The Love Songs of W.E.B. Du Bois

by Honoree Fanonne Jeffers

  Lydia missed those folks, the children or grandchildren of migrants from the country towns only an hour or two away from Atlanta, but which they referred to as if those places were in faraway lands where English wasn’t spoken. They struggled on a daily basis to make rent and buy groceries, so they took their fun on the weekends, playing cards with their friends in their small dining rooms. When you passed their doors, you could hear the blues or the rap music thumping. On Sundays, it was gospel music, before they emerged in church finery, headed off to praise the Lord. To receive the Word that would sustain them throughout the week while they labored at their minimum-wage jobs. They didn’t have enough money to worry about the bourgeoisie matters that occupied the large, comfortable house where Lydia lived now with her baby sister and her parents. When her grandmother came to Sunday dinner, Nana wasn’t filled up with the Holy Spirit, because nobody got happy and shouted during a Catholic Mass. Maybe that was Nana’s problem: she hadn’t made the acquaintance of a colored people’s god.

  * * *

  Mama had been full of apologies since Lydia and she had driven up from Georgia. She was sorry she hadn’t kept a closer watch on Lydia, that Tony Crawford had taken advantage of her daughter. She was sorry that she hadn’t paid more attention to Lydia’s reading. She was sorry she hadn’t caught her daughter’s difficulties, that it had taken a school counselor to inform Mama that her daughter wasn’t lazy. That, in fact, Lydia was a brilliant child with a near-photographic memory; however, Lydia also had a mild learning disability, and thus, it would require more time for Lydia to absorb information. So her mother needed to make sure that she was patient and sit with Lydia, so that she could compete her homework.

  These apologies were useless to Lydia, because her mother wasn’t apologizing for the right offense. Lydia didn’t blame her mother for her learning disability. Her great-grandmother had the same problem, and the counselor had told Lydia that sometimes, these issues were inherited, like high blood pressure, or the tendency toward diabetes. And she didn’t blame Mama for what had happened with Tony Crawford. That was on him. He had gone behind every adult’s back to cajole Lydia into meeting him at the creek. Even if Tony had lied to himself that Lydia had been a willing participant, he should have left her alone. Fifteen going on sixteen was still a child.

  What Lydia blamed her mother for was the thing that had been right in front of her all those years: Gandee’s abuse. It hadn’t happened once. It had happened at least a hundred times over the years, and somehow, her mother hadn’t thought to notice. But Mama had been too enamored of Gandee’s status, his high education and good grammar, to be able to see who Gandee really had been. She couldn’t understand that a man like him—a doctor dressed in suits and ties and who spoke with a perfect, bleached-to-whiteness accent—could have been capable of hurting little girls. Such a fact couldn’t even occupy a hidden place in Mama’s skull. It could not even penetrate the bone. Yet because Dante had been from a bad neighborhood, her mother could make him a villain.

  Dr. Fairland had urged Lydia to have the conversation with her mother, to confess what Gandee had done. Maybe the past could be reconciled, she’d said, but Lydia wasn’t willing to step on that darkened road. She’d already disappointed her mother. Even if Lydia carried hurt, she didn’t want to hand her mother even more.

  And she was better now. She’d gotten past her addiction. It was time to move on, to look ahead. To try to be normal again, to find that place where Dante had led her. To try to find some joy, and she was so happy when Mama finally relented and let her leave the house one October evening for a party Niecy had invited her to. The onus wasn’t on Lydia to convince her mother: Coco surprised everyone by catching the bus down from New Haven. The family was back together. All the daughters under one roof, and Mama was happy, too. She told Lydia, maybe being around young folks would bring the color back to her cheeks, but she had to take her sister as chaperone.

  The party wasn’t at Niecy’s house, but at another soror’s, one from Howard. Out in the country, where the rich folks lived. There were signs placed along the long driveway, leading to the house, but it wasn’t hard to find their way. People were outside. The music was blasting. Lydia parked on the lawn, far from the house.

  “I’ll just stay here in the car,” Coco said.

  “But you’re supposed to be watching over me.”

  “I am. So don’t do anything stupid, and don’t get in trouble. Oh yeah, and go with God.” She rolled up the window.

  Inside, Niecy waved and rushed over for a hug. She held on, rocking. She’d missed her line sister so much, but beside Niecy was a guy who inched steadily closer. Whispering in her ear, and she smiled sheepishly at Lydia.

  Lydia went and held up a wall, drinking a can of orange pop. Dante and she had gone to clubs together, before things had gone bad. He’d taken her to a couple places in Buckhead, but she’d preferred the funky joints, like the Royal Peacock and Charles on Simpson Avenue. She felt an ache thinking about him. How when they slow dragged, they fit together. Each of Dante’s hands on her hips while he moved her against him. When the DJ in the basement slowed it down with Luther, playing “Superstar,” Lydia was afraid she might cry. She squeezed past the folks on the stairs and headed to the bathroom. There was a line for the one in the basement but the house was huge, so she decided to sneak upstairs. Coming back, she got turned around and opened the door she’d mistaken for the basement entrance. It was a large supply closet. Inside was a guy sitting on the floor. He had an album on his lap and was pulling apart buds.

  “Come in or stay out,” he said. “But make up your mind.”

  The door across from the closet opened and the music drifted out. The DJ was still playing Luther. She stepped inside the closet.

  The guy pulled out rolling papers and a bag of white powder from his jacket. She watched as he layered the weed on the folded paper, then sprinkled it with the powder. He rolled everything together. Briefly, he held a flame underneath the joint. She shook her head when he offered: ladies first. When he lit the joint, it took some minutes for the glittery smell to emerge through the cover of marijuana. A perfume as familiar as a Gospel word.

  If she left the closet, she’d be safe, but then the guy lit another, and there was no denying her need. When Lydia took in the smoke, there was gratitude. When he held out the primo, there was Dante again, in Lydia’s head. A memory of that night, when Dante had thrown everybody out of their apartment and come to her. How wild their love had been—but she didn’t want to think about that anymore, to hurt anymore, and she took the primo and put it to her mouth. She held her breath for a long time, until the back of her throat protested. But the bitterness on her palate was like the embrace of an old friend, one who knew you better than anybody else.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Lydia.”

  “Lydia what?”

  “Garfield.”

  “I’m Ray. Not Raymond, but Ray. I’m a fourth, too.”

  She settled back as he told her he was selling to put away money for after college, and when he graduated, he was changing his name. Ray the Fourth didn’t care about pissing off his dad. He couldn’t stand that nigger, always talking about how he’d grown up poor and made himself from nothing. How he was from the ghetto, and his sons needed to get tough. They were too soft, just like their mother. Since Ray the Fourth was supplying his drugs for free, Lydia shared as well. She told him she used to be married, young as she was. But she was a widow. Her husband had been murdered.

  “Baby, I’m sorry. That’s some heavy shit.”

  She laid her head on his shoulder, and Ray put his hand on her hair. It was so soft, he told her, and she was pretty. Real pretty, but Lydia ignored his saying that, because he rolled up another primo.

  The party was in full effect when Lydia exited the closet. She saw everyone as if for the first time. They were happy, like she was happy. And young and alive and life was all right. The music was inside her, like the smo
ke was inside her. She visited the basement bathroom, splashing water on her face. She slathered on the fragrant lotion that her hosts had provided, letting the perfume cover her sin. She found Niecy, gave her a farewell hug, and said she’d call her, but at the car, Coco wasn’t anxiously searching the crowd for her. She was outside the car, pressed against the passenger side while a girl kissed her deeply on the mouth. She didn’t see her sister, and Lydia walked away some distance. She sat on the lawn and waited. It was after one in the morning, but at least the DJ had switched to Cameo. She waited through three more songs, until the girl and Coco parted, and Coco opened the passenger door.

  Lydia went to the car, tapping on the window.

  “You ready?”

  Her sister looked at her, and Lydia knew she was wondering. How much had she seen? but Lydia only smiled back. She asked, did Coco want to drive?

  That night, Lydia dreamed. She’d come upon the cave where her bear lived, but the cave was empty. And she’d stood at the mouth of the cave and screamed. She’d called the secret name of the bear, but she knew it was dead, and she woke up with shame. There was so much shame, but she knew that she’d be expected to come down for breakfast. She had to pretend that she was still walking a good path. At the breakfast table, her mother told her Coco already had gone, though Mama had hoped she’d stay another day. Coco didn’t even have classes on Monday, but she’d been in such a hurry. Throughout breakfast, Ailey sulked about being left at home while Lydia and Coco had gone to the party. She flopped around and sighed, and Lydia pretended to ignore her, but she felt even worse. Her baby sister loved her, and she’d hurt her feelings. Lydia was a horrible person. Despair clawed at her throat, the spot where only the night before, her happiness had rested. After breakfast, she went upstairs and moved her clothes from the room she shared with her baby sister. She didn’t want to face Ailey anymore.

  Lydia was shaking when she dug in her purse and found the number that Ray the Fourth had given her. She called him and asked to meet at Mecca University’s library. And bring what he had brought last night to the party.

  A House Is Not a Home

  There was a familiarity in moving to a memory that included Dante. Lydia felt remorse when she met Ray the Fourth on Mecca’s campus and went to his car. She gave him money and he discreetly handed her the small plastic bag. And then there was joy in sneaking to a bathroom in one of the buildings and waiting until the bathroom door closed and she was alone. Joy in pulling out the pipe Ray had given her and smoking the rock. Oh, the forgetting Gandee’s hands and Dante’s death! Oh, the euphoria, the smoke in her mouth! There was no rousing of Lydia’s bear, though. Her animal refused to wake in its cave.

  But there was such shame after her high came down, though she was doing everything else right. She attended classes and submitted her homework. She only got high twice a day: in a campus bathroom before classes, and at night, when she closed herself in the small closet of what used to be Coco’s room.

  And then everything ended. Her parents sent her baby sister to Nana’s house. They wanted to have a talk, but Lydia was counting the minutes. Ray the Fourth was supposed to meet her in front of the library at noon. He liked her and wanted her to be his girlfriend, he’d told her, and that’s why he gave her a discount for her rocks. Lydia had run out of money, and she planned on walking to the pawnshop to see if she could get some money for the opal necklace her father had given her a few years ago for her birthday. She was grateful she’d left her keepsake box in the City. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have anything to barter.

  Then her mother told her Daddy was taking her to rehab, and Lydia sat up.

  “No, ma’am. Uh-uh. I’m not going back there.”

  The shaking, the detox hadn’t been so bad, but traveling through pain was horrible. They acted as if once you understood what was tormenting you, you could get rid of the memories. But you couldn’t. The memories always would be there, hurting you. Lydia couldn’t talk about those with no respite in sight.

  She couldn’t soak herself in that again. With no promise of smoke hitting the back of her throat and the high drowning out the pain.

  But Daddy told Lydia, go upstairs and pack. Get her things. He’d wait for her outside. He wasn’t playing with her. In her bedroom, she made sure to empty her keepsake box into her suitcase. She might not have another chance. They would take her things in rehab, until she finished the program, but she could get them back. She hesitated, then crept to her parents’ room. She opened her mother’s jewelry box and pulled out two heavy gold bracelets that her mother never wore, except at holiday dinners. She didn’t have a plan. She just knew she would find a way out of rehab. She couldn’t stay there again. That’s what she told herself. But in the car, Lydia learned, her father had lied to her mother, but he wouldn’t lie to Lydia. The insurance wouldn’t pay for more rehab, and her parents had run through half their savings. He was taking Lydia someplace else, and telling Mama her daughter had run away. Lydia would have a roof and food and he’d buy her a bus pass every month. He was doing this because he was her daddy. It was his job to protect her, but he had to protect his wife as well.

  “You can’t come back to this house, Lydia. I can’t see your mama’s heart broken, not again. I’m not giving you money, either. Whatever shit you want to smoke, you get on your own. I’m giving your car to Coco.”

  As they drove to the other side of the City, Lydia recognized the streets. They’d lived in this neighborhood when she’d been a little girl. Her father pulled up to an apartment building. He got out and headed toward a handsome, dark man who rose from the stoop. The man kept her daddy from falling as he began to sob.

  * * *

  When it was pitch black, when no one could see, Lydia took the bus from her new neighborhood to the places where she would find her rocks. When her father first moved her into the apartment, she had called Ray the Fourth, and taken the bus to Mecca’s campus. She’d pawned some of her keepsakes, but he had stopped wanting her money. He wanted something else, and she just wanted to smoke in peace.

  She didn’t want to buy the rocks in her own neighborhood. Zulu Harris was watching her. He knocked on her door to check on her and didn’t want anything more than that: Lydia knew enough about men. So she boarded a City bus, looking for sad, hollow-eyed passengers. It took her two days of riding the bus to overcome her fear, and by that time, she was sick and determined. When the sad people left the bus, she stalked them to their sources. She followed her instincts. If she got a bad feeling about a dealer, she didn’t listen to her need. She’d walk away and hop the bus again, following new tragic-faced people. Lydia brought her bounty home, hiding it behind the armoire that her father was proud to have bought at an estate sale. Rich people gave away such nice things, he’d said.

  She was supposed to be part of this community now. The despised, the pathetic, but Lydia rejected this connection. She was different from these people. One day, she was going to stop using drugs. Even when the police arrested her coming out of a crack house, she didn’t feel a kinship. She called the only phone number she was allowed to use, that of Zulu Harris. As she waited in the holding cell surrounded by sullen female strangers, she dreaded his arrival. But when Mr. Harris paid her bail and retrieved her, he only said, try to be more careful. And it was probably best that they didn’t share the episode with her daddy.

  Mr. Harris was an old friend of Lydia’s father, from way back. In his mid-forties, bald, and with a hint of a paunch, but so handsome. He called Lydia his niece and told the waitresses at his restaurant that she could eat for free. The waitresses had started out with attitudes, but eventually she’d won them over. Now they shouted Lydia’s name when she walked in. They tried to give her pie.

  On Friday evenings, there was her father. He’d knock on the door of the apartment where he’d installed her. He’d put a sack of groceries on the small table in the space next to the kitchenette. There wasn’t much time that elapsed before he would begin asking, what had
he done? What hadn’t he done? And what could he do for Lydia now?

  “It’s not your fault, Daddy. It’s mine.”

  Weeks passed, and she became weary of his routine, especially the part where she’d ask him, when could she come back home? Then his tender nature would congeal. She couldn’t come home. Let’s not talk about this, he’d tell her, and they’d sit quietly on the corduroy couch.

  For a gift, Daddy brought her the sewing machine her granny had given her. He’d sneaked it out of the house while Mama was out. An antique, a Singer 66, purchased by her great-grandmother Pearl; before that, Dear Pearl had sewn on her hands. Her father made Lydia swear on her Bible that she wouldn’t sell it. He’d brought one along.

  Lydia laughed. “Daddy, are you serious? You’re an atheist.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Yes, it is! You don’t have to pretend with me. Mama’s nowhere around.”

  He sat down on the couch with a low grunt. Mr. Harris and he had found it at a thrift shop out in the country, where the rich white folks lived. At the same estate sale where he’d bought the armoire, there had been an antique coffee table and dining room suite, china plates, flatware, and a four-poster bed, all of which her father had acquired for nearly a song. The apartment was cozy, not thrown together. Lydia wondered, how long had her father been planning to exile her from the family?

  “Fine, darling. I’m an atheist. You caught me. But you aren’t, so put your hand on this book.” He picked up the Bible from the coffee table, and she sat beside him, putting her hand on the cover.

  “I swear that I will not sell the sewing machine,” she said. “In Jesus’s name, Amen.”