by Pearl Cleage
“Welcome home, daughter,” the Rev was saying over and over. “Welcome home! Welcome home!”
Finally, he gave me one more hug and stepped back to give me the once-over that began when he first counted my fingers and toes and continues unabated whenever we lay eyes on each other whether it’s been forty days or forty minutes. Without taking his eyes off me, the Rev took out a big snow-white handkerchief and blew his nose with a majestic honk.
“I’ve been missing you,” I said, grinning like a maniac as he folded up the handkerchief and put it in his back pocket for the next wash.
“Five months it takes for you to miss me?” He looked at me and shook his head in mock exasperation. “You are as stubborn as your mother.”
“Coming from you, that can only be a compliment,” I said.
He laughed, but not the great public boom. This was just a father/daughter laugh, filled with memory and melody and all those things he never lets me see as much as I want to see them.
“He thinks admitting to being human makes him look weak,” my mother said once, pacing around the house after they had argued. “He insists on equating leadership with infallibility, which is an extremely patriarchal notion.”
Down the hall, we could hear laughter, the hum of conversation, the clatter of plates being stacked and cleared away for the next course.
“How have you been, daughter?” My father’s voice was gentle.
“I’ve been good,” I said, glad I had worn my pearls so I looked settled and solvent.
“Well, you look good.”
“Thanks.”
“You let your hair grow out.”
“A little.”
He nodded approvingly. “I’m glad you came.”
“Me, too.”
Still doing his visual inventory, he folded his arms across his chest, and for some reason, I did, too.
He smiled. “So can I take this visit as a formal apology?”
He just couldn’t resist.
“You can take it as a truce,” I said slowly. “A temporary ceasefire.”
“Are we at war, daughter?” A small frown.
“No, Daddy.” I shook my head. “We’re family.”
“Fair enough,” he said, smiling again. Like me, content for the moment to let sleeping dogs lie. “How long can you stay?”
So great was my relief at how well our reconciliation was going that my White House lie had completely slipped my mind. I could see that the Rev caught my hesitation. Lying wasn’t part of our deal, never had been, and I was almost certain any attempt to introduce it now would be foolhardy. I looked for neutral ground.
“I’m not sure,” I said. “I’m going to be starting a new job soon, but the details haven’t been worked out yet.”
That was true. I hadn’t found the job yet, but it would definitely be new. I wasn’t lying so far.
“The details?”
I nodded, hoping he wouldn’t press me. I knew I had to tell him the truth, but not standing in the middle of Miss Iona’s kitchen. If I had to disappoint my dad, and dash my own dreams, at least I wanted to do it with a little dignity.
“You know, the exact date I’ll be starting and all that,” I said, trying to buy some time with a bright smile. And all what?
The Rev smiled back. “I have to confess to you, daughter, that Iona shared your good news with me although you pledged her to secrecy. Discretion is not one of Iona’s many fine qualities.”
He got that right. Think fast! “I … I wanted to tell you myself, but we weren’t …”
“And you will tell me, daughter, of course you will, but I know now is not the time.”
“Yes,” I said. “You’re right.”
The Rev leaned over and put his big hands on my shoulders lightly. “I just want you to know I’m very proud of you. Maybe your president has more sense than I thought.”
And he kissed me right in the center of my forehead. Coming from the Rev, this was high praise indeed. Too bad this change of heart was based on something that wasn’t even true. I felt like my Pinocchio’s nose grew another couple of inches.
“So how long before you know … the details?” the Rev said.
“A couple of weeks,” I said, hoping that was true. “A month on the outside.”
The Rev frowned a little and I wondered if my lie was too specific or not specific enough. I wasn’t very good at this and I didn’t want to be. Not most of the time anyway.
“What’s the holdup? Doesn’t that Negro want to pay you?”
My father called the president that Negro like it was his Secret Service code name. That Negro is headed for the Rose Garden. That Negro is on his way to the press room.
“It’s not like that,” I said quickly. “The vetting at this level is just really rough. They check everything.”
At this level. Listen to yourself, I thought. You’re better at this lying thing than you need to be.
The Rev leaned against the counter and tried to sound casual like he always did when he asked about my mom. “What did your mother say when you told her?”
My parents have been madly in love since the second they first laid eyes on each other when she was teaching a feminist theory class at Spelman and asked if she could sit in on one of his New Testament classes and then stayed afterward to ask whether he thought people would have more readily believed the Easter morning cries of “He is risen!” if a group of men had found the rock rolled away rather than a group of women. He had never considered the question before so he invited her to join him for dinner at Paschal’s and by the end of the evening, he would say when he still liked to tell this story, he was smitten.
That was, of course, a long time ago. These days, they can’t be in the same room without disagreeing about something. Even with two thousand miles between them, they can still find ways to drive each other crazy.
“You know Mom,” I said. “She told me to make sure I was getting paid as much as the boys and to give ’em hell.”
The Rev threw back his head and roared. The boom was back. She had, of course, said nothing of the kind. I hadn’t shared my fantasy with her like I had Miss Iona so all she knew was that I had my fingers crossed.
“That woman never lets up, does she?”
“Not last time I checked,” I said. “But she is a little upset about that interview you did in The Constitution the other day.”
The element of surprise was in my favor. He raised his eyebrows. “She told you about that?”
“I saw it online.”
The Rev is so old-school that he’s still amazed that I can read any paper in the world online. To my knowledge, although he has a brand-new computer in his study at home, he has never sent or received an email in his life.
“This is not an excuse,” he said, “but your mother is as responsible for that foolishness as I was.”
“She’ll be surprised to hear that,” I said. “How do you figure?”
“She had called to read me the riot act about something she’d seen me say on the Internet somewhere, I don’t even know if I really said it, but she was convinced I did. She really got under my collar going on and on about how out of touch I was and—what’s her favorite word?”
“Patriarchal.”
“That’s the one! She said we were all a bunch of dinosaurs. Me, Jesse, Jeremiah—all of us. She said we ought to step aside while we still had a shred of dignity left and go to the beach somewhere.”
The rumble of his voice rose ominously and I could see how offended he was, but I heard myself giggle before I could stifle it. The image of all of those bigger than life men sitting around in trunks and T-shirts grumbling about the goings-on at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue was pretty funny. My mother was fearless, but when the Rev shot me a look, I caved immediately.
“I’m sorry, Rev,” I said. “Go on.”
“After she hung up, I probably should have walked around the block to cool off, but the reporter came early …” He shook his head and looked at me.
“Your mother is still the only person who can make me lose my cool.”
Before I could add my amen to that, Miss Iona stuck her head in and smiled at us brightly.
“Sorry to interrupt,” she said, “but folks out here are demanding their cobbler, plus Flora’s getting ready to talk nice about Ed and you know he can’t stand being praised for more than about ten seconds so if you don’t come on right now, you’ll miss it.”
“What about my dinner?” the Rev said.
“You used up your eating time talkin’,” she said, taking his arm and winking at me. “You Negroes take too long to kiss and make up.”
“Nobody told me there was a time limit,” the Rev said, allowing himself to be led down the hallway with me following close behind.
While the Rev and I had our little reconciliation in the kitchen, Flora had gathered everybody in the living room and Aretha had propped a couple of the garden photographs up on the mantel for a little atmosphere.
“I’m not going to make a big deal out of this,” Flora said as Mr. Eddie stood beside her, quiet and dignified as ever in a dark suit. He caught sight of us sneaking in from down the hall and gave me a smile and a nod. I waved back and blew him a congratulatory kiss. The Rev stood beside me, beaming at his friend. “We all know our guest of honor doesn’t like a whole lot of fuss.”
“He just likes to pretend he don’t like it,” Mr. Charles said. “Otherwise, how come he got on his best suit?”
There was gentle laughter as Miss Iona moved over to shush her husband. Flora just smiled.
“We also know that the Booker T. Washington High School garden will be celebrating their second harvest this year and we know the part Mr. Eddie has played in making that happen.”
“We couldn’t have done it without you,” Lu said, “so we just wanted a chance to say thank you and to present you with a set of these pictures that Aretha took.”
We all nodded approvingly, at Mr. Eddie, at Lu, at the pictures.
“Mr. Eddie has promised to be at the assembly next week, but he has made it clear he doesn’t want to be one of the speakers,” Flora said. “So we also wanted to give him a chance to say anything that might be on his heart, since we’re all family here tonight, one way or another.”
Mr. Eddie shook his head, but everybody applauded and Peachy Nolan started saying, “Speech, speech,” until finally Mr. Eddie smiled and held up his hand again for quiet.
“All right, all right,” he said. “You know I do appreciate all this, but I’m not much of a speech maker.”
“The Rev hasn’t rubbed off on you yet?” Mr. Charles said.
Mr. Eddie ignored him, cleared his throat, and shared a little smile with Lu. “When Lu came and asked me to help and we first got started up, people kept trying to get me to give it a name. Call it after this one who did this. Or that one who did that. Then they wanted me to name the stuff we were growing. Coretta Scott King carrots and Ralph Bunche broccoli. Obama okra.” He shook his head. “But I never would do it, and I wouldn’t let the kids do it either. Because the thing is, this is a garden, not a political statement. There’s a lot of people worth honoring, I can’t deny that, but somebody who never heard of W.E.B. DuBois or Malcolm X or Maynard Jackson can still grow enough vegetables to feed his family if he pays attention to what he’s doing. And if he doesn’t bring that attention, then his garden ain’t gonna bring a harvest no matter how many names you give it.”
“Ain’t that the truth of it?” said Mr. Charles, nodding.
“Well, I’m glad you approve, Charlie, because I think I’d like to change my mind, with your permission.”
“Shoot, go on man, you know ain’t nobody going to stop you in this house.”
“Amen,” said the Rev. “Take your time, Ed!”
“Thank you, Rev,” Mr. Eddie said. “Because what I want to say is about you.”
Every head turned toward the Rev, standing in the back beside me. “Then make it plain,” he said, with a small bow to Mr. Eddie. “Go on and make it plain.”
“I just want to say,” Mr. Eddie’s voice was so quiet that we got quiet, too, “that sometimes, when we have true greatness in our midst for a long time, we get used to it. We start to take it for granted just a little bit. We start to expect greatness from certain individuals. It becomes a part of what they do, or who they are, and after a while, we forget to stop and acknowledge it, to recognize exactly who they are and what it means to have them here as part of our family.”
“Ain’t that the truth?” someone up front said softly.
“Amen.”
“Sometimes we don’t remember to say thank you for all that until they’re gone, when it’s too late to let ’em know, so I want to say my thank you today, the same way you’re thankin’ me, except I want to thank the Rev because he don’t always get the credit for the part he played …”
“Still playing it!” the Rev said. “Don’t send me out to pasture yet!”
And everybody laughed at such an unbelievable idea.
“No chance, Rev,” Mr. Eddie said. “You got too much more work still to do, but for everything so far, as my leader and as my friend, I’d like to name this garden after you, with your kind permission, and let it be known as The Reverend Horace A. Dunbar Community Garden at Washington High School.”
“That’s a mouthful,” the Rev boomed out from beside me. “And I accept!”
Flora started the applause as the Rev made his way up to Mr. Eddie, who embraced his genuinely surprised friend. The Rev waited for quiet and then stood with his arm around Mr. Eddie’s shoulders.
“So does this mean I get all my produce free now?”
More laughter.
“You have to ask Lu about that,” Mr. Eddie said. “She handles the business end.”
“Then I’m home free,” the Rev said, as Lu gave him a big thumbs-up.
“Well, good for all y’all.” Peachy Nolan leaned around Mr. Charles to look at Miss Iona pleadingly. “Now can we have our cobbler?”
“Coming right up,” she said, laughing. “Lu, put some music on if these Negroes are through talking and don’t let Charlie start playing that low-down blues!”
“The Lord ain’t said nothing against no blues, Iona, and you know it!” Mr. Charlie said.
Miss Iona took my hand as she started to the kitchen. “Come give me a hand while the Rev and Eddie indulge in their mutual admiration society.”
“My pleasure,” I said as the sound of Aretha Franklin singing the gospel music that was her birthright joined the group.
“You were right,” I said as she added some napkins to the tray.
“Of course I was,” she said. “About what?”
“About everything being over in an hour.”
“Over?” That really made her laugh.
“What’s so funny?”
She handed me a big pan of cobbler and pointed me toward the door. “Sweetie, we’re just gettin’ started good.”
THIRTEEN
Knee-Deep in Collard Greens
BY THE TIME THE REV AND MR. EDDIE QUIT POSING FOR PICTURES and Blue and Regina took their little girl home, Peachy and Miss Abbie headed back to Tybee because he had a convertible and liked to ride at night with the top down so Abbie could count the stars, even in February. The princess was fast asleep on Miss Iona’s bed and Aretha had been talked into letting her spend the night. Flora and I waved away Miss Iona’s attempted refusal of our offer to help with the cleanup and made her go join Mr. Charlie and Lu in the living room, still congratulating the Rev and Mr. Eddie on a job well done.
Miss Iona’s kitchen was as well organized as everything else she did and as we put things right, Flora and I had a chance to talk a little more.
“So who is going to take over at your gardens?” I said, loading the dishwasher carefully according to the hostess’s instructions.
“That is the big question,” she said, spooning collard greens into a large Tupperware container. Why do greens always taste b
etter when you reheat them the day after? “You’re not looking for a job, are you?”
Before I could say Make me an offer, she held up her hand with an apologetic smile. “Of course you’re not.” She lowered her voice just like Miss Iona had. “Congratulations.”
I cringed. Here we go again. Nothing like a big fat lie to get a friendship off on the right foot. “Thanks,” I said, lowering my voice, too. “I … I can’t really talk about it right now, you know, until everything is confirmed.”
“I totally understand,” she said. “Hank’s job was like that, too. Couldn’t hardly talk about it until it was all tied up with a bow. Maybe it’s a Washington thing!”
“Are you excited about moving?” I said, moving away from my job prospects to her upcoming relocation. I couldn’t read the expression that flitted across her face well enough to name it, but I can definitely say she didn’t look overjoyed at the prospect.
“To tell the truth, I’m a little intimidated,” she said. “Being involved in politics like Hank is … it’s a real fast track.”
She was right about that. Also treacherous, complicated, ruthless, passionate, and nonstop.
“But he’s really good at this stuff, so D.C. is the place to be right now, I guess.”
“What does your husband do?”
“He was a prosecutor in Detroit. When the crack dealers firebombed our house, he brought me and Lu down here to stay with Blue.”
“Somebody firebombed your house?”
She nodded. “Luckily nobody got hurt, but Hank was worried. He knew we’d be safe here.”
“Is that when you started working with the gardens?”
“I was actually the one who had the idea,” she said with a self-effacing smile. “I had never done any kind of gardening before, but I just had a feel for it. By the time Hank wrapped things up in Detroit and came to get us, Lu and I were pretty much dug in, no pun intended!”