by Daniel Black
“No, it isn’t.”
“Yes, it is! Do you know what you’re asking of me?”
“Of course I know. That’s why I’m asking you. I asked God for a sign you were the one to do this, and today I’m staring at the sign.”
“I’m not the one, Ms. Swinton. I promise you, I’m not.”
“Oh, you’re undoubtedly the one. No need to be volatile, Thomas. You’ll do splendidly. When I glance down from heaven and see those children loving themselves and believing in themselves, I’ll put in a good word for you!” she chuckled.
“This is not funny, Ms. Swinton. I can’t help you this time. I’m sorry, but I can’t. I’m only here until Saturday.”
“Then you’ll go get your things and come back to where you belong.”
“No! I don’t belong here anymore. I grew up here, but my life is elsewhere. New York feels good to me, and I have a girlfriend whom I can’t simply abandon without notice. I am really honored you would think of me to walk in your footsteps, but I have to decline the offer. I’m sorry.”
I was trying to go, but Ms. Swinton wouldn’t release me.
“You can’t decline it, son. It’s your destiny, your heritage. You can never get away from that.”
“I’m not trying to get away from anything! I simply refuse to relocate back to Swamp Creek. There’s nothing here for me anymore. I need a life, things to intrigue me. Don’t misunderstand me, however. Swamp Creek is good for whoever wants to live here, but it’s not for me.”
“It’s not about you anymore, son,” Ms. Swinton announced soothingly. “It’s about what you can give, what you can do. This alone will be your joy and your satisfaction. When you see these poor black country children ascend and declare their own history and their own beauty, therein will be your pay sufficient. Give your all and you shall be great.”
I opened my mouth to protest further, but I knew I could not dissuade her. I wasn’t sure what more I could have said anyway. What I knew for sure was that I was not living in Swamp Creek ever again.
“Good-bye, Ms. Swinton,” I said attitudinally.
“Good-bye, Thomas,” she said with her eyes still closed and a slight smirk on her face. “And thank you. You will not be sorry.”
13
When I left Ms. Swinton’s house, I paced the woods for hours contemplating her request. Never had it crossed my mind to live in Swamp Creek again. Escaping from it was the achievement, and God knows I had absolutely no intention of returning to it permanently.
Daddy was leaning against his pickup truck when I got home. As I approached, he fidgeted like one preparing himself for an uncomfortably imminent encounter. He was dusty brown from working in the fields, and his slight grimace caused him to resemble Morgan Freeman, especially when his brows furrowed at the feigned clearing of his throat.
“Where you been all day?” he asked.
“I went to see Ms. Swinton,” I droned with my head bowed.
“How she gettin’’long?”
“All right.”
“All right? How a woman gon’ be all right who dyin’?”
“I don’t know,” I whimpered, about to cry.
Daddy frowned and asked, “What’s wrong wid chu?”
I didn’t want to divulge the source of my turmoil, but I did anyway. “Ms. Swinton wants me to take her place as Swamp Creek schoolmaster.”
We observed silence for a very long time. Then Daddy asked, “Well, what’d you say?” He began to move toward the barn.
I followed him. “I told her I couldn’t do it.”
If I hadn’t known Daddy better, I might have thought he was disappointed.
“So what chu cryin’ fu’?” Daddy asked, pouring the cows’ feed.
“I don’t know.”
I filled the other bucket and we walked to the cows’ trough in yet more silence. The sun was setting, and the blue, orange, and purple in the sky were incredible. I didn’t remember Arkansas sunsets as breathtaking. When the cows heard the feed hit the trough, they came running. Daddy and I backed away quickly to avoid getting trampled. We stood there examining the cows because neither of us could figure out what to say next.
“Folks round here sho’ is gon’ miss dat woman,” he asserted, and turned to walk back to the barn. “Specially dem kids.”
“I’m sure someone will come along who is just as good as she was,” I stated. “No one is absolutely indispensable.”
“Yeah, I guess so,” Daddy replied, more to himself than to me. Then, peering into my eyes he asked, “You couldn’t see yo’self livin’ back hyeah with us crazy backward country folks, huh?”
He had caught me out on a limb.
“Oh no, it’s not that,” I fumbled. “It’s just that … um … well, I … um …”
“I don’t blame you, boy. Dese hyeah folks ain’t got much sense and they sho’ ain’t tryin’ to hear from a youngun like you.”
“Living here again wouldn’t be a big problem,” I said as Daddy walked out of the barn and into the evening dusk. Again I followed, disgusted with myself for not having the courage to speak truth to my own father. His broad laughter, however, exposed the lie I was trying desperately to conceal.
“I ‘member de day I told myself dat I was leavin’ this old country place. I was ‘bout sixteen.” He chuckled again, at what I don’t know. “I wunnit nothin’ but a li’l bitty fella back den. The days was long and hard. We chopped cotton from mornin’ dark till evenin’ dark. Wunnit no such thang as goin’ shoppin’ or sittin’ down readin’ a book. We had to work, boy. The only time you wunnit workin’ you was sleepin’.” Daddy shook his head slowly.
I was trying to discover why he was talking to me. Daddy and I had never had an extended conversation, and this one felt unnatural. I didn’t say anything, though; I kept listening.
“You thank you de only person eva had a hard time?”
I knew the question was rhetorical, but the pause left an awkward silence momentarily.
“Well, you ain’t. Plenty folks done had hard times, boy. I sho’ done had my share.”
Dusk evolved into night and I wondered how long Daddy was going to talk. I wasn’t about to interrupt, however, for although mosquitoes in Arkansas have no mercy, I was still a boy to him. In other words, I knew when to speak and when not to speak.
“When I was a boy, we had to git up ‘bout five every mornin’ and do our chores. Feed the hogs, gather cookin’ wood, milk de cow. Wunnit no such thang as sleepin’ late. Hell, six o’clock was late to us. We ate breakfast, which wunnit nothin’ usually but some fat meat, grits, biscuits, and molasses. We was grateful to git it. Some mornin’s we just had de biscuits and molasses. Then we’d load up on de back of de truck and make our way to de cotton field. It’d be black as midnight, but we didn’t have no choice. We had to eat. Didn’t nobody have no high education where dey could get no good job. All we could do was sweat like damn slaves. Every coupla hours de water boy would come round and give everybody a sip o’ piss-warm water dat didn’t do nothin’ but make you wanna whip his ass. You couldn’t fault him, though. He had de hardest job in de field. Runnin’ from de well to de workers all day made you’preciate dem long rows a little better.”
Daddy cackled, but I knew he hadn’t meant to be funny. His story was intriguing, so I continued listening much more earnestly.
“If you didn’t work fast enough, de old folks would tear yo’ ass up rat dere in front o’ everybody. Dey meant for you to pick at least two hundred pounds o’ cotton a day. Some folks was good at it and some wusn’t, but you sho’ betta make like you was killin’ yo’self or either you was gon’ git a good whoopin’.”
Daddy suspended his tale, surveying the stars in seeming awe and wonder. Whether the beer or his nostalgia softened his countenance I could not ascertain, but, for some reason he was impetuous about my knowing his life saga. How it would empower me I didn’t know, yet I was clear Daddy was trying painstakingly to bequeath something to me.
�
�I had enough whoopin’s for a lifetime, boy. My grandpa would catch me playin’ when I wuz s’pose’ to be workin’ and start beatin’ me like a carpenter beats a nail. I would scream and holla, but it didn’t make no difference. I thank he liked it. I don’t know why, though. I tried to cry enough to convince him dat he was killin’ me, but dat’s when he started hittin’ me harder. I thought I hated him till I got grown and knowed betta.”
A mosquito landed on my arm and Daddy shooed it away protectively. He had never told me the specifics of his past before. All I ever heard about was how people worked hard all the time and never had enough. It was ironic, to say the least, that he began telling me this after I told him about Ms. Swinton’s request.
“Didn’t you hate this place?” I asked, seeing the pain on Daddy’s face.
“Naw, I ain’t neva hated it. I always loved it, to tell you de truth. The land, the cows, the fishin’, the farmin’ … I’m a country boy at heart. I just hated how we lived back then. Hard times make hard people, boy.”
Daddy reached into the bed of his truck and got another beer. He handed me one, too, and although I didn’t want it, it didn’t seem right to refuse the truce.
“You ain’t neva had no hard times, boy. You always knowed you was gonna eat somethin’. It might notta been what you wanted, but you knowed you was gonna git somethin’. When I was comin’’long, we wusn’t sure if we was gon’ eat sometime. If we didn’t find some berries or muscadines or fruit on somebody’s tree, we woulda been up shit creek. Or sometimes we’d find a old fishin’ pole and go down to Blue’s pond and see couldn’t we catch a mess o’ fish. If we didn’t, then we’d just be hungry. Folks was too proud to beg, so we starved and smiled about it.”
He gulped the beer greedily. I still didn’t understand what I was supposed to do with all this information. I was leaving in a few days and failed, quite frankly, to see the relevance. Then Daddy shocked me.
“When you come along, I promised myself dat my kids wusn’t gon’ have to work theyselves to death for no white man or no other man. I told Momma dat she was crazy if she thought I was raisin’ another generation of cotton-pickin’ colored people. She told me not to talk too fast, but I didn’t listen. I meant what I was sayin’. My kids gon’ go to school and learn theyselves somethin’ and be somebody. But I saw pretty soon dat I wasn’t nobody, so dat’s what I raised y’all to be.”
“You are somebody, Daddy,” I protested, unable to look him in the eye.
“I wanted one o’ y’all to be a lawya. I heard ‘bout how dey talks in cote and makes a whole lotta money. You come’long and like to talk so well, I thought it might be you. But I guess you can’t make nobody be nothin’. You got to live fu’ yo’self. But see, boy, I didn’t have no life to live. Dem cotton fields and all dat damn work had done took my life. I was hopin’ thangs I didn’t have no business hopin’. I neva could go to school too long’cause de folks needed me to work. So by de time I had my own kids, I knowed dat I wasn’t gon’ neva be nothin’. I ‘speck dat’s what kept my mouth stuck out all de time. I seed you learnin’ and readin’ dem books and how Ms. Swinton went on’bout how smart you was. And I was proud. Real proud. But I was mad, too, ‘cause dat was s’pose’ to be me. You didn’t seem to want it like I wanted it, and it came to you so easy. It just seemed lak you was gittin’ my life.”
“Why didn’t you leave here and go find what you wanted?” I asked empathetically.
He gaped at me and burbled sadly, “Leave here and go where? Wit’ what? I didn’t have a quarter to catch de bus to town, let alone travelin’ to anotha city. I neva finished school, so I knowed it didn’t make no sense thankin’’bout no college. I wunnit no dummy now; don’t git me wrong. But I knowed I couldn’t catch up to de other chil’ren. So I stayed right heayh.
“It’s all right, though. A man can make a livin’ anywhere. He just got to know what he doin’ and know how to do without sometimes. But every now and then, he thanks about what he was s‘pose’ to be or what he coulda been and he might drink a little bit to help ease the memory.”
Daddy was trying to make me feel guilty, I decided. This was absolutely not the man I had grown up with. He sounded like he had a heart, a dream, a desire for more than he could see. This wasn’t my father. He had always been an angry man, one who knew how to reduce the world and the people in it to manageable terms. This new man was one who sensed another existence belonged to him. He spoke now of peace and familial joy that was beyond the man who had raised me. I was confused.
“Don’t be too surprised,” Daddy declared, reading my mind. “You ain’t the only one who thought about leavin’. You just had enough nerve to do it.”
“It wasn’t because I hated the place, Daddy.”
“Yeah it was. That’s exactly why you left. You hated everything about Swamp Creek, and I don’t blame you. I just thought I’d let you know dat you ain’t de only one thought ‘bout escapin’. When you left, I knowed you wunnit comin’ back. Fu’ what? Wunnit nothin’ here fu’ ya. Even Sista wunnit enough. I always knowed dat. I thought she’d leave here, too, and find you somewhere. But I knowed you wunnit comin’ back. I wouldn’t have come, neither.”
It was pitch-dark. Only the night-light emitted a shadow sufficient for Daddy and me to see each other. Its burning hot surface euthanized flies, mosquitoes, gnats, and lightning bugs as they danced too closely, tempting a deadly foe. I watched excitedly until Daddy interrupted.
“You might wanna thank about what Ms. Swinton asked you. It ain’t about you really; it’s ‘bout de rest of dem kids. They really needs somebody what knows somethin’ more than readin’ and’rithmetic. Maybe you de one.”
“And maybe I ain’t,” I muttered a bit too loudly.
“Maybe you ain’t. But since you left here without havin’ enough dignity to say anythang to anybody, seem like to me you could at least thank about it. Ms. Swinton carries on’bout you so you’d thank you was God.”
“I love Ms. Swinton, too, Daddy, and I’ve already thought about what she asked. I’m flattered and all, really I am, but I can’t do it. It’s not my calling. My life is elsewhere now, and anyway, I don’t want to lose the modicum of peace I’ve found by coming back here.”
Daddy glanced at me quickly.
“I didn’t mean it like that, Daddy.”
“Yeah, you said it right. You said it just like you meant it.”
“No, I didn’t. What I meant was that I don’t know how to live here anymore. I can’t pretend and ignore truth the way we’ve always done. I need compassion and honesty in my relationships.”
“If you could get that, would you stay?”
What I wanted to say was no because I also needed a lucrative job and a life personally fulfilling to assure me all those years of study would eventually pay off, yet, somehow, this sentiment felt arrogant.
Croaking bullfrogs kept the silence between us from being deafening, and the cacophonous chirp of crickets confirmed there would be no easy solution.
“I need change, Daddy. New things, new ideas, you know?” I shuffled a little, demonstrating my discomfort, grateful for the shield of the dark night. “I can’t go on in the world ignoring truth like you and Momma, I can’t watch abuse and simply turn a blind eye, and I can’t allow white folks to keep oppressing our people without fighting back.”
“White folks ain’t got nothin’ to do wit’ you comin’ back here or not.”
Daddy was right. I didn’t have anything else to say.
“Well,” Daddy announced, and began to walk away.
“Like this whole Sister thing,” I intruded boldly. “How do you expect me to live with this? I come home and my sister is dead and you claim not to know anything? That’s the kind of shit—stuff—I can’t live with here in Swamp Creek.”
I applauded my boldness. For the first time, I saw myself as a man before Daddy. His back was turned toward me, suggesting he might walk away at any moment. The darkness made it impossible for me to read
his body language, so I had no choice but to wait him out. He started kicking a rock nonchalantly, preparing, it seemed, to confront me in a way he hadn’t contemplated thoroughly.
“There’s always mo’ to it than what you thank you know,” Daddy proclaimed slowly. “I done told you what I knows’bout yo’ sista and dat’s all I can say. It don’t make no sense to me, neither. Of course you mad, but I can’t help you none.”
“That’s what doesn’t make sense, Daddy. You were here the whole time. How is it possible Sister died, somebody buried her in your backyard, and you know nothing about it? I might not be God, but I sho’ ain’t no fool.”
“Maybe you ain’t no fool now, but you sho’ was one. When you left heayh you gave up all yo’ rights to know anythang’bout dis heayh fam’ly. Now, I ain’t sayin’ I’m mad wit’ you. I’m just sayin’ dat when you left heayh, you left a whole lotta stuff. Like yo’ right to know what goes on in my house or how yo’ sista died. Some of dat you pro’bly didn’t mean to leave, but you did. And now you mad about it.”
What could I say?
“If you could do it all over again, maybe you wouldn’t leave like you did. Maybe you would. I don’t know. But what I do know is dat you ain’t got no right comin’ back heayh talkin’ loud to folks’cause you got somethin’ you needs to know.”
Daddy started walking toward the house. “Do you love me?” I asked fearfully. My trembling voice denied whatever daring defiance I thought I had mustered.
He giggled lightly and turned, revealing a dumbfounded expression. “Are you crazy, boy? If you don’t know dat by now, ain’t nothin’ I can say to make you know it.”
“How would I know it, Daddy? We’ve never been a close-knit family. This is the longest you and me ever talked! We lived in the same house and ate food at the same table for eighteen years, but you never said you loved me. Was I to assume it?”
I was shooting blows from the heart. To my chagrin, I sounded like a rejected child begging for his father’s approval. Indeed, that’s exactly what I was.
“I always tried to say de words,” Daddy admitted with his head hung low. “I just didn’t know how. When I wuz comin’’long, folks had kids and just clothed ‘em and fed’em. I know now that it’s mo’ to bein’ a good father than that, but since I didn’t know it then, I did what I knowed to do. I got married at seventeen and had my first child at seventeen. I thought raisin’ a child meant beatin’ his ass when he didn’t do right, puttin’ food on de table, and keepin’ a roof ova his head. But dat ain’t de same as lovin’ no chil’ren, is it, Son?”