They Tell Me of a Home: A Novel

by Daniel Black

  When I started school, she gave me extra books to read and required my papers to be longer than other students’. I thought she was mean at first, but later I discovered she really perceived me as brilliant. Her applause of my intelligence meant the world to me. The possibility Ms. Swinton believed in me made me frantic to prove I was worthy of her admiration. By my senior year in high school, Ms. Swinton said she was tired of the classroom. She had taught for thirty-five years and was ready to give it up. I knew she’d never quit, though—not Ms. Carolyn Swinton. The classroom was her domain. She would walk around in our little schoolhouse like a queen in a castle, her head held high and her high heels tapping the floor with a remarkable precision. She would die before she stopped teaching, and I was afraid that was about to happen.

  “Yeah, ole Doc Sanders say she prob’ly ain’t gon’ be wid us too much longer.”

  Daddy loved Ms. Swinton. He talked about her all the time. His eyes would light up whenever her name was introduced into conversation, and he never failed to affirm how smart and exceptionally pretty she was. She loved Daddy, too. She told us stories about how Daddy would come to school late, huffin’ and puffin’, running from the fields. She would make him stand in the comer for fifteen minutes as his friends snickered and jeered at him. She knew his lateness was not his fault. He couldn’t help it if his daddy made him do field work before school hours. Yet she was never one to accept excuses, regardless of whose they were. She said Daddy was probably the smartest little boy she had encountered, but he missed too many school days to be consistently bright. After his fourth year, he assumed the role of class clown, apparently without knowing how much Ms. Swinton abhorred aberrant behavior. She took him home one day, Daddy said, and told his folks his coming to school was a waste of time. He was absent two or three days a week, and consequently, he had simply given up the desire to catch up. Grandpa didn’t mind, Daddy said. He needed help in the field. Grandma, on the other hand, didn’t like the idea of her son not getting “somethin’ in his head,” but she took what Ms. Swinton said as a sign that Daddy was not school material. Many people in Swamp Creek drew similar conclusions about their children.

  I wondered how old Ms. Swinton was. She’d have to be at least seventy, since she had taught in Swamp Creek as long as anyone could remember. She was the only glimpse most of us got of culture, protocol, and class. Momma said Ms. Swinton was full of herself and ought to come back down. “Down to what?” I wondered. She dressed nice and her language was impeccable. That’s probably why Momma couldn’t stand her, “walkin’ round tryin’ to talk like white folks.” Ms. Swinton was my idol, and I loved everything about her. She taught me things and exposed me to ideas, which have stayed with me a lifetime. I never will forget the day she told me to stay after school. I thought I was in trouble. I didn’t remember anything I had done, but any time Ms. Swinton kept a student after school, everybody knew he was in trouble.

  Once the other children left, she told me to bring a chair and place it next to her desk. I was both disquieted and anxious. “What did I do, Ms. Swinton?” I asked very softly, about to cry.

  “You have done nothing wrong, Thomas Lee,” Ms. Swinton pampered me kindly. I had never heard her take a motherly tone with any of us kids. I felt warm. “I asked you to stay because I have something for you.”

  Ms. Swinton went into her desk drawer and pulled out a brand-new book. I began to sweat.

  “I know how much you like to read, and I see how hard you work. Take this book, read it, and keep it for yourself. Don’t tell anyone you have it. It’s our secret. In fact, why don’t we start reading it together, if you have time?”

  “Sure,” I said, grinning like a Cheshire cat. I knew I didn’t have time because Daddy was in the field waiting on me. He’d simply have to wait, I decided. I might get a whoopin’, but this was worth it.

  The book had a shiny, bright green cover. This was the first brand-new book I had ever seen. All our books at school were used ones the white school had thrown away, and this new book belonged to me!

  “This is your birthday present, Thomas,” Ms. Swinton declared as I pulled my chair next to hers. I knew she was lying. She never gave anyone birthday presents because she didn’t bother herself with such trivialities. My fifteenth birthday simply offered her the opportunity to give me the book without showing favoritism.

  “I think you’ll enjoy this book a lot,” Ms. Swinton concluded as she handed it to me and asked me to start reading aloud.

  The book was titled Go Tell It on the Mountain. I liked the title because it reminded me of the song we sang at church during Christmastime.

  “Yes. This is the story of a young man, much like you, who has some difficulties in his life that he must overcome.”

  “Is he black?” I asked excitedly.

  “Yes, he is black, and the other characters are, too.”

  I dropped the book from sheer excitement.

  “You must take good care of this book, son. New books are hard to come by in Swamp Creek.”

  “I’ll take care of it, Ms. Swinton. I promise!”

  I began to read. Every word was like medicine for my wounded spirit. I would read a page and Ms. Swinton would read a page. We read for about an hour until she suggested I go home before my folks came after me.

  “Finish the book whenever you get a chance. The sooner the better, for then you won’t forget what we’ve already read.”

  “I will, Ms. Swinton. I will!”

  In my excitement, I jumped up from my chair and hugged her tightly. I released her abruptly, however, when I realized I had invaded her personal space. No one ever hugged Ms. Swinton. She just wasn’t the touchy-feely type. Yet, much to my surprise, she giggled and hugged me in return.

  “Get on out of here, boy,” she said playfully, and tapped me on my behind. If I could have married her at that moment, I would have.

  I stayed up all night and finished the book. John, the main character, and I had similar lives. His daddy beat him just like mine beat me. “Why are black daddies mean?” I wondered aloud to myself.

  Concerning our mothers, however, our lives were very different. John had a momma who loved him. She hugged him and told him he was special. He had an auntie, too, who gave him some relief from his daddy. What troubled me most, though, was how his daddy claimed to love God passionately yet treated John like dirt.

  I woke up the next morning too tired to hold my eyes open. “I tole you to take yo’ black ass to bed, boy,” I remembered Daddy threatening. And I wished I had, but I couldn’t stop reading. The stuff in the book about church, God, singing, and hypocrisy made me realize I wasn’t alone in my confusion.

  “I’speck you might wanna go see Ms. Swinton befo’ you go,” Daddy requested, interrupting my memory.

  “I will. For sure.”

  He kept sharpening the hoe. Clearly he wasn’t going to volunteer any explanations unless I proceeded with my questions.

  “Daddy, what’s wrong with us?”

  “Wrong wid who?” he quizzed without making eye contact.

  “Us. Our family.”

  “I didn’t know anythang was s’posed to be wrong.”

  “Come on, Daddy.” I was beginning to get frustrated again. “My memory of this place hurts. I think about how we abused each other and how we’d go for weeks without speaking a word to each other.”

  Daddy remained silent. I had probably hurt his feelings, but I had to say what I felt. Otherwise, I never would.

  “I’m sorry, Daddy,” I apologized after a brief pause. My eyes were beginning to water.

  “Ain’t nothin’ to be sorry fu’, boy. You jes’ sayin’ what you needs to say, I guess.” Daddy glanced at me briefly and raised his brows.

  “Daddy, don’t make this harder for me than it already is.”

  “I’m listenin’ to you, boy.”

  “I don’t need you to listen to me; I need you to speak.”

  “What chu want me to say?” Daddy asked loudly
.

  I began to pace around the barn. “I need you to tell me about some things.”

  “Thangs like what?”

  “Like what happened to Sister.”

  Daddy gazed into space, probably wondering how he could avoid this confrontation.

  “I don’t know what happened,” Daddy responded, and resumed sharpening the hoe.

  “Stop it,” I screamed. “How can you tell me you don’t know what happened?”

  “Because I don’t know, boy. What I do know is dat you on thin ice hollerin’ at me like dat!”

  “Fine. Forgive me. But, Daddy, your own daughter dies, somebody buries her in your backyard, and you don’t know anything? Is that what you’re saying, Daddy?”

  “Yep.”

  “You expect me to believe this?”

  “It really don’t make me no diff’rence if you b’lieve it or not. It’s de truth. And if you was here, maybe you’d know fu’ yo’self.”

  “Well, I wasn’t here and you know why. Does that mean I don’t deserve to know what happened?”

  “I told you I don’t know nothin’’bout what happened to dat girl. I came home and dey had done already buried her.”

  Daddy rose to hang the hoe back on the barn wall. He had that don’t-ask-me-no-more-questions expression on his face, but I ignored it.

  “You came home and saw your daughter’s grave in the backyard without knowing she had died?”

  “Somethin’ like dat.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean dat yo’ momma said she found her dead in her bed early dat momin’ right after I left for the fields, and wunnit no needa waitin’ till I got home to bury her, so they buried her right then.”

  “They who?”

  “I don’t know. She said a coupla folks gave her a hand.”

  “Daddy, there was no funeral or anything? This is the craziest thing I’ve ever heard of in my life!”

  “I done tole you what I know.”

  “No, you haven’t.”

  “You callin’ me a lie, boy?”

  This was getting a little out of hand. Of course I was calling Daddy a lie, but I couldn’t admit it to his face.

  “No, sir,” I acquiesced, a bit more softly.

  “I knowed you and yo’ sista was close, and dat was good. But I can’t tell you no mo’.”

  “Can’t or won’t?”

  “Boy, don’t make me mad, hear?”

  “Daddy, I come home after ten years and find my baby sister dead and nobody knows how she died? This can’t be real.”

  “Well, it is real. Sister was sweet, but de Lawd called her home.”

  “Oh, don’t give me that bullshit.”

  Daddy swung and hit me in the mouth with the back of his hand. “Don’t chu neva cuss at me as long as you live, boy! Is you done gone plumb damn crazy?”

  I was lying on the ground with Daddy standing over me breathing hard. My teeth were still in place and nothing was bleeding, so I pushed my luck.

  “No, I ain’t crazy, but y’all are!” I jumped to my feet.

  “Well, we might be, but it ain’t got nothin’ to do wid you. You ran away from dis place ten years ago. You ain’t got nothin’ to say far as I’m concerned.”

  “I’m not trying to run anybody’s business, Daddy. I’m trying to find out what happened to my sister. Is that too much to ask?”

  “From me it is,’cause I don’t know. Don’t ask me again!” Daddy stormed out of the barn.

  I sat down on the feed bucket and tried to make sense of it all. Daddy said he didn’t know anything and Momma didn’t, either. Of course, both of them were lying. Who could I turn to? Tears came to my eyes as I felt a warm trickle of blood flow from my bruised lip. If I had left at that moment, my folks would probably have been glad. But I didn’t leave. I couldn’t. Not yet.

  6

  Sunday morning was bright and shiny. I awakened to the smell of smoked ham and eggs and knew everyone was up except me. I rose, washed myself quickly, and dressed for church. When I emerged from the bathroom, I realized everyone had already eaten. We exchanged phony “good mornings,” and I sat at the table praying church would be as good as it had once been.

  The family waited on me to finish eating. Sitting at the table alone, I could feel their disdain for my lateness and their disgust at my interruption of the normal Sunday morning flow. Consequently, I ate hurriedly, although I didn’t eat fast enough to pacify their impatience, for moans, grunts, and nasty facial expressions confirmed they were about to leave me if I didn’t hurry. Choosing not to face their wrath, I left my plate half-eaten, and we got in the car and headed on our way. As we approached the church, I could hear Miss Odella singing “I Woke Up Dis Moanin’ wid My Mind Stayed on Jesus.” That was her favorite song. Every time Deacon Tilman asked somebody, which meant anybody, to lead the congregation in a song, Miss Odella would jump up and start singing her song. Grandma commented, “The song is fine and all, but Odella know she lyin’! If hu’ mind was stayed on Jesus, she wouldn’t have hu’ ass in the honky-tonk on Saturday nights.” Miss Odella loved to party and drink, although nobody really minded, I guess, because no one ever said anything directly to her about it. Grandma used to titter and say, “That woman oughta be ‘shame’ o’ hurself. Ain’t no way she woke up dis moanin’ wid hur mind on Jesus. She ain’t neva been to sleep!”

  Daddy parked the car in the same place he had parked it for thirty years. We got out in reticence and prepared for the ritual. Daddy had on his one navy blue suit, although people had given him others in hopes he might experience change for a moment, but no luck. Momma wore a pink two-piece dress that I didn’t like, and her hairstyle was exactly as it had been since I was born. Never anything different, never a risk. Convention was Momma and Daddy’s theme. They walked into church first, suggesting at least the appearance of love and order in our home. Willie James followed in his black slacks and white shirt. These were his “meetin’” clothes, and any time he dressed up, I was sure, this was his attire. I asked him once if he wanted some other clothes and he said, “Why would I?”

  I concluded the Tyson family processional in a pair of khaki shorts and a dashiki. Daddy said I reminded him of something straight out of the African jungle.

  When we entered the church, I laughed aloud at the sound of the old piano. It had been out of tune for fifty years. Mr. Jared, the pseudo-musician, played in a kind of juke-joint style, producing a “plunkety plunk, plunk, plunk” rhythm that made every song sound alike. He had not learned one new chord in ten years. If I had asked him about it, he probably would have said exactly what Willie James said: “Why would I?”

  The congregation saw me and immediately began to cheer the prodigal son’s return. I smiled at everyone and took my seat.

  “Good moanin’, good moanin’,” Deacon Blue burbled cheerfully. “This sho’ is a gred day!”

  “Yes, it is, brotha’ superintendent!” Ms. Polly confirmed.

  “We see dat de Good Lawd done seed fit to brang one o’ our own back to us.”

  Daddy and Momma didn’t say anything. They beheld everyone as though wishing we’d get on with the business at hand.

  “Come say a word to us, T.L., befo’ we opens up fu’ Sunday school.”

  A chorus of loud “Amens” reinforced the request and left me positioned behind the old wooden podium in front of the small congregation.

  “Praise the Lord, saints,” I began. Everybody was glad to see I hadn’t lost Jesus.

  “Praise the Lord,” they returned.

  “It’s been a while, huh?” I snickered, embarrassed.

  “I’m tellin’ you!” folks said as they nudged one another.

  “Well, the Lord has been good to me. I went away to college, and now I have a Ph.D. in African-American studies. I attend church regularly and I work with young people in my community. Seems like every time I planned to get home, something came up. This time I refused to let anything get in my way. It’s good to see all of
you, and I ask that you pray for my strength in the Lord.”

  Most of what I said was a boldface lie, but it was what they wanted to hear. While returning to my seat, I could tell folks had more questions than I had answered. Miss Odella turned around, pinched me endearingly, and whispered, “Where you been at, boy?” She patted my leg affectionately, a sign she wasn’t finished with me yet.

  Sunday school was hilarious. Deacon Blue misquoted “Stripture,” called Elijah “Isaiah,” and said Deuteronomy was in the New Testament. I barely held my peace. The Sunday school lesson was called “A New Creature.” It was based on II Corinthians 5:17, which says: “Therefore if any man be in Christ, he is a new creature: old things are passed away; behold, all things are become new.” Deacon Blue’s explanation of this verse sent me to the bathroom.

  “See, what de Lawd is sayin’ here,” he explained self-righteously, “is dat we got to get rid o’ all dat old stuff in our houses. Somma y’all got clothes and little ceramic stuff you been had fu’ fawty years. Dis Stripture is tellin’ us we got to get rid o’ dat. All yo’ old stuff you got to th’ow’way!”

  He stepped back from the podium, proud of his assumed profundity. I couldn’t hold it any longer. I started coughing to keep from screaming, and I ran to the restroom before I embarrassed myself irreparably. Had Sister been there, she would have known exactly why I was laughing. In fact, she would have followed me a few seconds later, and we would have laughed together back in the church kitchen. Yet Sister wasn’t there. The thought of her stole my ephemeral joy. I sat on the commode thinking, instead, about the time I had spent in that old church. I had been the musician, once upon a time, learning new songs from the radio and attempting to teach them to the choir. Folks couldn’t sing parts, thought notes were too high, and wanted to know what was wrong with the old songs we sang. Forget it, I said to myself. Progress simply had no luck in Swamp Creek.