rice and Tante Sy-belle’s peach cobbler. I was tired, which was why I didn’t notice that Father was nudging me while I slept on a pallet on the living room floor.
“Sonny. Be quiet and come with me,” Father whispered.
Together, we slipped out of the house in the rain.
“Where we going?” I asked.
“Goin’ to work,” he responded.
We drove to Ville Platte. Father didn’t say a word. At Ville Platte, we pulled into a closed gas station where the orange truck waited for us.
“Stay in the truck but don’t go to sleep. Just watch,” Father advised.
The worried man got out of the orange truck carrying a brown grocery bag. Father got out and met him at the hood of our truck. The man gave the bag to Father, who then poured its contents onto the hood—silverware, jewelry, coins. They had a brief conversation as Father put the items in a large purple half-gallon Crown Royal bag, then returned to the truck.
“Don’t tell Momma, right?” I asked.
Face dripping wet, excited eyes, he tucked the purple bag under the seat quickly and said “You gotdamn right” like he was talking to a grown-ass man. I had barely turned eight. And I damn sure wasn’t sleepy anymore.
* * *
1. His nephew Clifton Chenier had recently gained notoriety as a first-class zydeco artist, mixing blues with the standard fare developed by Amédé Ardoin. His first hit single, “Ay, ’Tit Fille,” was blaring across St. Landry Parish at that time.
eleven
good luck
Winter in Anahuac, Texas, on White Folks’ Property, 1982
Trees talk. No bullshit. All you have to do is listen. The leaves act as vocal cords. Soprano in the spring. Baritone in the fall. The wind pushes through, forcing the trees to tell the truth. Cold, crisp air gets the most testimonies. Damp air makes them lie. And when you hear nothing, that’s when you should get worried. That’s what Father told me as we carefully walked through waist-high briar following the occasional yelps of rabbit dogs. They caught a scent, so we followed.
Forty-eight degrees Fahrenheit. Dressed in layers with rubber boots. Single-shot .410 with No. 4 shells. Arthur Duncan, Cleatis Mitchell, and Father’s other hunting buddies were thirty yards to our back. We led.
Father listened closely as he carefully planted feet through thorn-filled thickets, making a way for me to follow. He listened with his entire body, shotgun pointing in the air across his chest. I imitated every move, the swagger, the pauses, the listening.
The dogs yelped louder near a creek that carved through this heavily wooded property that we were hunting on with white folks’ permission. Father motioned for me to fan out to his left, far left. He knew where the rabbits would jump. Something small scampered toward us. Father motioned for me to move further left near a clearing for a clean shot. I followed his direction and pushed the safety off the trigger. He raised his hand for me to wait, then took a stick and started beating the bushes. He was sending the rabbit to the clearing. Clean shot.
About twenty yards ahead, a small brown rabbit sprung out of the thickets. I squeezed the trigger. The stock slammed against my shoulder. Gotdamn it was loud.
“You get ’im?” Father yelled.
“I think so,” I answered.
The small brown bunny was crippled, desperately using its front paws to get away. I aimed the rifle at its head.
“Put that gun down. You gonna waste shells,” Father ordered as he joined me.
“What’m I supposed to do?” I asked.
“Kill it. Run it against that tree,” he said, more excited than me.
More shots in the distance. More rabbits. Less time to kill in privacy. His friends were moving closer, but I couldn’t kill the brown bunny. I could shoot it, but I couldn’t commit to savagely bashing the animal. I hesitated.
“Sonny, come on. Put it out its misery,” Father barked.
I was frozen.
He winced, grabbed the bunny by its hind legs, and slammed its head into the tree trunk. Thump. That’s what it sounds like when a rabbit’s head is smashed into a tree.
“Now. Put that in your bag. Your first kill,” he said proudly as he helped me slide the warm body into the bag of my
hunting vest. The bunny’s body was hot against my lower back. And for a minute or two, I could feel its little heart thumping.
“Next time don’t hesitate and don’t waste shells. They cost money,” he said.
He was proud that I shot the animal but could tell that I didn’t want to resort to bashing, complete the kill.
“Ti’ John. When you hurt an animal real bad, you gotta kill it. Put it out its misery or else it’s a sin,” he explained. “Don’t let me see you hesitate like that again.”
I was ashamed and he knew it. I’d let him down. The bunny’s heart was fading.
“Pick up your face ’cause you gonna have to skin your kill later and I don’t want you makin’ no faces,” he said.
“Daddy, I don’t wanna skin it,” I pleaded.
“You ain’t got no choice. That’s your kill,” he said, then took the rabbit out of the bag and handed it to me but I wouldn’t touch it.
“Grab it,” he said.
I reluctantly took the bunny. Brain matter oozed onto my hands. I dropped it quickly.
“Gotdammit ta hell, Sonny. Pick it up,” he ordered.
I squatted down and carefully picked up the animal.
“Na’ put it in your bag. That one’s yours.”
Hours later I skinned and gutted the animal with the menfolks, amusing them with my disgust. Father watched me closely with a Benson & Hedges dangling between his lips, hiding a smug grin.
“Can I keep the foot for good luck?” I asked.
“You don’t want that, Sonny. It’s gonna stink up,” he answered.
“For good luck?” I continued.
“Ain’t no such thing as good luck, Son. Not for niggas. White folks get good luck. But us colored folks, we either get bad luck or no luck at all,” he explained.
“Like hell, John,” Cleatis interrupted. “ ’Cause I saw you roll five sevens in a row at Jewel’s last Friday.”
The men laughed, but Father was serious.
“Hell, that ain’t luck. I know them dice. I’m tryin’ to teach my boy a lesson. A colored boy go out in that world looking for luck, he gonna end up on his ass,” Father explained, then looked at me and the dead rabbit on the tailgate. Its feet were still attached.
“Arthur, give Ti’ John your knife,” he told Arthur Duncan, who produced a large, shiny Buck knife from a leather sheath attached at his belt like a fuckin’ sword. He handed it to me.
“Now. Cut off them feet,” Father said.
I cut off the feet, through the tendons, flesh, and bone. All the men watched. When I finished, I looked at Father, waiting to see if he’d change his mind and let me keep a foot for a key chain or something.
“Lucky rabbit’s foot, huh?” Father commented. “Look at that rabbit, Son.”
The pink carcass with large brown eyes stared at me.
“That rabbit’s dead, right?” Father asked.
“Yeah.”
“Then na’re one of them feets is lucky.”
He collected the severed feet and threw them deep into the woods. I wanted to cry.
“And wipe that frown off your face. You’se a colored boy. You gotta learn how to make your own gotdamn luck. You understand me?” he asked.
“Yes, Daddy,” I answered.
He was right. I just needed to learn how. How does one make good luck? Is it like making gumbo? Start small, finish big. Or is it like boiling crawfish? Throw it all in a pot of boiling water, add seasoning, corncobs, and potatoes, then wait for it to happen.
• • •
I thought about that first kill while I urinated on the side of the rectory during recess.
Sister Benedict caught me.
An hour later, I was expelled.
Mother cried all night. She was too distraught to spank me. I watched Benny Hill on channel 39 and fell asleep just as the blonde removed her brassiere.
I can’t tell you why I did it. It felt good. It felt free.
Black Jesus wept.
• • •
The next day Mother took off work so she could focus on finding me another school. Some of the teachers at St. Philip’s said I was a bad kid. Mother cursed them out. Not Ti’ John.
Around noon, the doorbell rang. It was Father Jerome. He wanted to take me to lunch.
Mother was befuddled but trusted that Father Jerome was up to something. Some form of punishment.
Father Jerome and I cruised down MLK headed to Frenchy’s Creole Fried Chicken (no relation to Father, unfortunately) listening to Sun Ra.
“How do you dance to this music?” I asked.
“You don’t. You just sit still and listen. Kinda like reading. You like to read?” he asked.
“If the book got pictures for me to trace,” I answered.
He didn’t say anything about the incident the entire ride.
He ordered a whole box of spicy and a bag of fries with plenty of ketchup. I was too anxious to eat to notice that something was afoot, but fuck it. I liked fried chicken.
Fifteen minutes later, my lips were covered in grease and ketchup. Father Jerome sat quietly, watching me eat and smoking a Kool.
“You don’t like chicken?” I asked.
“Fried food is bad for my heart,” he answered while Kools bellowed from his nostrils.
The day manager motioned for him, and he excused himself rather politely like I was a grown-up. They talked outside for a while, sharing cigs, long pauses. It looked like Father Jerome was telling him a story, occasionally pointing at me. They both returned to the table with fixed looks.
Penance.
I had to scrub the men’s restroom at Frenchy’s Fried Chicken while reciting the Act of Contrition. In Latin. And when I finished at the chicken joint, we continued my penance at all the boys’ restrooms at St. Philip’s, which was in session, by the way. Anthony Goodey saw me in the hallway and stuck out his tongue.
Finally, Father Jerome walked me to the rectory to complete my command performance on the rectory walls.
Amen.
Later that evening, as Father Jerome drove me home, he asked why I did it. I didn’t answer. I didn’t know.
Silence.
He stared straight ahead, both hands on the wheel. I stared at the gold Jesus on his pinkie until it winked at me. Swear to God.
In the name of the Father, the Son, and Fried Chicken.
• • •
In bed that night listening to the train on Mykawa Road and that persistent mouse, I armed myself with a bat and slept without the covers. If that mouse managed to get through the Sheetrock, I was gonna kill that muthafucka.
twelve
the woods
It didn’t take long for Mother to find another school for me. This time I would leave the soiled hands of South Park and head to another part of town that I had only heard about. Third Ward.
That first morning I looked out the window quietly, passing familiar streets down MLK headed toward MacGregor Park. Mother gave a UN-worthy speech on the importance of education and respecting people’s property, particularly not urinating on people’s property. I was more enamored by the change in scenery as we approached Third Ward. It was the trees that made the announcement.
The trees changed. South Park was loaded with an ill-planned hodgepodge of misshapen, misguided trees, awkward chinaberry trees, confused ferns, nestled in loitering St. Augustine grass and ant beds. But as we passed under the 610 Loop the trees grew dense and tall, more proud. More leaves. Darker green. We passed the King’s Flea Market across Old Spanish Trail to MacGregor Park, the visiting center of Third Ward. Suddenly the haphazard tree-planning of South Park transformed into the stately uniformity of pine. Tall pine trees as far as the eye could see. Welcome to the proud and historic Third Ward, the pines said to me as I watched from Mother’s Buick.
Third Ward was an older black neighborhood in Houston that displayed a peculiar socioeconomic dichotomy. Affluent blacks occupied many large homes in the area, remnant swag after the Jews fled in the 195
0s, and had managed to establish this piece of Houston as their very own buppie utopia. Churches, colleges, frat houses, golf courses, and massive homes lined a twisting waterway called Braes Bayou, shared with the privileged whites further along the trail. Mercedes-Benzes ushered kids to tennis practice and Cub Scout meetings. High tea on Saturdays promoted highbrow black activism with constant reassurances that their bourgeois status was preserved. Many of these houses had been passed down from the black professionals of the civil rights era, whose kids, adults in the eighties, seemed only to care about accumulating and displaying wealth and status. And their neighbors? Mostly victims of the dream deferred and the working poor, managing day to day on cheap gratification and genuine love. Since major thruways carved up the neighborhood, crackheads and hookers pervaded this black Walden with pomp for profit and pleasure, giving the privileged residents real meaning to car alarms and Brink’s. This audacious display of wealth locked hand in hand with desperate poverty heightened the sense of danger in Third Ward, reminiscent of disparity seen in Third World countries. No wonder it was called Third Ward; the thinly transparent line of demarcation between the haves and the have-nots was its greatest obscenity.
We cruised along North MacGregor Way, winding along Braes Bayou sided by huge, palatial estates with Mercedes, Jaguars, Cadillacs, and Corvettes parked in driveways or driving past us. Black people were driving these cars—men with neckties, occasional cravats, women with silk scarves and well-appointed brooches. We continued on to Scott Street then Southmore Boulevard near Texas Southern University, where students moved quickly between dorms and classrooms. Black fraternity houses sat off the street, proud and nonchalant. Even Debbie Allen’s father kept a medical office along the street. We slowed down and turned in to a long driveway at my new school. St. Andrew’s Episcopal.
I was excited, warm and tingly as if I was crossing the bridge to AstroWorld with a Coke can on a June day. Mother gave me a big hug and a kiss. I stepped out the car and could smell it. Pine needles. It smelled clean. Smelled like something better.
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